Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 6/8
Full headers & links to all chapters & Chapter 1 are [ here].
Glad to hear Colin is back on the set in one piece. Don't scare us like that! And, well. Since word count tells me that the first seven chapters of this already amount to a good 46'000 words, it's safe to say I have to correct the expected length (again) from 45'000 to 50'000+. I blame the boys for being chatty!
Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: ~50’000 words overall, ~7’200 for this chapter
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU. Or: In which there are ill-tempered aerialists, magic, realisations and bottles of vodka in Brussels.
Thanks: I would never object to emptying a bottle of vodka with my girls: a big round of applause to inderpal, snarkaddict and torakowalski.
(One of my favourite pictures turned into a banner by one of my favourite girls - gorgeous cover art 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 6
_______________________________
Merlin can’t even remember the last time he got up at half past six. When Arthur shakes him awake at precisely that time, Merlin is very, very close to telling him to bugger off.
“Don’t you dare,” Arthur says.
It’s an effort for Merlin to make his tongue move. “Dare what?”
“Turn over and go back to sleep.” Arthur’s grip on Merlin’s shoulder tightens. “I’m not teaching you even one damn thing if I have to drag your arse out of bed every morning. I’m not your babysitter.”
Merlin sighs and reluctantly unwraps from his blanket, pushing himself into a sitting position with some difficulty. He rubs a hand over his face, then pushes it through his hair while Arthur watches him with poorly hidden impatience. “I’m up,” Merlin says.
“You’re still in bed.”
“Right.” Merlin swings his legs over the side, and Arthur steps back to make room for him. It takes several seconds for Merlin’s head to stop spinning. Then he nods and gets to his feet, glancing around the caravan. “Now I’m up.”
That’s about when he notices that it’s still dark outside, Arthur’s bedside lamp the only source of light. It’s almost, almost enough for Merlin to fall back into bed. As he possesses a small amount of self-control, he doesn’t.
Instead, he looks for his clothes - maybe Arthur does have a point about there being some advantages to orderliness, because then Merlin wouldn’t have to walk from the windowsill (t-shirt) to the chair (pullover) and then into the bathroom (jeans). As he’s pretty sure there isn’t a clean pair of boxers left in the drawer Arthur reluctantly left for him, Merlin looks down at the one he’s wearing and cleans it with a quick wave of his hand.
“Should I come back tomorrow?” Arthur calls from the main room, his tone bored.
Merlin exits the bathroom while still fighting with his pullover. “You know,” he says, not really paying attention to the words, “sometimes it would be kind of useful if you were scared of me.” The moment he realises what he said, he stops dead, slowly raising his eyes with a sick feeling twisting in his stomach.
Arthur doesn’t look horrified, merely puzzled. “Why in heaven’s name would I be scared of you?”
“Never mind,” Merlin says quickly. He tugs the sleeves of his pullover down to cover his wrists.
“Merlin.”
Arthur’s shoes shuffle closer, which probably means that the rest of Arthur does, too. Merlin keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. It’s an interesting floor. There are all sorts of scratches in the linoleum. Maybe they’re the result of-
It’s as far as Merlin gets in distracting himself when Arthur commands his attention with a fleeting touch to Merlin’s forearm. “Why would I be scared of you?”
“Just.” Merlin lifts his shoulder by an inch or so. “Some people were, is all.” One person, to be precise, and Merlin could have happily lived his life without having to see the way Jason flinched away when Merlin reached out for him.
“So far, your tricks have involved either flowers, butterflies or glitter.” Arthur sounds strangely intent, and maybe just a tiny bit furious. With whom, Merlin doesn’t know, but when he glances up, Arthur’s frown melts away. Arthur stuffs his hands in his pockets and affects a superior expression when he amends, “Well. That, or they were intended to unnecessarily save my life. You see why I’m not scared?”
“I…” Merlin inhales, exhales. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Good. Then let’s go.”
When Merlin follows Arthur out of the caravan, he finds that the sick feeling in his stomach has disappeared. The camp stretches silently around them, the letters of the big top glowing against the near-black sky.
--
For all that Merlin has found himself at the centre of the arena in numerous dreams, he usually faced a crowd of nameless faces instead of darkness, an impatient Arthur and what seems like miles of tarpaulin. Right, then. Merlin really should have spent at least part of last night figuring out a way not to make an idiot of himself.
He clears his throat, pastes a huge smile on his face and spreads his arms. “Magic,” he proclaims grandly to an uncaring tent wall. As far as Merlin can tell in the darkness that surrounds them, it still looks friendlier than Arthur. “Magic can be many things. A moment between two people, or…” Or, uh. “Or a rabbit drawn from a hat. What you’ll see tonight-”
Merlin cuts himself off when Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his head. Pushing away from a post he’d been leaning on, Arthur strides into the arena as if he owns it - which he sort of does, but that’s not the point. Merlin tugs at the bottom of his pullover.
