Radiant Under Every Sort of Light, Final Chapter (8/8)
Full headers & links to all chapters & Chapter 1 are [ here].
So, this is it. The last chapter. It took us a while to get here (about 55’000 words, actually), so thank you for staying with me.
Merlin/Arthur (additional background pairings)
R
Length: ~55’000 words overall, ~8’600 for this chapter
Summary: Just your everyday Circus AU.
Thanks: Allow me to introduce you to my lovely betas: inderpal, snarkaddict and torakowalski. Without them, this story would never have hit your screen. They listened to me babble, caught my mistakes, planned and plotted and helped with great suggestions. Thanks, girls.
(Gorgeous cover art by inderpal. As always.)
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 8
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Almost as one, the people in the audience have risen from their seats. Merlin is still beaming around the tent when Arthur, Gwen and Morgana duck into the backstage area, everyone else already prepared for the traditional final that comes with a happy tune, colourful costumes and waving at the audience while large pieces of silver plastic rain down from the ceiling. Maybe it's time to rethink that part, Arthur decides.
He steers clear of anyone who might be inquiring about what just happened, how Merlin suddenly came to close the show. There'll be enough questions to field later on. In particular, Arthur makes a note not to let any journalists get anywhere within Merlin’s vicinity, at least not before Arthur's had a chance to train him in evading questions better left unanswered.
“He was good,” Morgana whispers in Arthur's ear just before the curtain lifts to spit everyone back into the arena. “Really good. I had no idea he could do that.”
“I did.” Arthur doesn't try to temper down his smug grin. He watches Gwen set the camcorder down before the dressing mirror Arthur shares with Morgana. A moment later, Gwen moves to join them. When she catches Arthur studying her, the answering frown isn't nearly as dark as it was during dinner.
The music changes, and Arthur leads the group into the arena.
Immediately, before anyone else can get there, he grabs Merlin. While Merlin looks faintly surprised at being surrounded by the whole group, his efforts to move out of Arthur's reach are half-hearted, at best. His eyes are bright. For a moment, Arthur is afraid Merlin might be actually, noticeably glowing. It would be just like him, to be so bloody obvious Arthur can't possibly explain it to the journalists later on.
Fortunately, the impression doesn't last long.
“Acceptable,” Arthur tells Merlin in an undertone.
“Sod off.” Merlin doesn't sound particularly angry anymore. What shades his voice - still, or maybe again - is confusion.
“Ah,” Arthur says, brushing his fingertips over the back of Merlin's hand. “But what if I don't want to?”
Before Merlin gets a chance to reply, he’s whisked away by an enthusiastic Gwen. If Arthur didn't know her to be just about the sweetest girl he can imagine, he'd think she was still rather reluctant to trust him with Merlin. As it is, he pastes on a bright smile, links his arm with Morgana's and leads her around the arena in some kind of triumphant waltz.
He really needs to talk to Uther about changing that part of the show. But then, Merlin's involvement will already be the cause of a lengthy discussion.
Arthur has never considered himself much of a coward, but for the moment, he's faintly grateful for the protection of the crowd. Hopefully, his father won't learn about this until the morning, when Merlin's performance just might be discussed on PureFM.
It will be hard for Uther to argue against success.
--
If Arthur knew how to switch his sense of obligation off, he wouldn’t be talking to a girl from Brussels in-scene magazine right now. Instead, he’d drag Merlin away to their caravan, and then they’d sort things out, preferably without clothes. At least Arthur can be reasonably sure now that Merlin really is interested in him - either that, or Merlin was too shocked to push Arthur away.
“I’m sorry, but,” Arthur widens his smile, “that’s not possible. You see, we have this tradition.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone, leaning forward just slightly. “Anyone who performs with us for the first time has to spend the night in silence, in the big top. It’s an induction ritual of sorts, and it might be a little silly, but it helps to strengthen the bond. If you really want to talk to him, you could come back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Of course.” The girl, short and alert with the air of a professional, nods as if she understands. Her English is acceptable. “So why he didn’t make an appearance before tonight? Second night in Bruxelles, last quarter of your tour… Seems strange.”
“Well, as you said yourself, it’s an incredible concept. It took a while to make it possible.” Arthur catches sight of Gaius, standing only a few feet away and clearly trying to gain Arthur’s attention. The tilt to his eyebrow doesn’t bode well. Unfortunately, Arthur’s had too much experience with Gaius’ special brand of insistence to hope he’ll give up if Arthur ignores him long enough.
“Yes, not surprising.” The journalist - Claire? Carole? Something like that - nods seriously. “So how did you do it? For example, the floating lights?”
Arthur laughs and flicks a covert glance towards the bright back entrance of the tent. Last he saw, people were crowding around a beaming Merlin, toasting him while passing around the two bottles of sparkling wine that Arthur organised. With Merlin’s unreadable gaze resting on him, Arthur was so distracted he almost missed the two overly curious journalists popping their heads into the tent. He managed to drag them away from the celebrating group just before they got their greedy hands on Merlin.
And Arthur is belated in his reply to the question. He turns his smile up another notch. “Well, you don’t expect me to answer that, do you? A magician never shares his tricks. It would spoil the mystery.”
“It was worth a try.” Claire doesn’t seem very disappointed. She shakes Arthur’s hand with a surprisingly tight grip, pats her pockets to make sure she didn’t lose the USB stick with the video Gwen recorded, and then she finally leaves, a good ten minutes after the journalist from the radio station did. Arthur is fairly optimistic that come Wednesday, Claire’s article will take up a prominent spot in the weekly issue of Zone02 that awaits the early morning crowd at bus and metro stations.
He waits until Claire has rounded the corner, towards the exit, before he finally turns to face Gaius. His guilty conscience immediately makes him wonder if Gaius found out that-but no. Gaius knows of Uther’s allergy to locust bean gum, and the symptoms are precisely the same. And anyway, while Arthur knows it wasn’t exactly the morally unquestionable route he chose, Merlin deserved this chance. Arthur doesn’t regret one damn thing.
