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“This isn’t what I ordered,” Arthur says, staring down at the very brown, very sweet-and–spicy smelling, very calorie-ful-looking beverage that’s been set in front of him. He checks his watch surreptitiously; he has a meeting at 9 a.m. sharp, and it isn’t one he can afford to miss. Not after the mess his uncle made of things yesterday.
“I know,” the barista replies, and Arthur looks up, because it isn’t the usual nasally voice he’s accustomed to hearing. He’s a young man who looks to be in his early twenties, with a wild riot of dark curls set in place with a bright red bandana, laughing blue eyes curving good-naturedly over high, sharp cheekbones. “But you looked like you needed some cheering-up. Low fat soy latte being unfortunately inadequate for the job.”
“Look-“ Arthur splutters, unable to continue on his tirade, because come on, he isn’t enough of a Grinch to you can’t mix up my orders just because you felt like it all over that sunny face.
“I know,” the barista replies knowingly, patting Arthur on the shoulder. “So it’s on me. Here you go.” Arthur takes back his unused card, half in a daze. “What-“
“Hurry up, I heard you on your phone right there! Early morning meeting, yeah?”
“But-“
“Chop-chop.”
The Sunny barista spins around, already busy with another order. Arthur inhales the sweet-spicy scent of his mystery beverage. The cup is inordinately cheerful, bedecked with smiling gingerbread men, complete with white and green icing capped with red.
Gingerbread Hot Cocoa, a wide, messy scrawl near the edge of the cup reads. Huh.
Arthur decides to give it a try.
It’s surprisingly good.
◌★◌
Pumpkin Spice Latte.
The fourth time around, Arthur doesn’t even bother to tell the barista it isn’t what he ordered. The bloke seems to have an uncanny eye for what Arthur would like, anyway, and if Arthur’s trousers are getting a bit tight about the belly it’s nobody’s fault but Mr. Sunny Barista’s.
The barista turns, pale cheeks dusted with pink from the mid-December chill, and Arthur’s heart skips a beat.
What.
He can’t keep calling him Sunny Barista bloke, Arthur decides. For one, it’s winter; for seconds, it’s obviously having detrimental effects on Arthur’s cardiac health.
“It’s Merlin,” the now-familiar voice calls from the coffee machine. A head of tousled curls pokes out, bandana dusted with sugar and some other unidentifiable spice (sharp, sweet, comforting, just like its owner) – and blue eyes glint with a cheerful, knowing gleam. “Just in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” Arthur grumbles into his scarf. “And you should wear a name tag.”
Merlin’s answering laugh stays with him the entire day.
◌★◌
“Why do you think I need cheering up all the time, anyway?”
“Huh?” Merlin asks, frowning. “Cheering up?”
“The first time you mixed up my order.” Arthur gives him a Look, because he’s pretty sure deliberate mix-ups are actually sorted under sabotage. Also, Arthur’s getting soft around his midriff, and he doesn’t want to imagine the ribbing Morgana will get up to once she gets a glimpse of it. (Getting old, Arthur! Getting old!)
Merlin grins sheepishly. “Ah, about that.”
“What?” Arthur isn’t in any hurry, today; he’s actually moved all his morning meetings by an hour, but Merlin doesn’t need to know that.
Of course that has nothing to do with Merlin. Of course.
“It might not really have been about cheering up.” Long fingers come up to scratch at the back of his head. “After the first two times or so. I’m not a creepy stalker or anything, I swear; just the first two times or so you looked so miserable-“
Arthur makes a mock-gasp. “Goodness, now that you’ve revealed your nefarious plan- need I call the police?”
“Arthur!”
The warmth pooling in his gut, Arthur’s sure, has nothing to do with the steaming-hot peppermint mocha he leaves the café with.
◌★◌
Merlin and Arthur start holding conversations over the store phone. Probably not that great for business- but hey, what Gaius doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
◌★◌
“I cannot believe you Irished-up my drink!”
“Arthur?”
“Morning drink. And I have a meeting today. And you-“
“Arthur.”
“What!”
“Our Buttered Cider is non-alcoholic.”
“But it says- what?”
Laughter. Arthur feels his face growing warm.
“Oh my goodness. You thought I was giving you morning beer.”
Arthur bites his lip. Merlin’s answering laugh is low and warm. “I still cannot believe you,” Merlin’s tinny phone-voice says, “But it’s alright. My lips are sealed. I won’t tell.”
“Your fault for not writing it down,” Arthur replies, petulant.
“I know. Love you too.”
Wait.
That’s something you say to your mates, too – isn’t it?
◌★◌
Arthur doesn’t like the Grinch Punch. In his opinion, there’s something seriously wrong with a beverage when it’s neon green.
The Minty White Hot Chocolate is divine. The Frosted Pumpkin Nog is exquisite. (Non-alcoholic, of course.)
Gingerbread Hot Cocoa always, always reminds Arthur of Merlin.
◌★◌
Arthur orders his usual fat-free soy latte (a running joke, now) only to be shocked when that’s what he’s actually served.
He looks up.
“Merlin’s- not in?” The words make their way past his lips before he’s even aware of it, and Arthur snaps his mouth shut, chagrined. He just sounded like a lovesick maiden. Or damsel in distress. All things Arthur Pendragon most certainly isn’t.
