Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 3
Full headers & links to all chapters & Chapter 1 are [ here].
Am in a hurry right now, so the update notification for the comm and my Dreamwidth account will follow in a few hours. Oh, and! Oi! Tomorrow will tell us whether we get S2 on the 5th, right? Also, do not be alarmed if the author of this story changes (back) to zarah5 in a week or so - I am just waiting for my shiny new credit card to buy that rename token and reclaim my old journal.
Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: ~45’000 words overall, ~5’100 for this chapter
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU. Or: In which there are aerialists, washing machines, 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 - this is three now.)
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 3
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It’s amazingly easy to fall into the rhythm of circus life. Despite Merlin’s initial misgivings about rising around eight in the morning - which he’s come to realise is a habit of Arthur’s more than a general requirement - his body has adjusted to it by the seventh morning. He knows his duties well enough not to bother Gaius quite so much anymore, and usually, there is time for a short nap early in the afternoon.
Thus, it’s a break of his rhythm when Arthur comes barging into their caravan at half past one and asks, with the air of someone voicing an order, “You know your way around town, right?”
“Uh.” Merlin blinks up at Arthur’s figure, outlined by the light falling in through the open caravan door. It’s only now that Arthur seems to realise Merlin’s pulled the blinds to darken the room because he stops and looks around.
“Don’t tell me you were asleep.”
“Not yet,” Merlin says. He sighs and sits up, pushing the blanket down to his waist. “What do you want, anyway?”
“Ah, right.” The bed dips when Arthur seats himself on its edge, pushing Merlin’s blanket out of the way as if its mere presence is an offence to him. His profile is a sharp silhouette against the bright rectangle of the open door. “You know this town, don’t you?”
Merlin hopes his slightly incredulous expression translates despite the lack of light. “I guess. Considering I studied here for almost four years… Yeah, I’d say I do.”
“You have been-” Arthur cuts himself off. “Never mind. Anyway. If you know your way around, I’m sure you can take me to a launderette.”
“Did I mention I’m not washing your socks?” Merlin asks.
Arthur’s voice is devoid of any infliction. “I asked you to come along and to show me the way, not to do my washing. I do know how to operate a washing machine, thanks.”
Well, that’s a relief. Merlin is fairly certain Arthur wouldn’t have seen the humour in it if Merlin had - truthfully - told him that he never had to rely on a washing machine to do his laundry. It’s mostly coincidence he even remembers that there’s a launderette just around the corner of campus, the windows proclaiming low prices and particularly large washing drums.
--
Merlin wouldn’t have taken his own laundry along if Arthur hadn’t so clearly expected him to. It’s a shame that randomly showing up in clean clothes is in no way accepted as a magic trick, while pulling flowers from people’s ears is.
Operating a washing machine isn’t nearly as easy as his mum made it look, those few times Merlin bothered to even vaguely pay attention. There are two buttons to select things, and then more buttons to push, and lids, and for all that Merlin tries to cheat by covertly observing Arthur’s motions, he’s not certain he’s doing it right. At least part of that uncertainty might be due to how he keeps getting distracted by seeing Arthur so casually dressed, in a shirt worn thin by years of use, the collar stretched so wide that it keeps slipping down to reveal the soft swell of Arthur’s collarbone.
Arthur presses a button, and Merlin would be alarmed at the washing machine’s gurgling noise if it weren’t for Arthur’s satisfied nod as he steps back. Quickly, Merlin copies the action. He’s relieved to find that his machine produces the same gurgling noise as Arthur’s. It looks as if he did everything correctly, so maybe this doing laundry business really isn’t that difficult, if rather impractical and time-consuming when Merlin compares it to the scant seconds it takes him to return both his and Will’s clothes to a freshly washed state.
That’s when he notices that in Arthur’s washing drum, foam has turned the water white.
Of course Arthur chooses precisely that moment to finish readying his second machine, pushing the start button before he comes up beside Merlin. He watches Merlin’s laundry turn in the drum for a moment, then frowns and leans forward. Merlin is adamantly not paying attention to the way Arthur’s shirt gapes open at his throat. “Dear God,” Arthur says, staring at Merlin’s washing machine. “Tell me you didn’t.”
Merlin swallows. “The machines here are different. There’s a launderette around the corner of Will and my flat, and-Well, I guess it’s more Will’s flat, now.”
Arthur glances up, his expression unreadable. “What about your share of the rent?”