He keeps his face impassive when Gaius joins him. Gaius isn’t looking at Arthur; he’s looking at the big top, standing out in bright colours against the darkness.
“You might want to see your father,” Gaius says. His tone doesn’t give anything away.
Arthur releases a loud breath. “Why? He’s not feeling worse, is he?”
“Depends on how you look at it. He wasn’t too happy when I told him about your changes to the programme.” While it’s hard to tell, there might be a faint upwards curl to the corners of Gaius’ mouth. It’s encouraging.
“Of course he wasn’t,” Arthur says lightly. “You shouldn’t have hindered his recovery by telling him. It’s early enough when he learns about it tomorrow.”
Gaius voice is dry. “Trust me, you should be grateful he heard it from me rather than discover it in some newspaper. Just keep in mind…” He hesitates.
“Yes?” Arthur says.
“Nothing. Go talk to your father.” Gaius reaches out to give Arthur’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. The crowfeet at the corners of his eyes deepen. “For what it’s worth, I think Merlin and you gave us a great show. Well done.”
“Thanks.” Arthur rather doubts Uther will see it that way, but… there probably isn’t much use in stalling. The sooner Arthur gets this over with, the sooner he can finally, finally talk things out with Merlin. If Merlin is willing, that is. Also, Arthur shouldn’t be having these thoughts right now. They can only lead to disaster, and he needs all his concentration for the conversation with his father.
“You’re still here,” Gaius points out. He sounds amused, and vaguely concerned.
“Yes. Going now.” Arthur gives the bright triangle of the tent flap one last, longing glance before he turns to head in the opposite direction - past the practice tent, past the animals. Uther’s caravan is the only one back here that has the lights turned on, and Arthur fills his lungs with fresh, velvety night air. Climbing the steps seems like quite a feat. He pauses in front of the door, raising his chin and balling his hands into fists, fingernails digging crescent-shaped indents into his palms.
He lifts his hand to knock.
“Come on in,” Uther calls out. He doesn’t sound as weak as he did this afternoon.
With a sense of trepidation, Arthur enters. His father is sitting at the table, a nearly empty glass with some sort of transparent liquid in front of him. He’s wrapped his hand around it, white-knuckled as if it was helping him maintain his balance. Even though he should be recovering by now, there is still sweat glistening on his upper lip, his face a sickly shade of grey. Arthur does his best to ignore the stitch of guilt - he can’t go into this already at a disadvantage; Merlin deserves better than Arthur’s half-hearted defence.
“Sit down, Arthur.” Uther’s voice might be trembling just slightly. His breath smells of hard liquor.
Arthur swallows around the lump in his throat and sinks into the chair opposite his father, making a conscious effort to keep his hands open and relaxed on the table. Something isn’t right here; something is utterly, utterly wrong and Arthur has no clue what he missed. His father should be in his face, furious that Arthur disobeyed him, but while there is definitely a trace of anger in Uther’s eyes, there’s also an edge of what might be fear, or pain.
Arthur inhales on a shaky breath before he says, clear and certain, “I’m sorry. But it was the only way.” The statement sounds out of place in the quiet room, too loud and defensive.
For a long second, Uther doesn’t move. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously low. “Did I make it perfectly clear that I do not want a magician in my circus?”
“Yes,” Arthur begins, “but-”
Uther cuts him off, voice rising. “And is this or is this not my circus?” His fingers seem to tighten around the glass, the tendons on the back of his hand standing out sharply.
“It is.” Arthur keeps his head high, his shoulders straight. “But I feel responsible, too. And we need to move Dragonera forward, keep improving. Merlin is good. He’s brilliant, the audience loved him. Who cares just what he does when he has them eating out of his palm?”
A vein is standing out at Uther’s temple. He’s unusually pale in the sickly light of the lamp dangling above the table, and his voice has risen to a higher level. “This is my circus, Arthur. I will not see another magician perform in it.”
What?
Arthur takes a quick breath, leaning over the table and holding his father’s gaze. He deliberately colours his words with all the petulance he can muster. “I don’t care what the other one did. Merlin’s good.”
“The other one,” Uther says loudly, and the shakiness is back in his voice, his gaze wavering, “killed your mother. She killed her, and don’t think I will ever forget it.”
Killed… what?
What is Uther-Arthur’s mother had an accident, she died in a car crash just like Morgana’s parents, she wasn’t-The few times Arthur asked since he was little, his father always told him that was how Igraine died, in a car crash, and that Uther didn’t want to talk about it, but if… If Arthur’s mother didn’t die in a car crash, it would mean that all this time, Uther lied to Arthur.
For a blink of an eye, Arthur is relieved. After all, this changes things, puts them on even moral ground.
Then he realises that his father lied to him. For more than twenty years.
When he speaks, his voice comes out toneless, dead. The lamplight hurts his eyes. “You always told me she died in a car crash.”
The silence that follows is as cutting and sharp-edged as a knife - and what sort of analogy is that, Arthur wonders a little hysterically. Silence isn’t physical; it can hardly cut through skin or bone or anything as stupidly dramatic as that. Still it feels as if he’s weighed by down by the lack of response from his father. Uther is merely looking at him, appearing much more sober than he did a minute ago. There’s something blank and helpless about his expression, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do with that.
“How did my mother die?” The question is no more than a whisper, but it’s still too loud in the oppressive absence of any sound that isn’t their combined breathing.
Uther averts his eyes and lifts the glass to his mouth. He doesn’t drink, though, just stays suspended with the rim of the glass touching his lips, as if he forgot the purpose of lifting it in the first place. It makes something resonate in the pit of Arthur’s stomach.
“She didn’t die in a car crash,” Arthur says. It’s not a question.
