Merlin Fic: Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 1
Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: ~55’000 words overall (~7’400 for this chapter)
Thanks: Not only did inderpal willingly listen to my ramblings (on the train, on the roof, everywhere), no, she also helped me figure out some important issues that will come into play in later chapters. Also, she tells me she’s moving in and thinks it’s a threat. Ha. / snarkaddict was possibly the first person who supported me and my love for circuses, and then dealt with me chucking scenes at her every second day. I probably wouldn’t have made it this far without her. / torakowalski Brit-picked this as speedily as Speedy Gonzales and additionally gave me entertaining advice on the British education system, tea choices and the British version of Laundromats.
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU. Or: In which there are aerialists, decorative metal flowers, prejudices, artsy books and magic. Obviously.
>> “If you want an autograph,” Arthur tells him, “you’ll have to buy it at the merchandise caravan. I think they’re five pounds.” <<
Bonus: Gorgeous podfic by eosrose.
(Gorgeous cover art by inderpal)
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to the BBC. I’m merely taking their characters for a spin.
[Chapter 1] [ Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3] [ Chapter 4] [ Chapter 5] [ Chapter 6] [ Chapter 7] [ Chapter 8]
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Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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The first time Merlin visited a circus, he was five. It was a small circus, with a small tent and paint flaking off benches so worn that his mother had to dislodge a wooden splinter from his palm later on. He hadn’t even noticed, too entranced in what was happening in the arena.
He was five, and utterly certain that he wanted to become just like the man who prowled past the benches in his glittering robe and made smoke burst from his bowler hat. No one looked at him strangely for what he was able to do.
--
If Merlin didn’t already know Dragonera to be amongst the most successful European circuses, the huge area taken up by caravans, lorries and the foundation of what’s to become an enormous tent would have clued him in.
He lingers in the carpark, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other. There are quite a few people moving around the caravans, going about their tasks in what looks like a well-practiced manner. They’re mostly clad in plain jeans and t-shirts, which, well. Obviously. It’s not like Merlin expected them to go through everyday life in their costumes. Of course there’s a life outside the arena, and considering it’s a rather hot autumn day, several layers of velvet and whatnot would be rather out of place.
Maybe Merlin didn’t exactly think his plan through.
He’s here now, though. Granted, it only took ten minutes to get from campus to where Dragonera is setting up, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t at least a small effort to come. If he chickens out, Will is most certainly going to mock him forever. And then some.
Merlin allows his body another two minutes to calm down. Then he squares his shoulders, hitches his backpack higher up on his shoulder, and sets off for where most of the commotion seems to be centred.
The outer circle consists of caravans, cheerful in blue and yellow. Metal flowers wind around their windows and doors, Dragonera spelled out in large golden letters on their sides. Merlin passes a number of lorries that don’t look quite as playful as the caravans, but still gleam in the circus’ trademark shades of blue and yellow. When he’s finally made it past those barriers, he’s almost ready to turn back around.
He lingers on the outskirts of the free space of green. Everywhere around him, people are rushing this place and that, pulling at ropes, adjusting the colourful tarpaulin that looks even larger here than it does in the pictures of Dragonera’s big top. An unbelievable amount of stakes, poles, rope and tension belts are laid out on the ground. Music is blaring from a nearby caravan. The centre poles have already been erected, reaching high into the sky, flags waving proudly above the camp.
“Come on, people,” a voice rings out over the commotion. “Take your fucking places already. At the pace we’re going, we’ll still be here tomorrow morning.”
Merlin identifies the speaker as a man about his age. His blond hair is shining in the sun as he belts out another command. Something clenches excitedly in Merlin’s stomach.
Arthur Pendragon.
There is no way Merlin can turn around now, not with an opportunity like this practically offered to him on a silver platter. Granted, Arthur is looking rather more disgruntled than he does smiling from the cover of a magazine but, Will’s mocking aside, Merlin would never forgive himself if he didn’t even try.
He takes a step forward, and another. No one spares him so much as a glance. Arthur, almost within reach, has angled his body away to shout instructions at a gangly teenager who is apparently having trouble with the fastenings of a tent flap.
“Excuse me,” Merlin says to the back of Arthur’s head.
“Through the holes, and then one through the next, starting at the top.” Arthur is still addressing the teenager. “Jesus, it’s like you’ve never done this before.”
“I haven’t,” the boy says. He follows it up with a timid glance at Arthur, a flush staining his cheeks. It might be only from the glare of the sun, though.
Arthur appears to consider him for a moment before he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Then I guess you’ll just have to be particularly careful to get it right.”
“Excuse me,” Merlin repeats, louder this time. Attention finally caught, Arthur turns to face him, a frown pulling at his lips. His eyes travel the length of Merlin’s body in a perusal so blatant that Merlin fears his face might be coloured by a blush to rival that of the unfortunate teenager. He’s pretty sure this is not a good moment to notice that Arthur’s shirt is dirty and torn at one side, flashing a hint of flat stomach.