“Will found someone who’ll take the room furnished.” For some reason, Merlin feels nervous under the weight of Arthur’s scrutiny. He knots his hands behind his back and waits for Arthur to comment, but for a long moment, it seems Arthur is perfectly content to gauge him. Then, very suddenly, Arthur looks away, back at Merlin’s spinning laundry.
“Be that as it may,” he says, “I’m sure the place around your former flat wasn’t so different that the machines didn’t need detergent.”
Shit.
“I, um.” Merlin catches sight of the package that stands on top of Arthur’s second machine, and, right. Detergent. The thing that supermarkets usually keep right next to other cleansing utensils, an area Merlin and Will always bypassed after exchanging quick grins. Merlin is fairly certain it’s too late now for him to secretly transfer some of the white powder into his washing drum - maybe he’d get away with it if there were more people around, some means of distraction, but the launderette is practically deserted save for a bored-looking student behind the counter.
“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Arthur says. It sounds rhetorical, his tone exasperated and disbelieving. His gaze is fixed on Merlin’s face, which makes it rather unlikely he’d miss a strange occurrence of golden eyes. Merlin really should work on being unobtrusive.
He drudges up a grin. “Looks like I did.”
“Really.” It’s not a question.
“Really,” Merlin replies all the same. “I’ll just… water-wash them, this time. They weren’t that dirty, anyway.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a mental affliction?” Arthur squints at him, leaning closer than Merlin is strictly comfortable with; it’s tempting to study the various shades of blue that Arthur’s eyes contain. Subtly, Merlin angles his upper body away.
“Pretty sure, thanks.”
Arthur doesn’t move for a moment, something sharp in his eyes. Then he lifts one shoulder and turns without another word, grabbing a magazine off a rack before he sprawls in a chair, thighs falling open. Merlin exhales slowly, softly, and selects a magazine as well. When he sits down in the chair beside Arthur, it earns him a flickering glance.
“Now Magazine?” Arthur asks, his voice flat.
Merlin nods seriously. “Helps me keep up with current fashion, you know. Also, David Beckham.”
“Current fashion,” Arthur repeats. “You.”
With a perfectly straight expression, Merlin shows him a page with two actresses wearing identical dresses. “I’d look great in that. Don’t deny it. I have both the cheeks and collarbones.”
He waits approximately five seconds before he starts grinning.
For a long, horrible moment, it looks as if Arthur will continue to stare blankly at him. Then an answering grin tugs at the corners of Arthur’s mouth. When Merlin turns back to his magazine, his stomach feels oddly light.
--
Merlin successfully makes it through the dryer phase without giving Arthur more cause to believe him an idiot. As Arthur considering him an idiot would considerably reduce Merlin’s chances at a spot in the arena, he counts it as a win and tells himself that neither Arthur’s loose shirt nor his recent bouts of not acting like a spoilt brat have any part in Merlin’s relief. At all.
They pay and load their clothes in the back of the showy lorry that’s painted in Dragonera’s colours and displays a few standard circus scenes as well as a roaring tiger. It’s in a significantly better shape than Gaius’ old van, and while Arthur refused to turn on the roof speakers to blast the streets with circus music - “I leave that sort of advertising to the guy we pay to do it” - Merlin still feels a rare sense of pride to ride in a vehicle so obviously part of Dragonera.
“So,” Arthur begins. He engages the first gear. “Since you know your way around, where can we have a quick drink?”
Merlin fakes a cough. “It’s shortly past noon.”
Arthur’s look is exasperated. “I didn’t mean alcohol. Well, maybe a cider. But the campus is just down the road, surely there’s a pub or something that you go to with your mates?”
There’s no good way to explain to Arthur that Merlin, while never unpopular as such, had acquaintances rather than friends - it’s hard to make friends when even just hinting at supernatural abilities makes most people back away, while the ones who draw closer are generally the ones Merlin would rather not spend too much time with. He clears his throat and puts his elbow on the window sill. “There’s an Irish pub around the corner, straight on and then left at the first crossing. They have a courtyard, and their coffee’s decent.”
Without another word, Arthur nods and follows Merlin’s instructions. It’s barely a minute before he pulls into a parking space opposite the weather-worn sign of McKelly’s, telling Merlin to wait while he gets a parking ticket, returning a moment later. “You know,” Merlin says as they cross the road. “As far as I know, the owner isn’t even Irish. Wonder where the name comes from.”
Arthur tips his head back to study the metal letters. “I think there’s an Irish pub called McKelly’s in just about every European city.”
