(love, or) A Feeling Like It (five)
This isn’t how it was supposed to go, Merlin decides. Not to say that the road he wanted to go on was devoid of all magical things being shared with Arthur -he wanted Arthur to know-he just figured he’s start the journey slowly.
The path he was going to choose would be slow, on smooth lands and a folk-alternative soundtrack playing in the background so it would seem just a tad dramatic. And Merlin would’ve sat Arthur down and talked in slow, hushed tones -but not so slow it would seem condescending to him- and tell him.
He would start from the beginning, the experiences of Merlin Emrys, the small boy who could magically levitate odd things off the floor or small things would spontaneously combust in his presence. He would tell him that he doesn’t know why he has this but he’s not dangerous, he swears and he would never do anything to hurt him even if he was -he planned on making some Edward Cullen reference where he would say he’d rather break up with him that see him hurt.
Maybe Merlin would show him, so that the first stage of disbelief at the accuracy of the whole thing would pass quickly. Then it would happen, that fork in the road where Arthur’s driving instead and it’s his choice to go right or otherwise. To break Merlin’s heart or otherwise.
The point it, he had a plan. Not a well-formed one, obviously but a plan nonetheless. Sure, Merlin never took in the trait of actually planning confrontations -he was cruddy at them during his school years, choosing instead to wallow in his own misery and/or wait for the fire to die down enough for them to share a Yorkshire pudding again- but this is a relationship.
Merlin might not know a lot about them, for Arthur is the first in a long time to overlook his everything to focus on the anything that’s possible in him but he guesses things like this -important things that deserve to be underlined in a planner- need some form of preparation.
So he planned. And that plan failed. Sure, he knows that life isn’t always fair or expected but that doesn’t mean he’s any less irritated. His heightened state of emotion let its guard down and the walls tore down -with Arthur staring at him, it was almost as if he was the one breaking those walls apart.
Now, instead of a gentle wave of magic that could’ve come swiftly into Arthur’s life and settled there like it was home, there’s a full-blown tsunami that’s threatening to flood every house he’s built for him and Arthur.
Some part of him -the part that’s slowly dominating over his sensible, more mature part- wants to run away, open the door just to close it behind him so he’ll never look into Arthur’s eyes again.
But that would be unfair, to Arthur and to himself. He could really be in love this time around and he needs to be brave. Surely being courageous for love’s sake would earn him some brownie point.
The door opens and the moment arrives.
“Hey,” Arthur says, entering the apartment. He’s so beautiful; he can’t lose him.
Merlin immediately stands up and tries to smile, like he always does, but he’s pretty sure it ends up like a flinch instead. “Hi,” Merlin says but that’s not enough.
“I talked to Leon and Morgana. About pogo-sticks,” Arthur says.
“Oh.”
Merlin didn’t know if he should be feeling relieved or betrayed. It’s good Arthur went, wasn’t it? No one else -save for Will- knows about his magic or at least the true extent of it. Leon and Morgana, who have known him for years, would’ve been frank with Arthur, sat him down like he was going to and answered questions directed to them, not anything more.
But Merlin can’t help but feel some kind of jealousy. After all, this is, was and always will be his problem, not anyone else’s to bear and if there should be anyone taking an interest in it, shouldn’t be him that they turn to, not a perspective that only looks from the outside?
Merlin looks up, sees Arthur’s tie on the floor, his hair ruffled from running his fingers through it, like he always does when he’s thinking, looking at the past yearly reports of Camelot Academy, searching the cookbook for doable recipes and, sometimes, just staring at Merlin like he’s thinking about him even when he’s right there.
Merlin takes this silence to re-evaluate Arthur. That’s what people do, right? When they fear something could be lost, they go over the facts like they can be saved.
Arthur’s eyes are cloudy with thought but they’re still as blue as any ocean he’s ever swam in but, with Arthur, the colour of his eyes don’t disappear like that of the water -there’s no reflection of light, when you pick them up to see closer, they don’t become transparent, they just stay that way: fixed.
Sometimes they turn dark, like when Merlin is so close to him that he can feel his desire and everything contained in said emotion; sometimes they’re light, like a child’s, like last week, when they hung around the park and the sunlight of the afternoon caught his irises just right as Arthur excitedly pointed out something. Merlin, for the life of him, can’t remember what it was, only that Arthur looked adorable talking about it and Merlin thought he was a puppy and please can I keep him forever?
Sometimes his eyes are someone else’s, when he talks to his colleagues and friends and goes over things; sometimes they’re his own, when he’s concentrating or asleep and dreaming or reading; but, sometimes, just sometimes -and these are the times Merlin likes the best- Arthur’s eyes and his everything else, is his.
In that moment, there is no one and nothing else made up of matter or otherwise, in that plane in time that physics and every branch of science known to man says they’ll never get back, that is worth his attention. Only him, only Merlin.
But through all these transitions and shifting of owners, they’ll always be blue.