“All right,” Arthur says. “Or rather, not all right, not at all. But repeat it. In French, please.”
Merlin drops his hands. “I… What?”
“You heard me.” With the lack of light, it’s hard to make out more than the shape of Arthur’s body. It’s significantly darker in here than outside, especially since Arthur felt the need to close the tent flap and lock out whatever moonlight might have made it through. “We’re in France right now, and our next stop is Brussels. They speak French, too. Then it’s…” Arthur tilts his head. “Germany, and then Italy. So, how about it? French, please?”
Merlin opens his mouth, closes it again. Then he sighs. “Okay, I get the point.”
“Do you?”
“No speeches.” Merlin follows it up with a small smile, but it’s likely to get lost in the darkness anyway. “Like, a little less conversation?”
“A little more action, please. Yes, precisely. It’s all in your performance.” Arthur snorts, but his posture seems to relax. He draws closer, coming to a halt a couple of steps away, and amends, “Well. Or it will be. I hope.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Merlin crosses his arms and looks around the dark tent. He could make the ceiling light up, make glowing colours crawl along the ropes…
Arthur’s voice interrupts his musings. “Tell me, Merlin: Do we have groupies?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just tell me. Unless the early hour has frozen your brain and made it come out of your ears, that is.” Arthur’s smirk is a flash of teeth in the darkness, and right, he’s a prat. Due to recent events, Merlin’s almost forgotten about it.
“Yes,” Merlin replies. While he’s not as good at sarcasm as Arthur is, he’s putting in an effort. “Yes, you’re incredibly talented and handsome and sexy, which is why the groupies are lining up for you.”
“Not what I asked, but thanks anyway.” Arthur has absolutely no business sounding both smug and a little bit like Gaius when trying to explain something - fondly exasperated. “Now, why do we have groupies? Why are there always girls and sometimes boys lingering about when the show’s over, trying to catch one of us?”
“Because they’re not quite right in the head?” Merlin suggests. His eyes have grown so accustomed to the darkness that he can just make out the impatient look Arthur gives him.
“Because we pretty much breed them ourselves. A circus is about dreaming, you see? That’s what our show is about.” Arthur waves his hand at the ceiling, as if trying to sketch a flying figure. He leans forward, his voice intent. “If teenage girls picture themselves up in the air in Morgana’s place, or in mine, then we did our job.”
Arthur’s close enough for Merlin to smell his aftershave. It’s distracting. Merlin has to make a conscious effort to pay attention to what Arthur said. “You’re telling me I need to charm the audience?”
“Or make them want to be you,” Arthur says. “Both work, as long as you’re a vehicle for their dreams.”
Merlin shakes his head and takes a step back, crossing his arms. The gesture makes something tighten about Arthur’s mouth, barely noticeable in the dark, but whatever it is lasts for only a moment. Maybe it was only Merlin’s imagination. “Isn’t that rather… About the groupies, I mean.” Merlin clears his throat and looks away, anywhere that isn’t Arthur. “I wouldn’t want to have sex with someone just because I’m a vehicle for their dreams, or whatever.”
“So you’d rather have no sex at all?” Arthur sounds incredulous, and yes, of course he wouldn’t get it. Merlin shouldn’t even have bothered.
“Never mind.” Merlin uncrosses his arms and tips his face up to the tent’s ceiling. “Okay. So this isn’t… It has to be like something out of a dream, then. And no talking.”
“Very good,” Arthur drawls. “You might not be an entirely lost cause, after all.”
Despite the early hour, Merlin is grateful to Arthur for giving him a chance. He really, really is. But, “Couldn’t you just continue being Prince Charming even when you’re not up in the air?”
“And be bored out of my mind?” Arthur exhales on a derisive laugh that loses itself in the vast darkness. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Twat,” Merlin mutters.
“Freak,” Arthur replies. His grin is a bright flash of teeth. “Get a move on, the others won’t be sleeping forever.”
Lights, Merlin thinks. Lights and colours. He closes his eyes.
--
Arthur doesn’t like patterns. Unfortunately, there is no way around the fact that a pattern is exactly what he falls into with Merlin.
They get up at half past six every morning to claim the practice tent all for themselves. Since Arthur is well aware that it’s better not to let his father know about Merlin’s ambitions before Merlin is absolutely ready to prove even the most unfair of prejudices wrong, Arthur is grateful for the fast progress Merlin is making. After that first dreadful effort - and Arthur might have provoked that just a little by giving Merlin no clues as to what his performance should look like - Merlin quickly grows more confident and much better at predicting what will work. The first time he builds a tower of glowing orbs only to let it collapse into a shower of glitter that never touches the ground, Arthur’s breath actually hitches for just a moment.
