Merlin Fic: Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 2
Full Headers & Chapter 1 are [ here].
This was ready on Wednesday, but neither my rather expensive hotel nor the friend I stayed with afterwards came with internet connectivity. Sorry! (But at least it gave me enough time to finish Chapter 4.)
Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: 40’000+ words overall, ~6’800 for this chapter
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU. Or: In which there are aerialists, decorative metal flowers, prejudices, artsy books and magic. Obviously.
Thanks: inderpal, snarkaddict and torakowalski are as precious as… Arthur’s pout, possibly, and way better at beating this story into shape than Merlin is at washing socks.
(Gorgeous banner by inderpal, because she didn’t make only one, no, she made two.)
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to the BBC. I’m merely taking their characters for a spin.
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Radiant Under Every Sort of Light
Chapter 2
_______________________________
Merlin spends most of his second day running errands for Gaius. After laying out the breakfast buffet - “There’s really no need to serve them all the time, Merlin, or they’ll get used to it” - he borrows the old van for a trip to a pharmacy, then a bookshop and the post office. Each time he catches sight of the Dragonera posters that have been up for three weeks, he’s inordinately, inexplicably proud, despite the weird feeling in his gut when he drives past the campus.
At some point, he should probably tell his mother that he’s pulling out of university. At some point. As soon as he works up the courage.
At the very least, the small sum he earns in addition to free food and a roof over his head means that he won’t need her to cover his expenses.
--
By the time Gaius is satisfied with the renewed state of his medication and herb stocks, it’s growing dark. Dinner duties have been assigned to a group of younger girls, so Merlin grabs some rice and vegetables before he starts his search for Gwen. As she’s not anywhere near the food tent, he stops to ask a guy who appears to be part of the band, judging by the guitar slung over his shoulder.
“You’re Gaius’ new right hand, right? Merlin?” the guy asks, instead of answering Merlin’s question. When he smiles, broad and welcoming, it’s easy to smile back - even more so as he’s sort of stunningly attractive in a rugged, dark-haired, loosely Latino kind of way.
“Seems like my reputation precedes me,” Merlin says.
“Yeah, gossip spreads fast here.” The guy holds out his hand. His grip is firm and warm. “And I’m Lance.”
The name rings a bell, but it takes Merlin a moment to place it. “Oh, hey, Gaius said I should talk to you. Said you could give me some pointers for how to win Arthur over.”
Lance laughs. “As if I know. Took me ages till he finally trusted me. Morgana’s probably the only one who really understands him, but, you know. I guess it never hurts if you show him, again and again, that you’re not going anywhere.”
“Not that he’ll listen.” Merlin pulls a face, and it draws another laugh from Lance. “Anyway. So you’re in the band?”
“Guitar, yeah. And vocal now and then, although it’s mostly instrumental.”
Live music is part of Dragonera’s myth. Merlin supposes it’s quite an honour to be part of the band. “Sounds like fun.”
“It is.” Lance sets the guitar down, one hand loosely clasped around its neck. “I was with Knie before, but it’s much more of a challenge here. Which I like, don’t get me wrong. So,” his tone changes abruptly, more cautiously curious now, “why are you looking for Gwen?”
Merlin lifts the small package he’s carrying. It consists of a bandage and some salve Gaius handed him. “Gaius said I should check her hand, because something went wrong during the last show?”
“Yeah, she caught one of the torches at a bad angle.” Lance nods. The caution has faded entirely.
“Wait, she’s the one who juggles with torches?” Merlin is pretty sure he remembers a picture of Gwen now, six or seven flames whirling through the air, a fire-breather behind her.
“Six of them, yes.” Lance sounds personally proud of that fact. Then he sobers. “She used to do five, but got it in her head that if the world record’s seven, then she can do six, easily.”
“Overly ambitious?” Merlin asks.
“Only about very few things. And she mostly did manage six.” Lance doesn’t seem aware of the fond note in his voice. It makes Merlin suppress a grin.
“Well, then I’ll just see to her hand, so she can do as many as she wants.”
“Right, yeah.” Lance picks his guitar up again, pointing towards the big top, lit up like a Christmas tree and its silhouette sharp against the darkening sky. “She’s probably still backstage, trying to mend something on Morgana’s costume.”
“Great, thanks.” Merlin raises a hand for something like a wave, grinning. “I’ll see you later then, I guess.”
“Absolutely.” Lance throws him another one of his smiles, and Merlin has no clue how Arthur managed to be even vaguely suspicious of this guy. All the more confirmation that Arthur will be a tough nut to crack.