Now, Merlin can’t pinpoint the setting of Arthur’s eyes -are they his own? Are they anyone’s?- because Arthur won’t even look at him. “I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “I know you think I’m a freak or worse-”
“Excuse me but I don’t think you know what I’m thinking right now.”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“Which is odd because you always know what people are thinking.”
“Not when it should matter.”
“So this matters? This moment here, it matters?” Arthur asks and the octave of his voice is getting higher.
“Of course it does.”
“Well, it shouldn’t,” Arthur strides forward.
“Why not?”
“Because I love you. I’ve loved you for months and this moment shouldn’t matter because, truth is, a moment just like this already passed. Love, to me, at least, means acceptance. And I accept you because I love you. I fucking love you and you should’ve known that.”
Merlin’s torn as to feel elated or otherwise.
“When I kissed you, I knew what I was getting myself into. You. Excuse the sexual pun but it’s true. I was ready for you and all you were and all the mess and the beauty. I don’t hate you, Merlin, nor am I afraid of you. I’m disappointed at your lack of faith in me. Because I love you and shouldn’t that be enough reason?”
He can barely think before Arthur closes in, grabs him by the waist and kisses him. It’s desperate and controlled at the same time. This kiss is selfless, it wants nothing, except, maybe, to seal in the fact that the owners and makers of this kiss are in love with each other. This kiss wants and needs nothing more.
“Okay?” Arthur asks to gain assurance to a question he never asked.
“Okay,” Merlin nods.
“Listen to me; you’re not alone, alright? I see you all this time and you become distant and lonely because of this truth, this part of you, when you shouldn’t be. Because who you are -exactly who you are- is beautiful. You might be lonely in the truth but, in the grand scale of things, you’re not alone. You never are.”
Arthur wipes the falling tear from his face -when did he start crying?- as if he thinks that simple action will wipe his insecurities, as well. The scary thing is, it does.
“You know how people always say, when you’re a teenager, that you should stay exatly as you are because someone’s gonna fall in love with you for it?
“I’m that person for you. I was your future then. And look at me, am I not an absolute catch?”
Ivy and Gold - Bombay Bicycle Club
There’s nothing wrong with monotony, he decides. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a glorified schedule, a planner and Post-Its on the wall, not if you’re okay with it. There’s a reason most people hate their days and that’s because they’re leaning on one side of their face, looking out the dirty window and waiting for something extraordinary to happen.
They hate their five minutes by the water cooler because they yearn for a zombie apocalypse to happen just so they can be a hero. They wait for a dream to burst through the walls of their droned lives and take them away into some sort of fantasy where everything is just they way they want it to be and more.
But Merlin Emrys is okay -nay, more than okay- with his days and five minutes and more because there is something extraordinary in his life: he’s being loved. It sounds cheesy and he knows a number of his friends will come up to him and smack him for doing so but it’s true. How many people can honestly say that they wake up every morning to the face of a man they love and who loves them back? How many can fall asleep thinking the same?
Arthur makes it all worth it, the wheel of monotony that keeps spinning, alternating between working and eating and reading and sleep. He comes in between all of these small boxes of his life. Whether it’s by a five minute call just to tell him nonsensical things that don’t matter in the grand scale of things (but that’s okay because Merlin is content just to hear his telephone ring with Arthur’s special ringtone and to be reminded he’s not the only one in love) or maybe a text message every two minutes telling him how boring his morning his morning is or how bland his coffee is and manages to relate it to Merlin. As if he has any power over the dry scale of his work life or coffee beans.
These small things remind him he’s got someone to go home to -because he’s pretty much moved in without an invitation but at least there’s no denial of it- and not just a stack of books and a telly remote anymore.
These small things make his heart glow with the possibility that Merlin makes it all worthwhile for Arthur, as well. All his life, he never imagined being anyone’s worthwhile. He couldn’t imagine someone thinking about something he said; someone who remembered the small things about him; someone who stared at the screen even after he left, secretly wishing he’d come back. He guesses it all comes to down to the fact that he can’t imagine someone -let alone someone like Arthur- being the person he once had to many others in his lifetime.
But his mind is straying now, he knows, that’s what it usually does when its owner is sitting at his desk in the offices of his magazine. His fingers are numb and unmoving against his keyboard when the screen shows the blank document he’s supposed to be writing his assignment in but if he switches to the document where his story is saved, he knows they will react in a flurry of tapping movements.
The dream have been coming in full-force, in Technicolour and HD, almost all his nights end with a sleep filled with dreams and he wakes up with more power in his hands than he’s ever felt before.
Now, more than ever, he doesn’t know what to do with these powers. He told Arthur a few nights ago about this worry, in their casual clothes, wrapped around in cotton and Arthur said, “Maybe you should join some kind of force, help some people, put on some tights and be a hero. It’s not such a bad idea, you know, except the tights thing. No one should be able to see in spandex what I come home to every night.”
