Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Chapter 7/8
Full headers & links to all chapters & Chapter 1 are [ here].
Instead of witty notes (do I hear snorts?), this chapter comes with a gorgeous wallpaper by inderpal. (Come to think of it, just knowing I'll get another piece of fantastic art from her if I finish another chapter, it did provide quite some motivation.)
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Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: ~50’000 words overall, ~7’900 for this chapter
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU. Or: In which there are mistakes, missing pillows and pre-show nerves.
Thanks: Same old, same old: inderpal, snarkaddict and torakowalski have been with this story from the very beginning, and I couldn't have done it without them.
(Arthur in his show make-up! - 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 7
_______________________________
He’s several inches smaller than Arthur and his eyes aren’t nearly as bright as Arthur would like, but he’ll do just fine. The way he ducks his head and smiles certainly is promising, if calculated. Arthur isn’t so much used to conscious flirting anymore; Merlin never seems to be aware of what his body language might convey.
And this isn’t about Merlin. In fact, this not being about Merlin is the whole point.
Arthur joins the boy at the merchandise caravan, giving the display of signed pictures a dismissive glance before he leans against the wall, hip jutting out. The boy isn’t the only one who can do calculated. “Enjoy the show?”
“A lot, yes.” The words are laced with a thick French accent and followed by another deliberately shy look. “You were great.”
“Thanks.” Arthur widens his smile and uncrosses his arms to offer his hand. “I’m Arthur.”
“I know. And it’s Nick.” There’s nothing shy about it when Nick grasps Arthur’s hand, swiping his thumb over the pulse point at Arthur’s wrist. Neither of them lets go, and great, this is great; Arthur was hoping for something easy and fast. He wouldn’t have had the patience for an extended conversation, anyway.
“Nick,” he repeats, purposely lowering his voice. He glances around to make sure that no one is paying attention to them before he grins, squeezing Nick’s hand once before letting go. “So, Nick. You like the circus, then?”
Nick hooks a thumb in his belt, drawing the material of his trousers tight across his crotch. “Who doesn’t?”
“Well then.” Arthur makes a show of letting his gaze travel down Nick’s body. It’s a nice body, maybe a little soft around the stomach, but two months ago, Arthur wouldn’t have thought twice about fucking him. He meets Nick’s eyes again, quirking his lips up. “How do you feel about a private tour?”
“Very good,” Nick says. His answering grin is confident.
--
While Merlin appeared quite immersed in his conversation with Gwen when Arthur left the backstage area, there’s no guarantee he won’t be visiting their caravan anytime soon. The hay box just beside Calibur’s stable isn’t a classy option, but it’ll do. Nick doesn’t seem to be the demanding sort, and anyway, he did come here to inhale some genuine circus atmosphere.
Unbidden, Arthur remembers Merlin’s comment about how it’s rather unsatisfactory to be a vessel for someone’s dream.
This is an equal exchange, though; Arthur is pretty sure he and Nick are on the same page. He turns slightly to meet Nick’s blatant regard, countering it with an equally suggestive smirk. “No hay allergies I should take into account, right? I wouldn’t want to spoil the mood.”
“Hay allergies?” The ‘h’ gets lost somewhere, swallowed by Nick’s accent, and Arthur isn’t quite sure why he finds it annoying. In fact, he doesn’t. He leads the way past Calibur’s box, turning a corner and waiting for Nick to follow. The scent of hay envelopes them like a thick blanket, and Arthur thinks that should be answer enough.
Nick doesn’t stop at a tentative distance away. His grin is obvious in the half-dark, hair a light shade of brown. Before Arthur’s brain gets a chance to run away with any more ridiculous notions about how this isn’t quite what he wants, needs, he moves forward, trapping Nick against the side of Calibur’s box. Nick’s belt clinks against the metal bars, and Calibur snorts sleepily at the disturbance.
“You don’t wait, no?” Nick has to tip his head back just slightly. He’s still grinning. “I like that.”
Instead of a reply, Arthur pushes their mouths together. He finds it hard to inhale through his nose, the scent of hay tickling his nostrils. Nick’s body is warm against his, thighs parting easily when Arthur thrusts his hips forward, and there’s another clink of the belt against metal as Nick wedges a hand between their bodies, dragging the zip of Arthur’s jeans down. His knuckles brush against Arthur’s half-hard dick.
At first, Arthur believes the sound of Merlin’s voice to be a figment of his imagination.
Then Merlin laughs, his footsteps coming closer. “Shut up,” he says, “or I’ll hang up on you.”
A pause. Arthur feels frozen.
“No, really, I totally will.” Merlin follows the assurance up with another laugh. His footsteps draw closer still. “After all, I didn’t waste good money on a pay-as-you-go card just to listen to your insults.”
“What?” Nick asks, a little too loudly. His hand is still in Arthur’s trousers, and Jesus fuck, this can’t be bloody happening; Merlin will stop approaching any moment now while Arthur will strangle Nick into silence, and what is it with Merlin and having phone conversations in the animal shelter, anyway? Couldn’t he piss off to some other corner of the camp, somewhere far away instead of-
“Arthur?” Merlin asks, soft and surprised.