“Is there?” Merlin tries not to sound too eager at the idea of travelling all over Europe, but if the look Arthur shoots him is any indication, he fails, and spectacularly, at that.
“I haven’t run any empiric studies yet,” Arthur replies curtly. He holds the door open and waits for Merlin to pass before following him into the dingy interior, darkened wooden tables and yellow-shaded lamps creating an atmosphere of relaxed alcohol dependence. Merlin nods at the waitress and passes straight on through to the courtyard.
“When you said courtyard,” Arthur’s chair makes a scraping sound on the pavement, “I expected something a bit more… cosy.”
“What, the green hills of Derbyshire?”
“Wouldn’t have taken you for an avid reader of Jane Austen.” Arthur reaches for the menu and leafs through it with an expression that’s less than enthusiastic. His lower lip is sticking out very slightly, eyes narrowed and head bowed. He glances up at Merlin without prior warning, and Merlin quickly directs his gaze at his own hands. “How’s their English Breakfast tea?” Arthur asks after a barely noticeable pause.
“Fine, according to Will.” Merlin shrugs. “I mostly like their cappuccino, and their shandy, although it’s too early for that, probably.”
“You’re not exactly living up to the English ideal when it comes to tea, are you?” Arthur looks amused as he closes the menu.
“Studying medicine required that we pulled shifts at the hospital. The first round of night shifts made me a caffeine addict, I guess.”
The waitress that Merlin vaguely knows from his prior visits appears to take their orders, jotting them down on a notepad. She removes some empty glasses from the neighbouring table and checks on the other five patrons that have found their way back here before going back inside. Arthur watches her go with a speculative gleam in his eyes, and Merlin remembers with a faint start that it’s the same waitress that always had Will drooling over her legs. Apparently, Will isn’t the only one who appreciates them.
Given Arthur’s previous behaviour, it’s not exactly a surprise, so Merlin wonders why it makes him uncomfortable. After all, he decided that while there’s nothing wrong with appreciating Arthur on an aesthetic level, it would be pathetic to hold on to his crush on a guy who doesn’t only flirt with anything that isn’t up in the trees on the count of three, but also happens to be a snobby arse most of the time. Maybe slightly less so these last couple of days.
Arthur’s voice effectively cuts into Merlin’s musing. “Tell me about yourself.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“Well, that’s life. Better get used to it.” Arthur leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and tips his face up into the sun, light glinting off his hair. “Although,” he continues, “pray tell just what you’re referring to, precisely.”
Merlin runs his finger along the edges of the plastic-bound menu. It’s slightly sticky, but then, so is the tabletop. “I just meant that since we’re pretty much living together, it’s only fair I get to ask questions in return.”
“Twenty questions?” Arthur blinks his eyes open for an overly wide smile, not so much cat that got the cream as cat that got the canary. “I wasn’t aware we were having a date, or I’d have dressed for the occasion.”
Which just proves Merlin’s point about Arthur being a snobbishly flirty arse - or something to that effect, anyway. Merlin pushes the menu back into the middle of the table and mirrors Arthur’s relaxed pose. “It’s not a date until I’m wearing that dress I showed you.”
“Shame.” Arthur doesn’t sound particularly bothered. He sits up a hint straighter when the waitress returns with their order, setting a cappuccino down in front of Merlin, and a porcelain cup with hot water and a teabag on its saucer in front of Arthur. “Thank you,” Arthur tells her, followed by a brilliant smile that makes Merlin grit his teeth due to its blatancy.
“Thanks,” he echoes, and gives her a smile of his own, just to annoy Arthur a tiny little bit. It might work, even, because when the waitress smiles back at Merlin in what might be vague recognition from his prior visits, Arthur dunks his teabag with a mild frown. As soon as she’s gone, he fixes Merlin with an unreadable stare.
“If you leave with us, who’s the most important person you’ll leave behind?”
Ah. No beating around the bush, then. Merlin reaches for his cup, the porcelain warm against his fingers. “When I leave with you,” he corrects. “And Will.” At Arthur’s questioning look, he adds, “Son of our neighbours, and my best friend since I was five. We moved here together. You met him briefly, I think.”
“Not your mother, then?” Arthur asks.
“Double question?” Merlin shakes his head. “Anyway, no. My mum lives in Wales, so me not going to university here anymore doesn’t make much of a difference.” He shovels some milk foam onto his teaspoon and licks it clean while pondering his first question. “You don’t spend a lot of time with your father, do you?”
“No.” It’s the whole extent of Arthur’s reply. He stirs his tea water, then looks up sharply. “What about your father?”
