Chapter Text
“I’m not going home,” Arthur says, cramming the rest of the sausage roll into his mouth.
Merlin, who’s nibbling at his festive bake as if it wasn’t his idea to go to Greggs in the first place, whirls around, the whip of his red scarf barely missing a passing shopper. “What?”
“For Christmas,” Arthur says while chewing. Merlin makes a face at him. Arthur swallows and crumples up the paper bag. “I’m not going home. Got training to do here.”
“You know the rest of your team will be going home, right?”
Arthur knows. It’d come up the night before at the pub, everyone shouting over each other in an attempt to organise training after the holidays. It had been Leon’s quiet suggestion that they should make an availability spreadsheet, and after much jeering, Arthur had gone home and done exactly that. He’d managed to avoid talking about his own Christmas plans, an easy enough feat with eleven people competing for conversation space, but he should have known it wouldn’t be as simple to dodge Merlin.
They’re supposedly Christmas shopping, but so far all Merlin has done is rib Arthur about the set of throwing knives he bought Morgana and been no help in deciding what to buy for Arthur’s father. Arthur steers them towards Primark in an effort to force Merlin to buy something.
“I know,” he says belatedly. “I’ll have the pitch and gym to myself, won’t I?”
Merlin finishes tapping out a text. Arthur admires the Spyro phone case he got Merlin for his last birthday before the phone disappears into the pocket of his ragged brown coat. Upon seeing the queue for Primark, Merlin winces and drags Arthur into the small shopping centre instead.
“But you can’t be alone on Christmas,” Merlin says plaintively. Arthur thinks privately that whether he goes home or not, he’ll be alone for Christmas. He loves Morgana, their relationship having vastly improved from the hostility their childhood had engineered in them, but she can’t stand Uther for long, vanishing from the dinner table the second her plate is empty. Arthur would much rather be alone in the flat and cook himself bacon and eggs on Christmas Day; at least it’ll be peaceful.
“Don’t be such a girl,” Arthur says, purely because he knows it’ll wind Merlin up and he likes to hear each new spin Merlin puts on his feminist rant. “I’ll be fine.”
He thinks the matter is sorted: after their trip out, Merlin predictably collapses on the sofa with a cup of tea, shoving his cold feet against Arthur’s thigh when he sits down. There’s only two more days of classes before they break up for Christmas and Arthur attends every one, throwing himself into assignment prep so he doesn’t have to think about Merlin going home on Saturday.
Ealdor is three hours from their uni, and Arthur pretends to commiserate with Merlin about how packed the train will be, all the while hoping some great snowstorm will prevent him from leaving. He feels guilty almost immediately, because Hunith has been nothing but kind to him and Arthur knows that Merlin is all she has.
He’s instantly suspicious when Merlin comes in while Arthur is watching the footy highlights, because Merlin hates football and Arthur has kicked him out of the lounge multiple times for providing sarcastic running commentary that mocks the sanctity of the game. He pauses it, because Merlin is definitely up to something.
“What,” he says flatly.
“Can’t a man get a drink in his own kitchen?” Merlin says innocently. Arthur hears him flick the kettle on and sighs, resigned to the interruption.
“Make me one,” he says, and sighs again when Merlin hands him a cup of tea and sits on Arthur’s feet, forcing him to sit up and allow Merlin half the couch. He stares a hole into the side of Merlin’s head. Merlin is trying, not very hard, to hide a smile. “Out with it.”
When Merlin turns, Arthur realises it’s his anxious smile, the terrible one he can’t help pulling when he’s lying about eating the last biscuit. “Well,” Merlin says, and stops. Arthur kicks him. “You footballers are so violent,” Merlin says, affronted, and then the rest all spills out at once. “I was wondering — if you wanted, obviously, and no worries if not! — if you wanted, maybe, to… come to mine for Christmas.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a long moment as he translates Merlin-speak to English. He inhales sharply. “You — what?”
“Come to Ealdor with me,” Merlin says, slower, like Arthur’s thick. “For Christmas.” When Arthur doesn’t say anything, Merlin takes a deep breath and prattles on, “As soon as you said you were staying here, I wanted to invite you back to ours, you know, but I had to ask Mum first because I wasn’t sure we could afford — well, if she’d be okay with it, but I rang her and she said it was okay and — Arthur?”
Arthur knows he’s staring. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it’s making Merlin nervous.
“Put your tea down,” Arthur says, setting his own on the coffee table. Merlin obeys, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Are you going to hit me?” he asks, and squeaks as Arthur lunges toward him and hugs him, holding Merlin so tight they both gasp for air when he lets go. “Well,” Merlin says, never one to let an awkward silence hang. “Is that a yes?”