Arthur retracts his hands from Nick’s shoulders and slowly turns around. There’s something not quite right with his body because it feels too heavy, exhausted the way it is after several hours of practice. Merlin still has his stupid phone pressed to his ear, but he lowers it. Only when his gaze drops down to Arthur’s crotch does Arthur remember that his jeans are still open. Behind him, Nick straightens and clears his throat.
“Right,” Merlin whispers. He swallows audibly, voice stronger when he adds, “Sorry, don’t stop on my account. Wouldn’t want to interrupt a cheap lay in the hay, or whatever.”
The shadows hide most of Merlin’s expression, but it’s easy to detect the repulsion in his voice. Arthur didn’t expect that, didn’t-Merlin hasn’t shown any signs of homophobic behaviour so far, not… Not unless Arthur counts all those instances when Merlin moved just a little away, took half a step back or angled his body off to the side. And then, the ridiculous butterfly shirt Merlin wore the first time they met, calling it an ironic statement… If Arthur counts all those things, then… Well. Maybe Merlin was just good at hiding it as long as it wasn’t thrown into his face quite like this.
Arthur pulls out a shaky grin from what feels like the deepest pit of his stomach. “For your information, I do not have to justify myself to you.”
“Yeah, obviously not.” Merlin raises his chin, phone still clutched in one hand. He tosses Arthur a glare that couldn’t be more disgusted, gaze sliding over Nick for a short moment before Merlin turns on his heels, his head held very straight as he walks back the way he came.
Arthur clenches his teeth together so as not to call after him.
“Well,” Nick says into the oppressive silence. Calibur’s head appears above the metal bars, the horse straining its neck to damply nose at Arthur’s cheek. Vaguely, Arthur makes a note to stop smuggling carrots back here, but most of his thoughts are busy running circles in his head, knocking together, crashing apart, and nothing makes sense except for the fact that Arthur doesn’t want this, never asked for-
No. Fuck, no.
“I think you should go,” he tells Nick without bothering to turn around. His voice sounds rough, completely unlike him. For all he can tell, his spine consists of solid lead.
“Sorry, what?” Nick appears surprised in a quite unpleasant way, but even now, Arthur doesn’t care enough to look at him.
“You heard me.”
“Yes. I did.” There’s a significant pause. Then Nick slaps his hand against the metal bars, his snort not unlike the startled noise Calibur makes at Nick’s noisy departure. While Arthur does catch Nick’s muttered “Fuck you,” he doesn’t deem it worthy of a reply. The thick scent of hay clings to his skin and makes it almost impossible to breathe.
--
Merlin isn’t in their caravan. Neither are his blanket and his pillow.
It’s not that Arthur feels like talking to him now, except to hurl insults at his head, but-But maybe Arthur does feel like talking to Merlin, if only to figure out how he could have misjudged him so thoroughly. Nothing about this makes sense. Least of all does it make sense for Merlin to hide in someone else’s caravan like the coward Arthur knows he isn’t. Arthur was prepared for furious silence or pointed glares, was prepared for a fight that would end with Merlin admitting to his intolerance and apologizing profusely, because he’s not a bad guy, not at all; Arthur wouldn’t have thought it possible for Merlin to hurt even a fly, with his silly flowers and the glitter and-
Fuck all that.
The fact remains that Merlin slinking away into the dark of the night wasn’t part of Arthur’s calculation. He hates when things don’t go according to his plans.
Arthur tells himself that’s the only reason he grabs a jacket and steps back out into the night. His first idea is Gaius, but Gaius is probably asleep already, and Merlin wouldn’t want to wake him. Lance… No. For all that Merlin and Lance have grown to be very good friends by now, Merlin knocking on Lance’s door seems unlikely.
The thought of Merlin knocking on the door to Gwen’s caravan makes Arthur’s chest grow cold. It’s possible, though. In fact, it’s very possible, and while both Gwen and Morgana wouldn’t approve of Merlin’s homophobic notions, he might just refuse to explain what happened. Neither of them would turn him away, not when he’s got them wrapped around his little finger just like almost everyone else in the camp.
Arthur sets off for the caravan that’s tucked into a quiet corner beside the practice tent.
The lights are still on, the windows bright rectangles. He considers peering through a gap between the curtains to make sure Merlin is there, but really, he isn’t about to lower himself to that sort of level - creeping around places at night, what the hell. He marches up the stairs and raps his knuckles against the door, three sharp knocks. What follows is a moment of silence inside the caravan, then some shuffling and the low murmur of voices.
It’s Morgana who opens the door. Arthur does not try to catch a glimpse of the caravan’s interior, so it’s very unnecessary that she comes outside and pulls the door closed, effectively forcing Arthur to move one step down the stairs. She regards him with a cold stare that automatically, unnecessarily makes him feel guilty.
“Not that I don’t enjoy your company any hour of the day, but,” he crosses his arms, “I was hoping to speak to Merlin.”
Morgana takes her sweet time replying. The light above the door frames her figure, and since Arthur is standing on a lower step than she is, he has to tip his head up to look at her. It doesn’t make him feel more confident. Eventually, Morgana shakes her head, her voice clear and cold. “That’s too bad, Arthur. Because I really don’t think he wants to speak to you right now.”
And that’s just epically unfair, really. Arthur narrows his eyes, raising his voice enough that Merlin will hopefully understand every word. “Oh, so he doesn’t want to speak to me? Really? Did he tell you that?”
