Chapter Text
Arthur meets Merlin, impossibly, at the pub near uni.
The moment Arthur’s eyes land on Merlin, it feels as though all the air has left the room. His breath catches in his throat and he knows, in his heart’s heart, that it’s Merlin. Merlin’s hair is a bit longer on the top, with neatly trimmed sides and back, but those eyes sparkle the same, and Arthur would recognise them anywhere.
“You alright, Arthur?” He hears Leon’s concerned voice, though it sounds far away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Leon,” Arthur’s voice is strangled. “Please tell me I’m not seeing things.”
Leon follows his gaze—the rest of them all do—and there’s a collective sharp intake of breath.
“Is that—?” Percy trails off.
“Merlin,” Arthur finishes. His eyes are glued on Merlin. “Go, find us a seat. I’ll get the first round.”
Gwaine sputters a protest, but Arthur pays him no mind. In his peripheral vision, he can see Leon and Percy ushering Gwaine away, muttering something in his ears.
When he reaches the bar, Merlin is pulling pints with practised movements and the same deftness he had putting Arthur’s armour on. He looks to be about the same age as Arthur, just a year or two older from when Arthur first met him in Camelot.
Oh shit, Arthur thought, he’s fucking fit.
He’s not lanky and fey and wide-eyed, the way he was in Camelot when he first came. He’s more reminiscent of what he looked like later, when Arthur was already king and running him ragged about the place. His body has filled out nicely, and Arthur can see the outline of his chest through his clothes. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, a lanyard hanging from his exposed neck, smiling as he serves his customers with easy charm. It’s jarring to see Merlin without his neckerchief on, but Arthur’s not complaining. He supposes neckerchiefs are a bit outdated, these days. He wasn't even sure if they were ever in fashion.
Arthur allows himself to drink in the sight of Merlin, alive and breathing. Through the years, Arthur has forgotten the little details—the sharpness of his cheekbones, the plumpness of his lips, and the exact blue of his eyes. Arthur swallows against the sudden burn in his throat when Merlin turns to face him.
“Hi, what can I get you?” Merlin says, wiping his hands on his apron. Arthur’s heart gives a painful thud at the sound of Merlin’s voice. The timbre of his voice is lower, now, and he speaks with a lilting Welsh accent.
There’s no hint of recognition on Merlin’s face. Arthur’s heart drops. He swallows again and takes a deep, steadying breath. He has spent most of his life thinking of the exact things he’d say to Merlin when Arthur finally sees him again, but nothing could prepare him for eventualities where Merlin doesn’t know Arthur on sight. Arthur simply never thought that it was possible. They had a destiny and everything, but now Merlin doesn’t even recognise him.
“Just four pints of the IPA, mate, please.” Arthur hears himself say. His heart is racing, and there’s a crushing disappointment that Arthur struggles not to let show on his face.
“Sure.”
“Merlin,” Arthur blurts out, unable to help himself.
“Rhys,” Merlin—Rhys, now, apparently—corrects him with a cheeky smile. “Why, do I look like a Merlin?”
Arthur stutters out a laugh. He’s getting nervous, of all things, in front of Merlin, and he’s only distantly aware of how utterly ridiculous he is being.
“Something like that,” Arthur replies, in a tone he hopes is friendly. It comes out sounding a bit strangled. He forces himself to remember that Gwaine and Percy didn’t remember when they first met, either, and it doesn’t mean that it’ll stay that way forever.
Arthur swears to be there when Merlin remembers.
“Twenty-seven twenty, please.” Merlin says without looking. “Cash or card?”
“Card, please.”
“You alright getting all that to the table? Do you need a hand?”
“I’m alright, but thanks,” Arthur grabs the two pints nearest to him. “I’ll just make two trips, shall I,” he winks, before stiffening, not knowing where the hell that came from. He can’t bring himself to regret it too much, though, especially seeing the blush rising on Merlin’s cheeks.
He buys all the rounds that day. If he only did it so he could be near Merlin again, well, nobody had to know.
Arthur returns the very next day.
“Back so soon?” Merlin greets him. The pub is quieter today, and there’s no queue at the bar. Arthur wasn’t sure if Merlin would be there, but he hoped anyway.
“Liked the vibe,” Arthur lies.
Merlin pointedly stares at the unimpressive decor before regarding Arthur with a quirked eyebrow. The pub is cosy with its wooden floors and dark furnishings, but it really could be any other pub. The decor is inoffensive, but his father would describe the pub as alright.
Arthur smiles sunnily.
“Just alone today?”
“Yeah, mates all busy.” To be honest, Arthur didn’t bother to ask if any of them were free. “Just a pint of Guinness for me please.”
Merlin reaches for a glass from the overhead racks and starts pouring a pint before he speaks again. “You know, I don’t think I caught your name yesterday.”
“It’s Arthur.” Arthur’s braced for it, but he can’t help but feel his heart breaking in his chest. There’s a spark of hope blossoming too, though, knowing that Merlin at least remembers him from yesterday, especially considering how many patrons Merlin must serve each day.
“You remember all your patrons?”
“No, just ones who got all the rounds for the table, because that’s the sort of mate I need in my life,” Merlin sighs. “I thought you looked like an Arthur. George, maybe, or something ridiculously posh, like Wigbert, or something.”
Arthur snorts, incredulous. “Wigbert?”