His phone beeps, bringing him out of the daydream and, rest assured, it’s a text from Arthur. Merlin often wonders if they’re offending anyone by being the cheesy couple they are but then he reads Arthur’s texts and listens to his voice and decides better. “I’m so sorry, world, for flaunting my flawless relationship in your face,” he wants to say instead.
Arthur doesn’t text much, in the scale of words, this time. He just says “How are you even real? I don’t deserve you,” and it sets his entire being on fire. No one’s ever perfect, not to their family or friends or the world, but, if you’re really lucky you’ll find someone that thinks you are. And that’s kind of the best feeling in the world.
“Merlin, you’re doing that thing with your face again,” Freya says as she comes up to him with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“What thing?” Merlin asks.
“The blushing oh-I’m-so-in-love-with-my-boyfriend thing,” she hands him the coffee.
“Shut up,” Merlin’s pretty sure he’s blushing again, that just proves her point even more.
“Nah, I’d rather not,” she sits on his desk. “I’m really glad you’re getting some love, M, and I don’t mean that in the vulgar way, either. You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
It seems like forever since they sat in that café and Merlin told her that he didn’t need a fuck to be happy. Sure, now, he was getting some regularly but he really didn’t a fuck, either. He needs someone to wake up to and he guesses the shift alone makes him happy.
“I see you and him and the way Arthur looks at you. Most people dream of that kind of thing and they think it’s all fairytale shit but it isn’t. It’s just living proof that something beautiful like what you have with Arthur can happen. I see you guys together and I almost can’t believe it. You two have finally found each other and you’ve forged this bond and, god, it’s just wonderful how it real it is.”
His heart is fluttering and every part of him is warm with feeling. He knows he’s in love with his love with Arthur but he never thought someone else would be, too. “Thank you, Frey, just thanks,” Merlin stands up to give her a hug because she needs it and he needs to give it.
He pulls away and he hopes he has enough restrain to stop himself from crying.
He hears Edwin calling him, which is odd; usually he calmly strides over to the desk and asks for some time with said employee. He never really raises his voice at anyone, if Edwin was some kind of serial killer, he would be the ones that crept in the dead of night and not even the dying would know they were dying until they were dead. He was that kind of silent.
Merlin lets go of Freya, thinking this might be important in his fledging career of writing opinions. Not that he hates his job or anything, he likes it, the constant of it all and the fact that he didn’t need to be fancy or flighty to be accepted by his peers but he felt he had to be better just for his sake. He doesn’t hate his job but he gets the feeling that he doesn’t love it, either.
“Merlin,” Edwin says slowly. There it is, that serial killer stare. “Did you send an application to Cenred Publications?”
“Yeah, like months ago, thought it would be a good opportunity to intern for them if they had a spot open. You know, just to see my chances,” Merlin said quickly, as to not offend him.
Edwin surely understands, he knows how big Cenred Publications is to any young, aspiring writer. They deal with dozens of small publications around the UK and sometimes they print out collections of stories that always end up getting good reviews even if they’re a bit too ‘fancy’ (as Will says it) for general population. Getting a job there would be a big opportunity but it wasn’t like he was hoping he’d be sitting in a cubicle overlooking other young writers like him or anything.
He knows where the dreams end and the naiveté begins.
“Well, it seems you got a letter back. This letter came for me yesterday, telling me that I had a gifted writer in my hands and it wasn’t fair for me to keep him in seclusion,” Edwin hands him said letter. It looks small, too small to contain news that heavy.
They’re away from the rest of the employees but Merlin can almost feel the heat of their secret gazes on him and the whispers of him. This is a big opportunity, right? Then why is he feeling so crummy about it?
“I think they’re right,” Edwin smiles at him. “They’ve read your pieces in the magazine and have decided to pick you up for a project they’re working on. A collection of short stories from young, promising writers, as they described it. I’m not one to stop you from harnessing your gifts; I think you have a big chance here.”
“Wait, they’re commissioning me? To write short stories?” Merlin askes. “Do people even do that?”
“They rule a fair number of magazines in the nation. As far as anyone’s concerned, they can do anything they want,” Edwin says. “Just read the letter, Merlin. But you should know that you won’t be an official employee of theirs even so and your job is safe the way it is, granted you still want it.”
“Of course I do,” Merlin says without even a slight hesitation in his voice. This place is a comfort to him and he’s not one to just leave comfort like this.
“Off you go, then,” Edwin says, smiling. He pats him on the back only it feels weird; being touched like this by Edwin who, as far as he knows, has never touched anyone in this office.
As he leaves the company of Edwin and resumes his morning with Freya, he realizes how odd that it doesn’t feel like a morning at all. Mornings don’t have this scale of news, right? Mornings are reserved only for breakfast and the start of another day of work (although his mornings are reserved for being stuck over his dreams from the previous night). It’s surreal but this is what other people wish for, right?
To be extraordinary and have something extraordinary happen to them? And Merlin feels as if he should be living his day for them, instead.