The new barista, a giant of a man with kind eyes and an open face, shrugs apologetically. “Don’t know about Merlin, now, but I’d heard the old guy had to take a month or two off. Sick family, I think.”
Ah.
A pang rushes through Arthur’s heart. For Merlin, as much as him- he knows better than anyone what it’s like to have sick family.
His mother’s white face, sickly-pale with her fine blond hair spread all about her like a halo.
Arthur takes his soy latte and leaves.
◌★◌
All these absurd holiday drinks just don’t taste the same without Merlin around.
◌★◌
Arthur wheedles Merlin’s phone number out of the owner a week in. It takes a week or more again after that, though, for Arthur to work up the courage to actually call. (That, and a hastily-staged intervention from Morgana.)
“Don’t be such a princess,” his half-sister says, somehow managing to look deadly and beautiful in nothing but rumpled PJ’s and bed-tousled hair. Arthur throws a pillow at her.
“No, Look, I’ve been watching you pine over Mr. Gorgeous barista – who you won’t even tell me what he’s called – for over a week. Any longer and I’m going to blow up. I’m pretty sure you won’t like that at all.” The pillow flies back towards Arthur. “Now grow some balls and go ask him out.”
“I’m not asking him out,” Arthur protests, but he does dial him later- much, much later, when he’s made sure the door to his room is closed and locked and that everyone within a ten meter radius is out like the dead. It feels strange, dialing Merlin on his personal mobile, and Arthur hesitates a fraction of a second before hitting the call button.
It takes five, six rings, and Arthur’s hands are sweating, Merlin won’t know it’s him, what if he hangs up because he thinks it’s one of those spam calls, or an annoying neighbor, or……
“Hello?”
The voice is rough around the edges, the slightest bit hoarse from sleep, tiredness weighing around the edges like a soft blanket. Arthur swallows.
“Hey,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. “It’s- Arthur.”
“Oh!” Merlin says, then there’s a heartbeat of a pause. “Gaius sold out my number, didn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t say sold out.” The Eyebrow he’d gotten in response to his stuttered-out request had been mortifying enough. “But, Merlin- is this an okay time to call? I’m not being too forward, or- but they said you were home taking care of your mom and-“
Merlin’s laughing voice cuts him off. “It’s alright; she took a tumble down the stairs, but she’ll be fine in a month or so. And no, Arthur – I’d daresay you could be a lot more forward than now.”
Arthur splutters and hits the wrong button, hanging up by accident, and when he calls Merlin back right away, he’s laughing from the start.
◌★◌
They talk.
Arthur finds himself talking about things he’s never told anyone before, about his stern father and how he doesn’t think he’s really fit to take over the business, not yet, not in twenty years. About his mother and her warm, cinnamon smiles and how she’d looked before she’d held Arthur’s hands and bid him look after his father for the last time. About the tabby that’s moved into the stairwell at work, and the way Percival (the new barista- “He’s actually quite nice, you know. Polite, unlike someone I know, great arms……” “Oi! Cut that out! I know what you’re aiming at……”) makes a mean Mint Mocha but also terrifying Pumpkin Nog.
By the end of the month, Arthur feels like he’s known Merlin all his life, and if he dares say so- Merlin probably does, too.
◌★◌
“One Cinnamon Chai Latte, please,” Arthur says. It’s a new pastime of his, trying out every single holiday drink that’s on the admittedly cramped menu of the old café. He narrows his eyes at suspicion when a hot, steaming drink is slid over the counter towards him- Low-fat Soy Latte, written in an achingly familiar scrawl across the paper cup. Arthur’s head snaps up. “Merlin!”
Dancing blue eyes, the exact same shade as the winter sky spread around them, curling dark hair that’s grown long enough to poke his eyes, flushed, high cheekbones, full, laughing mouth. Arthur drinks him in- he smells like wood-smoke, coffee gourds, cinnamon, spice, vanilla. Like everything that’s good and wholesome in the world.
He’s grown a little paler, Arthur thinks disapprovingly. A little skinnier too. Merlin smiles at him. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s been a while.”
Percival is off today, because now that Merlin’s back he doesn’t have to work full-time anymore, and it’s still early enough that there are more people off the street than on it. Arthur, after a surreptitious glance about them, fists Merlin’s ridiculous plaid shirt and pulls him close.
Merlin’s lips taste like gingerbread cookies (Gingerbread Hot Cocoa, Arthur thinks, and stifles a laugh) and pumpkin and Christmas. Arthur closes his eyes, thinking this must be how it feels to drown, but I don’t ever want to come back up again, and when they separate enough to look at each other Arthur is breathing hard.
Arthur hasn’t breathed this hard since that awful marathon in sixth form.
“Wow,” Merlin breathes, lips the exact shade of the berries on the holly wreath right behind him, darkened blush spreading across his cheeks. His eyes are wonderfully, impossibly blue; framed by long, spidery lashes that flutter as he looks up, shy.
“Too fast?” Arthur asks, biting his lip.
“Not fast enough,” Merlin retorts, and pulls him in for another kiss.
[The end]