“No. But unlike some, I know how to read between the lines.”
Unfair doesn’t even begin to cover it. “How was I supposed to know he would turn into a homophobic arse?”
If Merlin heard him, there’s no indication of it. Everything remains silent inside the caravan.
Morgana, on the other hand, leans forward. Her lips are pursed in a way that tells Arthur she’s very much not pleased with him. “You know I love you, don’t you?” she asks. Her tone belies her words. “And that you're the closest thing to a brother I have, and that I frequently trust you with my life?”
Arthur shifts his weight and refuses to be the first to avert his eyes. “I'm waiting for the ‘but’ that I sense coming.”
He’s rewarded with a wry twist to her mouth. “But,” she says, “you really are kind of an idiot, Arthur.”
“You’re on his side?” Arthur points an accusing thumb at the caravan, and Merlin can’t have fed them a lie so convincing that Morgana wouldn’t startle at the accusation of Merlin being homophobic, right? “So I’m not allowed to kiss whomever I want to, now?”
“Shut up.” The command is sharp as a whiplash, and Arthur nearly takes another step back. Morgana regards him for another silently seething moment before she adds, slightly more gentle, “And for your information, I decided that I’m moving in with you. At least until you get your head out of your arse.”
Arthur bites down on a blunt retort, turning without another word. He’d like to think that his retreat is a dignified one, but he isn’t even fooling himself.
--
Morgana’s breathing pattern is different from Merlin’s - lighter and a little faster. It reminds Arthur of when they were sharing a caravan as kids, whispered conversations in the dark so that Uther wouldn’t come to berate them for still being awake. Things were much easier then, safer. At least that’s how Arthur remembers it. There’s a good chance of his brain distorting the memory.
He still knows Morgana’s breathing pattern well enough to be able to tell that she’s awake. Velvety darkness surrounds them, no floating light bulb to fill the room with colours and life, and the thought makes Arthur’s stomach churn as if in hunger, his heart beating too high in his throat.
He takes a carefully controlled breath, pressing his teeth together. The metal flowers wound around the window frame are no more than blurred shapes in the night, and Arthur just doesn’t know anymore; nothing about this night is making sense. His previous anger has drained away, leaving him oddly empty and useless, with the suspicion that somewhere down the line, something went horribly wrong.
“How did you know?” he whispers into the darkness.
Morgana shifts, her voice equally low. “Know what?”
“How did you know he’d-” Arthur exhales. “Did you know?”
“It would be easier to work out what you mean if you just came out and said it.” Despite the darkness hiding Morgana’s face, Arthur can picture the amused arch of her brows. He frowns at the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just make out part of the glowing letters above the big top. He usually can, but sometimes the setup of the camp changes the cut-out shown by the window.
“Morgana.”
It’s silent for a moment. Then she sighs. “I didn’t know anything. I just liked that he blew you off.”
“He didn’t-”
“He very much did,” Morgana interrupts. “And he stood up to you. A guy like that can’t be too bad, now.”
Arthur knows his frown will be lost in the darkness. It doesn’t stop him from turning his head and glaring at the shadowy figure in the other bed, just a lump under the covers, and it might as well be-It isn’t, though. It isn’t, and Arthur still doesn’t really understand how it happened. “You,” he mutters irritably, “would probably give anyone a job if you thought they’d annoy the hell out of me, wouldn’t you?”
Morgana’s laugh is low, secretive. “Annoy? Is that what you call it?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Arthur hisses. He takes a second to wonder why they’re talking like that, in hushed voices as if Uther might come to check on them any moment. It seems that old habits die hard.
“Of course you have no idea.” Morgana’s voice is drenched in sarcasm. “No idea at all.”
“Goodnight, Morgana,” Arthur pointedly tells the ceiling.
“Sweet dreams, idiot.” The covers rustle as she rolls over to face the wall, probably tucking one corner of the blanket under her chest to sleep not quite on her stomach, not quite on her side. Arthur never really got why people did that, but Merlin sleeps the same way with part of the pillow shoved underneath his chest, although he usually sleeps with his back turned to the wall. Morgana, on the other hand, was never able to sleep facing the door.
Also, Arthur shouldn’t be pondering Merlin’s sleeping habits. Merlin has proven himself to be an arsehole today, and Lord knows why both Gwen and Morgana seem intent on protecting him. Arthur doesn’t get it. He doesn’t want to, and really, why would he want to when his only crime was wanting to get Merlin out of his system, for both their sakes? It would be awkward for them to share a caravan with Arthur constantly too aware of Merlin’s proximity, his…
Speaking of.
“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea for Merlin and Gwen to share a caravan?” Arthur asks out loud. He fluffs his pillow with a balled fist, glaring at nothing in particular and hoping it doesn’t show in his voice. “I mean, since Merlin’s… you know. It might be awkward.”
When Morgana replies after taking way too long, she sounds tired and rather exasperated. “How many times do I have to call you an idiot until you get a clue?”
“You’re not being very helpful, you know.”
“Because you’re too stupid to deserve better.”
“Piss off,” Arthur mutters. Even he can tell it lacks conviction.
“You’re the one who keeps asking me things.”
Arthur snorts. “See if I ever come to you for advice again.”
