Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 5/8
Full headers & links to all chapters & Chapter 1 are [ here].
How did the weekend pass so quickly? Just, huh. For all that I found a few quiet hours to get the first half of Chp. 7 done, I was also going to write a long, rambly entry on the various merits of caffeine. That... kind of didn't happen. Yet.
Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: ~45’000 words overall, ~6’000 for this chapter
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU. Or: In which there are aerialists, small restaurants, touristic alleys and magic. Obviously.
Thanks: Paris (the girl) could never be as smart as inderpal, snarkaddict and torakowalski. Paris (the city) is lovely, but my betas are lovelier for putting up with me and my insecurities.
(Meet the cast, again - gorgeous banner by inderpal.)
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 5
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Arthur isn’t sure how Merlin has managed to worm his way into Arthur’s life quite so thoroughly in the short span of less than a month. By now, Arthur expects to return to the caravan and find Merlin immersed in one of his books. Merlin usually stops reading once Arthur is done in the bathroom, placing the respective book face down on the floor as if challenging Arthur to berate him for it. Which Arthur does. At length.
He refuses to consider just how accustomed he’s grown to the fact that Merlin reacts to Arthur’s tirades with badly hidden smiles.
--
“If you could.” Merlin sounds drowsy, his voice already thick with sleep. “What would you do? With the lights and stuff.”
Arthur laces his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling even though it’s too dark to see anything. “The question is irrelevant.”
“Yeah, but if you could,” Merlin says. Arthur is quite sure that if it weren’t for the weight of tiredness, Merlin would sit up to fix Arthur with a serious expression. For some reason, the thought makes him smile. He rolls over, wedging the spare pillow under his chest.
“Something with neon light, maybe. Glowing bodies, you know? And patterns, probably. Like, spinning dots, something like that. Or play with shadows and reflections.” Arthur sighs and squints over at Merlin’s bed. He remembers that he wanted to put up some kind of curtain between them, the way it was with Paul, but he can’t quite work up the motivation. It doesn’t seem very important.
“You’d have to build your performance around it, wouldn’t you?” Merlin’s blanket rustles as he burrows deeper in it, and Arthur feels a stitch of guilt at how it can’t possibly suffice to protect Merlin from the coldness that’s creeping up around them. When the sun is out, the days are still nice and warm, but the nights have grown noticeably colder since Merlin joined them. It’s a wonder he hasn’t complained yet.
“Yeah,” Arthur replies belatedly. “It would take some adjustments, I guess, and that’s not even taking into account the money we’d need to install something like that. I think it would be worth it, but it’s not as if there’s much of a chance of convincing my father.”
“Why not?” Merlin’s voice isn’t quite as sleepy as before.
“He’s very…” Arthur considers the right choice of words. “He’s firm in his convictions, I guess you could say. It doesn’t matter to him that he conceived his concept of the circus twenty-five years ago, and that some circumstances have changed since then. Once he’s made up his mind, it’s hard to argue with him.”
“Have you tried?”
Over and over again, and then some. Still Arthur isn’t about to give up. It’s too important, he can’t just-And this isn’t the right moment to ponder this; Arthur’s too tired, really. He huffs out a faint laugh. “Twenty Questions again?”
With his eyes having grown accustomed to the lack of light, Arthur can just make out that Merlin is turned towards him, face a bright smudge in the darkness. “Sorry,” Merlin mutters. For once, he sounds genuine.
Arthur waits several seconds before he replies. “Don’t be. And also, I’m-You’re much more fit for this circus life than I gave you credit for.”
“Thanks.” Merlin’s teeth flash in a smile.
“Welcome.” Arthur adjusts his pillow and lets several seconds tick by before he adds, “Now if only you’d give up these ridiculous notions of” - heterosexuality - “chastity. What a waste, really.”