“She died because her show partner got greedy.” Uther sets the glass down with a heavy clunk, and for the first time, Arthur actually thinks that his father looks old. It might be a residue from the day’s illness, the sallow tone of his skin and the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. There’s no infliction to his voice. “I told them it was too dangerous, but Igraine insisted she could do it, and-It doesn’t matter.”
For all that Arthur can tell, the caravan is swaying under his feet, upsetting his balance even though he hasn’t moved from the chair. “What does that mean? She was… Her partner was a magician?”
“Nimueh should have known better.” Uther’s gaze locks with Arthur’s for just a second before his head bends. He sounds like a stranger, as if the words are dragged from somewhere deep within his body, his whole posture bereft of the usual certainty. “Your mother was always rash, willing to take risks. Nimueh shouldn’t have let her, but she was greedy for applause, she couldn’t-they didn’t know when to stop. Igraine couldn’t untie the knot, and it was a practice, just the two of them.” A pause. Uther looks more tired than Arthur’s ever seen him. “No one noticed until it was too late.”
Arthur needs several seconds until he locates his voice. “What happened?”
“She drowned.” It’s final, no room for discussion. For now, Arthur can’t think of any questions he’d want to ask. There will be questions, he’s sure of it, but at this very moment, the weight of his body is pulling him down to the ground, his head buzzing with some kind of static noise. He can’t quite feel his feet, and it’s a strange sensation, being very conscious of not feeling his feet when he usually doesn’t give them much thought.
“Obviously,” Uther’s toneless voice cuts through the static, “I’m not about to take the same risk with another magician.”
Arthur lifts his head, blinking. “What?”
“Excuse me,” Uther corrects. It sounds automatic, his gaze focused on a spot somewhere behind Arthur’s shoulder.
Arthur splays his hands flat on the tabletop, grounding himself. He clears his throat, staring up at the lamplight and slowly shaking his head. “I don’t-Merlin isn’t a risk. He doesn’t even have an assistant. It’s just him, and it’s lights, nothing dangerous, just… lights.” In his head, over the static, he hears an echo of Merlin’s unhappy admission of some people being scared of him, and it’s not fair. Merlin is just about the opposite of scary, even if he matters more than Arthur is strictly comfortable with.
Uther doesn’t reply immediately. He seems out of his depth for the first time since Arthur can remember, and maybe it’s just Arthur’s imagination, but Uther seems to be swaying slightly, a barely noticeable tremble to his hands. “He’ll get greedy, Arthur. He’ll want more, and then-”
“No,” Arthur interrupts. “He’s not like that.”
“I don’t care what he’s like.” Uther straightens in the chair, suddenly appearing more like the imposing man Arthur recognises. His voice has regained some of its usual strength. “I say who’s part of our programme, and who isn’t. We don’t have room for a magician.”
“The video of his performance will be on Youtube by tomorrow. And the lifestyle magazine that people read in Brussels, it will have an article on him on Wednesday, and the video will be up on their website.” Arthur presses his palms flat against the tabletop. “People will expect to see him.”
Uther’s mouth is one thin line. “Remember your place.”
Right now, Arthur has troubles remembering his name. He grasps around for something to hold on to, something more solid than the tabletop that has never felt less stable under his hands. “I remember the statistics that tell me we’re losing paying audience members. It’s not a trend that’s God-given.”
“We won’t turn it around just by having someone playing around with lights for a few minutes.”
“No. But it’s a start.” Arthur realises that he’s halfway risen from his chair, his arm muscles strung tight. He consciously relaxes his posture. “You should see him, Father. He’s really good, and there is nothing dangerous about his routine. Glitter hasn’t killed anyone yet.”
“You’re smitten with him.” It’s an accusation, but Arthur doesn’t see much use in denying it.
“So was every single member of the audience tonight,” he says. “And at the very least, I don’t think there’s much danger of him dragging me away to some university.”
“Don’t expect my approval.” Despite the matter-of-fact statement, the line of Uther’s mouth might not be quite as strict as before. Maybe. Arthur just doesn’t know anymore.
What he does know is that it’s not the permission he was hoping to retrieve when he came here; Uther has yet to accept Merlin as part of their show, but… it’s probably enough for tonight. Arthur’s eyes are burning from the direct light of the lamp, and while the white static in his brain has momentarily receded to the background, he can feel it throbbing in his temples, about to well up again.
“I’m not giving up,” he says softly. “Not this time. And we-I want to know more. Like, what happened back then. I think I deserve that much.” He holds his father’s gaze for a second before he looks away and stumbles to his feet.
Uther doesn’t reply, but that also means he doesn’t outright refuse.
--
Merlin isn’t waiting for Arthur. He’s just in their caravan to grab a few things that he needs for another night of staying with Gwen - new underwear, for instance, and his toothbrush. He isn’t waiting for Arthur, definitely not. Just because Arthur kissed him earlier, probably looking for an outlet after the guy from last night ran off, at least if the short time between Morgana returning with Merlin’s blanket and Arthur showing up is anything to go by-
And Merlin isn’t thinking about it. He is most definitely not willing to fall all over himself just because Arthur happens to glance his way while looking for some new boytoy. He isn’t, which also means that he isn’t waiting for Arthur to return from wherever he ran off to almost directly after the finale. Not that Merlin gives a fuck.
Considering all that, Merlin can’t really explain why he’s sitting on his own bed instead of gathering the things he came to retrieve. The gold-tinted ball of light he conjured earlier is hovering near the wardrobe. He calls it closer with a flick of his wrist, making it twirl in the air while absently listening for any sign of movement from outside. His limbs feel shaky, energy sizzling in his veins ever since he took his first step into the arena. Just seeing those hundreds of faces turned to him, amazed rather than scared, reflections of light dancing in their eyes… Merlin never wants to stop hiding in plain sight.
Hiding, right. It’s kind of embarrassing that’s he’s been hiding with Gwen.