Instead of a reply, Morgana yawns, the bed creaking as she shifts around. Experience lets Arthur know she’ll continue to do that for another half an hour or so, until she finally drifts off. Merlin is a rather quiet sleeper, barely moving, only the sound of his even breathing.
Arthur tells himself he doesn’t miss it. At all.
It would be easier to believe if his stomach weren’t twisting itself into elaborate patterns with each intake of breath from Morgana’s side of the room, would be easier to believe if she weren’t occupying Merlin’s bed because Merlin obviously can’t stand to sleep in the same room as Arthur.
--
Arthur doesn’t sleep well that night. He keeps dozing off for a short while, only to wake with a start due to the feeling of a heavy weight on his chest. After a nearby church announces the hour to be half past five, Arthur realises he didn’t miss out on more than two or three strikes of the bell since he went to bed. It’s the final straw.
He rolls out of bed, careful not to wake Morgana as he pulls on his training clothes and leaves the caravan.
--
This morning, it isn’t Arthur’s hand that shakes Merlin awake. It’s Merlin’s own traitorous body that wakes him at the hour of their usual morning practice.
For all that he wants to go right back to sleep, his bladder opposes that idea. But then, considering how long it took him to fall asleep last night, he probably wouldn’t have had much luck shutting off his thoughts even without his bladder getting its revenge for the bottle of wine he and Gwen emptied last night. Merlin’s head hurts. In addition, Morgana’s bed is at the opposite side to where Merlin is used to sleeping, making it harder to navigate in the dark while trying to be as quiet as possible since he’s still a little sheepish about intruding on the girls. He wouldn’t have asked, all he told them was that he didn’t feel like returning to his own caravan for a while in case Arthur decided he’d rather take his cheap fuck there instead of-
Right. Merlin isn’t thinking about that. He also isn’t thinking about the tightness of his throat, or what it means that he’d barely asked for temporary asylum, just for an hour or so, before Morgana left of her own accord to fetch his blanket and pillow.
On his way back to the bed, Gwen’s breathing quiet and regular on the other side of the room, he catches a glimpse of the practice tent. When Arthur and Merlin use it early in the morning, they don’t turn on any lights; they’ve come to realise that Merlin’s routine is at its most effective when he starts with an entirely dark tent that he fills with increasingly more brightness and colours, a crescendo of sorts. Now, it seems as if every single light is turned on, the tent standing out brightly against the pitch black sky.
Merlin pretends that his breath doesn’t hitch painfully, not even for a tenth of a second. He crawls back into bed and pulls the blanket up to his chin, turning his face to the wall.
--
Arthur has always found there to be something calming in going through his training routine. Sitting down to meditate with his legs crossed and his eyes closed would make his thoughts run around in circles, but up in the air, his body focused and alert, he finds it easy to let go.
By the time morning dawns, he has spent roughly an hour going through standard motions, following it up with another hour of working out something new for next year’s programme. It isn’t until he finally lowers himself back to the ground that he notices how he automatically built the new elements around vague ideas for a lighting concept.
Well. Fuck.
Arthur stretches out in the sawdust, inhaling its familiar scent while the rope is still trembling beside his ear. He absently reaches for it, trapping the silk in his fingers, and exhales. Letting his lids slide shut, his eyes burning from his lack of sleep, he remembers Merlin standing in the exact same spot yesterday morning, beaming after successfully running through what Arthur thinks might just be the perfect show routine to blow even the most sceptical spectator away. Perfect.
And bloody hell, but it still doesn’t make sense. Merlin has never shown any signs of homophobia before last night. He dishes out flowers and butterflies, teases Arthur about wearing glitter and jokes about David Beckham and frilly dresses. Add to that the fact that Merlin is anything but skilled at any sort of lying…
Arthur sits up, sawdust sticking to his clothes. He bends forward until his forehead rests on his left knee.
What if Arthur had it all wrong? From the few hints Merlin dropped, it’s obvious that he doesn’t undress for just anyone and at the drop of a hat. That he rejected Arthur during their first meeting - and yes, he possibly did - doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t interested in men (in Arthur) at all. He could be. There is a faint chance that he is. Also, Merlin is open about his friendship, generous. What if Arthur misinterpreted Merlin’s interaction with Gwen?
What if.
In a sudden burst of energy, Arthur pushes himself to his feet. He makes a half-hearted attempt to dust his t-shirt off, but finds that he really can’t be bothered.
Flicking off all the lights in the tent, he sets off for his caravan. At this hour, the camp is still quiet, and while it would be an exaggeration to say he’s running - he is most certainly not - he might be walking rather quickly. Hopefully, Morgana is already awake. If she isn’t, well. Too bad.
When he bursts into the caravan, Morgana looks up from what’s probably another local newspaper that Gaius left on their doorstep. She takes one glance at Arthur’s expression, then his clothes, and curls her lips up in a slow grin. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he echoes. He thinks about pretending that an early morning practice is completely normal for him, but really, it’s not as if he stands much of a chance of fooling her. Instead, he sits down on his bed, sparing only a momentary thought for the sawdust he is likely to leave all over the covers. He clears his throat. “Listen, is… Merlin. Is he straight?”