“If you want an autograph,” Arthur tells him, “you’ll have to buy it at the merchandise caravan. I think they’re five pounds.”
“I don’t want an autograph,” Merlin sputters. It feels as if his blush is darkening.
“No?” Arthur inclines his head, openly studying him. Then he shakes his head slightly. “Ah. As you can see, I’m a bit busy right now. You can wait in my caravan, though.”
“What?”
“That way.” Arthur lifts one arm to point. “The big top is going to take us another hour at the very least, so make yourself comfortable.”
Busy. Caravan. Comfortable. Wait.
Merlin blinks once, twice, and. There really is no alternative interpretation that makes sense, is there? Not coupled with the way Arthur is watching him, expectant and amused, far too aware of his own good looks. Merlin narrows his eyes.
“Do I look like a tart?”
“Well.” Arthur draws the word out as if he quite enjoys the way it sounds. He slants a pointed glance at Merlin’s t-shirt - unusual, yes, okay, but it was the first one Merlin found this morning. Arthur’s mouth curls up in a smirk that is not attractive in the least. “Our groupies do tend to have better fashion sense, usually. Butterflies and flowers? Really?”
“You have groupies?” Merlin asks, and it’s not what he means to ask at all, especially considering his computer might contain a folder with pictures of Arthur, and Arthur and Morgana, and Dragonera in general. Quickly, he adds, “And the shirt was a gift. It’s… ironic. A statement.”
Truth be told, it’s more a testimony to the fact that Will reacts to Merlin coming out just like he reacts to anything else: with fierce loyalty hidden under a layer of mockery. Not that Arthur needs to know that.
“An ironic statement that tells me you’re not a groupie.” Arthur raises a brow, still smirking. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Merlin has to remind himself that it wouldn’t do to insult the son of his potential employer, and especially not if that son is one half of the circus’ main attraction. It wouldn’t do even if that son might be an arse. It really, really wouldn’t. Merlin exhales and raises his chin, meeting Arthur’s gaze with as much confidence as he manages. “You don’t have any magicians. Dragonera, I mean. You don’t have a magician. I’m good.”
Compared to the speech Merlin worked out on the bus on his way over, it’s a weak effort. Arthur appears to agree, his brow climbing higher in a show of disdain. “You want to join us,” he says. His voice conveys flat disbelief.
“Yes.” It comes out slightly more questioning than Merlin intended.
All traces of suggestiveness are gone from Arthur’s demeanour. “Let me guess: You never even stood in an arena.”
“I.” Merlin clears his throat and glances at Arthur through his lashes. His face feels too hot. “Not really.”
“So, not at all.” Arthur stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks back over his shoulder, at the commotion around the tent. To Merlin’s surprise, the tarpaulin has risen a few feet up in the air while he wasn’t paying attention. The ropes are pulled tight across the poles while several people are busy making adjustments. “Look,” Arthur says. “There’s a reason we don’t have a magician. It’s not because no one applied.”
“Then why?”
“My father isn’t easy to please. If your tricks are too obvious, you can just forget about it.” Arthur pauses for a moment that seems quite deliberate. He follows it up with a smirk, tone dry. “And all tricks are too obvious for him. So you better go on your merry way.”
Merlin shifts back on his heels. “You’re not even giving me a chance.”
“Listen-” Arthur cuts himself off. The sun brightens his eyes to a pale shade of blue, and Merlin most definitely doesn’t notice. He also doesn’t notice Arthur’s muscular forearms. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Merlin.”
“Merlin,” Arthur repeats. If he tries to hide his amusement, it’s a poor effort. “Your name’s Merlin.”
“Yes.” Merlin fights not to avert his eyes.
Arthur huffs out a laugh and withdraws his hands from his pockets, shifting his weight. “It’s worse than I thought. Are you sure you’re not a groupie?”
“Pretty sure, thanks.” There are a few choice insults Merlin could add to that. Besides, it’s not like Arthur has any room to talk, really; his partner’s stage name is Morgana. Speaking of Morgana, Merlin is mildly horrified to notice she’s leaning against a caravan just a few feet away, listening in on their conversation. An amused smile pulls at her lips. It widens when she catches Merlin’s eyes, and he only hopes she didn’t catch the part where Arthur invited him back to his caravan.
“Merlin,” Arthur repeats, once more. He sounds positively gleeful.
Merlin focuses back on him and decides there’s really no point in holding back his frown anymore. It doesn’t look like he stands even the smallest chance of finding a place here. The thought makes his chest feel a bit tight, not enough room to draw a deep breath. It’s not-There are other circuses, of course. He just kind of thought-Anyway. “You know, if you have a problem with my name, you should take it up with my mother.”