Granted, it wasn’t his idea; Morgana pretty much made the decision and Gwen immediately agreed that yes, Merlin staying with her for a couple of nights sounded like fun. Merlin wasn’t about to argue at the time, but now, he thinks that being a coward for one night is just about all his dignity can take. The fact that Arthur kissed him as if… as if it mattered, well. That’s got nothing to do with it.
Sometimes, Merlin wishes he were better at lying. Even if it’s only to himself.
At the hesitant sound of footsteps on the stairs, Merlin sits up. He quickly jumps to his feet, crossing over to the wardrobe to start rifling through his drawer, pretending he doesn’t even hear the door creaking open. Cool night air spills into the caravan, and when there’s no sound anymore, Merlin straightens and turns his head. Arthur’s suspended in the doorframe, holding onto the handle with one hand, his expression strangely blank. There’s something haunted about his eyes.
“Did you see a ghost?” Merlin asks. It’s intended as a half-hearted joke, but instead, it makes Arthur flinch, his gaze focusing on Merlin. He looks uncomprehending.
“Joke,” Merlin says weakly.
“Yeah.” Arthur’s reply doesn’t make it clear whether he’s answering the question or commenting on Merlin’s explanation. He gives the golden ball of light a confused glance before a frown passes over his face. He really does look as if he’s seen a ghost. Or something worse.
“Arthur?” Merlin hates the scared note in his voice.
“Yeah,” Arthur repeats. The word comes out rough, as if Arthur’s tongue has difficulties dealing with just that one syllable. It’s so unlike him that Merlin instinctively steps closer, reaching out to touch Arthur’s shoulder before he remembers the kiss, his resolution not to fall all over himself like the groupie Arthur thought he was when they first met. But… this isn’t normal. This isn’t the Arthur Merlin’s used to, nothing about this is normal, and Merlin can’t just-
“Merlin.” Arthur’s fingers suddenly close around Merlin’s wrist, tight enough to bruise. For a startled second, Merlin thinks Arthur is mad at him, and he didn’t do anything to deserve that; the audience loved him, everything was just as they practised, it was perfect.
Merlin opens his mouth to defend himself. Then he meets Arthur’s eyes, filled with a desperate need that robs Merlin of any breath his lungs might have held.
“Merlin,” Arthur repeats, softer now. His grip eases up slightly, but then, the thought of resisting doesn’t even occur to Merlin when he watches, breathless, as Arthur guides Merlin’s wrist to his mouth, placing a light kiss on the sensitive skin. Merlin is pretty sure he’s wide-eyed, his throat moving visibly as he swallows even though his mouth is dry.
“I don’t…” he begins, but he doesn’t remember any of his resolutions.
“Please.” Arthur sounds as if he means it, as if it really is all that matters to him at this very moment - as if it’s the only thing that makes sense.
Merlin was lying to himself when he thought he could ever refuse Arthur. He doesn’t stand a chance.
“You’re not playing fair,” he complains, almost a whisper. There is no hint of reproach in his tone. It’s impossible to look away from Arthur pressing another kiss to Merlin’s wrist, pulling back a scant inch to exhale warmly against the damp skin. Arthur never averts his eyes from Merlin’s face. The golden glow of the light bulb makes tiny sparks dance in his hair.
“When do I ever play fair?” he retorts belatedly. The unhappy note to his voice contrasts with the vague smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Merlin’s stomach contracts with the realisation that something is very, very wrong, but that doesn’t mean he resists when Arthur tugs him closer until Merlin’s arm is the only barrier left between their bodies, the knuckles of Arthur’s hand digging into Merlin’s chest where Arthur is still holding on to Merlin’s wrist as if afraid Merlin might change his mind. As if he could.
“Yeah.” Merlin isn’t quite sure what he’s referring to, and then it doesn’t matter anymore because Arthur’s breath is ghosting over his face and coherent thinking is nothing more than a distant memory. This, yes, Merlin has been waiting for this since practically forever.
Unlike their first kiss (their first kiss, oh God, Merlin is turning into a teenage girl), this one is strangely hesitant. Arthur’s lips are barely touching the corner of Merlin’s mouth. For a crazy moment, Merlin wonders if Arthur is uncertain, waiting for some kind of permission.
It’s utterly unlike Arthur.
“Hey,” Merlin mutters. He turns his head just slightly, the motion making his lips slide over Arthur’s. What feels like a shiver runs through Arthur’s body. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and it’s all the incentive Merlin needs to run his tongue along Arthur’s bottom lip, pushing just the tip of his tongue inside. It might have been just the sign Arthur’s been waiting for because the next thing Merlin knows, his head is spinning - not so much because he’s feeling dizzy, although he sort of is, but mostly because Arthur is spinning them around, pushing Merlin towards the closest bed without ever releasing his hold on Merlin’s wrist.
Merlin lands on his own mattress with what he fears might be a rather unattractive gasp, but only a moment later, Arthur is hovering above him, swallowing any sound Merlin might make with his mouth, his tongue. The weight of his body is a welcome heat on top of Merlin, pressing him down into the bed as if Arthur is afraid Merlin might change his mind. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t possibly walk away from this.
With the hand not trapped by Arthur's fingers, Merlin reaches for Arthur's shoulder, traces the thin cotton down to take hold of Arthur's forearm, thick muscles bulging under his touch. The blanket feels slick against Merlin’s back, where his shirt has ridden up to bunch below his shoulder blades. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimmer of the golden ball of light, hanging forgotten in mid-air.
Exhaling into Arthur's mouth, Merlin closes his eyes and wraps one leg around Arthur's waist. It's ridiculous, a position that he'd usually deem too cheap, too openly greedy, but Arthur sinks into the space between Merlin's thighs and cheap is very far down the list of expressions Merlin would use to describe the sensation. Mostly, his thoughts are reduced to one-syllable words, want and need and yes, please.
It's probably a good thing Arthur's mouth is covering his.