Merlin snorts, but apparently doesn’t deem it worthy of a reply. Arthur isn’t disappointed. He closes his eyes and mentally runs through tomorrow’s schedule - taking down the tents, loading material, people and animals. It’s nothing Arthur hasn’t done a thousand times before, but the fact that their next stop is Paris makes it all seem a little more exciting. Even if it weren’t for the fact that Arthur’s own mother supposedly studied in Paris for a while, the way Morgana lights up at the sight of the Eiffel Tower would endear the city to him.
When Arthur finally drifts off, it’s to the sound of Merlin’s deep, even breathing.
--
After a lengthy warm-up and three runs through their entire routine, Morgana declared Arthur insane and left to help Gwen talk Lance into a street performance on the steps of the Sacré Coeur. Arthur isn’t quite sure how much longer he’s been there when Merlin sneaks into the tent, lingering in the shadows. Merlin probably thinks he’s being inconspicuous, but for one, he wouldn’t recognise inconspicuous if it bit him in the arse, and also, he’s wearing his butterfly t-shirt. One day, Arthur will destroy the stupid thing and claim it was an accident.
He gives Merlin two minutes to get comfortable before he vaults himself up, using the momentum for a back salto that has him land on his feet, facing Merlin. Maybe it’s showing off a little, but as far as Arthur’s concerned, there’s nothing wrong with that. Especially not if it brings an expression of startled embarrassment to Merlin’s face.
Arthur grins. “Good afternoon. Gaius kicked you out?”
“Told me to go enjoy Paris, yeah.”
“There’s plenty of time for that later.” Arthur holds out his hand, beckoning. “Come on.”
“What? Where?” Approximately three seconds pass with Arthur still holding out his hand and Merlin staring at him. Then Arthur nods his chin at the rope, and Merlin’s eyes widen. “No way,” he says, shrinking back.
Arthur tilts his head. “Are you scared?”
That makes Merlin stand up straighter, just like Arthur knew it would. “Scared?” Merlin repeats. “Of what?”
“Of heights.” Arthur takes a step forward, grinning openly. “Of me.”
Merlin crosses his arms. “You wish.”
“Come on, little boy.” Arthur dips his voice suggestively low, if only to push Merlin just slightly. “You’re not going to fall.”
A blank look passes over Merlin’s face before he shakes his head, glancing up at the tent’s ceiling. He looks considerably less certain of his reluctance than he did a minute ago. “I’m not as light as Morgana, you know.”
“Oh, please. I can take you.” Arthur takes another step forward. He passes his gaze over Merlin’s body and shakes his head. “You weigh, what, a good seven stone?” As Merlin opens his mouth, most likely to protest, Arthur quickly continues. “I won’t let you fall, I promise. If I wanted to get rid of you, there’d be less conspicuous ways.”
Merlin lifts a hand to massage the back of his neck, studying the rope with a dubious expression.
“Look,” Arthur says, his tone slightly more impatient than intended. “Do you trust me? “
“I guess.” Merlin’s voice is as dubious as his tone. His eyes meet Arthur’s. “Why does it matter to you?”
It’s… sort of a good question. Not one Arthur particularly feels like answering, though. He gives Merlin a toothy smile. “Because I’m not done with my practice yet, and you happen to be here.”
Merlin’s gaze flickers from Arthur’s face to the rope and back. He lifts one shoulder in what looks like the parody of a careless shrug. “Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Arthur tells him dryly. This time when he beckons Merlin closer, Merlin actually follows him towards the centre of the arena. The rope has sketched lines into the sawdust.
Arthur wraps it around his middle, glances over his shoulder and points Merlin towards the box with talcum powder. “Dust your hands.”
For once, Merlin does as he’s told, returning with his hands white up to the wrists. It really wouldn’t have taken quite as much. Arthur considers a comment about how the waste will come out of Merlin’s pay, but decides against it. They’re not exactly paying Merlin a generous amount as it is; Arthur made sure of that in an effort not to throw away money on another university kid that will be, ah. Gone till November, so to speak.
Maybe it’s time for an upgrade, about fifty pounds more per month. As Merlin’s current task list usually requires the work of two people instead of one, and as Gaius did mention how much he appreciated the help, it would be only fair.