“I think,” he tells Merlin later, his tone carefully unimpressed, “that might work. We’ll leave that in.”
“Yeah?” Merlin’s smile is lopsided because his head is resting on the pillow, having settled down for an afternoon nap that’s become another ritual for them. Arthur refused at first, but after three days of five to six hours of sleep each night, he gave in.
“Yeah.” Arthur nods and yawns, settling deeper under the covers. October is clearly coming to an end. “Set the clock for half past three, will you?”
Smile replaced by a frown, Merlin blinks his eyes open for a glare that lacks any heat. “Set the bloody clock yourself.”
“You’re closer. In fact,” Arthur withdraws his hand from the cover to mimic the way Merlin waves his hands about when he does magic. It’s less of a problem than the golden gleam in his eyes. “In fact, you wouldn’t even have to get up.”
“Why d’you want me to set the clock, anyway?” Still Merlin refuses to lift so much as a finger.
“Almost no clean clothes left,” Arthur says. His jaw opens on another yawn. “I’d rather not depart for Brussels with a wardrobe full of dirty clothes, thanks. Also, my father and I have a meeting later, to go over expenses and such.”
“Oh.” Thankfully, it’s all Merlin says on the topic of Uther. A moment of silence passes before Merlin shifts. “I can do the laundry, you know?”
The offer is enough to make Arthur prop himself up on one elbow, squinting at the bed on the other side of the room. Which is about two steps away, and still-Still nothing. At all. “I thought you weren’t washing my socks?” Arthur asks.
“Not if washing machines are involved.”
“You…” And then Arthur gets it. He sits up, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you forgot the detergent because it was your first time using a washing machine.”
“Um.” Merlin’s smile is back, sheepish and smug at the same time. “It was, though. Will and I never did laundry. Part of why I’m the best flatmate ever.”
“I’ll believe you when my socks are clean and smell of…”
“Lavender?” Merlin suggests.
“Some kind of very subtle detergent,” Arthur corrects. He lies back down and ignores the lingering warmth in his chest, an echo of Merlin’s happy grin.
Later, Arthur goes through his wardrobe for suitable clothes that will make him feel confident during his monthly business meeting with his father, a meeting that always leaves him feeling inadequate. It takes several seconds before he notices that every single piece of clothing smells of vanilla.
Merlin, of course, was smart enough to clear out of the area. It won’t save him from Arthur’s revenge, though. Oh, it most definitely won’t.
--
Their ticket sales look all right. After the typical summer slump, September made the numbers climb again, and October is looking good thus far. While their seats don’t always sell out to the last one, it’s not too much of a decline compared to five years ago. Somehow, it still fills Arthur with a vague sense of unease.
He pushes the statistics away and sits back, waiting for Uther to look up from a pile of contracts before he says, “That’s about three seats less each night, on average. If you compare it to the average of the previous four years, I mean.”
“Three seats less is nothing, compared to what other circuses are facing. It’s a general trend.” Uther folds his hands on the table, his expression dark. “Don’t start giving me that rubbish again about how we need to change our programme. We’ve been through that, Arthur.”
“Our programme is conventional.”
“Our programme has tradition.” Uther’s voice is dismissive. He’s already reaching for the contracts again, and that just won’t do; Arthur didn’t start this conversation to have it end just the way it always does. He leans forward.
“Tradition can change. We need to adjust to what’s happening, and-Something to draw people in, something magical, that’s what we need.”
Slowly, very slowly, Uther raises his gaze from the stack of sheets in front of him. There’s a steep line between his eyebrows. “Our programme,” he says, his voice sharp and definite, “is the result of many years of optimising, and it’s perfect the way it is. There is no need for change. Especially not,” his grip around the pen is white-knuckled. “Especially not for insipid magical tricks.”
Arthur manages to hold his father’s eyes for several seconds. Then he drops his gaze down to the table.
“I don’t want to hear of it again.” Uther sounds more composed. “Is that understood?”
Arthur bites down on his protest. It’s really just no use; there is no point in forcing Uther to sit through Merlin’s performance when Uther’s mind is already made up. For all that it’s just plain unfair, there isn’t much Arthur can do about it short of openly defying his father. Maybe, if they-But no. It’s not-
“Yes,” Arthur says. He forcibly blocks all thoughts of Merlin’s disappointment.
“Good.” Uther nods once, satisfied. He sorts through the contracts, extracting one that he shoves across the table at Arthur. “Now, this. That note of yours. Why am I to pay Merlin Emrys fifty pounds more?”
Right, so it’s one of those meetings. Arthur inhales, momentarily blinded by the thick scent of vanilla. “Because he deserves it. He does a lot of work around here, picked up on things very quickly-” Come to think of it, Merlin really does get more work done than one person should. Arthur should have noticed much sooner. “And the only reason I granted him so little at first was because I thought he’d be gone in a matter of days.”