He gets back home in about an hour or so, takes off his jacket and calls out, “Arthur!” like he usually does. It’s as if this is a set in the 1950s and Arthur’s the housewife that’s supposed to cook him pudding or some sort of sweet confection. Personally, he hates that sort of thing, it’s degrading to women -wait he needs to find Arthur, he doesn’t want to turn into a male feminist like this.
“Polo!” Arthur calls back from the bedroom.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Merlin says. It’s odd to see Arthur just standing there in the bedroom, his hands fidgeting at his hands. It’s like he wants to do something but has forgotten what it is.
“Same here,” he smiles nervously. “You go first.”
“I’ve been picked up, by Cenred, you know that publishing house? Yeah, they want me to write something for them; it’s like a collection of short stories or something. I’ve got an appointment with them next week but I still have my job but yeah.”
It’s truly amazing how a smile can change Arthur’s whole face, the way his face just lifts up from the joy and there are crinkles at the corner of his eyes and a light in his eyes. “Merlin, that’s great!” he says and Merlin’s truly afraid that he’s going to start jumping up and down and clapping like a fangirl.
“You think so?”
“Of course I do! This is a big opportunity for you, who knows what could come from it? You could be published, like properly published and people will know you. M, this is awesome!”
Merlin doesn’t understand his happiness right now; nobody has cared this much about his writing to be this happy for him as if it was their news, as well. He gets that this is what people in a relationship do, be happy for them, but he hasn’t been in a real one and he wonders if other people have significant others as good to them as Arthur is to him.
Arthur grabs him by the waist and pulls him towards the bed. No thoughts come in before Arthur begins assaulting him all over with kisses and long stripes of tongue.
“No, not yet. What’s your news?” Merlin pushes him away from his face and Arthur comfortably settles, straddling his hips.
“This is gonna make your hard-on disappear but my dad’s back in town for a few days and he wants us over for dinner,” Arthur sighs.
“Well shit,” Merlin throws his head back. “I’m no good with parents, honestly. Your father’s gonna hate me and then we’ll never have a gay wedding if he doesn’t give us his blessing. Oh whatever will we do?”
“We might just elope somewhere else. What do you think?”
“I like Canada. Canadians are nice.”
“Canada, it is,” Arthur smirks.
“Is your boner still there, then?”
“Amazingly, yeah. The good outweighs everything else in this moment. Or idk bro, maybe I just want you to fuck me,” Arthur resumes his previous activities.
“Gee, what a romantic,” Merlin says, laughing.
“But I am proud of you, yeah?” Arthur looks down on him, leans and kisses him. Slow the first time and more tender the second. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to kiss you twice and linger a little on the second one.”
“Silencio, amigo,” Merlin pulls him down for a hungry kiss.
A little later, nothing else seems to matter. There is no jingle of keys as a fifty-something year old man, who looks pretty good for his age, a telltale how desirable he once was and still is, enters his home, as elegant and clean as he left it. There’s no busy office who has just filed letters to promising writers across the country to write in a small book that won’t sell more than maybe a few hundred copies. There is nothing except for the total peace Merlin has found in Arthur Penn.
For some reason, he feels as though he hasn’t held Arthur in a while like this -which is odd because they usually cuddle like this every night they’re together- as if the last time he’s held him was a long time ago and he wasn’t nearly this happy. In fact, he almost remembers being torn into pieces by his sadness.
He doesn’t know exactly why but he feels like it’s real, just like he feels his dreams are real. Which is absolutely nutters because they can’t be.
He hears the breathing of the both of them as he fingers up the trail of Arthur’s back. They’re asleep but not really asleep.
He should really get started on his story or something, get out of bed and get dressed, do things expected of him but he wants to be a rebel right now. However, his body makes an involuntary movement to stray away but it stirs Arthur.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs into his skin. “I’ll eat you up, I love you so.”
He laughs into the pillow because he appreciates the reference (Where the Wild Things Are; Sendak, 1963) and doesn’t move because he wants it. He wants Arthur to eat him up and devour all the bad feelings he thought always came with love, or a feeling close to it, until he smells like him, forever.
He honestly doesn’t remember a time when his best friend wasn’t an odd boy named Will Dempsie. He supposes there must’ve been, in those infant years when it was just him and his mother and the ghost of his father. But, ever since he was old enough to remember things, not one of those memories were set in a time when Will wasn’t a constant in his life.
He often wonders if playgrounds brought all five-year-old boys together or if it was just them.
When Will first started travelling -right after his sophomore year at uni- Merlin would adopt this habit of taking a map, any map, as long as it was on paper and not online because even if Google Maps were reliable, they were never the same. Just like the argument of real books vs. Kindles. He would sit wherever he was and take out his fingers and measure just how much distance he and Will had between each other.
Sometimes they barely reached half of a finger, like that time he only travelled to Edinburgh, and sometimes there was so much distance between them that Merlin wondered if they were even in the same world anymore. And sometimes Merlin got this odd feeling like they were only separated by paper and he only had to tear the pieces up so he could see his best friend again.