“All right, then.” Arthur wraps both hands around the rope, the silk smooth and strong in his grip. He takes a deep breath before he starts climbing quickly, one hand above the other, occasionally pausing to adjust the rope around his middle. About a third of the way up to the ceiling, he stops to grin down at Merlin. Then he lets himself fall backwards, the rope swinging with the motion while he’s hanging on without the aid of his hands, held up by the rope slung around his waist and crisscrossing over his calf. It’s more than enough.
Even from upside down, he can tell that Merlin looks more than just slightly wary, and it makes him smirk. If Merlin chickens out now, Arthur will never let him live it down. He offers his hands, almost two feet above Merlin’s reach if he were to lift his arms. “Jump,” Arthur says.
Merlin frowns. “Are you mad?”
Laughing possibly isn’t the best reply Arthur could have given. He sets the rope into a faint, barely noticeable swing with a subtle shift of his body before he repeats. “Jump, Merlin. I said I wouldn’t let you fall.”
Merlin’s intake of air is audible, but his face twists into what looks like a mask of determination. He steps closer, glares up at Arthur as if for good measure, and then he jumps.
His direction isn’t very good, so it’s a challenge for Arthur to catch him. He does, though, his fingers tight around Merlin’s wrists, feeling the tension in Merlin’s muscles. While it’s true that Merlin isn’t as light as Morgana, he’s certainly not heavy for a grown man. Arthur is confident that he can bear the weight for a minute or two. He grins and locks gazes with Merlin, who looks utterly out of his depth, confused rather than scared.
“Not bad,” Arthur tells him, trying to keep the strain from showing in his voice. He twists at the waist to make the rope swing back and forth before he adds, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Fuck off,” Merlin grits out. His voice clearly shows the effort, and his chest is rising with each breath. His body is very stiff.
Arthur gives him a warning that consists of no more than a smirk before he unwinds the rope from around his calf, keeping control of the rope by trapping it between his feet. He waits a second, two, holding Merlin’s gaze. Then he lets go.
For a moment, there’s the stomach-dropping sensation of falling - not by much, probably less than a foot, but it’s enough for an exhilarated breath while Merlin’s eyes widen and-
What?
Just as the rope pulls tight around Arthur’s waist, it also rewinds itself around his calf, effectively stopping their descent. Arthur stares at Merlin, his grip still tight around Merlin’s wrist, and if he thought Merlin was tense before, his muscles feel like iron under Arthur’s hands now, a strength Arthur wouldn’t have thought Merlin possessed. Merlin’s eyes are back to an innocent blue, almost luminescent in the tent’s dim illumination. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe.
Not really.
Arthur clears his throat, shakes his head. “Letting go now,” he warns.
“Okay.” Merlin’s voice sounds a little shaky. Arthur releases his wrists, and Merlin drops down to the floor. Even though it’s hardly more than a foot, he stumbles after his landing. Arthur twists his body up, and he needs both hands to unwind the rope from around his leg as it’s slung several times around his calf. After a slow exhale, Arthur lets go of the rope. His landing is much more graceful than Merlin’s, despite the rush of blood in his ears that comes from hanging upside down for several minutes.
Arthur studies Merlin for what might be an entirely too long time, long enough for Merlin to look away with something uncomfortable to the line of his mouth. Still Arthur refuses to break his stare. “What,” he asks, very slowly, “just happened?”
Merlin gives him a sideways glance. “You almost dropped us both.”
Arthur snorts. “I had everything under control, Merlin. We wouldn’t have fallen. And…” He notices he’s still holding on to the rope and lets go. The sound of it swishing through the air is familiar, comforting. “And,” Arthur repeats, “that’s not what I’m talking about. As you know quite well, I’m sure.”
“You slipped,” Merlin says. He does turn back to face Arthur, his expression darkly defiant. “You slipped, and you were upside down.”
“I did not slip. I merely unwound the rope enough for both of us to sink a couple of feet.”
“Drop,” Merlin says.