Merlin can practically hear the reply that’s ready on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, and wow, really, what a prat. Then Arthur lifts one shoulder, voice dismissive as he turns away. “Whatever, Merlin. Look, as I told you, no one’s good enough. Certainly not some posh little boy who thinks joining the circus sounds like a great adventure. Go back to university, or whatever it is that you do.”
“Kind of strange that you’re calling me posh,” Merlin crosses his arms, “when you talk like you should be playing polo at Eton.”
While it in no way makes up for losing his chance, the glare Arthur flicks at him is pretty satisfactory. Merlin smiles back with all his teeth. For a long moment, they stand suspended like that, glaring at each other.
“Arthur,” someone calls from somewhere off to the side.
“Go back to where you came from,” Arthur says, ridiculously close to an order. Before Merlin can tell him just where to stick that order, Arthur has set off to help a group of men struggling with one of the taut ropes, and Merlin is left to gawk after him like some idiot. What the fuck.
“You have to excuse Arthur,” a clear female voice interrupts the string of insults hurtling through Merlin’s head. He twists around to find Morgana studying him, her expression unreadable and yet somehow amused. “We’ve been on the road for three days, and he’s always insufferable when he doesn’t get his workout.”
Merlin awkwardly hitches his backpack up. “So this isn’t his default, then? Could have fooled me.”
Morgana laughs and takes a step closer, coming to stand beside him. She looks more approachable out of her stage clothes, jeans cut off at mid-thigh and face almost bereft of make-up, long hair braided loosely. “No, usually he’s just a prat, not an ill-tempered one.” The faintest trace of a French accent laces her words.
“He’s right, though? About his father not wanting a magician?” Merlin asks. A sideways glance shows that Arthur’s dropped his shirt, bare-chested as he helps to pull the tarpaulin up higher. It looks almost effortless on him, the line of his back strong and proud.
“Well.” If Morgana noticed Merlin’s momentary distraction, she doesn’t show it. “It’s true that Uther doesn’t make it easy on anyone. Especially not if you don’t have experience.”
“So there’s no- I mean-” Merlin trails off, winding his fingers around the strap of his backpack. This isn’t the only chance he’ll ever get, right. Right. “There’s no use in trying, then?”
“Not if this looks like a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Morgana says.
Merlin snorts and glances at her profile. “I’ve been wanting to join the circus since I was five.”
“Hmm.” When Morgana turns her head to look at him, there’s something sharp and assessing in her eyes. Merlin has no idea how to respond, so he simply holds her gaze and waits. It takes several seconds before Morgana suddenly smiles. “We actually lost one merchant boy in Vienna, so… Is there anything you can do? Skills?”
“I work at Starbucks?” Merlin replies quickly, eager. He pauses when another woman joins them, brown-skinned with curly dark hair and a smile that makes her cheek dimple. He vaguely recognises her from pictures as well, but since she seems content to listen, he continues after a moment. “So Starbucks, but that’s just so my mother doesn’t have to pay my tuition fees all by herself, and-I worked at an animal shelter for a couple of years, when I was about fifteen, and also as a shop assistant at Gap.”
“What are you studying?” Morgana asks.
Arthur tosses them a brief look over his shoulder. Merlin very much doesn’t notice. “Medicine.”
Morgana’s brows lift in an impossibly elegant arch. “Are you sure you want to join us?”
“Maybe Gaius could use a hand,” the curly-haired woman puts in. She holds out her hand and smiles at Merlin. “I’m Gwen, by the way.”
“Merlin.” He’s about to offer his hand when he catches sight of the bandage around her wrist, winding down to warp around her palm.
“Merlin?” she repeats, questioning, but without the disapproving note Arthur’s voice held. Her expression shows only curiosity. “Really?”
It’s easy to return Gwen’s smile. “Yeah, really. Blame my mum.”
“Maybe she was a clairvoyant,” Morgana says.
“Then what’s the story behind Morgana?” Merlin asks.
Morgana lifts her shoulders. “Actually, Morgana’s just what everyone’s been calling me since Uther took me in. Faye’s the real name.”
“But no one calls her that anymore,” Gwen inserts lightly, before Merlin can even begin to feel bad about bringing it up. Now that Morgana mentioned it, he remembers reading something about her having joined Dragonera when she was only a small girl, and that he wondered about her parents at the time.
“It grew on me.” The smile Morgana directs at Gwen is quick, but genuine. It stays when she turns back to Merlin. “And the idea Gwen had about Gaius, that’s actually a good one, if the two of you get along.”
“Gaius?” Merlin is glad he sounds reasonably interested instead of like someone falling over themselves with assurances that of course, yes, totally getting along, just show me the way. He’s pretty sure Morgana is the type to appreciate rationality rather than mindless enthusiasm, and maybe there is a chance yet she’ll sway Arthur in his favour.
“Gaius is our cook,” Gwen says.