“I would love to,” Arthur says, each word an effort. So much is welling up inside him, an overflow of gratitude and love for his thoughtful, kind, ridiculous best friend, and he finds it hard enough to express himself at the best of times. He wants to try, to say how much he appreciates it, but the words don’t come. “Your mum doesn’t mind?”
“She said she’d love to have you,” Merlin says. They grin at each other, and Arthur knows then that Merlin understands, without words, how much it means to him. “Train tickets are gonna be well expensive,” Merlin says, defusing the happy moment. “You have a student railcard, right?”
Arthur had hoped to sleep on the train, but Merlin happily chatters the whole way there. Upon Arthur realising he’d packed his headphones in his suitcase, Merlin offers to share his, and Arthur pretends not to like Fleetwood Mac and pretends that Merlin’s off-tune humming isn’t totally endearing.
With less than an hour to go, Merlin yanks the earphone from Arthur’s ear without preamble.
“Ow, Merlin!” Merlin flips him the bird, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Changed your mind about me coming?” Arthur prods, only joking but anxious as he says it aloud.
“No,” Merlin says, looking offended that Arthur would suggest such a thing. “Look, I just wanted to… prepare you.”
“For?”
“Ealdor’s not like London,” Merlin starts.
“Understatement of the year.” Arthur watches Merlin twist his earphones around spindly fingers, and it dawns on him that Merlin is afraid of what Arthur will think about his hometown. “Merlin,” he says patiently. “I’m not going to judge Ealdor for being a backwater town in the middle of nowhere.”
Merlin’s face is halfway to a scowl before he realises Arthur’s joking. “Shut up,” he says automatically. “Look, I just wanted to make sure you’re not gonna get high and mighty because it’s a big-fish, small-pond situation. I know you can’t help where you came from, but you better not hurt my mum’s feelings, that’s all.”
Arthur bites back his initial response and does his best to put himself in Merlin’s shoes, something he makes an effort to do whenever Merlin sees fit to lecture him about privilege. Merlin had given him a thorough dressing-down when they first met, and Arthur likes to think he’s become a better person since then, ashamed of the Arthur who’d make fun of people for the clothes they wore or where they did the food shop.
“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” he promises.
He insists on paying for a taxi from the station despite Merlin’s protests, and is glad of it when the sky goes overcast, imagining the two of them waiting under a rickety bus shelter for half an hour in the rain.
In turn, Merlin insists on carrying Arthur’s hold-all despite wincing at its weight, and yanks it away from Arthur when he tries to take it back.
“You kidding?” he says, affronted. “Mum’ll kill me if she sees I made you carry your own bag.”
Merlin fumbles through his bag for his keys, eventually locating them right at the bottom, and they crash through the door with minimal dignity. Arthur extricates their bags from the tangle on Merlin’s shoulder, unloading him like a pack mule, and places them unobtrusively by the door. They take off their shoes, lining them up with the others in the hallway, and by the time they’re shrugging out of coats and hats and gloves, Hunith appears in the kitchen doorway, taking off her gardening gloves before hugging Merlin.
The hallway is really only big enough to fit two people, so Arthur steps backwards and finds himself in the lounge, a cosy room with a sofa and two mismatched armchairs. He tries not to stare at Merlin’s joy at seeing his mum, who’s clearly just as pleased to see him, and looks around the room some more. Uther would call it disorganised, even chaotic, but Arthur thinks it has character, and in a good way — it looks lived in, and loved.
“Arthur, hello,” Hunith says, appearing at his side, and before Arthur can say a word, she wraps him in a hug too.
Merlin grins at him over Hunith’s shoulder, and Arthur tries not to look too startled when she draws back. “Hi, Ms Emrys,” he says finally. “How are things?”
“Oh, Arthur, just call me Hunith,” she says, waving away the formality. “Same as usual, down here. Can I get you anything to drink, dear? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“Yes, please,” Arthur says, following her into the kitchen and discovering it’s a kitchen-diner. He sits in the dining chair Hunith pulled out for him as she washes her hands, and Merlin hovers in the doorway, mouthing ‘You okay?’
When Arthur nods, Merlin says, “I’ll just pop our bags upstairs,” and disappears, leaving Arthur alone with Hunith.
Without Merlin as a buffer, Arthur remembers his manners and asks Hunith if he can help with anything.
“Mugs are in the cupboard opposite the microwave,” she says. The mugs are as mismatched as the armchairs, and Arthur smiles to see ones that are clearly Merlin’s — patterned with Star Wars and dragons and stars. He picks one of the plainer ones for himself, a dragon for Merlin, and a cat for Hunith.