“Sink quickly,” Arthur corrects. He leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “There was no danger at all. And I repeat, that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what?” Merlin’s voice is steady, but his gaze isn’t. Arthur isn’t about to let an opening like that pass him by. He draws closer, so close that Merlin can’t really avert his eyes without being obvious about it.
“I know what my rope does, and what it doesn’t. That was in no way natural.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Merlin’s gaze flickers away, then back to Arthur.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Arthur tells him, quite pleasantly, before he shakes his head. “That wasn’t one of your tricks.”
“I don’t use tricks.” This time, Merlin keeps his eyes steady. His hands are white-knuckled, though, and there’s an unusual tightness to his shoulders and the set of his jaw.
Arthur looks over his shoulder at the rope, remembering the way it was twisted around his leg and how Merlin’s irises seemed to flare golden just before. Clearing his throat, Arthur shakes his head, huffs out a semi-laugh. It doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t, but, “I’m starting to believe you.”
Merlin straightens, his spine stiff. “What?”
“I’m starting to believe you’re actually telling the truth about not using tricks,” Arthur says slowly. It sounds ridiculous out loud, makes even less sense than in his head, yet it’s the best explanation Arthur can come up with. It would also solve small riddles, such as where Merlin found those metal flowers quite so quickly, or how the hell he managed the whole thing with the floating light bulb and how he never needs much preparation.
Well. It would solve those small matters and replace them with the big, very big impossibility of-
“You’re crazy,” Merlin’s voice cuts into Arthur’s thoughts. He doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself, though; what’s probably intended as a statement comes out as more of a question. While that uncertainty might stem from Merlin being unsettled by the questionable mental stability of Arthur’s conclusion, Arthur thinks Merlin’s natural reaction would be openly disbelieving amusement rather than this… almost fearful denial.
“Maybe I am,” Arthur allows. He’s close enough that he only needs to reach out in order to trap Merlin’s chin in his hand, leaning in. Merlin looks alarmed, a muscle twitching in his jaw, pulse quick and excited. He doesn’t try to pull away, keeps still even when Arthur frowns critically. “What was it that happened with your eyes?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Merlin says. His gaze is decidedly shifty.
Arthur smiles. “Did I mention you’re a terrible liar?”
“I…”
It’s only when Merlin’s exhalation ghosts over Arthur’s mouth that Arthur notices how inappropriately close they are. He doesn’t think it’s the sole reason for Merlin’s discomfort, but he lets go all the same, taking a step back. For long seconds, neither of them speaks. Merlin refuses to lift his gaze from his shoes.
“I could work with you, you know,” Arthur says into the thick silence. His tongue feels heavy and too reluctant to even form the words, but this is it, this is the chance Arthur’s been waiting for. He can’t let it pass him by. “Work out a number to present to my father. I know what matters, and… he’s difficult, he doesn’t like magicians, but he might come around. At least if you’re really as good as I think you are.”
Merlin raises his chin. His eyes are bright, even if his upper body is still angled away, his right hand knotted in the bottom of his ridiculous shirt. “Would you?”
Arthur inhales around something tight in his throat before he drags up a smile that hopefully doesn’t come out as confused as he feels. “Would I have offered, otherwise?”
Merlin’s answering smile is brilliant.
--
Before they have time to really discuss much of anything, Gwen interrupts them with the keys to Gaius’ old van and the promise of a live performance by Lance. Merlin knows that his acceptance might be slightly more enthusiastic than the occasion requires, but he’s grateful for the chance at a pause for reflection. Hopefully, Arthur will attribute it to Merlin never having been to Paris before.
Once they’ve parked the van and are walking through what Morgana tells him is the artistic quarter of the city, Merlin actually does almost forget about his upcoming conversation with Arthur. While most of the people walking through the alleys are tourists, there’s still a natural charm to the scene; painters on a large square exhibiting their work and offering to do impromptu portraits, small cafés, cobblestones rounded by countless feet and old houses that haven’t seen a tin of paint in what must be decades.