Morgana snorts. Somehow, she manages to make it sound dignified. “Not a very good one, though. Mostly, he’s our physician. He takes care of small injuries, and makes sure we get back on our feet pretty quickly. He’s been with us since the beginning, but he’s…” A pause. “Not what you’d call young anymore. He could use a hand.”
“Uh.” Merlin considers it. It’s no place in the arena, but it might be a way to get his foot in the door, to work for a chance to prove he’s better than all those pretenders with their cheap tricks. He clears his throat. “That sounds cool. I’m not a very good cook myself, though.”
“Then I’m sure you and Gaius will get along,” Morgana says.
Gwen’s grin makes her cheeks dimple, teeth white against her dark skin. “I’ll take you to him. Come on.”
--
The second time Arthur catches sight of Merlin, Merlin’s trailing after Gaius, looking wide-eyed and enthusiastic as he fumbles with some boxes in his hands. He’s still wearing that godawful shirt.
Arthur glares at his back before he briskly continues on his way to the practice tent. Stepping inside, he has to blink for a moment while his eyes adjust to the dim interior, a contrast to the bright sunshine outside. After travelling for three days, just the smell of hay and tarpaulin is soothing.
Morgana is in the middle of her stretches already, body flowing smoothly from one position to the next. He squats down beside her on the blanket, grabbing the heel of his left foot, and bends down until his forehead rests on his knee. Only then does he grit out, “What did you do?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Morgana sounds perfectly at ease despite the strain Arthur knows her current position puts on her stomach muscles. He shifts his hands over to cup his right heel.
“We have rules about people like him.”
“You have rules about people like him.” Morgana rolls to her feet in one fluid move, reaching for the container of talcum powder. Her face is serious. “Don't be a judgmental prat, Arthur. Not everyone’s like-” She pauses for a barely noticeable moment, and he knows what she’s going to say, knows she’ll- “Like Sophia,” Morgana finishes. “I think Merlin’s different.”
“So?” Arthur lies down to stretch the muscles in his lower back, arching only his lumber spine off the ground.
“We stay here for two weeks. Let him live with us, see how it goes.” Morgana’s voice is carefully nonchalant, the light tone she uses whenever she considers him an idiot for even fighting her on whatever issue they’re discussing. She follows it up with a laugh. “You can even put him in your caravan, if you want. If you can't get him to leave, I don't think the winter's going to scare him away.”
Arthur rolls onto his stomach. “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact…” Morgana’s right hand wraps around the rope, assessing it for a moment before she launches herself up into the air. Halfway between ground and ceiling, she slings the rope around her middle and lets go, body a perfect arch. “As a matter of fact,” she tells him, upside down, hair a curtain around her face. “I do.”
After pulling a face at her, Arthur goes back to concentrating on his stretches. With a break of three days, any neglect on his part would most likely end in pain, and he’d rather avoid that. He’ll be up there soon enough.
--
Merlin has just enough time to call Will - which entails listening to roughly thirty seconds of Will insulting his cooking skills - before Gaius returns with the keys to an old van that somehow, miraculously, hasn’t been banned from the roads yet. While Gaius coaxes its engine to life, Merlin wisely doesn’t ask whom the circus had to bribe. He considers giving the engine a little push with his mind, nothing noticeable, but before he can make the decision, the car shudders into motion.
His sigh of relief might have been too obvious, because Gaius gives him a sideways glance, followed by a smirk that looks out of place on a man of his age. “Off we go. Didn’t think we’d make it, did you?”
“Honestly?” Merlin doesn’t wait for an answer before shaking his head. “No.”
“You know, things here aren’t as shiny as they look from the outside. We have a lot of old equipment. Ancient, really.” Gaius pulls off the carpark without signalling, then directs another sly glance at Merlin, his voice barely audible over the roaring engine. “I mean, just look at me.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with old equipment,” Merlin rushes to assure him, leaning forward. “I mean, I like old stuff. You should see the oven Will and I have - Will’s my flatmate. It only works when you know just what buttons to twist, but it’s cool, it is, and I never expected things to be brand-new and shiny or anything.” He breaks off abruptly and turns his head to stare out of the window.
For what feels like several minutes, the only sound that fills the van’s interior is the grumbling engine. Then Gaius says, voice gentle, “Relax, Merlin. Hard as it may be for you to believe, I actually would be grateful for a little help here and there.”
“Really?” Merlin chances a look at Gaius before he releases his breath. “Oh, good. I was beginning to think every male person in the circus hated me on sight.”
Gaius chuckles. “Arthur is hardly a good example to base such expectations on. Maybe you should talk to Lance sometime. Took the poor boy ages to prove his worth, and he only came from another circus, had some prior experience. Not just university like you.”
“Right.” Merlin leans back in his seat. The brakes stutter quite horrifyingly when Gaius hits them well before they come up at a red light. “Why,” Merlin begins, once the van has come to a halt, “is everyone so against university when they all sound quite well-educated? Arthur and Morgana, I mean. And Gwen kind of, too. And you.”