It was always weird this feeling, as if Merlin had the power to bend worlds just so he and his best friend could be together. But, sometimes, those moments when the distance was small, there was a small disbelief in his life.
If they were so close to each other like this, why weren’t they together? Why could he not just walk over there and hug him, wait for him to tell him that he was an undying sap but see the small smile that unravels at the sides of his mouth?
Then he remembers. He has a job, he has friends and, recently, he has Arthur and he’s Merlin. He doesn’t just up-and-leave everyone like Will. He doesn’t hate Will for leaving because he knows he has reasons but he always figured that Merlin would be a good enough reason to stay.
His fingers dawdle around the keyboard, waiting for Will to come on Skype. He should really start on his story or something but he can’t do anything while waiting. All he can do while waiting is wait. Are other people like this? Do their worlds stop to wait?
There’s a notification at the side of his computer and sees Will online. He doesn’t actually know what time it is over there in China but that doesn’t matter. If he’s losing sleep then he’s losing sleep. It’s not like he hasn’t thrown away hours of sleep for Merlin before.
Will: hey there buddy
Merlin: WILL!
Will: you always are a bit too excited whenever we skype, mate, should i be worried about your sugar intake?
Merlin: Oh definitely, Arthur is feeding me way too many sweets, I might die young.
Will: Arthur, eh? So this guy is sticking around? I should meet him, I thought we made a pact to show each other our significant others whenever we got some
Merlin: Well, I can’t exactly help that you are currently thousands of miles away from me
Will: when did our distance stop our friendship?
Merlin: Never, I guess.
They do what they always do during these skype calls, they talk to each other about what happened over the absence of each other. Nothing much happened over at Will’s side, although that’s weird; Merlin always figured that his life would be more interesting because he was a constantly moving point around Merlin’s straight line. Maybe if you do too many exciting things, it stops being so exciting.
In turn, Merlin tells him about how he’s basically moved in with Arthur and how he’s been commissioned, which earns him a massive fanboy reception from Will and, once he’s calmed down some, Merlin tells him about his dreams.
Will: Still?
Merlin: Worse, it’s getting worse, Arthur tells me that he hears me talking in my sleep and that’s never happened before. The magic’s stronger, as well; sometimes I can go days without losing it. It used to be, it ran out before the house was awake but now it’s always there.
Almost to prove his point to himself, he raises his hand lazily and watches his cup of coffee dangle in the air as if being pulled by his magical strings.
Will: i don’t get it, is this good or bad?
Merlin: I’m not sure, Will, I just don’t know what to do with it. I just don’t know anymore. Is there a purpose for this whole thing? Am I supposed to be a superhero and save people and not sit here on my lazy ass all day long? What if there’s an answer to this but I’m not asking the right questions?
Will: M...
Merlin: I’m serious, Will, I really am. And all these dreams; I can’t do anything about it except write about it.
Will: then write about it
Will: I’m serious, M, if that’s something you can do to help you, then write.
Merlin: They feel real, Will. The dreams, they feel so real
He doesn’t want Will to say anything right now. Sometimes all you need is silence. He doesn’t need him to say that maybe they are real and maybe they are. He can’t take the truth either way. If they’re real then everything comes crashing down in a blinding light of something -truth? He’s not sure of truth in dreams- but if they’re not then it will feel like he’s lost something dear to his heart.
Luckily, they’ve been best friends long enough for Will to know when to shut up. He should feel bad when he says he has to go now on an absolute lie because he wants to leave Merlin to his lonesome but he can’t. There’s no guilt in their kind of friendship, just all kinds of acceptance.
Ever since Will said it, he hasn’t really stopped writing, there’s just a constant movement around him. When he’s free from work and time with his friends and, most importantly, time with Arthur, he’s at his laptop writing. Sometimes, he’s even resorted to writing longhand, which he hasn’t done for years since he got the present of the laptop during his second year of uni.
And, sometimes, Arthur has to physically tear him away from the laptop just to urge him to come to bed. He understands, Arthur can’t just let him write the whole night away because that would be bad. And Merlin doesn’t want to compare their relationship to the one Jack Kerouac had with his second wife, where she just let him have it at the typewriter for three weeks, only stopping to change his shirts that were soaked with a kind of filth only a writer can understand. He knows the story in his hands isn’t going to change the world but, for now, it’s changing his.
“You nervous?” Arthur asks, intertwining his fingers with his.
“Does hungry fall in the realm of nervousness? Because I get hungry when I’m nervous,” Merlin says to him.
“Don’t expect much food, though, the Penn household only specializes on those kinds of meals.”
“Oh no, you don’t mean-”
“Weird food, small portions,” Arthur nods.
“Oh good lord, how did you survive?” Merlin really cannot bear going to those kinds of restaurants, where the only thing he really wants at the end of it is the wine. He’s used to big portions of good food. If rich people classified their food as small, barely a spoon of it on the plate and poor ones had big platters of roast chicken, then he’s really glad he’s poor.