“Never knew him.” Merlin evades Arthur’s piercing stare by concentrating on his cappuccino. There’s no butterfly decorating the milk foam. “He just… I don’t really know. My mum doesn’t talk about it, and I guess it doesn’t matter. Probably a one-night stand. I hear my mum was quite the hippie, in her days.”
The combination of his mother and one-night stands is not one Merlin particularly enjoys pondering. He shrugs and gives Arthur a brief smile. While the logical follow-up question would be one about Arthur’s mother, something in Arthur’s posture warns him off. “Why the make-up?” Merlin asks.
Arthur’s expression conveys surprise, and it might be just Merlin’s imagination, but a muscle in his cheek seems to relax. “It’s Morgana’s fault. She said the glitter would look good in the light, so, you know.” He presses his lips together in a gesture that’s probably intended to convey disdain. Something about it seems shifty, though. Before Merlin can explore that train of thought a little longer, Arthur reclines against the backrest of his chair, stretching his legs out under the table. His boots are almost close enough to brush against Merlin’s ankle, and that’s why it takes Merlin a moment longer to process the next question.
“What makes you think you could handle a crowd?”
Merlin keeps his hands deliberately still. He’s sure this is not the moment to admit that he actually hasn’t thought that far. “I… think that it’s not so much… I’m good. I’m really, really good, and it’s true that I might not have something like a definite show routine yet, and I’m not saying I wouldn’t get stage fright, but I can do all those things other magicians do, and then some. I could… levitate glowing crystal balls, and then make them explode in smoke, or-As long as the tricks are good, it can’t be that hard to win the crowd over.”
Arthur makes a noncommittal humming sound and pokes the teabag with his spoon. At least, Merlin supposes, it wasn’t outright rebuttal. He sips at his cappuccino before he asks, “What’s it like, winning the Festival Mondial in Paris?”
“You know about that?” Arthur’s tone is amused. “Are you really certain you’re not secretly a groupie?”
Merlin refuses to avert his eyes, exhaling slowly and focusing on his breath so as to fight down a stupid blush. “That’s a question, not an answer, and it’s still my turn.”
“I just wasn’t aware you’d actually done some research before joining us on a whim.” Arthur continues before Merlin can protest. “And it’s great advertising, obviously. There are a lot of journalists there, cameras, so it was a great way to showcase Dragonera. Our shows in France have never sold out quite as quickly as during the first few months after Morgana and I won.”
It’s nothing like the answer Merlin expected; there is no hint of smugness or mention of what it must feel like to be in the centre of the spotlight, the focus of the cameras. He considers asking why, but instead settles for, “Morgana and you, why do you make it sound as if you’re a couple?”
“I thought it was only one question per person?” Arthur removes the teabag from his cup, squeezing some more taste out of it by wrapping the string around the bag and tugging it tight. He places it on the saucer before deeming Merlin worthy of his attention once more. “And we don’t. We just never correct assumptions, because a little intrigue never hurts.”
Of course, assumptions come easy when the two main protagonists play out an aerial love story every night, bodies twisting and gleaming in the spotlights. Merlin still doesn’t quite understand how this helps them to woo the crowd, but he doesn’t want to reveal his ignorance by asking. Instead, he lifts his cappuccino and waits for Arthur’s next question.
--
Gwen takes one look at the contents of the trolley before she shakes her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“What’s wrong with this?” Merlin steps up beside her, squinting slightly against the cold neon light of the refrigerated display case that illuminates the area. The plastic-wrapped bits of salad appear rather tired. Even Gwen’s skin isn’t quite as luminous in here.
“This is roughly two hundred grams of chocolate for every single person.”
“It’s called brownies,” Merlin says. He grins and nudges her hand. “You can’t deny that brownies are glorious. Also, I'm the cook, so.”
She studies the mountain of chocolate for a moment longer before she sighs and gives him an exasperated glance. “There’s no way to talk you out of this, is there?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” There’s another pause, then Gwen knocks their hips together and giggles under her breath, as if she’s embarrassed by the sound. “Can the icing be butterflies and flowers? Arthur will love it.”
“Yeah, he’s got a soft spot for that sort of stuff.” Merlin manages to keep his expression straight for about two seconds, but the moment his eyes meet Gwen’s, it’s a lost cause.