True to Gwen’s announcement, they make their way to broad steps that lead from an impressive basilica down into the heart of the city. While Lance sets up his guitar case and runs his fingers through a quick warm-up, Merlin sits down on the smooth stone to enjoy the view. It doesn’t take long before Arthur joins him, close enough for their shoulders to overlap.
For a minute, they’re both silent. The expectant edge to it is what makes Merlin say, voice quiet, “This is great.”
“Yeah.” Arthur sets both elbows on his thighs, gazing out over the city. The autumn sun paints his skin in a warm golden hue. Without warning, he turns his head. “So, theoretically. For the sake of… an interesting mental exercise, or whatever you want to call it. Assuming a person could do things that are… not quite ordinary. How far would that go, what do you think?”
Merlin swallows dryly and looks around. They’re slightly off to the side, out of the way of people walking up and down the stairs, and Gwen, Lance and Morgana are a few steps down, far enough not to overhear anything if Merlin and Arthur keep their voices low. “I guess,” Merlin replies after a pause, “it depends on what that person tried?”
Arthur makes a humming noise that could be anything between agreement and doubt. He isn’t looking at Merlin. “All right, say they could… make things float, and conjure flowers out of nowhere-”
“Not out of nowhere,” Merlin protests, a little too loudly and forcefully, considering they’re talking about an entirely theoretical concept. It’s not-But so far, Arthur doesn’t seem scared of what Merlin might be able to do, and neither is he overly eager to make him perform stupid tricks as if he were a trained show dog. “Not out of nowhere,” Merlin repeats, more calmly. “It’s… I think it would have to be a transformation, something that can act like a… a vessel for the energy. A focus. Even if it’s just a piece of lint, there has to be… something.”
“Theoretically speaking,” Arthur says.
Merlin nods quickly, trying for a smile. “Obviously.”
“Yes, I thought so.” Arthur’s tone is dry. His expression is thoughtful, but not necessarily closed off. “Theoretically speaking, could a person like that make pictures move?”
“You read Harry Potter?” Merlin raises a brow.
“I saw Amelie.” Arthur’s narrow-eyed look warns Merlin away from a comment. As Arthur’s been pretty amazing about the whole magic thing so far, Merlin actually heeds it.
“I don’t think the movement part would be a problem. It’s just, the talking and stuff, it has to be some form of projection. I think. I mean, it’s not-Life can’t be just… conjured, probably. Or it shouldn’t be.” Merlin wraps an arm around his knee and clears his throat. “So, yeah. A projection would work. I guess.”
“Right. That makes sense.” Arthur appears to be studying Merlin’s face, as if searching for something. He’s about to speak again when Gwen sits down beside Merlin, smiling widely even as she shifts closer to make room for a group of Japanese tourists.
“Lance is taking requests,” she tells them. “So if you want to get yours in, you should make a reservation right now.”
It actually looks as if Lance is about to start; he’s adjusted the guitar on his lap and is strumming the first few chords of a song Merlin doesn’t immediately recognise. “Wonderful World,” Arthur says, right at that point. “Good enough for me.”
“My request,” Gwen says. When Merlin turns to look at her, she’s watching Lance with an intense sort of concentration. It melts away the moment she notices Merlin looking at her, fading into a broad, easy smile. Merlin counters it with a smirk before he props his elbows on the step behind him, leaning back to listen.
--
Arthur wasn’t exactly subtle about dragging Merlin away from the others. If circumstances were different, Merlin might start reading things into it - not that he cares, just… whatever. The point is, Arthur has yet to come out of his complacent state and start to either freak out or make Merlin do entirely random bits of magic, just to prove that it’s possible. Neither prospect is particularly appealing.
“There’s a good place for pizza just down that road.” Arthur points towards a corner, sounding calm and at peace with the world. “It’s usually not too crowded, so we should be able to find a somewhat private corner.”
Merlin glances off to the side. Alongside a sloping alley, several market stands have been set up, selling colourful clothes, jewellery and fast food. Groups of tourists build thick throngs around the stands. “I have only five Euros left. Maybe we should just get a sandwich or something?”
“I’m inviting you.”