“I used to cook myself,” Arthur says like it’s nothing.
Merlin tries to imagine an adolescent Arthur, still a bit tall for his age, with messy blonde hair in a kitchen of marble floors and high countertops. He’s humming to himself, the Beatles, probably, as he takes out the ingredients to make things his father would never make for him. And he laughs to himself.
“What?” Arthur asks.
“Were you cute as a teenager? Because I keep thinking of you as a teenager as someone I’d definitely eye in school,” Merlin says, chuckling a bit.
“Cute? Excuse me, I was handsome. Desirable, courted by many suitors.”
“Well, then, you would never have noticed me. I was the bookworm at the back of the classroom with the odd best friend and good grades.”
“I totally would’ve, though, I’ve got a thing for nerds especially if their names rhyme with Smerlin Semrys.”
He’s just being nice, he knows. No one noticed him during his high school years and he still doesn’t know why Arthur out of all people noticed him now.
The cab stopped in front of a big driveway, leading up to a big house. It’s not extravagant or huge; it’s sort of an understated elegance. He can definitely imagine living here but not here, if that makes sense. Inside this house but inside his own space, the one that breaks through all the elegance and into his own self. He can imagine Arthur being a rebel as quietly as this house.
“This is it?” Merlin asks but Arthur has already answered his question by getting out of the car and opening the door for Merlin, too. Bloody gentleman.
“Come on; let’s hear your spoiled prince jokes. I’ve heard all of them,” Arthur linked their arms together like pretzels.
“I have none.”
“You’d be the first,” Arthur says.
“Oh, I highly doubt that I’m the first person to see you for who you really are,” Merlin says absent-mindedly. But there’s a silence, hinting that is, in fact, just that person.
They enter the house and Merlin’s greeted with a vast living room, with a big chandelier dangling above them. The floors are a smooth marble and he’s pretty sure he can see his own reflection on the much-too-shiny surface. There are couches to his left and a fireplace (a fireplace!) burning wood. There are stairs in front of him and, soon enough, there’s someone walking down.
Merlin’s seen pictures of Arthur’s dad, from the Camelot yearbooks, some from Arthur’s own collection, and saw no resemblance between father and son. Now, however, he can see it. The small similarities in their behaviour. It’s in the way Uther strides forward, so confidently, grips his hand in an assertive handshake and smiles. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes resemble Arthur’s too, although they’re a bit worn from the years of making the same gesture.
They exchange names as if they don’t know who the other is and Uther politely asks if they got here okay as if Arthur hasn’t been living here for the most part of his childhood. They treat each other like strangers but that’s okay. It makes it less awkward on Merlin’s part.
“So, Merlin,” Uther starts as the appetizers roll out. “What exactly is it that you do?”
“I work at a bi-monthly magazine, writing opinions. It’s not much but it’s comfortable and it pays the bills,” Merlin answers and can’t help but feel he should add a ‘sir’ at the end of every sentence.
“Oh, and he recently got picked up by Cenred Publications to write for them,” Arthur tells his father proudly.
“That’s a fine establishment,” Uther says, as if he’s surprised someone like Merlin would be affiliated with them. He turns to Arthur and asks, “So, how’s Camelot?”
“Wonderful, the school’s great but, with you gone, I’ve made a few adjustments to the classes and syllabus. Not drastic changes, of course, it’s just to make the students more comfortable with their academics. And I think it would be good to make the extracurricular activities more important. I know we’ve been focusing on the academics but they’re kids, after all, and it’ll look good on their record when they leave school.”
Merlin loves it when Arthur talks about Camelot, there’s a fire in his eyes, a passion, that can’t be rivaled by simply Arthur talking about books or literature or human’s rights.
“Education’s very important,” Uther states. “What did you study in university, Merlin?”
“English, Literature, Sociology, nothing too interesting,” Merlin shrugs.
“Well, in that case, I sincerely hope you’re fluently educated in matters concerning my son. He’s my only one, as you know, and it would be expected that any man or woman coming into his life respect and know him as the wonderful man that he is,” Uther says.
“Father-”
“I understand, Mister Penn, that you’re worried about your son but you don’t have to be. I’m not going to break his heart, at least, I don’t intend to. But, yes, in regards to your previous inquiry, I am very fluent in matters concerning your son. And, yes, I do recognize him as the wonderful man he is. Maybe that can be attributed to the fact that I’ve been with him in the time you haven’t been.”
“Merlin-”
“I like you, Merlin,” Uther smiles at him.
“Thank you, sir, and I love your son, just so you know,” Merlin suddenly feels brave. Does love make your brave like this?
“That is evident,” Uther says, as if he’s been observing them. “Here, have a shrimp.”
I Love You, Awesome - The Phoenix Foundation
“So, dinner was a success,” Arthur proclaims as they walk out the door after dinner.
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Merlin says proudly to himself.