“I studied medicine,” Gaius says. “Something was bound to rub off, I suppose. And Uther always made sure the children got a good education, despite being on the road so much.”
“Can’t have been easy, jumping from school to school.”
Gaius shakes his head, his tone final. “It wasn’t.”
The light switches to green and the engine roars back into motion, the van rocking forward so abruptly Merlin grips the door handle even though it looks hardly reliable.
It occurs to him only the better part of an hour later, in the middle of loading the van with more than a hundred pounds of potatoes, that Gaius answered only part of his question. As they’re about to grab some of Merlin’s things from the flat he shares with Will, he decides to bring it up again some other time.
--
Arthur is positively ravenous. Setting up camp combined with a slightly prolonged practice has eaten up what feels like all his reserves, and then started gnawing away at his intestines. He looks around the food tent to locate Gaius and his blessed pasta - and catches sight of Merlin, wielding the sauce ladle with more enthusiasm than skill. Oh, just Arthur’s luck.
He grabs a plate off the stack and makes his way over. As Merlin’s busy flirting with Gwen, he notices Arthur’s presence only when she goes to join Morgana and Lancelot at one of the long beer tables that fill the tent. Once Arthur is certain of Merlin’s attention, he steps closer, critically examining the pot with pasta and the steaming red sauce of undetermined origin.
The ridiculously wide grin that took up Merlin’s face just a second before fades to a strained smile. “Food?” he asks, sounding reluctant.
Arthur tilts his head to give Merlin an unimpressed once-over. The butterfly shirt has been replaced with a plain red one, and Arthur lets the corners of his mouth tilt up. “So you do own a decent shirt, after all.”
“Sure.” Merlin shrugs. Then he grins, lighting-quick. “Just not a decent clean shirt, right now. Besides, weren’t you wearing something with holes this afternoon?”
For maybe half a second, Arthur considers his reply. So you have been looking would most likely bring the flush from their first meeting back to Merlin’s face, although Arthur still doesn’t know whether the cause was anger or embarrassment. He doesn’t particularly care, either. “Work clothes,” he replies.
“If you say so.” Merlin nods with a bored look, and then he waits as if expecting Arthur to hurl insults at him.
Arthur sets his plate down in front of the pasta pot. “I was under the impression I could get some food here.”
Merlin’s expression is one of wide-eyed innocence. “Whoever told you that?”
“Circumstances,” Arthur says, with a glance at where a few drops of sauce have dotted Merlin’s shirt. He crosses his arms and raises his chin, daring Merlin to be the first to avert his eyes. “Since we’re going to share a caravan-”
“What?” Merlin interrupts. For all that Arthur was rather displeased with the idea when Morgana first mentioned it, Merlin’s horrified tone brightens his mood considerably. Besides, she has already convinced him that if they are to keep Merlin around - which Arthur still doesn’t consider a given - then having him stay with Arthur is the best option. If that also provides Arthur with a chance to put Merlin through a couple of tests, well, call it a side bonus.
Arthur chances a glance at Merlin that is just short of an insult to his intelligence. “Gaius is too old to put up with another person cluttering his space.”
“And you’re too much of a-” Merlin abruptly falls silent and dunks the ladle into the sauce, a few drops splashing over the pot’s rim.
“Go on,” Arthur tells him. He leans forward and puts both hands flat on the table, grinning as he studies Merlin’s face. He’s slightly displeased to find that Merlin is an inch or so taller than he is.
Merlin glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Never mind.”
“No, really.” Arthur’s grin shows perfectly straight teeth. “I’m curious now. Tell me.”
At the table next to them, three of their teenage girls, not quite old enough to get a proper spot in the show, erupt into giggles, one of them waving her knife through the air. They’re still in their practice clothes, tight leggings and loose shirts. Merlin appears briefly distracted before he focuses back on Arthur. “You know, Morgana said you were only a prat when you didn’t get your workout. Have you considered going back to the practice tent?”
“Maybe,” Arthur replies, all calm and pleasant, “you’d enjoy sleeping on the floor, since the spare bed is reserved for my clothes.”
“I thought it was reserved for your groupies?” Merlin’s tone is exaggeratedly meek to the point of being insolent, and despite himself, Arthur is impressed. Marginally. Most people looking for a way in - which means just about anyone who isn’t already listed in the programme - think that charming Arthur is a good idea. It isn’t.
“You’ll just have to get used to sharing, then.” Arthur pushes his plate closer to the pasta. Apparently, Merlin is too daft to take the hint because he frowns down at it before raising his gaze to meet Arthur’s.
“Why do I have to stay with you?”
“There are currently three empty beds here. One’s in Gaius’ caravan, one’s in mine, and the third is in my father’s.” Arthur pauses, schooling his expression into one of intrigue. “You’d rather stay with my father?”