“He left university to come with us, didn’t he?” It’s impossible to tell what Uther’s thinking, but Arthur can venture a good guess.
“He’s not going to run.”
Uther’s snort is most undignified. “You’ve been wrong about that one before.”
Actually, Arthur wasn’t wrong, as such. Or maybe he was, but he’s not sure if it counts as running considering he went along. It’s most certainly not a good idea to bring it up, though. “Maybe,” he says. “But Merlin isn’t like that.”
“I’m not paying anyone more just because you happen to be in love with them.” Uther doesn’t even blink as he says it, his tone so matter-of-fact that Arthur finds it hard to breathe for a moment. It’s why his reply is slightly belated.
“I’m not in love with him.”
“So the two of you disappear each afternoon to take a nap, then.” Uther presses his fingers together, something uneven about his posture, the line of his lips wavering, and it’s all wrong, this whole discussion makes Arthur wonder what he’s missing, what clues he didn’t pick up on.
“Precisely.” Arthur forces himself to hold his father’s gaze, not to blink as he adds, “Also, Merlin is straight. Your worries are entirely unfounded.”
“Straight,” Uther repeats slowly. His frown is still firmly in place, and Arthur’s had enough of this, he really, really-Whatever.
“Straight, yes.” He pushes himself to his feet, planting his hands on the table. “And he does deserve a rise.”
“I’ll think about it,” Uther says.
“Please.” Arthur clears his throat and considers adding something, but in the end, he just feels ridiculous towering above his father when all Uther does is study him with a strangely urgent edge. Maybe one day Arthur will comprehend the way his father’s mind works. Today isn’t that day, though. “I need to get ready,” he says. “For the show.”
“All right.” Still Uther doesn’t really move. After another second has passed, Arthur pastes a half-hearted smile onto his face, nods and steps back, turning to go. With any luck, Merlin will be running around preparing the pre-show buffet. Since eating before the show makes Arthur feel queasy, he hardly ever attends the buffet.
It’s a good excuse not to face Merlin right now. The mere idea of calling their early morning practice off weighs heavily in Arthur’s stomach, but… there really aren’t many alternatives, as far as he can see.
--
For some reason, Arthur’s been an unpredictable mixture of subdued and ill-tempered since the night before. When he returned after the show, long after Merlin had gone to bed, he banged around the caravan as if daring Merlin to wake up and complain, which Merlin decided to ignore for that very reason. The morning consisted of Arthur berating people for a perceived lack of effectiveness at taking down the camp while seeming to avoid Merlin. It doesn’t exactly make Merlin look forward to the drive to Brussels.
True to his expectations, Arthur spends the first hour of the drive in frozen silence, countering any attempt of Merlin’s at a conversation with grunts and thinly veiled irritation. It takes about seven tries before Merlin gives up and settles back against the passenger door, crossing his arms and glaring out at the landscape.
At the first stop, he kicks Gwen out of her seat beside Morgana. He tells her to ride with Lance instead, and for all that he thought he was sneaky about it, the amused gleam in Morgana’s eyes strips him of that illusion. It doesn’t stop him from settling comfortably in the passenger seat, grateful for the low buzz of the radio as opposed to the great big static from Arthur.
“Political asylum?” Morgana asks. She turns the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life.
“Something like that.” Merlin opens his window enough for some fresh air to replace the smell of exhaust fumes and gasoline that lingers from the petrol station. “The urge to whack him over the head just got overwhelming. And, well. That probably wouldn’t have been smart.”
Morgana laughs softly, but doesn’t comment. They spend a few minutes in comfortable silence, the lorry crawling along the crowded Route Nationale. It’s Merlin who breaks it.
“Besides, hey. It was a good excuse to make Gwen move. They’re stupid about it each other. It’s getting ridiculous.”
When Morgana turns her head to give him a sideways glance, there’s something shrewd about it. “Yes, well. I guess it’s easier to be objective when you’re not one of the two parties involved.”
“Right,” Merlin says uncomfortably. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, then leans forward to turn the volume of the radio up just a little. The corners of Morgana’s mouth are twitching, and maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to change vehicles, now that Merlin thinks about it.
“Hey, um. Listen, since you know this sort of stuff, do you know if there’s a pay-as-you-go card that works across Europe?” he asks. Hopefully, the change of topic won’t be too obvious.
“Is your phone SIM-locked?” Morgana changes gears, the engine coughing at the slope of a hill stretching out before them.
“Don’t think so, no.”
Either because her earlier comment really didn’t mean much of anything or because she’s taking mercy, Morgana launches into an explanation of different national telecommunication providers and which ones offer roaming capability and at what cost. Merlin relaxes in his seat, and it’s only a matter of minutes until the awkwardly tight feeling in his chest has dissipated.