“I don’t-” Merlin cuts his protest short and follows when Arthur turns the corner. The bright plastic sign of what looks like a rather cheap restaurant is clearly visible a small distance ahead, clashing with the run-down, but anciently noble atmosphere of the road. “You don’t have to do that,” Merlin says belatedly. “Really.”
“We’re not exactly paying you a lot of money,” Arthur says. “I’d know; I drew up that contract.”
Merlin counts the smooth cobblestones under his shoes. They reflect the light of the low-standing sun. “I’m not complaining.”
“Of course. You never are.” Arthur stops suddenly, right in the middle of the road. The sunlight glints on his forehead and hair, brightening his eyes, and maybe this is it, maybe now he’ll- “You did something to your blanket, didn’t you? And to the mattress. That’s why you never got cold.”
Merlin links his hands behind his back. “Theoretically speaking?”
“I think we’re rather past the theoretical stage, aren’t we?” The corners of Arthur’s mouth turn up, and he’s still entirely too composed. When Will found out - after three years of being faced with unusual occurrences happening around Merlin - he called Merlin a liar and swore never to speak to him again. Granted, Will was eight at the time. But then, telling Jason when both he and Merlin were sixteen didn’t go any better; in fact, Jason even stuck to his decision of cutting Merlin off, which Will managed to do for about two days.
“I…” Merlin inhales shakily. “Are we?”
“Yes. I’d say we are.” Arthur resumes walking. “So what did you do to your bed?”
Merlin waits with his reply until he’s caught up with Arthur, halfway to the restaurant. He uses the excuse of drawing another deep breath to delay it just a moment longer before he says, “The blanket was too thin, woke me up the first night.”
“As it was supposed to.” Arthur sounds quite smug about it.
This time, it’s Merlin who stops. “You did that on purpose?”
“The mattress, too. Uncomfortable, isn’t it?” Still Arthur sounds proud rather than contrite.
“You’re a bloody wanker,” Merlin tells him with as much dignity as he can muster up at the sight of Arthur’s broad smile. It’s not a lot.
“Considering we’re sharing a caravan, that’s far too easy to counter,” Arthur says. “So I won’t.”
“Small wonders,” Merlin mutters. He can’t quite keep from smiling back, and then he feels his face heat and ducks his head. When Arthur starts walking again, Merlin falls into step beside him.
“In my defence, I actually really didn’t think you’d make it this long. I just thought I’d speed the process up a little.” Arthur holds the restaurant door open for Merlin, and it’s really sort of funny, these strange moments of Arthur being a gentleman. Despite that, Merlin’s stomach does an odd sort of twist as his hand brushes Arthur’s on his way into the restaurant.
It’s a small room, dimly lit, with only four long tables and a wooden bench running along the walls. Three men have taken up the window corner of the table to the left of the door, so Merlin turns right, sliding onto the bench and knocking his knees against a table leg. Arthur follows much more gracefully. He reaches for the plastic menus in the middle of the table, handing one to Merlin.
“Their onion pizza is really good, and so is most of the rest. Don’t try the anchovies, though.” Then Arthur pauses, studying Merlin’s face as if something just occurred to him. Despite the chanson music trickling from the speakers behind the bar, he lowers his voice. “For curiosity’s sake: If you didn’t like the food, could you just change it?”
Before Merlin gets a chance to reply, they’re interrupted by a man who appears to be waiter, landlord and cook all rolled into one. After confirming it with Merlin, Arthur orders red wine and table water for both of them. Merlin waits until the man has disappeared into the kitchen before he replies. “I can change food, yeah, or transform something into an apple or whatever. It’s not a good idea to do it, though.”
“How come?”
Merlin hesitates. “There’s… Have you heard of that replacement food stuff? Such as cheese that looks like cheese, and sort of tastes like it, but the ingredients are all wrong, so there’s a good chance you’ll end up with a stomach ache.”
Arthur snorts, his hands relaxed on the table. “What sort of food did you try?”