Merlin steps over ropes and pickets to get to the back entrance of the tent. He’s never been back here, and upon stepping inside, he already feels like an intruder. Maybe there is some truth to his inexperience. Faint music originates from somewhere, wood shavings giving under his shoes, and Merlin has no idea which way to turn.
“Gwen?” he calls out.
It takes only a moment before Gwen appears at the entrance to the dressing room. She’s holding a piece of glittering cloth in one hand, needle and thread in the other, no trace of her bandage. “Merlin, hi! How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” Merlin grins back at her. “Although sharing a caravan with Arthur wouldn’t have been my first choice, considering. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“That’s not true,” Gwen protests. “Arthur’s just-He’s cautious, and you did blow him off, that first time. I mean.” She suddenly quiets, shifting her gaze away. “Not that it’s any of my business, or anything. Just, Morgana mentioned it, that’s all.”
Merlin isn’t quite sure whether to feel amused or embarrassed. He settles for something in between. “Well, he deserved it.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it was a bad thing,” Gwen says quickly. The corners of her mouth quirk up in reaction to Merlin’s uncertain grin. They share a moment of mutual amusement at Arthur’s expense - or at least that’s how Merlin interprets it - before Merlin nods down at Gwen’s hands.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a bandage?”
Gwen’s smile turns sheepish. “It was in the way. Also, it was starting to itch.”
Merlin holds out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gwen sets the thread and needle aside and offers her palm for examination. It doesn’t look very bad, the skin only mildly irritated, reddened, but without any blisters. Merlin runs his fingertips over the worst spot, just where her thumb meets her forefinger. She twitches, but doesn’t jerk her hand away.
“Hurts?” he asks.
Gwen lifts one shoulder, shaking her head. “Not really.” The line of her jaw is tense, though, and Merlin snorts softly.
“Promise me that if I put some salve on it and redo the bandage, you’re going to leave it on for the night?”
“Yeah, okay.” She sounds reluctant, but Merlin is pretty sure that since she agreed, she’ll keep her word.
“Good,” he says, nudging her towards the closest source of light he can make out, a lamp hanging just beside the entrance. When Merlin looks up, Arthur is passing just outside the tent, flicking a glance down at where Merlin is still cradling Gwen’s hand. Arthur’s gone before Merlin can even attempt to offer an explanation, and besides, why should he offer one, anyway?
It doesn’t matter. In the least. Right.
“Something wrong?” Gwen asks, startling Merlin out of his thoughts.
He turns back to her, letting go of her hand to unscrew the jar with salve. “Absolutely nothing,” he says, quite resolutely, and it’s the utter and perfect truth.
--
On his way back to the caravan, Merlin passes the practice tent. Despite the late hour, a glimpse inside shows him that Arthur is still working on something. In the short time - less than a minute, most certainly - that Merlin allows himself to linger in the shadows, Arthur makes three attempts at what might be a new move, each of them ending with Arthur upside down, the rope that’s twined around both his ankles the only thing that keeps him from falling. Going by the muttered curses, it’s not what he had in mind.
As quietly as he came, Merlin slips back out of the tent.
Once inside the caravan, he readies himself for bed before grabbing another one of Arthur’s books, this one about video installations. There are several more books like it, arts and lights and architecture, along with a few classics from Orwell and Hemingway. They don’t seem like the kind of books someone like Arthur would read, so maybe there is a decent human being under the idiot surface, after all. Well. Or maybe not.
It’s nearing midnight when Merlin’s lids finally grow too heavy. He uses his neckerchief to mark his place in the book, putting it down on the floor before he clicks the lamplight off. There’s still no sign of Arthur when Merlin drifts off.
--
“It’s opening day. Get up,” is the first thing that makes it through the comfortable haze of sleep surrounding Merlin. The order is followed by a pause before Arthur adds, significantly closer. “And just because we’re sharing a caravan doesn’t give you permission to mooch my books.”
Reluctantly, Merlin blinks his eyes open. Arthur is bare-chested and frowning down at him, the illustrated book about video installations in one hand, Merlin’s neckerchief in the other.
“That was to mark my place,” Merlin mutters.
Arthur appears unmoved. “Keep your clothes out of my books. Lord knows where they’ve been.”
“’round my neck, obviously.” Merlin sits up with some difficulty, glancing out of the window to see the sky bright and cloudless, the glowing letters above the big top extinguished. “That’s where a neckerchief goes, usually. Don’t know what you do with yours.”