--
They arrive in Brussels in the early afternoon, and once the caravans are parked in their usual arrangement, the setting up of tents and cages begins. By now, Merlin feels fairly confident of his role in the whole scheme - it’s a role that keeps him from close interaction with Arthur. Given how Arthur’s continuing foul mood is obvious even from a distance, Merlin tells himself he appreciates the break.
Arthur doesn’t show up for dinner either, at least not while Merlin is there. Instead, Merlin eats with Morgana, Gwen and Lance. It’s possible that Gwen and Lance are slightly shy around each other, but Merlin finds it hard to pay enough attention to figure out if something happened. Most likely, they spent the drive in a mixture of cheerful conversation and moments of awkwardness caused by one of them tripping over a word or a whole sentence.
When Merlin finally leaves the food tent, night has fallen over the camp. He wouldn’t be surprised if Arthur, for whatever reason, was still hiding out in the practice tent. The only remote explanation for Arthur’s bad mood that Merlin can come up with - not that he gave it much thought, because he didn’t - is that something didn’t go according to plan during the meeting with Uther. Other than that, Merlin is drawing a blank.
He reminds himself that he doesn’t care. In the least.
Now if only he could bring himself to actually believe it.
The steps to the caravan creak under Merlin’s weight. He pushes his key into the lock, surprised to meet no resistance when he turns it. Arthur must be back, then. Cautiously, Merlin enters the caravan, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the lack of light inside before he finds Arthur seated on Merlin’s bed, a bottle of what might be vodka between Arthur’s slightly spread thighs. Merlin swallows, grateful that the darkness hides his stupid blush.
“Hi,” he utters. Based on Arthur’s recent behaviour, he doesn’t really expect much of a reply.
He also doesn’t expect Arthur to get to his feet, crossing the small distance between them with only two steps. Arthur’s hand closes around Merlin’s elbow, the other clasped around the neck of what is indeed an unopened bottle of vodka. “Come on,” Arthur says. He sounds strangely hoarse.
Merlin thinks about twisting his arm out of Arthur’s grip because really, Arthur’s been kind of an ill-tempered arse, and Merlin isn’t easy. Arthur’s fingers are warm even through Merlin’s pullover, or maybe Merlin’s imagination is overactive. “Where to?” he asks.
“Somewhere. I don’t know.” Arthur lets go and walks around Merlin towards the door. “Find a nice bench to empty this bottle, I guess.”
The only reason Merlin doesn’t ask whether Arthur is really planning to down half a bottle of vodka on an empty stomach is because he doesn’t care. Still he’s following Arthur before he can think better of it. Arthur is walking very straight, his shoulders tense even after what must have been at least two hours of practice. Just looking at him makes something ache in Merlin’s chest. “A bottle of vodka?” he asks Arthur’s back. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Arthur doesn’t turn around. His voice sounds carefully even. “No. I’m trying to get you drunk and then take advantage of you.”
“Why?” Despite his slightly longer legs, Merlin has difficulties catching up. Arthur seems intent on getting to the car park as soon as possible. “I mean, are there no groupies around? Then you wouldn’t have to waste all that good alcohol on me.”
Okay, so maybe Merlin is still a little disgruntled. He’s pretty sure he’s entitled to feel offended at Arthur suddenly giving him the cold shoulder, but it doesn’t stop him from hurrying alongside Arthur.
“You’re the one who concluded that sex with groupies is lacking.” Arthur’s tone implies that he doesn’t particularly care.
“And you’re the one who disagreed,” Merlin says.
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Right. And pigs can fly.”
Arthur unlocks the driver’s side of Gaius’ van. He gets inside and opens the passenger door, waiting for Merlin to climb in before he asks, “Could you make them?”
What’s that got to do with anything? Merlin doesn’t bother hiding his confusion as he frowns across the gear lever at Arthur. “Probably, yeah. I don’t think that’d be…” He shakes his head. “You know. I wouldn’t want to. And anyway, why do you care?”
“Never mind.” Arthur sets the car into motion, his hand brushing against Merlin’s knee as he changes from reverse into first gear. The engine is loud enough to make any attempt at conversation difficult, so Merlin leans back and tries to keep his worries down to a minimum. Surely Arthur isn’t going to kick him out, not when they just arrived in a new city. It wouldn’t make any sense at all, and anyway, Merlin can’t remember giving Arthur a reason not to want him around anymore; things were going just fine between them, and getting drunk probably isn’t the right prelude to sacking someone, either. Is it?
Unfortunately, Arthur’s profile doesn’t supply Merlin with answers.