“No, thanks.” Still Merlin looks as if he isn’t quite sure he wants to stay with Arthur, either. If circumstances were different, Arthur might be offended. As it is, he’s more delighted than anything. This just might turn out to be fun, after all.
“Great. Then I suppose you can get your things from Gaius once you’re done serving food.” Arthur nudges his plate against the pot. “And by the way, speaking of food…”
“Whatever,” Merlin says darkly, but regardless, he finally reaches for the spaghetti server.
--
Uther Pendragon is one of the last to enter the food tent. By then, there are only a few small groups scattered around the tables, the chatter of several voices having died down. Merlin gets back up from his chair as soon as he catches sight of Uther. The scarce remnants of spaghetti make him rather glad Gaius insisted on emptying another two packages into the pot. The amount of food necessary to satisfy more than forty people just isn’t what Merlin is used to.
“I didn’t know we found ourselves a new cook,” Uther remarks as he takes one of the plates. The stack has shrunk considerably since Gaius made Merlin build it. Unfortunately, the stack of dirty plates beside it has grown, and Merlin already dreads having to wash them alone. Maybe it’s all part of his introductory test. Maybe. Hopefully.
“I’ve only been here for a few hours,” Merlin replies. As a result of all those pictures that show Uther in costume, Merlin has the absurd urge to add My lord, even though Uther is clad in normal clothes that - unlike his vibrantly red cloak and golden crown - wouldn’t make him stand out in the crowd. “And I’m more of a kitchen aid, probably, and also supposed to help Gaius with his patients.”
“I suppose Gaius could use the help, yes.” Uther holds out the plate for Merlin to serve him. “What’s your name, then?”
“Merlin Emrys.” Merlin is particularly careful not to spill any sauce. “I studied medicine, but, I mean-I’m here now. I hope I can-That this works out.”
“Really.” Uther’s tone is dry, his friendly expression gone, and Merlin has the distinct impression it was a mistake to mention his studies. Apparently, Gaius wasn’t kidding about university not being a reference at Dragonera. Which is unfair; it’s not like Merlin is more likely to run the moment things get tough just because he happened to attend a university course, or two. Whatever. “Well,” Uther says, already turning away. “I hope you manage to fit in.”
“Yeah,” Merlin replies. Lame, he decides a moment later. He can’t come up with anything better, though.
Once Uther has sat down with a man who vaguely resembles Gwen, a couple more people come in to get their food. Occasionally, Merlin glances over at Uther, but for all that he feels as if he’s being watched, he never catches Uther at it. It might be only his imagination. At the very least, Merlin knows now where both Arthur and Morgana get their polished speech pattern from. And for all that Merlin isn’t exactly keen on sharing Arthur’s caravan, the fact that Arthur and Morgana don’t share one is a strong argument against rumours that paint them as a couple. It shouldn’t make Merlin’s chest feel stupidly tight.
--
Whereas Gaius’ caravan was scattered with small bottles containing tiny globules or dried herbs, Arthur’s caravan is surprisingly neat. Belying Arthur’s words, the spare bed is occupied only by a pillow and a woollen blanket. His clothes are stored away in a zip-up IKEA wardrobe, a few books sit on the windowsill and his shoes on a shelf just beside the entrance. A look through the half-open bathroom door reveals a clean sink, a mirror as well as the usual bathroom utensils - shaving cream, razor, toothpaste, brush - lined up on a board.
Merlin drops his backpack on the spare bunk and pointedly glances around. When it doesn’t seem as if Arthur is going to volunteer anything anytime soon, Merlin points a thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of the laundry basket below the sink. “Just so you know, I’m not washing your socks.”
Arthur doesn’t reply right away. It’s vaguely unsettling, even more so because Merlin can almost hear the snide remarks Arthur is probably muttering under his breath-Anyway. Arthur crosses from the entrance over to his own bunk, his whole posture somehow conveying disinterest. “You don’t honestly think we’re lugging a washing machine around, do you?”
“Uh.” Merlin attempts to look knowledgeable and competent. After one glance at his face, Arthur raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, you did. Now how practical would that be? Besides, one machine for over forty people, that’s hardly a good idea. We’d need three. Laundromats are much more practical, you see?”
“Look, just because I’m not, like, perfectly informed about how things work here, doesn’t mean I can’t handle it.” Merlin sits down on his own bunk, the mattress sagging under his weight. A dusty smell rises from the sheets, and he has to fight a sneeze. In comparison, Arthur’s bed looks rather soft and comfortable, a double instead of a single, with two pillows, a real blanket and what looks like satin sheets. Seriously, can the guy get any more posh?
Also, Merlin might have been staring a moment too long. He quickly averts his eyes.
“It certainly doesn’t prove that you can’t.” Arthur’s tone is entirely too nonchalant. “It is rather fortunate we’re going to stay here for a couple of weeks, though. Plenty of time for you to start running.”