For a short moment, Morgana’s face is blank. Then she gives him a large smile. “Oh, thank God. I thought you’d never start asking the right questions.”
Arthur leans forward. “Is he?”
“He’s less straight than you are.”
“I’m bi.”
Morgana’s pointed look is an insult to Arthur’s intelligence. “Yes, thank you.”
“So that means…” Arthur exhales in a rush. After his workout, his muscles are starting to loosen, breath coming easier. He slumps back on his bed. “That means that Merlin isn’t in love with Gwen.”
“Who died and bequeathed you a brain?” Morgana asks. Her tone is fond, though, so Arthur decides to ignore her. Well, almost.
“Very funny.” He tries to turn it into a sarcastic drawl, but it falls flat, sounds almost exhilarated. It looks as if Merlin has affected even Arthur’s ability to maintain a perfectly nonchalant façade. Somehow, Arthur can’t bring himself to mind.
“Yes,” Morgana tells him. “I thought so, too.”
When she laughs softly, he fights his answering grin for only a moment. The first hint of sunlight touches the upper corner of the window, accenting stains on the glass that stem from dusty roads and murky rainwater. One leaf of a metal flower reflects an errant sunray.
“So. What are you going to do?” Morgana folds the newspaper. It shows the letters DH in one corner and Arthur catches a glimpse of Dragonera’s big top at the bottom of the first page. Looks as if they didn’t make the cover story this time.
“Do?” he echoes absently.
Morgana raises a telling brow. “Yes, do. About Merlin. You know Merlin, right? The guy you should really talk to?”
Arthur looks from Morgana’s face down at the newspaper, and back. He hopes his grin isn’t as stupidly elated as he fears it might be.
--
While Morgana is right in that talking to Merlin might be the easiest, most straight-forward way of dealing with this mess, Arthur doesn’t think Merlin particularly wants to talk to him. Also, there is the little matter that Arthur doesn’t really know what to say - Morgana admitted that Merlin hadn’t actually confirmed any sort of interest in Arthur, so it’s all just speculation.
Arthur would prefer to have a rather more solid basis than mere speculation before revealing something he might regret later.
What it all amounts to is that talking isn’t a valid option, the way Arthur sees it. He needs something bigger, something that will make Merlin want to stay and-Yeah. So what if Morgana openly doubts Arthur’s sanity? It certainly isn’t the first time.
Now the only problem is that while Uther getting ill isn’t unheard of, it’s not a common occurrence. Waiting for fate to intervene might take longer than Arthur is willing to wait, and anyway, he’s never been good at waiting.
He’s also never been a good son. Maybe it’s time to give up trying.
--
Merlin isn’t hiding, per se. He’s doing his job. His job requires him to spend time in the kitchen caravan to prepare food. So him spending time in the kitchen caravan, away from where he might run into Arthur, isn’t hiding. While it’s true that he doesn’t usually close the door, he’s been feeling rather cold all day and thus closing the door is a perfectly logical step.
No matter what Gwen says.
He opens another tin of tomatoes and empties it into the huge pot that’s steaming on the hob. On normal days, he has a hard time not tasting the food when Gaius’s watchful gaze isn’t warning him away, but even though Gaius has left him alone after three attempts at asking what’s wrong, Merlin doesn’t have much of an appetite. His stomach is trying to eat itself, but the food still smells and looks unappealing.
Another tin. The sauce pops some bubbles and he turns the temperature down.
He’s about to lug an even bigger pot filled with noodle water from the sink to the stove when the door bangs open. There aren’t many people in the camp with the gall to burst into a room with that sort of self-confidence.
Merlin sets the pot down and slowly, reluctantly turns to face Arthur. His barycentre appears to be located several feet beside his body.
For what feels like the better half of an eternity, the only sound in the small room is the hissing of the sauce. Arthur’s figure is outlined by the light slanting in through the doorframe, the grey shade of a cloudy afternoon after a sunny morning. It renders him strangely two-dimensional, making it hard to read his expression.
Merlin turns away to pick the pot back up. As if on cue, Arthur breaks the silence.
“Look, I know you don’t really feel like speaking to me right now.” Arthur’s voice is a strange cross between demanding and hopeful. “But my father is ill.”
On the periphery of his vision, Merlin can see Arthur’s shoes shuffle closer. He sets the pot down on the hob and turns the hotplate on before muttering a half-hearted, “I’m sorry?”
“It’s nothing big, just… food poisoning, maybe. Should be over by tomorrow.” Arthur sounds inexplicably guilty, enough so that Merlin inclines his head just enough to catch a glimpse of him. The only thing he notices is the stiff set of Arthur’s shoulders.
Merlin turns back to the hob. “Well. Good, then.”
“Yes, anyway.” Arthur pauses and takes another step forward, an urgent note to his voice. “The point is, when my father’s ill, Morgana and I share presenting duty.”
“So what?” Merlin’s never been a good actor, but he hopes that his comment conveys all the disinterest he can muster. He doesn’t care, really. He doesn’t. If Arthur gets to preside over the show, then hey, more power to him. Merlin’s only there to sell popcorn, anyway.
“So,” Arthur says, “I hope for your sake you’re ready.”