--
“It’s not much further,” Arthur says, mostly to set a counterpoint to the echo of their steps on the cobblestones. It’s past eleven on a weeknight, the air chilly, so there are hardly any other people around. Walking beside Arthur, Merlin seems oddly withdrawn, curled into himself with his shoulders almost up to his ears. Maybe it’s only because he’s cold, or it might be lingering resentment due to Arthur’s temporary distance. It’s partly Merlin’s fault he had to bear the brunt of Arthur’s temper, though; most people know to leave Arthur alone. Merlin isn’t most people.
Not that this is news.
“Where are we going, anyway?” Merlin asks. He doesn’t sound interested, clearly occupied by pondering something entirely different. Arthur decides not to point it out.
“The Grand Place.” They round a corner just then, arriving on a large square surrounded by noble houses, and yes, for all that it’s been a good four years since the last time Arthur was in Brussels, his sense of orientation is still fully functioning. Maybe a good memory for places is the result of living on the road and constantly changing locations. “This is it, actually.”
“Okay.” Merlin’s enthusiasm leaves a lot to be desired. He studies their surroundings with a slightly petulant tilt to his mouth, and the reserved silence is a change compared to his earlier disgruntlement. Arthur isn’t quite sure what might have provoked it.
“What’s eating at you?” he asks.
Merlin frowns and moves forward, towards a house with letters spelling out Maison des Brasseurs. He sits down on the steps, leaning back against the handrail. Only when he appears to have found a somewhat comfortable position does he deem Arthur worthy of a covert glance. “Since when do you care?”
“I don’t,” Arthur assures him. It might be stretching the truth a little.
Merlin shrugs. “Well then.”
After a moment of useless waiting for something more, Arthur sits down beside Merlin, unscrewing the bottle that earned him a look or two from the few people they passed on the streets. He drops the lid to the ground, but instead of taking a swig, he sets the bottle down on the stone, glass clinking softly in the quiet night. The Grand Place is just as beautiful as he remembered; the fronts of the art nouveau buildings that surround the square illuminated in various shades of colours. The restaurants are still open, their guests having retreated into the warm interior despite the blankets draped across the armrests of several chairs.
“It’s getting colder,” Arthur says without quite addressing Merlin. He doesn’t really expect a reply, and he doesn’t get one. Raising the bottle to his mouth, Arthur sips at it before offering it to Merlin.
“Thanks,” Merlin mutters. Their hands brush over the glass, and Arthur wonders why he notices. But then, he generally tends to be more aware of Merlin than he’s comfortable with.
“Welcome.” The alcohol is swirling through Arthur’s empty stomach in a way that isn’t wholly unpleasant. He accepts the bottle back from Merlin, but doesn’t immediately take another sip. He isn’t planning on getting completely fucked tonight. It wouldn’t be conducive to his focus - which is already lacking as it is.
Laughter spills from a nearby restaurant as the door opens for a couple to step outside. She’s wearing a thick coat, wrapping a scarf around her neck while he’s zipping up his jacket. They disappear down a small alley.
Arthur rubs his hands together for warmth before he takes another small sip of vodka and sets the bottle down between them. Merlin doesn’t make any move to reach for it. Instead, he draws his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on one knee. The purple illumination of the nearby museum lights the ridge of his nose, the green glow of the lamp above their heads sparkling in his hair.
Something large and icy twists in Arthur’s stomach.
“You know,” Merlin says at that moment, “it’s been a while since you’ve asked me when I’d run.” There’s an odd gleam in his eyes, hinting at an underlying question to the statement - either that, or Arthur’s judgment is impaired by the tightness that restricts his chest.
He closes his fingers around the bottle, the glass cool against his skin. It’s grounding, somehow. “I don’t think you will.”
Merlin sits up a little straighter, his head inclined towards Arthur. “How come?”
“You’ve got a reason to stay.”
There’s a small pause before Merlin asks, sounding not quite certain of himself, “What do you mean?”
“You fit in here.” Arthur shrugs and lets go of the bottle, wrapping his arms around his chest. He really should have brought a jacket, but a practical matter like that really wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He continues without actually looking at Merlin. “With your magic, you’re… not quite average. You fit better with us than with a university crowd, and that’s why you’ll stay.”
Merlin takes a breath as if to say something, then he exhales slowly. When Arthur glances over, Merlin’s shoulders have come down, his expression open. He’s smiling faintly, as if he knows something Arthur doesn’t, and-
And Arthur needs to stop staring. He didn’t bring Merlin here just to gawk at him like some brainless idiot.
“Cold?” Merlin asks just as Arthur’s fingers close around the neck of the bottle again. Arthur lifts the bottle, offering it to Merlin.
“Slightly. They do say that alcohol warms you to the bone, though.”
Merlin accepts the vodka with a grin, but he doesn’t drink. Instead, he lowers his head, still for a moment before he looks up at Arthur, the illumination rendering his eyes a green shade of blue. They flare gold for only just an instant.