“It was Will’s idea.” Merlin sinks back against the wall, the worn pillow on the bench sliding closer to the edge. He reaches down to adjust it, but when he looks over, Arthur is still watching him with an expectant expression. With a small sigh, Merlin says, “Chocolate cake.”
If Arthur’s trying to restrain his smirk, he’s doing a poor job of it. “I’m sure it looked great.”
Merlin pulls a face. “I think my mum quite enjoyed making me drink tons of fennel tea for punishment. Why do you think I can’t stand tea anymore?”
“I thought it was merely-” Arthur’s reply is cut short by the landlord setting down two wineglasses beside the water glasses already on the table, quickly joined by a decanter with wine and one with water. They didn’t really have a look at their menus, but when Arthur orders a pizza with onions - in what sounds like perfect French to Merlin - Merlin echoes it, probably butchering the language in the process.
“Good choice,” Arthur says once the landlord leaves. He leans back, and it’s just-he isn’t treating Merlin any differently, not really, almost as if the message hasn’t quite hit home yet. “There might be some hope for you yet.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Arthur’s grin lights up his eyes, and for a very short moment, maybe a tenth of a second, Merlin finds it hard to breathe. Then everything rights itself. It’s just pizza in a cheap, weirdly charming restaurant, nothing like a date at all, and even if Arthur took the whole thing quite well, it’s absolutely too early to sit back and relax. Far, far too early.
Still Merlin finds himself smiling when Arthur pours the wine, sniffing it with the air of an expert before taking a first, cautious sip. He couldn’t get any more pompous if he tried, and Merlin shouldn’t find it even remotely appealing. He does, though. A tiny little bit.
So, yes. All right. It’s pizza in a cheap, weirdly charming French restaurant, and the only thing that could make it even more cliché would be Edith Piaf singing about how she doesn’t regret a damn thing. At least Merlin is spared that part - small wonders and so on. He reaches for his own wineglass and breathes in, the wine’s scent barely noticeable through the thick smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the upholstery.
“Cheers,” Merlin says.
“Santé.” Arthur smiles, quick and easy. “Here’s to you not being an entirely incompetent student.”
Merlin throws him a sharp look. “Prat,” he says, very slowly. He hopes Arthur doesn’t notice the way he can’t quite fight down a smile.
--
Merlin is convinced that there’s a good chance that he will dream of floating lights and dancing smoke. Unfortunately, there’s an equally good chance that his dreams will come with the sensation of falling, of Arthur’s hands slipping on silk. Merlin’s brain is awesome like that.
He settles under his blanket, and for a moment, he considers conjuring a second pillow, then thinks about enchanting Arthur’s mattress - mostly for revenge, and a little because there’s no need to hold back anymore. In the end, he just stretches out on his back and listens to Arthur moving about the bathroom, scrubbing at his face. The door is half-open, of course, part of Arthur’s naked upper body visible through the gap. Merlin focuses his gaze on the ceiling.
“You haven’t asked me to do silly stuff yet,” he says as soon as the sound of running water cuts off.
“Silly stuff?” Arthur appears on the edge of Merlin’s vision. “Such as what?”
“Don’t know.” Merlin glances over, enough to watch Arthur towel his face. Not that’s he’s watching, really, he’s just-Not watching. Precisely. “Things like turning the shower spray into glitter. Whatever.”
Arthur’s motions cease. “Why would I do that?”
“As a demonstration?” Merlin snorts and turns his head a little more. “Thought you liked glitter.”
“I’m wearing it for professional reasons,” Arthur says. He’s clearly going for a dignified tone.
“Of course.” Merlin keeps his face blank, propping himself up on one elbow. The mattress shifts with his weight, and the blanket is almost too warm right now, the caravan steamed up from both of them taking showers. The window is a little foggy, blurring the letters above the big top.
Arthur slings the towel over his bare shoulder, crossing over to his bed. “Did I detect a hint of irony?”
“No way.”
“I thought so.” The ratty shirt that Arthur is inexplicably fond of is draped over the wooden board installed above his bed. He reaches for it, the motion accompanied by a subtle shift of his back muscles, and Merlin blinks and redirects his gaze at the ceiling just before Arthur turns around. “And anyway, why would I require a demonstration?”