He shouldn’t have said that. One glance at Arthur’s sudden smirk has Merlin perfectly convinced that yes, very much a mistake. Tiredness must have disabled his filter between brain and mouth, and that can’t be a good thing around Arthur.
“Tell me, Merlin…” Arthur leans down, just a little, but it’s enough for Merlin to feel the ghost of Arthur’s breath on his forehead. Clearly, fate has a personal vendetta against Merlin and is intent to torture him. “Tell me,” Arthur repeats. “How do you feel about bondage?”
“I don’t see how that would be any of your business,” Merlin replies, too quickly. At least his body is still sleepy enough for the blood not to rush to his face.
Arthur lets the neckerchief drop down on Merlin’s blanket, placing the book back on the windowsill. “Your loss,” he says pleasantly.
“I doubt it.” Merlin yawns, not bothering to hide it behind a hand. “Why are you even awake, yet? You were still out when I fell asleep.”
“Habit. Once you’re used to waking up every morning at-Never mind.” Arthur shakes his head. “You probably won’t stay long enough to fall into a rhythm.” Before Merlin can voice his protest, Arthur stretches quite alluringly, turning towards the bathroom with his back a strong line, shoulder blades standing out sharply, narrow curve of his waist dipping into his boxers. Merlin is possibly staring, so it’s a good thing Arthur doesn’t turn around when he adds, “I’m going to take a shower now, and when I’m done, you better be up and dressed. You’re going to help mucking out the horse boxes, and tonight, it’s a popcorn tray for you.”
As soon as Arthur has disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar because he’s just that much of a smug wanker, Merlin lies back down. Stables and popcorn, oh joy. He reminds himself, firmly, that this might be his ticket. He also reminds himself that he doesn’t care about the fact that Arthur is currently standing under the shower, gloriously naked. Merlin’s never been so superficial as to disregard personality in favour of good looks. Besides, if Arthur ever found out about Merlin’s attraction, he would be insufferable.
Just, no.
With a stifled groan, Merlin rolls out of bed. At least he slept much better than the night before, now that his mattress is comfortable and his blanket warm enough to protect him against the cold air of an autumn night.
--
From an insider’s perspective, opening night is incredibly busy. There are last-minute adjustments to costumes and stage equipment while people are queuing up at the ticket caravan, and a group of local journalists is making the rounds well before the show starts, talking to anyone they can get their hands on in addition to pre-scheduled interviews with Uther, Morgana, Arthur, Gwen and a number of other artists.
Merlin tries to do his tasks quietly and without drawing attention to himself. It works well until one journalist comes up to him, asking about the circus, and Merlin’s role, and why he enjoys being part of it all.
“It’s the circus, you know? I mean, it’s just, it’s what dreams are about,” is as far as Merlin gets before rescue comes in the form of Gwen asking him to take a final look at her hand.
“Thanks,” he tells her as soon as they’re out of earshot.
Gwen laughs. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“Brilliant, though,” Merlin says. “I love it, all the enthusiasm and excitement. Do you get stage fright?”
“Not anymore. I think Arthur’s just about the only one who still works himself up every time.”
“Arthur?” Merlin raises his brows.
“It’s just the way he is,” Gwen says. “It’s always been like that.” She links their arms together, leading Merlin towards the caravan where all the outfits for the people on the sidelines are stored. He hopes he’ll get to wear a dashing red coat rather than a peasant’s costume. Red is just so much more his colour.
--
Merlin’s costume is red. Unfortunately, that’s just about the only positive quality he can think of, and that’s not even taking into account the atrocious hat. There are feathers hanging into Merlin’s view. He is, basically, wearing a dead pheasant on his head.
“Well,” says a familiar voice, right by his side. “Now I can absolutely see why you’d ditch university to do this circus life. Selling popcorn in silly outfits beats treating sick people any day.”
“Shut up, Will,” Merlin says before he even turns his head. His stupid grin rather ruins the effect.
“No, really.” Will takes a step back to eye Merlin’s outfit before he reaches out to tug at the hat. “I mean, it’s just so you, you know?”
“And I repeat, shut up.”
Will laughs and is about to reply when Arthur brushes past, stopping only to tell Merlin, “I’m not certain whether you got the memo, but we pay you for selling popcorn, not catching up with your friends.” He’s moved on before Merlin can utter a comeback, or give him the finger, or essentially do more than glare. To add insult to injury, Arthur isn’t obliged to wear a stupid hat. His red doublet, its collar turned up, makes him look stunning.