The mattress gives beneath the combined weight of their bodies, but not so much that Merlin can't arch upwards, beautifulohdearsweet friction as their groins rub together. Arthur groans something into Merlin's mouth that might be a curse or an endearment or both. Even through two layers of denim, it's obvious that he's hard, and it's enough reassurance for Merlin to slide his hand from Arthur's forearm down, over the prominent ripples of Arthur's spine, to cup his arse and pull him down.
Arthur turns his head slightly, mutters, “You,” against Merlin's chin, and then he breaks off into a low gasp.
“What?” Merlin asks, voice embarrassingly unsteady. He thinks the light bulb might be pulsating at the edge of his vision, but he can't work up the focus to make sure.
“Worth it,” Arthur breathes. Merlin has no idea what he means, isn’t sure Arthur really knows. The tiny sparks that have been coursing through Merlin’s body since his performance are growing, bright behind his lids. It’s not the first time it’s happened, his control slipping while he loses himself in the heat and weight of another body. Usually, he fights it down, too afraid to reveal himself, but… Arthur already knows.
He knows.
Merlin pushes Arthur’s shirt up and brushes his fingers over the stripe of soft skin just above the waistband of Arthur’s jeans. Arthur’s hips stutter against Merlin’s, a jerky rhythm, and there’s no reason for Merlin to fight the light that swells behind his lids, thudding in his fingertips. He pulls Arthur close, lets his legs fall open and meets Arthur’s next thrust by arching his hips off the bed.
When he comes, it feels like a rush of liquid light down his spine.
Arthur stills for a moment, barely more than a second, but it’s enough time for Merlin to realise he’s still wearing his trousers, they both are, and the cloth of his boxers is uncomfortably warm and sticky and shit, shit, this so wasn’t how he wanted this to go. They should have taken it slower, Merlin should have lasted longer than a few thrusts. No one likes a grown man acting like an overeager teenager.
As Merlin’s breath is still coming in gasps, all he manages is a half-coherent, “Shit, I’m sorry.”
Arthur’s lips glide damply over Merlin’s cheekbone, and he grinds down once, twice, his inhalations rough and hurried in Merlin’s ear. Then he freezes. His hips are pressed to Merlin’s, mouth wet on Merlin’s throat, forming silent words. Merlin has no idea what he’s saying, but when Arthur shudders against him, he holds on, relishes it despite his skin crawling from overstimulation.
“Sorry,” Merlin repeats after a beat, softer now, relaxing into the mattress. At the very least, he wasn’t alone in delivering a less than impressive performance. Above him, Arthur is solid and heavy. His breathing calms only gradually. When Merlin runs a tentative hand along the length of Arthur’s back, Arthur’s muscles are still tense.
Arthur lifts his head, bracing himself on both elbows to take some of the weight off Merlin. His expression is suddenly guarded again, voice careful and devoid of infliction. “What are you sorry for?”
“Just.” Merlin swallows, but he manages to hold Arthur’s gaze. “I thought our first time would be a little more… sophisticated.”
The moment it’s out, he wants to turn back time, recall the last four seconds. What a stupid way to reveal his crush just as Arthur’s withdrawing, probably satisfied he got everything he wanted from Merlin. Well. Maybe not everything, not unless Arthur really is a fan of rushing things. But the point is that Merlin provided Arthur with a way to let off some steam, and chances are it was exactly what Arthur needed - nothing more, nothing less.
Merlin forces himself to lie still. He’s given away enough already; there’s no need to make it worse by running like some kind of coward.
Under Merlin’s touch, Arthur’s spine isn’t as tense anymore. The guarded look has melted away from his face, replaced with something Merlin doesn’t really understand. “There’s always next time,” Arthur says, and next time, Merlin’s brain parrots. Next time.
Oh.
“Oh,” Merlin says, more to himself. Arthur is obviously close enough to hear it regardless, a steep line appearing between his eyebrows.
“What?” It’s sharp, but now that he’s listening, Merlin hears the underlying hint of uncertainty. He doesn’t quite know whether it’s a leftover from Arthur’s earlier state when he came in, or whether this time, it’s entirely focused on Merlin. Which - well. Merlin didn’t think Arthur ever felt uncertain about people.
“Nothing.” Merlin shakes his head. He’s pretty sure his smile turns out rather more shy than he intended. Under his palm, Arthur’s skin is warm even through the t-shirt. “I… kind of got the impression you don’t do next times.”
For a long second, Arthur doesn’t move at all. By the looks of it, he’s trying to read Merlin’s thoughts, his gaze focused and very clear, impossible to evade. When Arthur blinks, the corners of his mouth quirking up almost as if he’s unaware of it, Merlin finds he can breathe again. His chest feels wider, and the golden light bulb that’s still floating near the wardrobe is gleaming just a little brighter. Arthur shifts slightly to the side, no longer supporting himself above Merlin. Their bodies are still pressed close.
“I haven’t, in a while.” Arthur still sounds vaguely cautious. “I might not be very good at next times anymore.”
“As evidenced by the fact that you’d rather fuck some groupie when I was right there.”
Damn. Sometimes, Merlin hates his lack of a filter between brain and mouth. He fights to keep the hand that’s still resting on the small of Arthur’s back loose and relaxed, balling only the other one into a fist, nails digging into his palm. As it’s not within Arthur’s line of vision, it will hopefully escape his notice.
“I,” Arthur pauses for a tenth of an exhalation, “thought you were straight.”
Arthur thought...
“What?”
“And in love with Gwen,” Arthur adds. A hint of something self-deprecating is hiding in the corners of his eyes.
“You thought I was in love with Gwen.” Merlin pushes himself up on one elbow while Arthur is watching him with an unreadable expression. The motion makes Merlin's sticky boxers slide over his skin in a way that is highly uncomfortable, and he doesn't bother tuning down his grimace. “You thought I was in love with Gwen? What the hell, Arthur. It took me all of one day to figure out that those rumours about Morgana and you weren’t true.” Well, maybe two days, but seriously, where on earth would Arthur get that idea from? It's not that Merlin is exactly advertising the fact that he's gay; he's got Will for that, but-
He's got Will for that. Right.