“He likes you!” Arthur yells in joy and excitement. “I mean, I could care less if he didn’t because I love you regardless but, hey, he likes you! Isn’t that a plus?”
“It’s worth all the plusses in the world; it might mathematicians question the very basis of addition.”
“I’m hungry,” Arthur states.
“We just ate!”
“Not real food! I made a reservation at a nice place since I know we’re not gonna be satisfied with Penn food, you know you want to…”
“Hmm…”
“Come on, when’s the last time we went out together? And I mean properly went out with each other? With the nice clothes and a nice restaurant and pleasant conversation and a kiss goodnight? Face it, Merlin, we’ve been dating for four months without actually dating,” Arthur says, making a valid point.
He looks so hopeful, his eyes bright with expectations of the night. Merlin wonders how Arthur was on his first date. Did he remain composed before, during and after, being charming and having all the attributes a mother would look for in a potential son-in-law? Did he open the door for him/her, take out the chair for him/her to sit on, politely ask him/her what they would like to eat?
Did they look at him with as much expectancy Arthur looks for in this very moment, only to realize that they weren’t waiting for anything, that the boy sitting across from them was all he was ever going to be? Did they regret the decision they made of going out with him once they realized the simple fact? Did he look at them, still waiting for something?
Did he wonder if this was how dates normally went? Did he like it in the end?
Arthur’s this to him: an endless box of questions that didn’t even need to be opened to instill a sense of curiosity in him -‘the box, where did it come from?’ ‘why is the wrapping so peculiar?’- and when he does open it, he often wonders if it is weird to be relieved that there are more questions. It’s a relief, merely because if there are still question, there is still a subject, an Arthur, to be curious about.
“I take that as a yes,” Arthur says, knocking the Arthur in his thoughts out of the water.
“Take what as a yes?” Merlin asks as Arthur links his arm with Merlin’s until they look like pretzels.
“You know, the smiling silence,” Arthur says like that suffices for an explanation. He beckons for a cab then sees Merlin’s expression, once again confused and curious.
“Sometimes, I just lose you to thought. You sort of blank out, not really like a trance, I mean, you respond to touch when I kiss you and sound when I whisper in your ear but you don’t speak. All the words are in your head, swimming around and sometimes your eyes move, too; like the words are in the air and you’re trying to catch them. Most times, lately, when you think like this, you smile and, those times, I wonder if you’re thinking of me. Your smile’s beautiful when you think, like your happiness is at peace and I like to think I bring that to you.”
“You do,” Merlin says, trying not to be taken aback by how much Arthur observes in him. Just as Arthur wonders if he’s thinking about him, Merlin wonders if he’s a still photograph to Arthur and he is taking the time to pore over it, see the details in the world inside the picture. He wonders if Arthur can see the details of the world in him.
“And, yeah, I think of you most times,” Merlin says with a smirk. They jump into the cab and hold hands.
There are restaurants that specifically cater for couples, where the music playing is only a selection of French songs and soft and slow tunes that makes you think about disappearing, with red tablecloths and candles. There are restaurants that are aimed for the families, where bubblegum is hidden under the table and it’s comfort over class.
The restaurant Arthur takes him to is actually a cross, there are still candles and nice napkins abut a friendly sort of aura that attracts facilities with young kids. Two kids run past them, one holding a balloon with blonde curls, the other outstretching his hand to grab him by the hem of his shirt, telling him not to run so fast, that he’ll trip over and they’ll lose the balloon because mummy won’t get them another one.
For a split second, a rare second where Merlin doesn’t know why he’s thinking his thoughts, the children remind him of Arthur and himself. As if one is always running and endangering themselves and something worth a lot to both of them like it’s a game they’ve set up and the other is always chasing, making sure the red balloon doesn’t pop and the pieces of plastic doesn’t land on the other and mimic traces of blood.
The waitress leads them to their table, seats across from each other and small candles at the centre of the table. Merlin never understood the point of a candlelit dinner, maybe just because he knows he’s a walking disaster and he might just turn his hand just so and the whole table might be engulfed in flames.
Or maybe it’s just because candles aren’t needed to make a meal romantic. All you really need are people that find each other’s company enjoyable and can smile fondly at them as they eat spaghetti and the sauce dribbles down their chin.
Once he makes his order, he looks up and sees Arthur seeing him.
“What? Is there something on my face?” he asks although he knows Arthur’s seen him in worse states.
“You look lovely, mademoiselle,” Arthur replies with a smirk.
“Oh, stop it! You’re making me blush!”
“I aim to please.”
“I’m not gonna be walking straight tomorrow, am I?”
“I intend for it to be so.”
In all his wildest dreams, even in the ones that are recurring every night, with castles and red capes, he would never have imagined that someone like Arthur would love him. Although, in those dreams, he has a kind of intuition that love existed there, as well, strong enough to linger after he wakes, making him wonder about the people involved in that love, if they were anything at all like him and Arthur.
He says it too many times, this truth, but it still doesn’t make it any less true or him any less surprised that it’s still true.