Merlin averts his gaze after maybe a moment too long. “It’s kind of unfair, that someone so good-looking has to be such a cunt.”
“If it makes you feel better-” Will has to make room when a family squeezes past to get to their seats. The rows have filled up considerably, only a few numbered seats right at the front still free. During opening night, they’re mostly filled with local prominence, Gwen told Merlin earlier. “If it makes you feel better,” Will repeats, “I’m pretty sure I saw a pimple on his left cheek.”
Merlin can’t help but smile. “Thanks, Will.”
“Anytime.” Atypically, Will appears to hesitate. Then he leans closer. “Your mum called me, by the way, because she couldn’t reach you.”
“Fuck,” Merlin says, with feeling.
Will nods. “Since I’m a good friend, I told her you forgot to charge your mobile and would call her back as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, I will.” Merlin looks down at the popcorn tray he’s carrying, the straps that hold it up suddenly heavy across his shoulders. He straightens to adjust them, but they’re still uncomfortable. He should probably go back to actively offering people popcorn. Swallowing, Merlin glances up at Will. “We need to find you a new flatmate, too, you know? Someone who doesn’t mind a furnished room.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Will reaches out to briefly grasp Merlin’s shoulder, expression uncommonly sober for once. “You paid this month’s share, and, you know. I’ll just put a note on the blackboard in the student union, should be easy.”
“Thanks,” Merlin says, and he’s not talking just about the task of finding a new tenant.
“Welcome.” Will’s smile is quick, but genuine. He turns to survey the quite crowded tent before his shoulders lift in a shrug. “And I guess I better go find a seat, now. I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?”
“Definitely.” As a boy is tugging on Merlin’s sleeve, pointing at a bag of popcorn, Merlin doesn’t have time to watch Will go. When he looks for him later, he finally spots him seated in a row almost at the back, far from the stage lights’ brightness.
--
When the show begins, Merlin joins his fellow popcorn and ice cream sellers at the main entrance to the tent, the niche large enough for all of them to hide out of sight while offering a perfect view over the arena. For all that Merlin’s seen videos of Dragonera’s performances, seeing them live is an entirely different thing. Along with the crowd, he listens to Uther’s regal presentation, laughs at the clowns’ jokes and involuntarily clenches his hands into fists when Gwen makes fire swirl through the air.
And then there are Arthur and Morgana.
--
It’s well after midnight when Merlin returns to the caravan. He didn’t plan to stay out so late, but with only ten days left, spending time with Will suddenly has gained an importance it didn’t have before. Premature nostalgia, Will called it, and for once, he might have a point. Besides, Gwen and Lance joined them after a while - “Morgana requested some private caravan time,” Gwen explained with a grin, which was how Merlin learned that yes, some of the particularly well-styled circus visitors really are groupies - and they brought a bottle of sparkling wine with them.
“To a successful opening night,” Lance said, and Merlin might have been the only one to notice that Lance was reluctant to look away from Gwen after toasting her.
It’s quiet now, no circus visitors lingering on the grounds anymore. The beautiful Bengal tiger roars in the distance before everything is silent once more, and Merlin spares a vague thought for the hope that any groupie Arthur may have taken back to their caravan has been kicked out. Not that it’s any of Merlin’s business.
He creeps inside quietly, but his caution is superfluous: Arthur doesn’t even stir, breathing calm and even, undisturbed by the moonlight that falls across his covers and part of his face. If the glitter still streaking his lids is any indication, Arthur didn’t wash very thoroughly after his performance.
Merlin studies Arthur’s silent form for a short while. Then he grins at nothing in particular and considers the window frame, trying to recall the shape of the metal flowers wrought around the caravan’s outer walls.
--
For the third time in a row, Arthur wakes up while Merlin is still fast asleep. All Arthur can see is tousled dark hair and the curve of Merlin’s shoulder under the blanket. He pushes himself out of bed - and stops short at the sight of metal flowers that suddenly cling to the wooden window frame.
After ensuring that Merlin is, in fact, asleep, Arthur steps closer. He can’t see any traces of glue, but it’s the only explanation there is; Merlin must have bought them somewhere and then put them up last night, quietly enough for Arthur to sleep though it. Although it is rather a surprise Merlin managed to find the exact same flowers that decorate the caravans.
Briefly, Arthur contemplates ignoring the addition to the interior; he certainly doesn’t want Merlin to get his hopes up. On the other hand… On the other hand, Arthur really doesn’t feel like it.