A wave of warmth washes over Arthur unexpectedly.
He breathes out, his cramped muscles loosening. It doesn’t take long for his skin to heat, the tips of his fingers to stop tingling. The frozen knot in his stomach is the only thing that still reminds him of the cold air of a late October night. Beside him, Merlin is smiling smugly, seeming rather more relaxed as well. Arthur can’t help returning the smile.
“Alcohol,” Merlin says, “is for losers.” Despite that, he raises the bottle to his mouth, his throat working as he swallows. Arthur makes himself look away after what might have been a second too long. The clinking of glass on stone tells him that Merlin put the bottle back down between them.
They’re both quiet for what might be a few seconds. Then Merlin clears his throat. “Why is it that you’re so against the university crowd, anyway?”
“I…” There is no reason why Arthur should reply, no reason at all. He reaches for the vodka. “We really did have a few university kids who couldn’t deal with circus life.” The bottle hasn’t been touched by Merlin’s magic, so it’s still cool. Arthur hesitates before he adds, “Also, there was a girl.”
On the periphery of his vision, Arthur catches Merlin’s startled look. “A girl?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does.” Merlin’s tone is stubborn, and strangely apprehensive. The latter is what catches Arthur’s interest, but when he twists his upper body to study Merlin, Merlin’s head is lowered, making it hard to read his expression.
Arthur replies without averting his eyes, his voice even. “A girl, yes. She convinced me to leave Dragonera and enroll at her university so we could stay together. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Turned out to be a mistake when she met the teaching assistant for one of her French classes.” He breathes out a half-hearted laugh. “My father wasn’t such a fan, as you can probably imagine.”
In contrast to the warmth budding in Arthur’s veins, the vodka is surprisingly cold, prickling at the back of Arthur’s throat. He sets the bottle down, using the opportunity to observe Merlin’s reaction. Strangely enough, there’s a softness to Merlin’s mouth, an edge of what just might be relief.
“What?” Arthur asks, a little sharper than he intended.
“Nothing.” Merlin’s snort isn’t quite convincing. “Just wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic.”
A flirty reply is sitting on the tip of Arthur’s tongue. He really needs to cut down on the vodka because shaking his head doesn’t help him clear it. “I don’t believe that’s what made you look like some kind of weight’s been taken off you.”
“No, I just…” Merlin cuts himself off only to add a lame, “Never mind.”
“For your information,” Arthur tells him, even and slow, followed by what he hopes passes for a superior smirk. “If it’s what I have to do to get a straight answer, I am not opposed to emptying this bottle of vodka over your head.” He glances down and back up at Merlin, lifting one shoulder. “Well, some of it.”
“I just thought it might be-” Merlin waves one hand, then lets it fall back to rest on his knee. He averts his eyes, his voice low. “I was thinking your mother might have been a student, and then left. That’s all. Told you it didn’t matter.”
The frozen knot in Arthur’s stomach unravels itself, its tentacles spreading the cool feeling up to his chest. “No, it’s not… She had an accident, when I was three.”
The silence that follows Arthur’s announcement has an almost physical presence. In the green light from above, Merlin’s face is reduced to a mask of pity, and Arthur doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want Merlin’s pity, it’s not at all what he wants and maybe it isn’t really pity, but- How else is Arthur to interpret the light touch of Merlin’s hand to his shoulder? Merlin certainly hasn’t been enthusiastic about physical contact thus far. At least not with Arthur.
Still Arthur leans into the touch before he can help it.
“I’m sorry.” Merlin’s voice is quiet and sad, but there’s no trace of pity. His hand slides from Arthur’s shoulder up to the side of his neck, Merlin’s gaze very clear and focused as he leans forward by maybe an inch or so.
It’s Arthur who breaks the moment. His heart is thudding stupidly high in his throat, and any second, Merlin might notice, put two and two together and come to the conclusion that-
Arthur ducks away to reach for the bottle, and fuck, fuck, this really wasn’t part of the plan. He takes a large sip of the vodka. It’s sharp and burns in his throat, making his eyes water and his throat close up for a moment until he swallows it down. Beside him, Merlin shifts, wrapping both arms around his drawn-up knees. Arthur lifts the bottle to take another swig, sucking in a breath. The gleaming cobblestones smell slightly of urine.
“Are you all right?” Merlin asks softly. When Arthur looks over, Merlin’s gaze is resting on him, faint worry in the line of Merlin’s shoulders.
“Never been better,” Arthur says, and not in the plan, his brain supplies. He steps down on the thought. “Why?”
“I didn’t mean to… I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Merlin sounds genuinely sorry.
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago, and I don’t really remember much of anything.” Arthur gives him what hopefully looks like a reassuring smile. It’s not fair to drag Merlin down with him - even if it is tempting. After all, Merlin is at least partly to blame for this whole mess.