“I don’t know, mate, there’s someone called Titus on my course, seems like anything’s a fair game.” Merlin snickers at Arthur’s offended look. “Is that why you called me Merlin yesterday, eh, Arthur?” he teases. “Like the wizard from the legends?”
“Maybe it just suits you,” Arthur says easily.
“No flirting during work hours, please,” a feminine voice calls from the cash register. Arthur didn’t notice her before, too focused on Merlin and the prospect of speaking to him again. Now, though, he recognises the voice immediately, and his head whips towards the direction of the voice. The woman’s back is turned to him, her curly dark hair tied neatly, but Arthur knows her immediately.
“Sorry!” Merlin calls back. Merlin gestures at her. “She’s the manager.”
“Gwen?”
Arthur can see the moment she recognises his voice—recognises him, because she turns quickly to face him with a surprised, “Arthur?”
Merlin stares at her, and then at Gwen, and then at Arthur again. “You know each other?”
“Yes,“ Arthur glances at Gwen, his wife in another life, suddenly unsure what to say. “She was, er, my sister’s childhood best mate.”
Gwen nods enthusiastically. “Should’ve known that you’d end up here,” she says, beaming at him. She always did have a lovely smile, the sort that lights up her whole face. It’s impossible not to smile back at her.
“Yeah, you know what my father’s like,” Arthur grimaces at her. She winces in sympathy. As if he'd ever end up anywhere else.
“How’s Morgana?”
“She’s fine, er,” Arthur swallows, suddenly feeling awkward. He hasn’t spoken to his sister for some years. “Up in Scotland, at the moment, in St. Andrews.”
“Oh,” Gwen must’ve seen something in his expression because she immediately changes the topic. “You remember Lance?” They had reached an understanding, before, back in Camelot.
Arthur nods. How could he forget? “Is he here, too?”
“No, no. He’s in UCL now, doing Medicine.”
“Oh, well done!”
“Right, er, I’ll just serve the man who just came in, then, shall I,” Merlin mutters, gesturing vaguely at the other side of the bar.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll serve him, you two go on, continue flirting,” Gwen apologises quickly, winking at Arthur. “Listen, let’s all grab dinner later. You can pick the place. Rhys will give you my Insta!”
“Didn’t say I’ll come!” Merlin calls at her retreating back.
“Won’t you?”
“Nah, course I’ll come,” Merlin dismisses easily. “I’ll pick the place, though, yeah? Posh git like you, I know the sort of place you’ll choose.” Arthur fakes a bristle at being called a git when they just met, even though a rather girly part of him just wants to cry. Merlin insulting him good-naturedly is so familiar, and so terribly missed, though he would die before he would ever admit it in front of Merlin.
“Okay, how about you text me the name of the place,” Arthur concedes, rolling his eyes, working hard to suppress a smile. “But I’m reserving the right to veto it.”
“Works for me,”
Merlin picks a gastropub just off the high street, a decision that surprises Arthur, considering how much time Merlin already spends in the pub. “Yeah, but it’s nice to be on the other side of it, getting served,” Merlin told him, “and I fancy some pie.”
He wears a shirt for dinner. Arthur’s never seen him in anything other than peasant garb, and the sight of Merlin in proper-fitting clothes, instead of ones that hang off his frame, makes his mouth dry. Gods, he really is fucking fit. There’s a flutter in his stomach that Arthur has never, ever associated with Merlin. Sure, Arthur might’ve loved the man ferociously, before, but he never really thought of Merlin as someone he’d be physically attracted to. He would concede, however, that there could be a certain appeal to his manservant, if one is that way inclined, which Arthur wasn’t. But things are different now.
“Where are you from, then, Merlin?” Arthur asks him over starters.
Merlin rolls his eyes at the nickname and Arthur’s heart twinges at the familiarity. “Small town in South Wales, you wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me,” Arthur insists. “I’m very good at geography.”
“Carmarthen,” Merlin replied in a challenging tone, quirking a brow.
“I know where that is, actually.” Arthur huffs, fighting down a smile. He looks up to Merlin from under his eyelashes and hazards a guess, “South Wales, isn’t it?”
Merlin lets out a peal of surprised laughter. The sound warms Arthur to the core, and he feels his mouth quirking into an involuntary smile before he catches himself. Gods, he must look downright besotted.
The conversation flows easily after the initial introductions were made. Arthur learns that Merlin—Rhys, but Arthur will continue calling him Merlin because he is Merlin, no matter what he's called—is studying Information and Computer Engineering, that he can work magic with numbers, and that he’s a little bit of a modern-day genius. It doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. Gwen, on the other hand, is studying Education, with aspirations to become the Secretary of State for Education. Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected but soon realised that it’s a career path that would suit her nature greatly.
Between mains and dessert, Merlin excuses himself to go to the loo.
The moment Merlin goes out of sight, Gwen clasps Arthur’s hands on the table. Her eyes are bright.
“I’m so glad,” she tells him earnestly. “We both have a second chance, now.”
“Let’s do it properly, this time,” Arthur agrees. “Are you happy, Guinevere?”
“Incredibly so,” Gwen answers. “And you will be, too, with him. All in good time, Arthur."
“He doesn’t remember.” Arthur sighs, desolate.
“He will,” Gwen sounds incredibly sure. “We all remembered, eventually.”