--
It’s almost a little unsettling to observe how quickly Merlin settles in with them. The immediate liking that existed between Gwen, Morgana and him has only grown since their first meeting, and while Lance seems uncharacteristically wary of Merlin, he appears to be the only one. Merlin falls into an easy companionship with the other vendors and aids, entertaining them with small tricks that, while usually not spectacular, impress Arthur despite himself, mostly because of how he never catches Merlin requiring any sort of preparation. He appears to just make it up as he goes along.
Which is bollocks, of course.
Either way, Arthur frequently catches Gwen and Merlin with their heads bent together, often joined by Morgana and Lance, sometimes others from Dragonera, sometimes Will. As Gwen and Morgana have been a constant in Arthur’s life since his early childhood, it’s only natural that, by extension, Arthur spends time with Merlin as well. He finds that he doesn’t mind. What he does mind is Merlin’s tendency to leave his clothes scattered all over their shared caravan, but so far, Arthur’s sharp words have shown no effect. Merlin isn’t the sort to get intimidated easily.
As far as workload goes, Merlin goes about his merry popcorn selling way despite fumbling with people’s money, but at least the girls seem to think it’s cute. Merlin also continues to help Gaius with food and small injuries, additionally mucking out the stables without much complaint. He tends to be done fairly quickly, but Arthur has checked a few times, and it has always looked fine. Maybe that prior job at the animal shelter Merlin mentioned is paying off.
What it all amounts to is that all of a sudden, it’s time for the closing show, time to send a few people ahead to prepare Calais for their arrival. That evening, Arthur gripes about how very much he doesn’t want to spend two days holed up in a lorry just to get to France, and how long it takes to get all their vehicles onto the Eurostar. Only when Merlin’s face lights up in a huge grin does Arthur realize he automatically assumed Merlin would be right there with them.
Merlin’s grin makes him look like a loon. Unfortunately, it’s still hard not to give in and smile back.
--
With everything taken down - the tents packed away according to what Merlin perceived to be a fairy complicated system, the animals safely tucked into their transport boxes and the caravans hitched to the lorries - the area appears strangely deserted. It's nothing special at all. Just a large, gravel-covered field.
“So,” Will says. He’s smiling, but there’s something tight around his eyes. “The circus leaves town, then. Show must go on, and whatnot.” A pause follows while he obviously searches for words, and that’s just so wrong it makes Merlin’s stomach feel heavy. Will is never out of words, but now he just lifts one shoulder, smile slipping. “Guess this means goodbye.”
Merlin swallows and shakes his head, swallows again. “I'll call.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Will huffs out a breath. “You don’t even know if your mobile phone works outside of the UK, do you?”
“I’ll call,” Merlin insists. “Even if my phone doesn’t work, there are still public places, and things.” It almost drowns in the noise that the first two lorries produce when pulling off the car park. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Arthur impatiently waving at him from the driver side window of a lorry that will pull both Gaius’ and their caravan to the next destination.
“Any idea when you’ll be back in Britain?” Will asks. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them again.
“I…” Merlin tries to remember the next few stops - two or three cities in France, then Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Belgium. “The winter quarter’s near Southampton, I think.”
“All right. I’ll see you then.” Will nods determinedly. It looks as if he’s just about to move in for a hug when a car honks. They both turn to find Arthur smiling widely at them. “Tell me,” Will says in an undertone, even though Arthur would never catch it over the roaring of several lorries. “Do you think it took him practice to become such an arse, or was he born like that?”
Merlin snorts out a laugh. “I’ll ask him, as soon as I get a chance.”
“You do that.” Will grins, and then they’re both moving in for what’s probably the fifth or sixth hug in the nearly two decades of their friendship. Arthur honks the horn again.
“Prat,” Merlin mutters under his breath. He tightens his arms, just for a moment, feels Will’s chest expand on a breath, and then he sighs and steps back. “I’ll call. Really.”
“Okay.” Will still sounds dubious, but his smile isn’t quite as strained anymore. With an awkward wave, Merlin finally turns and heads over to the passenger side of Arthur’s lorry. He doesn’t look back when he jumps in, just settles in the seat and blinks a few times until his eyes stop burning.
“Took you long enough,” Arthur remarks flatly. The engine awakens with a rumbling sound that vibrates in Merlin’s bones.
Merlin sighs. “Seriously, would it hurt you not to be an arse, just for a couple minutes or so?”
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Physically, in fact.”
He does put the lorry into motion and pull onto the road without another word, though. Merlin interprets it as a small sign of concession on Arthur’s part, mostly because he’s willing to take just about anything he can get. He leans his forehead against the windowpane until the glass warms against his skin.