“Besides,” Merlin finishes lamely, “I was wearing a shirt with butterflies the first time we met.”
“An ironic statement. You said so yourself.” It’s difficult to interpret Arthur’s tone, so Merlin doesn’t try. He slides up the mattress to prop his back against the wall, and it takes only a moment for Arthur to follow suit, sitting up as well after a dismissive glance at his crotch. Merlin thinks he can make out a dark stain in the denim, right at the crease where Arthur’s thigh meets his hip. Quickly, Merlin makes himself look away.
“Because you were a pompous arse about it,” he replies belatedly. “And it sort of is. An ironic statement, I mean. It’s what Will considers a great coming out present.”
Something softens about Arthur’s mouth. He turns his head to study the golden ball of light, and from this angle, Merlin can see that the twist to Arthur’s mouth looks very much like the beginning of a smile. Arthur seems about to comment when there’s a knock against the door, three sharp raps in quick succession.
Arthur turns further, twisting his upper body around. “Go away, Morgana!”
A moment of silence follows. Then Morgana asks, muffled through the door, “Is Merlin in there?”
“None of your business,” Arthur calls. His posture is defensive and he doesn’t look at Merlin, but he reaches out to rest one hand on Merlin’s knee. It’s an unusually tentative gesture for him, and Merlin’s lungs contract on a sharp exhalation. He clears his throat and raises his voice to be heard outside.
“I’m here, yeah.”
Another moment passes before Morgana reacts with a faint, curling laugh, as if she knows a secret she isn’t quite willing to share with them. “Okay,” she says. “Good night.”
Her steps are audible when she retreats down the stairs. Merlin swallows and glances down at Arthur’s hand on his knee before he tentatively covers it with his own. It feels stupid, ridiculously clichéd, but since he already made the move, he can’t exactly take it back.
When Arthur finally turns to look at him, Merlin pulls up a smile. Now that he’s paying attention, Arthur seems exhausted, the line of his shoulders tired, his eyes shadowed. Merlin doesn’t release his hold of Arthur’s hand, taking in the badly hidden signs of fatigue. Just like when Arthur came into the caravan, it makes Merlin want to reach for him. He leans slightly closer.
“Why were you-When you got back, you were… odd.” Odd, yes. Coherence clearly isn’t Merlin’s friend. He watches Arthur’s face as he adds an uncertain, “Is everything okay?”
The pause that follows is so long Merlin consciously has to force down the sick feeling in his stomach, stifle his impulse to retract his hand. It’s probably no more than five seconds, but Merlin’s hurried heartbeat prolongs it into a decade.
Then Arthur inclines his head and exhales on a sigh. “Yes. I suppose.”
“You suppose,” Merlin repeats before his brain can interfere and tell him to let the matter go. Arthur clearly isn’t in the mood to talk about it, and anyway, begging for post-sex confessions, that’s just - no. Seriously, how low can Merlin possibly sink? He braces himself for another too-long pause, but it never comes.
“I had a chat with my father,” Arthur says. His voice is steady and his gaze has cleared, eyes trained on Merlin’s face. “It didn’t quite turn out the way I expected. My mother didn’t die in a car accident.” Arthur’s gaze flickers, but only for a moment. It might be only Merlin’s imagination that Arthur’s shoulders rise slightly. “He’d been lying to me all this time.”
Involuntarily, Merlin tightens his fingers around Arthur’s hand. “Shit, that…” He shakes his head, searching for words, but all he comes up with is, “That sucks.”
A soft snort. The wry twist to Arthur’s mouth is very familiar. “Yeah.”
“How did she…?” Merlin trails off. It’s really none of his business. They had sex; that doesn’t give Merlin permission to push for details. Even if they’re friends, even if Arthur said he could imagine a second time, and maybe a third time, it doesn’t mean… anything. Or maybe it does; Merlin just doesn’t know anymore. He lowers his gaze to study their laced fingers, Arthur’s hand warm on his knee. “You don’t have to tell me, obviously.”
“Of course I don’t,” Arthur says. A hint of the self-assured prat is back in his voice, and Merlin never thought he’d be grateful to hear it. The situation isn’t very funny - Merlin can’t even begin to imagine how he’d feel if his mother had been lying to him for the better part of his life - but Arthur’s reaction is so typical, so familiar that Merlin finds a small smile tugging at his mouth regardless. Arthur will be all right.
“Okay.”
“Are you laughing at me?” Arthur sounds both offended and a little out of his depth.
“No.” Merlin leans forward, raising his free hand to cup the back of Arthur’s neck. The fine hair is slightly sweaty under his fingers. “No, I’m not. I’m just glad you’ll be all right, that’s all.”
When Merlin tugs Arthur closer, Arthur resists for only a moment. Then he sags against Merlin, his posture screaming exhaustion. This time, Merlin’s stomach twists for an entirely different reason, and it’s an effort not to let the vague shock of realisation show on his face. He concentrates on the slide of Arthur’s hair through his fingers.
“Apparently…” Arthur shifts around, leaning one of his shoulders against the wall. As if by chance, his free hand settles on Merlin’s waist. His voice is quiet. “Apparently, my mother assisted in a magician’s performance, and something went wrong. When her partner noticed, it was already too late, and…” He shrugs half-heartedly. “It doesn’t sound as if there was any intent behind it, just an accident. It doesn’t stop my father from blaming her.”