“What makes you think I will?”
“Empiric evidence. University kids, they never stay long.” Arthur sprawls out on his back, crossing his arms behind his head with an expression of utter contentment. The dim light inside the caravan casts his face in half-shadows, the line of his profile proud. “Take your predecessor, for instance. Took up your bunk for almost ten days, which I’m sure must be some kind of record. The one before, he grew up in the circus. He’d been with us for nearly three years, and left only because he found a spot with another circus, something where he was more involved in the show.”
Merlin exhales through his nose, loudly and faintly annoyed despite the enticingly flat plane of Arthur’s stomach. Enticing or not, the guy’s a wanker, and Merlin wonders how he’ll manage not to throttle Arthur anytime soon. His self-restraint has never been that spectacular. “You know, if you’re citing empiric evidence, that’s a pretty weak basis you got.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty more. That was just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Was it, now.”
“Yes, it was.” Arthur gives him a beatific smile, and despite its ironic edge, it actually makes something catch in Merlin’s throat. Stupid, Jesus. Merlin can only hope his lingering infatuation will dissipate soon, given how they’re sharing a caravan and Arthur seems to delight in irritating him. It’s just not a combination that bodes well for Merlin’s mental sanity.
“Whatever. Maybe my predecessor would have stayed if he’d slept on a better mattress.” For emphasis, Merlin bounces his weight, and the springs creak tiredly. When Arthur doesn’t appear inclined to comment, Merlin stops and frowns. “Why is it that your bed’s so much better, anyway?”
Arthur’s smile widens. “Because I’m junior chief? Because I’m just about the main attraction here? Because this has been my caravan since I was seven? Take your pick.”
“You’re only part of the main attraction,” Merlin corrects. He has the distinct impression it was a mistake when Arthur tilts his head to give him another one of those assessing looks. Merlin is annoyed to feel his cheeks warm, yet again. Clearly, his body is a traitor.
“You know,” Arthur says, tone pleasant, “if you really dislike your bed, you can always share mine.”
Merlin manages a smile that he hopes will come across as unaffected. Not that he is. Uh, affected. “Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’m quite fine here.”
“As you wish.” After a careless shrug, Arthur sinks down onto his back again. He draws one foot up onto the bed, bending the leg at the knee, while his other foot remains on the ground. Merlin refuses to look anywhere but at the windows, small enough to provide only a glimpse of the next caravan’s roof. Back here, the caravans are significantly less polished than those near the entrance, Arthur’s being one of the few exceptions.
“Which reminds me,” Arthur cuts into Merlin’s musings, “that if you do make it through the first week, I suppose we’ll need to pull up a separation of some sort between the beds. I don’t fancy having my sex life ruined by your presence.”
Since Merlin’s self-control is unparalleled and plain awesome and all that, he ducks down to reach for his backpack rather than voice a reply he’d probably - no, definitely, regret. If nothing else, sharing a caravan with Arthur might teach Merlin to appreciate Will’s questionable flatmate qualities.
--
It’s not that Merlin isn’t used to sharing a room. He even shared his bed on more than one occasion, got quite used to having Peter-Anyway. That’s not the point. The point is that it’s not the first time he’s sharing a room with another person for the night, and that Arthur doesn’t even snore, just snuffle quietly into his pillow now and then.
Considering Merlin spent more than an hour doing dishes, and then helping Gaius sort through his stock of medications for expired packages and missing herbs, Merlin should be tired enough to fall asleep standing up. He’s lying down, though, and still he isn’t falling asleep.
Arthur appears to have no such troubles. He simply came out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from a shower, shrugged into boxers and a t-shirt while Merlin was definitely not looking, then got comfortable on his stupid large bed and turned off the light, even though Merlin was still leafing through a book he’d grabbed off the windowsill, something about modern arts and light installations.
“It’s not even your book, anyway,” was about the extent of Arthur’s reaction to Merlin’s protest, and then the arsehole just rolled over and went to sleep in a matter of minutes, breathing growing slow and even, while Merlin was left glaring at the silhouette of Arthur’s bed once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.
He should have turned the light back on, he decides. Maybe that would have gotten a reaction out of Arthur.
For the third time in as many minutes, Merlin shifts around, fluffing up his poor excuse for a pillow. From where he lies, he can see just an edge of the glowing letters that crown the big top, nothing more than the last curve of the A. The light barely brightens the inside of the caravan. It’s there, though.
Merlin gazes at the A until it blurs before his eyes. He inhales deeply, the smell of hay and caravan and animals, and for all that Arthur might be an arse, Merlin’s not about to leave anytime soon. It’s not a spot in the arena, not yet, but hey, he’s here.
It’s a start.
Even though it makes him feel ridiculous, he allows himself a small smile. Then he rolls over, face to the wall, draws the blanket up over his shoulders and closes his eyes.