Then again, it isn’t exactly illogical for Arthur to be attracted to him; it has been a while since the last time Arthur was brought off by anything but his own hand. Since shortly before Merlin joined them, to be precise, and considering Arthur spends a good part of his time in Merlin’s company, it’s to be expected that his thoughts focus on Merlin. After all, few people would call Merlin unappealing, as proven each show night by the girls cooing over his popcorn-selling costume.
Arthur simply needs an outlet. It isn’t that hard.
“So, uh.” Merlin’s voice interrupts the progression of Arthur’s thoughts. “I was wondering why you were in such a foul mood since last night?”
Arthur turns his head for a wide, toothy grin. “PMS,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“Right.” For all that Merlin graces Arthur with an annoyed frown, he isn’t quick enough to hide the smile pulling at his mouth. “So why did you drag me here?”
It’s the perfect preface.
It’s the perfect preface, it really is, but when Arthur opens his mouth, what comes out is, “I just thought you should have a look at the lights. Might be of some inspiration to you.”
“Oh.” Merlin blinks. A moment later, he’s looking around the square as if seeing it for the first time, his eyes warming with his beaming smile. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s really cool, actually.”
The tight feeling in Arthur’s chest is back. He fumbles around for a means of distraction, a question such as who taught Merlin how to do magic. Then he remembers that Merlin mentioned how difficult it was to find anything helpful, how spells from fairytales sometimes worked for him, but mostly just because they provided him with a focus. Besides, Arthur shouldn’t want to learn more about Merlin’s magic; he should tell Merlin that it’s impossible, that no matter how unfair it is, Dragonera will never have a magician.
Maybe Arthur is more of a coward than he thought.
“I really like the colours,” Merlin remarks, almost absently. He sounds as if he’s planning how to integrate them into the routine they’ve worked out by now, a routine that still, at odd moments, leaves Arthur just a little short of breath. It’s a good routine. It’s beautiful, in fact, and just, yes. Screw Uther. Merlin is good, he’s really good, and it would be folly not to give him a chance. Dragonera deserves that much.
Arthur bites down on the inside of his cheek, inhaling through his nose. “We’ll have to think about a costume for you.”
“No hats,” Merlin says quickly. When Arthur raises a brow, Merlin pulls a face, then grins.
“No hats.” Arthur nods, studying Merlin’s face. “Actually, it should be something simple, to provide a contrast to all the light and colours. Maybe just a plain white linen shirt.” Not that the idea has anything to do with Arthur picturing Merlin in it - soft linen, loose on Merlin’s frame and parting at his throat.
Yes, Arthur very much needs an outlet. He pulls his mind back on track and adds, “Also, you need to do something about that hair.”
“My hair?” Merlin reaches up to pat it. The sideways look he gives Arthur is filled with mirth, followed by Merlin passing his hand over his head. It leaves him with a short crop, cheekbones standing out sharply, emphasized by the light from above. “What?” he asks, grin widening. “You mean something like this?”
“Are you mad?” Arthur hisses. He glances around the empty square before turning back. “What if someone had seen?”
Merlin looks entirely at ease. “It was just an illusion, Arthur. No one but you could have possibly seen it.” It only takes a wave of his hand for his hair to go back to the way it was, dishevelled and slightly outgrown. Arthur is determinedly not relieved. He exhales and nudges the bottle towards Merlin’s thigh, using the opportunity to study him. Arthur’s thoughts need a moment to find a clear focus point.
“An illusion,” he repeats. “Could it work on a whole tent filled with people?”
“What for?” Merlin looks confused and really, he isn’t always this slow, is he? Surely not. And Arthur might be mildly befuddled right now, but not enough to let something like that slide.
“For your eyes,” he says, exaggeratedly enunciation each word. “Eyes. Golden. Magic. I could draw you a diagram, if that would make it easier?”
“Oh. I…” Merlin pauses, and his following smile is brilliant. “Yeah. I think it might. The illusion, I mean. It should work on a whole tent, yeah.”
“Perfect,” Arthur says despite the fact that nothing is.
He has no idea how to get Merlin into the arena without his father putting a stop to it before Merlin’s taken two steps. He doesn’t know how to get back to where they parked the van. The only thing Arthur knows for certain is that he’s in desperate need of an outlet.
At least for tonight, the bottle of vodka will have to do.
=====
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Songs for this chapter:
11. Eels - Beautiful Freak (You’re such a beautiful freak / I wish there were more just like you / You’re not like all of the others)
12. Sara Bareilles - Undertow (Silly me, look what I did again / I found what I want / Is what I cannot have // Why wear my heart on my sleeve / When it looks so good in your hands?)
13. Röyksopp - Only This Moment (Falling in love isn't part of a plan / Forces within me, mix reason with lust)