If there was anything, anything at all that Merlin could do to remove that far-away expression from Arthur’s eyes, he would. As it is, he’s stuck with a painfully inadequate, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, just when Merlin is on the verge of adding something, anything that might chase away the uncomfortable silence. When Arthur speaks again, he sounds determined, albeit Merlin isn’t quite sure whom Arthur’s trying to convince. “It doesn’t really change things, you know? She still had an accident and died when I was three. I barely remember her.” Chances are that Arthur isn’t aware of his hand tightening on Merlin’s waist. His jaw is set, head held high. “At least I suppose I understand some of my father’s misgivings about magicians.”
Oh. That.
For entirely egotistical reasons, Merlin’s breath stutters in his chest. Before he can come up with a suitable reply, Arthur beats him to it, ploughing on in his rare monologue. “It’s easier to counter his prejudices, now. I mean, he’s stubborn, but so am I.” For all that Arthur’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, it’s genuine and certain. “You might not be able to perform tomorrow, or the day after, but you will.”
“I don’t have to-” Merlin begins when the truth is that he does. He wants to.
Arthur cuts him off. “Yes. Yes, you do.” His tone leaves no room for discussion, and while Merlin doesn’t quite trust Arthur’s nonchalance at the night’s revelations, there is no doubt that this is something Arthur really does believe.
Embarrassingly, Merlin nearly trembles with relief. He hopes that Arthur won’t notice. “Okay.”
For a sharp moment, Arthur is staring at him. Then he leans forward, his voice intent. “Listen, Merlin. You’re good. Really good. It was like watching indoor fireworks, the perfect finish to our show, and,” a momentary break, “I’m not just saying that because it’s your fault my underwear is currently rather disgusting.”
Now that Arthur mentions it, Merlin does notice once again the uncomfortable stickiness of his boxers, slowly beginning to dry. He can’t quite hide his smile. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.” Arthur shifts back, but only by an inch or so. “Now stop fishing for compliments.”
“I wasn’t,” Merlin protests.
Arthur’s fondly exasperated look is enough to make Merlin’s heart stumble and miss a beat. “I know,” Arthur says. It’s hard to tell whether he’s aware of his fingers rubbing small circles into Merlin’s hip. When Merlin slides back down to lie on his back, Arthur might be hesitating for a second. Then he stretches out between Merlin and the wall, forcing Merlin closer to the edge of the bed.
Merlin blinks up at the ceiling, the golden light bulb hovering nearby. He blames a mixture of emotional and physical exhaustion for the fact that his mouth once again dodges the censorship of his brain. “Why are we sleeping in my bed, anyway? Yours is bigger.”
Arthur doesn’t tense at the implication of sharing a bed for the entirety of the night. In fact, his only reply consists of a lazy, “But your mattress is more comfortable.”
“No thanks to you,” Merlin says instead of giving in to his first impulse, which would be rolling on top of Arthur and kissing him until all this stupid hesitation between them has disappeared, until Arthur has forgotten about his father’s lies and his mother’s death. Unfortunately, Merlin isn’t that brave.
Arthur yawns, one of his arms sneaking around Merlin’s stomach. “No regrets, here.”
“So if I enchanted your mattress, we could move over to your bed?” Merlin asks after a pause. Quickly, he adds, “I mean, there would be more room, you know? I’m about to fall over the edge, here, and that’s no fun.”
Arthur’s arm tightens around Merlin’s stomach. “Didn’t I tell you I won’t let you fall? But all right, I suppose we could.” Then something seems to occur to him because his voice changes subtly, less exhaustion and more caution. “Unless that was just a twisted way of kicking me out, in which case, just tell me.”
Right, yes: Merlin kicking Arthur out of his bed. The mere thought is laughable.
Amazingly, Arthur doesn’t sound as if he intends for it to be a joke.
Merlin turns his head to study Arthur’s face. They’re too close to see clearly, and… wasn’t that something Morgana said, about how it’s hard to see straight when your feelings are part of the equation? Which isn’t really a logical progression of Merlin’s thoughts, but somehow, it still makes sense. It does. It makes so much sense that Merlin needs a moment to work past the exhilaration swooping through his stomach and sort through snippets of memories, from Arthur believing Merlin to be straight to his jealousy of Gwen, from chocolate croissants, small Parisian restaurants and early morning practices to Arthur believing in him, enough so to defy his father.
It makes sense. And Merlin is possibly an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
“Look,” he begins, sounding more hesitant than he’d like. He wouldn’t be surprised if the light bulb were hovering nervously just an inch above the floor. “You said I had a reason to stay, with my being… unusual, or whatever. But that’s stupid, that’s not true.”
Arthur doesn’t immediately reply. Even from this close and despite the shadowy illumination, Merlin can tell that Arthur’s face has clouded over. “So,” Arthur says tonelessly, “you’re leaving us, then.”
It takes a moment for Merlin to work through Arthur’s meaning. Then a brief surge of hate makes Merlin’s throat close up. He wonders if it was only that girl Arthur mentioned, Sophia, or if there were others before her that left, if maybe Arthur has started to believe that the glamorous surface of circus life is all he has to offer. Not that he’d ever admit to it.
“You,” Merlin says, roughly shoving Arthur onto his back and rolling on top of him, trapping him even though Arthur could push him off with no effort at all. “You are an idiot, did I ever tell you? I don’t have just one reason to stay, you stupid prick. I’ve got two, and you’re one of them.”
Merlin rather delights in watching the different emotions play across Arthur’s features - relief melting into a covert version of happiness only to be replaced with an offended façade that Merlin doesn’t buy for so much as a second. Especially not with the way Arthur’s hands are sliding up his sides. “Do you,” Arthur says, “really think insulting me is the way to drive the message home?”
“Yes.” It’s strange to be grinning down at Arthur given the events of the night, but at the same time, Merlin doesn’t see any point in trying to tone it down. He’s never been very good at normal, appropriate reactions in the first place. Maybe it’s part of why he ended up here.
After only a moment, the corners of Arthur’s mouth start twitching.