Slowly, Merlin raises his head. Arthur’s grinning at him, a rather cautious edge to it, but it widens when Merlin can’t quite hide his astonishment. It’s not-He doesn’t want to perform just so Arthur can feel better about himself; it’s certainly not the apology Merlin wants and probably shouldn’t expect. Arthur doesn’t owe him an apology, after all. It was only in Merlin’s head that anything was happening between them; it’s his fault he mistook their trip to the Grand Place for a date, thought they might have been only just a moment from kissing. It’s not Arthur’s fault that Merlin thought maybe, just maybe Arthur’s bad mood, the bottle of vodka and his reluctance to talk about whatever was bothering him… Well. He was clearly a fool for believing Arthur might be about to confess to a crush. Wishful thinking.
“You don’t have to do that,” Merlin says. His voice comes out a little thick.
“I know I don’t. I want to.” Arthur gives him a matter-of-fact look, and yeah, that just might be the most familiar expression he’s shown over the course of the last few minutes. It shouldn’t make Merlin’s stomach ache. “You’re good, you deserve the chance, and…”
“And?” Merlin prompts, when Arthur doesn’t seem inclined to continue.
“Nothing.” Arthur crosses his arms, fingers clasped around his elbows. “You’ll be on last, so if you come backstage after the break, that should give us enough time. I trust you can see to your costume?”
“Yeah, I…” Merlin shakes his head, glances at the stove. The sauce has turned an unhealthy shade of dark-brown where it touches the metal pot, and right, yes, Merlin should have been stirring it. He grabs a ladle, presenting his back to Arthur. “I’ll have something ready, yeah.”
“All right, then.” For several moments, Arthur lingers, giving off an air of wanting to say something else. Then he turns sharply and leaves. Behind him, the door closes with a soft snap.
Only when the crunching of Arthur’s shoes on the gravel has faded does Merlin feel as if he can breathe freely again. He bends over to rest his forehead on the cool edge of the sink, the scent of tomatoes an almost physical presence. Behind his lids, everything is black.
This is it. This is his chance. It might be the only one he’ll ever get.
He can’t help but think that just a day ago, he’d have been more excited.
--
While Arthur tries to be inconspicuous about it, he makes it a point to observe Merlin closely as the show draws closer. He even shows up for dinner. His presence is rewarded with a barely perceptible tightening of Merlin’s shoulders, and Arthur tells himself that he doesn’t mind. There’s plenty of time to set things right between them once Merlin’s had his moment and Uther can’t help but accept that Merlin is there to stay. With that foundation, Merlin should be eager to work things out with Arthur.
Not for the first time, Arthur wonders if maybe he has the whole thing backwards.
Ignoring the wry curl to Morgana’s mouth - she agreed to organise a camcorder, which is really all that matters -, Arthur sits down at the diagonally opposite end of the table from Merlin. It is with quite some interest that he notes the rather protective frown Gwen directs at him, Gwen sliding closer to Merlin on the bench while Lance seems rather confused. When Gwen smiles at him, he returns it without even a second’s hesitation, though, and-Oh.
Arthur blinks. All right, so maybe he’s been missing out on some signs, recently. He puts both elbows on the table and silently waits while the others are eating spaghetti, talking tensely about something Arthur isn’t really paying attention to. Merlin doesn’t show much interest in the conversation either; he’s pushing the food around his plate, from one side to the other, and looking rather pale. Dark circles under his eyes suggest he didn’t sleep all that well last night, and Arthur feels an unreasonable thrill of excitement at the realisation.
Then Merlin’s gaze flickers over to him. Their eyes hold for only a moment, Merlin’s stare blank and oddly helpless at the same time. To Arthur’s embarrassment, he’s the first to look away.
He spends the rest of the others’ meal studying the tabletop, running through calculations in his head. Despite taking over his father’s role for the night, the usual flutter of pre-show nerves has calmed to a distant hum in his blood, his thoughts occupied by every little thing he might have forgotten. He needs to talk to Lance about the music for Merlin’s part, needs to charm the journalists he invited, and it’s a risk, promising them something revolutionary, something that will leave them astonished and short of breath, but…
It’s a risk, but Arthur trusts Merlin not to let him down.
--
It’s when Merlin enters what looks like a sold-out tent, popcorn tray before him, that the full reality of performing in front of several hundred people hits him. Roughly five-hundred, to be precise. That’s… a lot of people. A whole damn lot, in fact. When he scans the rows and rows of nameless faces, his stomach turns over in what definitely isn’t hunger.
He makes it through the first half by clinging to the familiar routine of smiling at everyone who comes up to him and focusing on the butter-greasy smell of popcorn. Throughout the interval, it’s an effort to keep his calm and pretend to be unaffected - for all that Merlin doesn’t actually spot Arthur, he’s willing to bet that Arthur is keeping a close eye on him, just as he did for most of the afternoon. Arthur probably thought he was being covert about it, but Merlin is too aware of Arthur not to notice him lingering nearby. At first, it made him grit his teeth, but as the hours passed, it didn’t seem so much like a lack of trust anymore. By now, Merlin just doesn’t know what to make of it.