--
Merlin wakes up well before the first hint of sunlight brightens the horizon. It’s quiet inside the caravan, only the regular rhythm of Arthur’s breathing, and he’s shivering under the thin blanket that came with his bunk. For all that the day was warm and sunny, the temperature has dropped considerably over the course of the night. Merlin would be willing to bet good money that Arthur was quite aware it would.
He makes no attempt to be quiet as he shuffles around for a pullover, zipping it up and pulling the hood over his head before he settles back on the mattress. Arthur’s breathing is still quiet and undisturbed.
A minute passes, then two. Merlin rubs his cold feet together, but it doesn’t really help. Just two steps away, Arthur is sleeping quite peacefully.
Merlin pushes up onto his elbows and looks over at the other bed. All he can see is Arthur’s back, covered by a comfortably warm blanket, and the back of Arthur’s head. Merlin waits for another quiet minute, holding his breath.
When Arthur shows no sign of waking up, Merlin passes his hands over his own blanket. The brief glow that emanates when the cloth thickens is inordinately bright in the darkness, and Arthur’s breathing hitches abruptly.
After two long seconds, it picks up again, as quiet and regular as before. Merlin exhales and lies back down to enjoy another few hours of sleep.
--
To Arthur's surprise, Merlin is fast asleep when he wakes up. Sprawled out on his stomach, Merlin takes up the entirety of the rather worn mattress Arthur retrieved from the cabin of one of their lorries, exchanging it for the decent mattress that Owen occupied for all of those ten days that he lasted through. Given how this time of the year, the temperature drops significantly in the early hours of morning, Merlin should have been kept awake both by the loose spring in the mattress and the inadequacy of the blanket Arthur found him.
Apparently not.
Arthur is decidedly not impressed. He rolls out of bed in a swift move, kicking at the room's only chair on his way to the bathroom so that it clatters against the wall. When Merlin doesn’t even stir, Arthur halts his steps, leaning over Merlin’s bed until he can study his face.
If it weren’t for the mildly ridiculous ears, Merlin’s dark hair, straight nose and full lips would make him just about the stereotype of the boys Arthur tends to pick up. Up close, Merlin’s dark lashes provide a striking contrast to his skin. Only part of his face is visible, smushed into the pillow, and he must have put on a pullover during the night because the hood is bunched up at his neck, sleeve hugging the wrist of his right arm, the left one hidden under the blanket.
For a long moment that feels weirdly intimate, Arthur observes him. As if sensing it, Merlin’s lips curve down into a mild frown, and it’s just about all the incentive Arthur needs to reach out and grip Merlin’s shoulder, shaking him roughly.
“Time to get up,” he orders.
Merlin utters a faint complaint and pulls the blanket up over his face.
“Merlin.” Arthur tightens his grip. “I swear to God, if you’re not awake and functioning in less than a minute, you’re out of here.”
“Piss off,” Merlin mutters. He does roll over onto his back, though, prying his lids open with obvious effort. Then he lies blinking up at Arthur, quite close with Arthur’s fingers still holding onto his shoulder. Arthur fights the abrupt instinct to move away.
He doesn’t twitch when Merlin’s mouth curls into an inexplicably hopeful smile, doesn’t react when Merlin slowly lifts a hand to reach for Arthur’s hair. Then Merlin’s fingertips brush against his cheek, grazing his left ear. Arthur holds very still, crouched over Merlin’s mattress, and-What the hell does Merlin think he’s doing?
“Look what I found,” Merlin says, tone smug, retracting his hand. When he turns it over, the small blossom of a daisy is sitting on his palm.
Arthur pushes himself to his feet, takes a step back and shakes his head. He stops short of clearing his throat and settles for crossing his arms instead. “You do know that the only thing more clichéd than conjuring a flower from someone’s ear would have been conjuring some money, right? That trick was old the first time someone did it, probably back in Roman times.”
Merlin’s smile fades, but his only reply consists of a shrug. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, carelessly letting the flower fall to the floor as he walks around Arthur. Only when the bathroom door closes does Arthur realise that Merlin just successfully jumped the queue, so to speak. Well, bugger it all.
Arthur sits down on Merlin’s bed and picks the daisy back up from the floor. It looks freshly plucked, and while it must have been easy to hide in the sleeve of Merlin’s pullover, Arthur is nonplussed as to when Merlin found the time to smuggle it into the caravan. Even now, it’s starting to wilt in Arthur’s hand, petals hanging more limply than they did a couple minutes ago.
Strange.
-----
>> Chapter 2
Two songs to go with this chapter (because I’m a big fan of soundtracking):
Arabella Nugent - Fill Up (Don’t just sit inside dreaming of the better times // No way to turn back now)
Passion Pit - To Kingdom Come (That's a frosty way to speak / To tell me how to live next to your potpourri / All this talking pulls my teeth)