In one quick move, he strips the blanket from Merlin’s bed, noting that it feels weirdly heavy. He lets it drop to the floor and crosses his arms and asks, “What is it with you and flowers, anyway?”
Merlin rolls over, scrunching up his face. “What?” he asks, barely coherent. His sleep shirt has slid up to bunch just below his ribs, and Arthur does not notice the enticingly flat plane of Merlin’s stomach, thanks. Neither does he care about the subtle trail of dark hair leading from Merlin’s navel down to the waistband of his boxers, and-
Maybe Arthur should have taken that girl from last night up on her offer. She was pretty, if a little simpering for his tastes.
“Flowers,” Arthur repeats. “Isn’t it enough they decorate that shirt of yours, which I consider a crime against fashion, by the way? Will it be butterflies next?”
“I could, if you’re into that sort of thing.” Merlin fails to sound reasonably intimidated in the face of Arthur’s frown. “Is that what it takes, to get a chance? Butterflies? Could have told me sooner.”
“Very funny. Maybe washing my clothes is what it takes.”
“I don’t think so.” Merlin sits up, gravity pulling his shirt down to cover his stomach. He glances at the window before hiding a yawn behind his hand, eyes turning into small slits. Arthur looks away.
“Maybe I do,” he says.
“That’s your problem, not mine.” Merlin’s eyes are bright. He wraps both arms around his knees and looks up at Arthur, stupidly at ease. It makes a cautious tightness in Arthur’s chest disappear, and that can’t possibly be a good thing. He narrows his eyes at Merlin.
“No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. Because if your magic tricks were good enough to provide me with clean clothes, it would be win-win.”
Merlin has the audacity to look considering for a moment. Then he grins, shrugs and shuffles out of bed towards the bathroom.
“Don’t even think about it,” Arthur tells his back, quite firmly.
Merlin stops and turns his head by a fraction. His boxers hang very low on his hips. “Think about what?”
“My caravan, my bathroom, my precedence.”
Merlin turns a little more, lips pulled down in a faint frown. “You are so obviously an only child.”
“And you aren’t?” Arthur shouldn’t be curious. He shouldn’t care. It’s only a matter of days until Merlin’s gone, back to wherever he came from.
“Well.” Merlin shifts his weight. “I’m not making it as obvious as you are, at least. Sharing is caring, and all that.”
“You want to take your shower while I brush my teeth? Then by all means, be my guest.” Arthur motions towards the bathroom, making it a grand gesture, the kind his father uses when presenting the next big act or sending visitors off to buy drinks and food during the break.
Arthur really, genuinely doesn’t expect Merlin to give him a long, assessing look that he follows up with a smile, part defiant and part sarcastic. Merlin pulls the shirt over his head as he goes, tossing it in the direction of his own bed. It lands mostly on the floor. Apparently unconcerned, Merlin shimmies out of his boxers next, leaving them on the doorstep to the bathroom. Arthur gets only a second to admire the surprisingly muscular curve or Merlin’s back, the quite spectacular swell of his arse, before Merlin disappears behind the shower curtain.
“Right,” Arthur mutters to himself. If there’s a part of him that admires Merlin’s sheer gall, he is quick to silence it.
--
Merlin appears set on drowning himself under the shower, given that he shows no sign of emerging from the bathroom by the time Arthur is dressed and ready for breakfast. As there’s no reason for Arthur to wait, he’s about to leave when he notices a copy of some local newspaper on the caravan’s doorstep, probably left by Gaius. It seems there isn’t any breaking news because the front page features a picture of Dragonera’s big top, along with large letters that spell out, “It’s Where Dreams Are - Or Is It?”
Arthur leans back against the doorframe and skims the article. Not taking into account the sensational tone (‘stunningly beautiful,’ ‘defying gravity as they fly through the air,’ ‘the beast seems ready to attack any moment as it prowls its cage’), it contains basically the same information as most articles about opening nights. Only when Arthur reaches the last paragraph of the short article does the title begin to make sense.
‘And yet, what remains is a wistful note. Circuses are a relic of the past, and Dragonera, with its medieval costumes and classic décor, is aware of that more than many others. In times of YouTube and Britain’s Got Talent, the stars of the arena just can’t keep up. So enjoy them while you can!’
He throws the newspaper towards the rubbish bin. It clunks against the rim before joining a half-eaten banana, yesterday’s Guardian and whatever landed on the dustpan when Arthur made a vague attempt at cleaning a few days ago.
Satisfied, he leaves to grab something to eat. He hopes Merlin didn’t fall asleep under the shower, but either way, it’s none of his concern.