Once he’s somehow managed to last through the interval, he quickly exits through a side entrance and dashes to Gwen’s caravan. The costume he prepared earlier refuses to cooperate with his hands; while the dark, loose trousers are okay, the lacings of the white linen shirt appear set on tangling themselves around his fingers. He could magic them into obedience, of course, but seriously, oh God, just how incompetent would it make him look if he couldn’t even get his own stupid shirt laced up, and-
Merlin sucks in a shaky breath, then another. For a moment, he stares at his own pale face in the mirror, sweat glistening on his forehead, the open shirt hanging off his shoulders. Then he bends forward, both hands against the sink as his stomach tries to crawl out through his throat.
Because it’s Merlin’s life, that’s exactly how Arthur finds him.
--
Arthur isn’t impatient. He’s perfectly aware that after slipping out of the tent, Merlin will need a few moments to change into the costume he hopefully remembered to conjure. However, five minutes should be enough.
It’s been almost seven since Merlin left.
Arthur waits until Gwen’s put the finishing touches on his eyes, calls a “Your turn to present,” in Morgana’s direction, and then he’s gone. His feet automatically take him towards his own caravan, and it’s only when he’s halfway there that he remembers it’s the wrong direction. He hurriedly rounds the practice tent, trying the door to Gwen and Morgana’s caravan in the assumption that Merlin left it unlocked. He did.
At first, Arthur can’t see much of anything. The main room is dark, only a small stripe of light from the bathroom falling across the floor. Arthur moves forward, tugging the door open. “What’s taking you so long?” he asks roughly. Then he catches sight of Merlin bent over the sink.
Ah, shite.
Arthur’s first performance was over a decade ago, but he still remembers throwing up minutes before he was due in the arena, hardly able to see straight past the fear of disappointing his father and the audience, of bringing shame to Dragonera’s name. Fortunately, the pre-show fright has faded over time, but it still taught him not to eat anything beforehand. Apparently, Merlin was smart enough not to digest much food today either; he’s dry-heaving, his back shaking with it, and if he noticed Arthur, he doesn’t give any indication of it.
Arthur is behind him before he can think better of it. He places a hand on Merlin’s back, splaying his fingers out over the ripples of Merlin’s spine. “Deep breaths,” he says, calm and even. “Just breathe, Merlin.”
Their eyes meet in the mirror. Merlin looks horrified, but now that Arthur’s watching closely, he’s fairly certain it’s embarrassment rather than disgust at their proximity. It’s incentive enough for him to wrap an arm around Merlin’s waist, supporting him. “Deep breaths,” he repeats softly.
“Sorry.” Merlin’s entire body is tight-strung, his muscles trembling. His skin looks sallow, his breathing still uneven and too fast. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”
Arthur cuts him off. “I threw up, my first time. Looks like you did better than me.”
Merlin opens his mouth, probably to stammer out more apologies. Then he nods and closes it again, relaxing just very slightly against Arthur. The lacings of Merlin’s shirt are undone, bare chest gleaming in the brightness of the bathroom light, and Arthur has reached around to lace the threads before he can think better of it. In the mirror, he watches his hands: the brush of his fingertips over Merlin’s ribs, his collarbone, and, just, Jesus. Merlin’s chin has dropped down to his chest, and Arthur thinks that he-If Arthur kissed him now, he doesn’t think Merlin would object.
And fuck, this is just so not the time.
Arthur inhales through his nose before he ties the bow at Merlin’s throat. Then he forces himself to take a step back. Merlin sways for a moment before his eyes clear and he straightens.
“Come on,” Arthur tells him. He listens for a moment, the faint notes of Light My Fire drifting over from the big top. “Morgana and I are on in twelve minutes, and once Gwen is done, she’ll do your make-up. Remember to drink something. You’re on last.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says. “Okay.” His skin has reverted back to an unhealthy shade of green.
--
For what is the third or fourth time in his life, Arthur’s performance is reduced to going through the motions. He’s inordinately grateful that Morgana is picking up his slack, her smiles just a little brighter, her motions just a little sharper. When she somersaults above the heads of the audience, the gasps from below are more numerous than they usually are. Arthur fulfils his duties by catching her around the waist.
They touch the ground together, Morgana sinking into a graceful curtsy as the applause swells around them. A few people are rising from their seats, others mirroring the gesture, and that’s always a sign of a good night, a responsive audience. Those who know Dragonera well enough to believe this to be the final are in for a surprise.
“Introduction,” Arthur hisses under his breath. “You do it. And don’t forget to film.”
Morgana doesn’t reply, but she turns her smile on him. He retreats with another low bow.
As soon as the curtain falls closed behind Arthur, the sounds of the audience are muted. When Morgana starts speaking, Arthur doesn’t even try to listen. Instead, he turns to find Merlin already in place, waiting for his turn in the area between arena and backstage that’s curtained off on both sides. He’s sweaty and unsteady on his feet, dark eyeliner framing his eyes. A hint of glitter glistens on his cheeks.
Beside Merlin, Gwen is still looking a little shell-shocked from when Arthur told her to make Merlin presentable for his performance. Once she catches Arthur’s eye, she glances from him to Merlin before retreating with an uncertain smile, leaving them alone.
Merlin looks as if he’d very much like to throw up if there was anything left in his stomach. In the arena, Morgana announces that tonight, the audience will witness a world premiere.