“No, it’s just… Usually, people ask me to do stuff, when they find out.” Merlin keeps his voice even, his gaze focused straight ahead and refuses to blink. “I mean, if they don’t run.”
There’s a long pause before Arthur says, “Usually?”
“Well.” It’s not easy to pull off a half-hearted shrug while lying down. “The… three times I told someone. And a couple of people found out by accident, sort of.” Merlin lets his head fall to the side, smiling vaguely at Arthur - who is still just standing in front of his bed, towel over his shoulder, sleep shirt loosely clasped in his left hand. Merlin feels his smile flicker. “Although I’m not sure they really… believed it. I don’t know. Some esoteric girl always wanted me to perform some demon repelling spell or something?”
“Sounds like good times.” Finally, Arthur appears to remember that he’s standing around in only his boxers, despite the rather chilly night air creeping in where the caravan’s insulation isn’t quite perfect. He draws the shirt over his head, his voice muffled as he continues. “And quite frankly, no silly trick of yours would convince me more than whatever you did to my rope earlier.”
Merlin sits up. “I didn’t do-”
“It wasn’t a reproach, Merlin,” Arthur cuts off whatever Merlin was about to say - he really didn’t get that far in his thoughts.
“Oh.” After a moment, Merlin lies back down, if only so as to avoid Arthur’s amused gaze. “Okay.”
“The thing is…” Arthur’s covers rustle as he sits down. “I’ve been working with that rope for years. I know very well that it would never wind itself around my calf on its own. Not like that.”
“You’ve been using the same rope for years? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It was a manner of speaking.” Arthur’s tone is dry.
“Right.” Merlin pauses, studying the ceiling and thinking about decorating it with some sort of painting, something like the Sistine Chapel. Arthur might enjoy that. It would be hard to explain to anyone happening to walk into their caravan, though. Still, Arthur would enjoy it, even if he might never admit as much. Merlin turns his head. “You know, you’re not-You’re actually the first person who hasn’t needed time to adjust, I think. Not counting my mum, obviously.”
Arthur gets comfortable in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chest. He’s silent for a long time, so long that Merlin thinks he’ll never get his answer until Arthur says, voice low, “There are so many people who do unusual things here. Take Gwen, for example. There are nights when it’s almost as if she controls those torches by sheer willpower.” He shifts, his expression open and strangely vulnerable in the soft glow of the floating light bulb. “And there’s Morgana, who can somehow predict my every move when we’re up in the air. This is only one step further.”
“Oh.” Merlin’s chest feels heavy and far too small to contain his lungs. He clears his throat, and then doesn’t know what to say.
“You should get some sleep,” Arthur says calmly. Merlin almost misses the flicker of a smirk that follows. “I want you up bright and early tomorrow, so we can use the practice tent without any interruptions.”
“Early?”
This time, the smirk is more pronounced. “Early.”
“Okay, yeah.” Merlin counts out three beats before he adds, “Hey, Arthur?”
“Hmm?” Arthur sounds as if he’s about to drift off.
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“Just…” Merlin shakes his head and smiles at what little he can see of the glowing letters above the big top. “Never mind.”
“Freak.,” Arthur says. His tone is almost fond. “Turn off the light, will you?”
Merlin waves his hand at the bulb. Its glow fades, leaving the room dark and peaceful. It occurs to Merlin that Arthur will expect something like a finished performance tomorrow when Merlin never really thought that far; too caught up in wishful considerations to think the reality of performing all the way through. Improvisation’s always been what Merlin was good at, though, and anyway, Arthur promised to help him work out a show element.
Rolling over, Merlin closes his eyes.
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Songs for this chapter:
9. Burning Hearts - Various Lives (I have had too many homes / And lived various lives // That’s where this journey begun / Only to end up with you)
10. Maximo Park - Sandblasted And Set Free (Follow me down this rope ladder / Our bodies becoming shapes in the sails / It's a leap of faith towards a crash landing / This ice softly splinters)