--
If nothing else, it can be said that Merlin’s presence contributes to a mild increase in their popcorn sales figure. It’s not because he’s even remotely adept at it - quite the opposite, in fact - but because the girls love him. Not for the first time, Arthur passes just in time to watch a particularly bold one reach out to tug at Merlin’s hat, to which Merlin reacts by ducking his head with a sheepish grin. It’s hard to tell whether his move is calculated.
Arthur waits for Merlin to glance his way before he raises an eyebrow. Judging by the faint flush that spreads over Merlin’s cheeks, he gets the groupie reference. With a grin, Arthur moves on - it’s time to get into his costume and let Morgana fuss with his stage make-up while the music trickling in from the main area lets his adrenaline climb.
--
Arthur declines Lance’s invitation to a game of cards in favour of an early night of sleep. A few visitors are still lingering in the entrance area, and Arthur supposes it’s because they’re reluctant to go back to their average homes, to leave the lights and glamour of the circus behind. They certainly don’t consider Dragonera a relic of the past.
Stupid gossiping journalists.
His father’s caravan is brightly lit, windows yellow rectangles in the night. Next to it, Gaius’ caravan is dark, and Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them sat up reminiscing, sharing memories and a bottle of whiskey between them. Arthur makes a detour past the animal shelters so as not to accidentally catch part of their conversation. Back here, the scent of hay and predator is noticeably stronger.
It takes him a moment to recognize the shadowed figure leaning against one of the fences, back turned to him. Then Merlin turns his head, not enough to notice Arthur, but enough for his profile to become recognizable. Arthur stops just beside Simba’s cage, the tiger asleep in the far corner. He feels stupid prying on Merlin, but on the other hand, what in heaven’s name is Merlin doing hiding back here, anyway?
“Mum,” Merlin mutters, shifting. His voice is barely audible, but enough to draw Calibur’s attention. She butts him in the shoulder, and Arthur watches Merlin absently pet the horse’s snout. The mobile Merlin has pressed to one ear reflects some errant brightness.
“It doesn’t even mean a term off, for now,” Merlin says, slightly louder. “I mean, if I don’t like it-It’s still semester break, you know? It’s easy to go back. I can still pay next semester’s fees and-”
It’s easy to go back.
Arthur keeps himself still, glaring at the back of Merlin’s head. Then again, this isn’t exactly a surprise. Of course it isn’t. Arthur never thought Merlin was here to stay; Merlin would be plain stupid not to ensure there was a way back. It’s a nice adventure, spending some time with a circus, but what it comes down to is that few people are made for life on the road. With his big smiles and stupid ears, Merlin can easily do better.
That’s about as far as Arthur’s thoughts have progressed when he catches sight of Merlin’s crossed fingers.
--
When Merlin gets back to the caravan, he finds Arthur lying on his stomach, in a sleep shirt and boxers, his legs kicked up and a book open on his pillow. “Hi,” Merlin mutters. He’s about to pass straight on to the bathroom, not in the mood for one of Arthur’s mind tests. His mobile feels weirdly heavy in his pocket, as if Merlin’s guilt of telling half-truths to his mother added some weight to it. Ridiculous, of course - these days, he tends to have much better control over his powers.
“Merlin, hello.” Arthur rolls over onto his back, observing Merlin from where he’s stretched out on his back. For a moment, a strange silence settles between them. Then Arthur narrows his eyes. “So, Merlin. Since you’re so overly fond of my books, tell me what you know about video installations.”
“Sorry, what?” Merlin is pretty sure he’s staring. But really, taking into account Arthur’s behaviour up until now, Merlin’s surprise is more than justified.
“Video installations,” Arthur repeats, his tone overly patient. “What do you know about them?”
Merlin shakes his head and sits down on his own bed. The mattress gives under him, but not as much as it used to. “Why should I know anything about video installations?”
“I thought you studied medicine. Don’t you have something like core requirements? Art and language courses, that sort of thing?”
“Uh.” Merlin pauses. His head is filled with an uncomfortable buzz, fragments of his earlier phone conversation floating through his mind. “Actually, I think you’re confusing it with the U.S. I mean, they’re the ones who need a Bachelor before they do their medical training. Seriously, don’t you-You’re not very familiar with UK education, are you?” The moment the words are out, he feels as if he should bite down on his tongue
In the brightness of the bedside lamp, Arthur looks briefly conflicted before his expression smoothes over. His voice is flat. “Not so much, I guess. The downside of being home-schooled. Our contact with the UK school system was limited to the tests they issued, to make sure we weren’t falling too far behind. It’s not exactly easy to regularly attend a school when you’re travelling all over Europe and hardly ever stay longer than two weeks in one place.”