“Merlin.” Arthur keeps his voice low and steady. Merlin’s only reaction is a bewildered widening of his eyes, pupils blown. Arthur steps closer, placing both hands on Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin is trembling again, near-imperceptible quivers running through his body, and this just won’t do; Arthur won’t allow Merlin to give up his chance out of sheer, stupid nerves. It’s not acceptable. Not if Arthur has any say in it.
Arthur takes another step closer, mere inches left between them. “Listen. Merlin.” He keeps his voice low and strong. “I might be ever so slightly in love with you, but I swear to God, if you bugger this up when I know what you’re capable of, I’m going to strangle you.”
Slowly, very slowly, Merlin looks up. His face is a mask of confusion. “What?”
Arthur tightens his grip on Merlin’s shoulders and this? This cannot possibly be happening. He refuses to believe it. “Did you hear a word I said? Any of it?”
“I…” Merlin’s throat moves as he swallows. He tilts his head and smiles rather uncertainly. “Not really?”
“Right, never mind.” Arthur exhales, something giving way in his chest. Any moment now, Morgana will step through the curtain and it will be Merlin out there, in the darkness with only the first notes of Wonderful World to guide him.
Arthur slides one hand up to cradle the back of Merlin’s neck and brings their mouths together.
It takes endless seconds for Merlin to react. At first, his mouth is soft and slack under Arthur’s, unresponsive. Then a shudder runs through Merlin, transferring from Merlin’s body to Arthur’s, and finally Merlin kisses back, pushing closer to Arthur, his mouth opening. Arthur tightens his fingers in Merlin’s hair, rewarded with a soft gasp from Merlin, and this, yes, this is what Arthur’s been waiting for, and if he never has to stop kissing Merlin, it’ll be just perfect.
Morgana’s voice, too close and amused, most definitely isn’t what Arthur wants to hear at a moment like this. “Merlin needs to go.”
Arthur tears his mouth away just long enough to inform her that, “No, he bloody doesn’t.”
“Sorry.” She sounds unrepentant. “I think the novelty of a pitch-black tent will wear off after a short while.”
To Arthur’s utter displeasure, it’s Merlin who pulls away. He looks regretful, at least. The glitter adorning his face is smeared in some places, a flush high on his cheekbones and his mouth very pink. Arthur would very much like to fuck him right here and now.
Instead, he takes a step back and crosses his arms, nodding towards the arena. “All right, then. Don’t shame me.”
“I won’t,” Merlin says. It sounds like a promise, all the confidence he previously lacked back in his smile, slightly belied by his chest rising on a deep breath. He walks past Morgana, pausing for half a second where the curtains meet.
Then he pushes them open and disappears into the arena.
“Camcorder,” Arthur whispers. His voice sounds hectic even to his own ears, and he grits his teeth together to regain some of his composure. Morgana’s rather wicked smile isn’t helping.
“Don’t worry, I passed the task on to Gwen. I saw her slip out into the audience just now.” Her smile widens to reveal a row of perfect teeth. “Your boytoy will be shown to his full advantage.”
“He’s not-” Arthur begins.
Morgana’s laugh silences his half-formed protest. “I know. Glad to hear you admit it, though.”
“Screw you.”
“No, thanks.” She steps towards the backstage exit, turning around to give him a quick look that is surprisingly affectionate. “Also, hey. Don’t you want to watch? I know I do. I’ve heard too many tales from you not to be curious now.”
Arthur doesn’t even deem it worthy of a reply. He simply follows Morgana from the backstage area and through the well-hidden side entrance, crouching down beside Gwen. She only turns her head for a brief smile before focusing back on Merlin, the red light of the camcorder in her hands blinking. Arthur follows the direction of her gaze.
He knows this part: what started as tiny sparks in Merlin’s hands has already grown to blue and yellow lights flickering along his arms, compressing to a glowing bulb that will rise to illuminate his face in just a few moments. Tiny flashes will dance inside the ball. What Arthur doesn’t know is Merlin like this, focused and centred with everyone’s attention on him, his face calm with a small, almost cocky smile playing about his mouth.
True to the routine they worked out, he lets his actions speak for themselves, the bulb exploding into a glittering shower. Even before the last of the glitter has sparked out, tendrils of coloured light crawl up along the rope Arthur and Morgana left hanging, the instrumental interpretation of Wonderful World soft in the background. Watch them bloom, Arthur’s brain chants along to the melody. He quiets it and watches as Merlin hands a flower shaped out of light to a girl in the first row. The flower fades into nothingness before she even touches it, and when Arthur glances around the tent, all he can see are enraptured faces. The girl that never quite touched the flower must have forgotten how to close her mouth.
If Merlin is aware of Arthur’s presence in the audience, he doesn’t show it.
====
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>> Chapter 8
Only one more chapter to go. Huh.
Songs for this chapter:
14. Conor Oberst - Lenders In the Temple (That circus tiger's going to break your heart / Something so wild turned into paper / If I loved you, well that's my fault)
15. Jason Mraz feat. James Morrison - Details In the Fabric (Calm down, deep breaths / And get yourself dressed // If it's a broken part, replace it / If it's a broken arm, then brace it / If it's a broken heart, then face it // And hold your own, know your name / And go your own way)
16. Regina Spektor - Better (If I kiss you where it’s sore / Will you feel better, better, better? // If you never say your name out loud to anyone, they can never ever call you by it)