Arthur suddenly reaches over to kiss Merlin randomly then licks his lips in the most adorable way.
Happiness is a long stretch of road, almost as long as life itself and, sometimes, your foot gets caught so you can’t walk anymore but sometimes you have something to get you back up. Happiness, for him, isn’t a road to Arthur. No. Arthur is the road.
The rest of dinner passes without an epiphany or long, straying thought and that’s okay because they don’t need constant deep thoughts about their relationship to still have a fully-functioning one.
Through conversation and observation, Merlin surprisingly realizes that, just because he’s been in love with him for the longest time, that doesn’t mean he knows everything about Arthur.
He doesn’t know that Arthur doesn’t like tomatoes or pickles but he doesn’t tell the waitress about it. He doesn’t know about the way he compartmentalizes his food so they don’t touch each other (Merlin tells him he’s going to get him those divider lunch boxes for work soon). He doesn’t know Arthur used to take taekwando in high school and made it to green belt before opting for fencing instead. He doesn’t know that he used to have a tree house where he ‘lived’ for about four years in his childhood, after his mum died and all he wanted was a place that didn’t remind him of her.
These little things account for the big picture so he has to take note of them.
“You ready to go home?” Arthur asks.
“Yeah, sure,” Merlin nods.
It’s kind of awesome, the fact that home, in his mind, immediately registers as Arthur’s flat. Arthur’s flat that has become his, as well. He should be scared; frightened that some other place registers as home, after so long of imagining Leon and Morgana’s couches, the clean countertop of their kitchen, the sheets of his bedroom. But he’s not. Why should it, when he’s sure this place means more as a home?
Not to say that Morgana and Leon are at the back of his mind, they’re the ones he owes his current life to, after pretty much raising him and getting him a job at a bookstore before he finally found Freya and got the job at the magazine, they’re the ones who were friends with Gwen and Lance, who are friends with the man he’s currently holding hands with. That’ll never be the case. It’s just to say that the fact that his home is with Arthur, and not anyone else, doesn’t scare him, it merely lightens him.
It sets him off with a kind of glow because he can never be alone anymore. Ever since Will left, he’s never had someone to be his someone. The others, they all had someone and Merlin was just left there to his own devices. Whenever Will came around, Merlin didn’t feel alone anymore but, the thing was, Will’s presence was growing scarce in the physical world, as opposed to the one technology gives them and it started to hurt. But, now, he had Arthur.
Arthur, who doesn’t need any amount of alcohol to seem drunk at all, because he’s looking down at his feet and staggers a bit, walking like he’s on a tightrope, his arms outstretched, keeping balance on the sidewalk.
“Do you ever think of-” Arthur starts.
“What? Flying?” Merlin asks back, laughing a bit.
“No, being someone else,” Arthur says.
“Elaborate,” Merlin says as they go up the stairs of the flat.
“I don’t mean like becoming someone else than what you already are. I mean just being someone else. I mean, what if they misplaced you? What if you’re supposed to be someone else but unknowable circumstances stopped you from being that person and you only become your own variation of it? But you know you’re supposed to be someone else, you’re supposed to be somewhere else and your head is full of it. They’re like memories but not memories; they’re like snippets of a life you could’ve had. Like an alternate universe.”
“Yeah, sometimes,” Merlin nods truthfully.
“Yeah?” They’ve stepped inside the apartment and when Merlin switches on the lights, Arthur looks really excited at this prospect, like he finally knows what Merlin’s been feeling all this while: that someone understands parts of him he didn’t know anyone could. “I have no words.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to rob your words from you. Here, have them back, have them back!”
Arthur pulls him in by the waist and smiles at him, those kinds of smiles that could compete with a five-year-old’s but it doesn’t really help the puddle of goo from forming in his insides like Arthur can affect him in the silliest of ways.
“I love you, you're my best friend. Come and we'll get married and get a house and pets and have flamingos in the garden. I wrote a poem for you but I think the neighbors would complain about the applause when I finish,” he says and Merlin’s already laughing.
“Oh good Lord,” Merlin says.
“Your books are old, your eyes are blue, oh, if I could, I’d make babies with you.”
“I can’t handle this cheesiness.”
“But, Merlin, it’s so GOUDA!”
Merlin is pretty sure his face is going to break from laughing so much but he can’t exactly stop. “Oh my god, I fell in love with a twat.”
“I’m serious, though, I do love you.” in that moment, Merlin wonders if that’s the only thing he’s serious about.
Maybe he’s serious about getting married, too, and the flamingos and the babies. Although he’d probably divorce him if he ever got a flamingo to decorate their front yard, although he’ll probably retaliate by saying, “But they’re pink, Merlin! And we’re gay!” Then Merlin will tell him that he’s happy with being the worst homosexuals ever then kiss him, disproving his point.
“Yeah, for some reason, I love you, too,” Merlin says although he knows exactly the reason why. He hopes neither of them forgets it.
PART SIX