“I didn’t mean it as criticism,” Merlin hurries to tell him. Just his luck that the first time Arthur appears willing to initiate a conversation, Merlin manages to bugger it up somehow. “I just, it makes sense to me. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
Arthur takes a moment too long to reply before he nods. “Okay.”
“Who taught you, though?” Merlin reconsiders the question and adds quickly, “I mean, someone did, obviously. And if you didn’t really attend school…”
“Text books and whoever was best at the subject in question.” Arthur props his chin on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t smile, but it almost looks as if he might. His hair is standing up a little, dishevelled, and it’s definitely nothing that should catch Merlin’s interest. “My father has always had a soft spot for History, for instance, and Gwen’s dad isn’t too bad at Geometry. Also, Gaius teaches mean Biology, Chemistry and Physics lessons when his class consists of only three pupils.”
“Same when it’s only one pupil,” Merlin says. Digging his mobile out of his pocket provides him with a perfect excuse to look away, anywhere that isn’t Arthur’s unjustly attractive face, his features softened by the warm lamplight.
“What, he tried to teach you, too?” Arthur sounds amused.
“Not teach me, as such. More like, explained all the stuff he kept about, and…” Merlin shrugs his shoulders and shoots Arthur a smile, quick enough that he isn’t in danger of blushing. “He seems to enjoy it, explaining things, sharing his knowledge. He’d have been a good teacher.”
“Probably.” There’s a soft rustle of pages when Arthur snaps the book on his pillow shut. While Merlin can’t make out the title, the cover shows what looks like many columns filled with light, set up in a row. Arthur drops the book down to the floor, rolls back onto his stomach and draws the blanket up to his shoulders. His voice, when he speaks again, is muffled by the pillow. “When you’re done in the bathroom, turn off my light and open the window, will you? I don’t want any gnats in here.”
Merlin interprets it as the clear end of the strange, unexpected conversation they just had. “Okay, sure,” he says, pushing himself into an upright position. He stands looking at Arthur’s unnecessarily large bed for a second before he adds, “Good night.”
It isn’t until he’s almost closed the bathroom door behind himself that he catches Arthur’s quiet, nearly reluctant, “Good night, Merlin.”
When Merlin glances back through the gap between door and frame, Arthur has turned to face the wall, only the back of his head visible under the blanket. Reaching for his toothbrush, Merlin recalls the conversation with his mother. For all that he knows she disapproves of him choosing something as flighty as a potential spot with a circus over a secure future as a doctor, he can’t bring himself to regret it. This is it, for him.
Now if only he could get Arthur to see that.
--
Merlin had to get up pretty early to help Gaius lay out the breakfast buffet. By the time Arthur enters the food tent, Morgana and Lance are already eating at their regular table. Arthur nods at them, but doesn't bother to stop before making his way to the table loaded with food. Just the sight of baps is enough to make Arthur’s stomach churn hopefully. Merlin is fiddling with the luxurious coffeemaker Arthur spent years convincing Uther to buy. After filling his plate with food, Arthur comes up beside Merlin.
“Don’t break it.”
“I worked at Starbucks. This can’t be very different.” Merlin is frowning at the milk foam mechanism. Few people get it without reading the manual; Arthur knows from experience.
“You have to-” Arthur begins. He stops mid-sentence when the LED indicating the temperature changes from red to green and Merlin makes a triumphant noise before shoving a small can of milk underneath the steam delivery pipe. A cup with espresso in it is already standing on the table.
“I think I got it.” Merlin's voice carries more than just a hint of smugness. He turns the can in what looks like a fairly practised manner.
“Well done. Not that it was particularly difficult to figure out.” Arthur leans one hip against the table and takes a bite of banana before he adds, smiling, “And since you’re already at it, make me one, too, will you?”
By the look in Merlin’s eyes, he seems just about ready to voice a variation of, Make your own bloody coffee. Then a grin flickers over his face. He cuts the steam off and covers the espresso with one hand, leaving just enough of a gap to pour the milk foam into the cup. Arthur absently notices that Merlin’s hands are quite nice, fingers long and slender. When Merlin moves his hand away, Arthur thinks he’s been caught staring - and there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it, not in the least because never saw a reason to be subtle - until he sees the butterfly.