When he turns a little, he catches Arthur studying him with an edge of what might be curiosity, but Arthur looks away quickly, his hands relaxed and sure on the steering wheel.
--
They briefly stopped for fuel, sandwiches and trips to the toilet, but that was more than two hours ago already. The procession’s been moving forward at what seems like a snail’s pace to Merlin, dusk falling over the hills and swallowing the bright colours of caravans and lorries.
Arthur’s been nearly silent since their departure, occasionally remarking at something on the radio or asking Merlin to switch the station because the music isn’t to his liking or a specific advert made him grit his teeth. When Merlin yawns for the seventh time in what was probably less than five minutes, sagging against the passenger door with his head tipped against the backrest, Arthur glances over with what just might be an amused tilt to his mouth.
“Why are you tired when I’m the one who’s been driving the whole time?”
“I did offer to take over.” Talking makes Merlin’s cheek move against the upholstery. It’s kind of weird, especially since he’s got no idea who sat here before - and what hygienic standard they adhered to. Merlin did sit through those courses on bacteria and infections and some such. He still can’t bring himself to move.
“Yes, you did.” Arthur nods. His profile is a bright cut-out against the darkening landscape outside. “And I refused. I’d rather you didn’t kill us both, thanks.”
“Yeah, love the trust.” Merlin slides a little further down, until his knees press against the dashboard.
Arthur throws him a quick glance that Merlin almost misses. There’s a brief pause before Arthur asks, “What’s here that you can’t get at university, anyway?”
For once, he sounds curious rather than judgemental. It’s that as much as the fact that Merlin’s too tired to censor his words that he replies, “Never really fit in at university. Or school, for that matter. Thought this might be my niche.”
Arthur nods, but doesn’t comment. The radio is playing something by Pink Floyd, an ethereal instrumental piece Merlin vaguely recognises. He shifts again so as not to fall asleep, clenching his jaw against another yawn.
It’s probably best to keep the conversation going. Merlin studies the clear line of Arthur’s profile as he asks, “Why are you so interested in those art books?”
Arthur’s lips press together for a short moment, but his voice is even. “I wasn’t aware we weren’t done playing our twenty questions.”
“We only made it up to sixteen last time.”
Arthur is quiet for so long that Merlin has almost given up on getting an answer when it comes. “This circus is my life. It’s all I know. Unlike you, I can’t go back to university if this fails, I can’t get a respected job in some hospital. Neither can most of our people.” Arthur changes gears, engine rumbling. His hands appear slightly tense on the steering wheel, but it’s hard to tell in the growing shadows. “And,” he adds after a silent second, voice softer now, “that’s not even taking into account the fact that we circus people don’t have the best of reputations.”
Merlin makes himself sit up straighter, squinting over at Arthur, who is watching the road with unnecessary concentration. “You think the circus will die?” Merlin asks.
Again, it takes a while before Arthur replies. “Not necessarily. It is getting harder, though.” He shakes his head. “We need something that people will want to see for themselves to believe it. Something they won’t be satisfied watching on a screen because it’s so incredibly beautiful they want to see it live. And then see again, because it still seems impossible.”
Merlin stares at the red taillights of the car before them. Pink Floyd croons, shine on you crazy diamond, and Merlin clears his throat against a strange tightness. “For what it’s worth, I feel that way watching Morgana and you.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says. To Merlin’s surprise, the groupie comment he expected never comes. Instead, the word is followed by another pause, and when Arthur speaks again, his voice is steady, determined. “But that’s not enough, you know? We need more things like that, things that blow people away.”
“And you think light installations will help?” Merlin realises it could come across as cheeky dismissal only when the question is out, so he continues, “I meant that in a curious way. I mean, not taking it lightly, just-You think light might help? Colours and… stuff?”
“Don’t swallow your tongue.” Arthur’s grin becomes apparent in how the shadows shift on his face. “And a bit, yes. Light can enhance the effect, at least. We don’t really have the money to install something mind-blowing, unfortunately.”
Merlin wouldn’t need any money to make the entire tent swim in a sea of light. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep a stupid remark from tumbling out. By the time he’s come up with a suitable reply, the moment has passed.
===========
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Songs for this chapter:
5. White Lies - Farewell to the Fairground (The lights still in our eyes / We’re leaving this whole fairground behind // The circus never dies / The act forever haunts these skies / I know we cannot stay // I feel like I’m casting off my clothes / And I’m running through the snow towards the sunset)
6. Guster - Satellite (You're riding with me tonight // Maybe you will always be / Just a little out of reach)