He doesn’t look any less tired than he did earlier, but at least he looks calmer, less haunted than he did when he came in. Merlin spends several heartbeats studying him, content to stay still for the first time since his performance. The undercurrent of energy is still sparking in his blood, but it’s more of a low, comfortable background vibration now, nothing urgent. It’s entirely unlike the tight tension twisting through Merlin’s body before the show, tension that Arthur somehow managed to transform into focused energy, and… Yeah. That.
“Hey,” Merlin says softly. “Before the show, before you,” his tongue stumbles for just an instant, “kissed me. What did you say?”
“You were really out of it, weren’t you?” It’s not just amusement that’s apparent in Arthur’s tone, but Merlin can’t figure out the rest.
“Yeah.”
Arthur appears to hesitate. Then his lips quirk into a grin, both hands resting comfortably on Merlin’s shoulder blades. He doesn’t try to fight Merlin’s hold for as much as a moment. “Nothing important. Just hurling insults at you, to stop you from seeing things double.”
There’s something wrong with that, something Merlin can’t quite put his finger on. He decides to let it go for now. Instead, he comments with, “And when that didn’t work, you kissed me.”
Arthur raises his brows. “Precisely.”
“As a last resort?” Merlin doesn’t think it was the case, but… he’d kind of like to hear it from Arthur.
“It wasn’t exactly a hardship, if that’s what you’re asking.” The barest hint of a pause follows before Arthur adds, voice casual, “In fact, I wouldn’t object to a repeat performance. As I thought I’d made clear.”
“Sort of.” Merlin takes a deep breath and leans down until his nose brushes Arthur’s. Up close, there are tiny dots of darker blue noticeable in Arthur’s irises, or maybe it’s just a trick of the light bulb’s illumination, hanging bright and proud above their heads. Merlin smiles. “Just checking.”
“Your insecurities are entirely unfounded.” Arthur is clearly going for a dignified tone, but it rather contrasts with his slow answering smile, more the impression of a smile than an actual one.
“So are yours,” Merlin tells him. They’re close enough that he’s sure Arthur will feel each word as a gust of breath; all it takes for them to be kissing is Merlin leaning in another inch or for Arthur to raise his head just slightly.
They meet halfway, mouths barely touching, more a sharing of breath than an actual kiss. Merlin can feel Arthur’s exhaustion as a trembling of Arthur’s muscles where he strains for contact, can feel his own tiredness creeping up now that his stomach is no longer churning with confusion and sadness. His vision is blurring at the edges.
Merlin pulls back despite the restraining hand that Arthur has cupped around his jaw. “Tomorrow, okay?” Merlin grasps around for something light-hearted that won’t disturb the fragile peace they’ve found, at least for the moment. “Because I swear, if you fall asleep on me, you can go back to doing your laundry the usual way.”
“Speaking of,” Arthur says. He flicks a significant glance down their bodies. Merlin doesn’t immediately understand what he’s getting at, then he snorts and waves one hand in the general direction of their soiled clothes. Clean, soft boxers instead of sticky, damp ones actually are a relief.
“Good point,” Merlin admits. “Maybe you’re not entirely useless.”
Arthur’s laugh is short, but genuine. His expression clears, hand sliding from Merlin’s face down to his throat. Without warning, he rolls them over, keeping Merlin from tumbling off the mattress with a strong grip around his waist. Since he doesn’t loosen it when sitting up, Merlin is forced to follow suit. He’s about to protest when Arthur tugs him into a standing position, catching Merlin when he stumbles.
Merlin sort of forgets about protesting when Arthur pulls him close, nodding at something behind Merlin’s shoulder. “Bed,” Arthur says. His breath is warm on Merlin’s face, his voice tired, but content. “Come on.”
Merlin follows. Of course he does.
--
Arthur wakes up because the sun is painting the back of his lids in a warm, soothing orange. He doesn’t immediately open his eyes, waiting for his thoughts to untangle and make sense of the mess that was the day before. For the most part, he’s unsuccessful.
What does make sense is the warmth of Merlin’s body all along his side, the rhythm of Merlin’s breathing even and personal as it stirs the fine hair near Arthur’s ear. Focusing on how different it feels to listen from this close instead of from across the room, Arthur shoves any and all other considerations away. He shifts slightly, throwing an arm over Merlin’s chest in the hope that it doesn’t look intentional, and focuses on what Merlin said. Two reasons. Two, and you’re one of them.
Anything else can wait.
=== .finis. ===
<< Back to Headers & Chapter 1
Oh, one last note: Those of you who saved the link to the Headers of this story early on, you might want to correct it? Since I changed my LJ name halfway through, I’m not sure how long automatic forwarding from the old to the updated link will work.
Songs for this chapter:
[Download the entire soundtrack (.zip file)]
17. Portugal. The Man - The Sun (We are all, we are all just lovers / Born of earth and light like all these others // Fixing up to swallow me whole // Where, where are we now?)
18. Poe - Dolphin (There's a broken beam inside of the big big bridge / I guess that whole thing is caving in / Maybe it is time I learn how to swim / I'll be a dolphin, I'll be a dolphin // So I swim to you now)
19. Relient K - High of 75 (Because on and off / The clouds have fought / For control over the sky / And lately the weather has been so bi-polar / And consequently so have I // But now I’m sunny with a high of 75 / Since you took my heavy heart and made it light)
Additional content:
- Here is where you can find a complete overview of the wonderful, beautiful artwork inderpal did for the Circus AU. There is also one incredibly gorgeous (and happy-making) manip that was part of the last banner, but on its own, it wasn’t actually featured in the story itself.
- And then, there are two Radiant- related drawings by littlewolfstar that I did not know existed until… a few minutes ago, actually. Which is a shame, because they’re lovely. C’mon, people, it has Arthur hanging upside down and telling Merlin to trust him!
- And another addition: semiramis drew Merlin’s Circus AU performance, and it is awesome. Like whoa. It comes with a light bulb and a cute little dragon, but more importantly, it perfectly fits the scene in my head.