It’s easily recognisable, formed by a combination of pure white milk foam, a beige mix of milk foam and coffee, and brown coffee. Arthur gazes at it for just a blink of an eye, and it's not a magic trick per se, nothing fit for the ring, but it's-He didn't even notice that Merlin so much as moved his wrist when pouring the milk foam into the cup.
Arthur hesitates, long enough for the beginnings of a hopeful smile to pull at Merlin's lips, and that just won't do; Merlin has barely shown more than a few small tricks, nothing that would even remotely work in front of a crowd.
With a snort, Arthur reaches for the cup and keeps his voice impassive. “Is that what they teach you at Starbucks?” He takes a sip of coffee that effectively destroys the butterfly, then follows it up by wiping milk foam from his upper lip. “Although the coffee isn't bad.” Merlin's disappointed frown is in no way why Arthur adds, after a beat, “Once you're done making one for yourself, feel free to join Morgana, Lance and me over there.”
“Can I grab some food first?” Merlin sounds petulant, and it very much doesn't make Arthur suppress a smile.
“Can't you magically conjure it, or something?”
“I could,” Merlin says. The look he gives Arthur is strangely shrewd, as if he's laughing at some kind of private joke. “It might result in a stomach ache, though. Food's not that easy, you know?”
“If you say so.” Arthur toasts Merlin with his coffee and takes another sip before he turns sharply, weaving around two tables to join Morgana and Lance. On his way, he catches his father looking at Merlin with a hard expression, and something about it feels wrong and very much like a déjà-vu. Which is ridiculous, of course. Arthur faces forward again.
“From here, it looked like a fascinating discussion,” Morgana comments when Arthur sits down, instead of wishing him a good morning. Her tone is that cross between curious and superior only she can pull off. Since Arthur can look back on roughly twenty years of making her work for personal information, he calmly reaches for her knife to spread some butter over his slice of bread. Only when he's utterly satisfied with the layer of butter - not too thick, not too thin, very even - does he look up at her.
“Oh, it was.” He pauses. “Well, obviously. Butterflies will never not be a fascinating topic.”
She gives him a patient smile. “Isn't it funny how just four days ago-or is it five already? Five, I think. Five days since you swore he'd never make it through more than one night.”
“Arthur isn’t exactly known for being right about this sort of thing,” Lance says. It could hold a biting edge, but he’s grinning around his spoonful of cereal, and besides, they did put their rather rough start behind them. Arthur might have, vaguely, admitted to misjudging Lance. Possibly. In a roundabout way.
He’s about to reply when Merlin and Gwen join them, Merlin looking faintly sheepish and very pleased while Gwen is beaming as she sets a cup of coffee down and says, “Look, guys, isn’t this amazing?”
“It’s a butterfly. A milk foam butterfly.” Morgana’s voice is very dry, and so is the curl to the corners of her mouth. Arthur pretends not to see the wry glance she shoots him.
“Merlin made it,” Gwen says, leaning forward. “Just covered the cup with his hand, poured the milk in, and it was suddenly there.”
“What an utterly useful skill,” Arthur remarks.
Gwen crosses her arms. “You’re all disgustingly blasé.”
Morgana laughs and shakes her head, reaching for the cup to take a better look. “No,” she says, looking up. “It’s really quite cool, actually.”
“Thanks.” Merlin is beaming, and Arthur studies him for a moment before he averts his eyes. He’s surprised to find a mild frown on Lance’s face. Their eyes meet, Arthur raising a questioning brow. Lance shrugs and ducks his head to take another bite of cereal. When it becomes clear he’s not going to offer an explanation, Arthur dismisses the matter and turns back to the conversation, just in time to listen to Merlin fighting off Gwen’s demands for an explanation of how he created the butterfly.
“A magician never shares his tricks, didn’t you know?” Arthur puts in.
Merlin throws him a startled look, quickly followed by a bright smile. “Exactly,” he says. His expression is both smug and weirdly relieved. Or maybe Arthur has just spent a little too long paying attention to Merlin, these last few days.
================
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>> Chapter 3
Two more songs for this chapter (yes, this will be a full soundtrack in the end):
03. Laura Marling - I Know You (And I know that you know I don't know much about the industry / And I don't trust you, yeah / So don't expect me to eat / 'cause I'm so tired of never being taken seriously // Everybody knows that you're a posh girl)
04. Milow - You Don’t Know (I feel peculiar now, what do you feel / Do you think there's a chance that we can fall // You don't know anything about me / What do I know, I know your name)