While she pours the kettle, Arthur leans against the table and says, “I wanted to say — thank you for inviting me. I know having strangers in your home at Christmas isn’t for everyone.”
Hunith tuts at him. “Don’t be silly! You’re not a stranger and we’re glad to have you.”
“I appreciate it,” Arthur says. “And — I’ll pay my way, of course. Merlin said he usually does the Christmas food shop, so I can—”
“I won’t hear of it,” Hunith says, pausing in doling out sugar — two for herself, same as Merlin — to give him a sincere look. Her smile warms Arthur from the inside out. “You’re our guest, Arthur. Think nothing of it.”
She moves over so he can make his own tea — milk, no sugar — and they carry them into the lounge. Merlin reappears, saving Arthur from the seating dilemma by sitting on the sofa beside Hunith, and Arthur sinks gratefully into the armchair closest to him.
“I made your bed up, Merlin,” Hunith says to him.
“Kilgharrah appreciates it,” Merlin says, slurping noisily at his tea.
“He’s not on there already?”
“I tell you, he knows when I’m coming home and does it to spite me.” Merlin grins at Arthur. “It’s so weird seeing you in my house.”
Arthur can’t help but grin back, still not over the bout of nerves from being at someone’s house for the first time. He’s met Hunith before, but that was at uni, when they were in the process of moving into their student house in September and busy unpacking boxes. Arthur’s own father had stayed only long enough to appraise the house, a disdainful raised eyebrow expressing more than words ever could, but Hunith had helped them unpack, staying the night and travelling home the next day.
“Kilgharrah?” Arthur questions.
“Our cat,” Hunith says at the same time Merlin says, “Demon spawn.”
Dismayed, Hunith shakes her head. “You’re not telling me Merlin’s never referred to him by his name?”
“Always some variation on ‘demon spawn’, I’m afraid,” Arthur says gravely. “It’s a… unique name.”
“I picked it from a book when I was little.” Merlin’s tone is regretful. “Should’ve waited until he revealed his true colours. Cinderella’s sisters had the right idea.”
Hunith sets her mug on the coffee table next to a beaten copy of The Hobbit, dog-eared halfway through. “It’s business you study, isn’t it, Arthur?”
“Business management,” Arthur says. He doesn’t bother injecting enthusiasm into his tone; no one ever believes him when he says he enjoys it. “It’s more interesting than it sounds.”
To her credit, Hunith tries hard to sound earnest when she says, “I’m sure it is! And you’re on the football team?”
Arthur doesn’t need to fake his interest then. “Yeah,” he says, more cheerfully. “I’ve tried to get Merlin into it, but he staunchly refuses to go anywhere near a football. Or any sport, come to think of it.”
Hunith looks delighted. “You should have seen him when he was younger,” she says. “Nose in a book, twenty-four seven. The neighbourhood boys would come around with a ball and he’d say I was making him do so many chores he was too exhausted to play.”
“Mum!” Merlin protests. The tips of his ears are turning red, Arthur’s favourite look on him.
“Oh, but you were so cute.” Hunith finishes her tea and picks up the book, giving Merlin a hug before she stands up. “I’m off to bed, I’m afraid. Are you boys okay sorting something for tea?”
Merlin nods. “I introduced Arthur to beans on toast this year.”
Hunith rounds on Arthur, as shocked as Merlin had been. “You’d never—! Alright, this is an argument for another time. I’m up at six, but I’ll try to be quiet.”
They say their goodnights and Hunith goes upstairs, leaving Merlin to steal her seat and making Arthur sit next to him on the sofa. “Please take Kilgharrah into your room!” Merlin shouts after her, not quite relaxing until he gets an answer in the affirmative, and then it’s just the two of them.
“Your mum is so nice,” Arthur says, half to himself and half to Merlin. He didn’t really have friends until he started university, most of them friends of habit on the football team and a few that were the children of his father’s friends, and the only sleepovers he’d ever had were in primary school, where making friends was easy as breathing. Arthur doesn’t really know what it’s like to have a mum. He barely knows what it’s like to have a dad.
“She’s perfect,” Merlin says fondly. “We’d better eat something, it’s almost nine already.”
He tasks Arthur with grating the cheese, not yet trusting Arthur with the toast or the beans. Arthur likes his toast well-blackened, whereas Merlin’s toast is little more than warm bread, but Arthur’s not particularly fussy. The cheese is unbranded; Arthur doesn’t comment on it, privately wondering if it’ll taste different and surprised when it doesn’t.
They eat on their laps in front of the TV, but Arthur’s tired from the long train journey and happily accepts Merlin’s suggestion that they go to bed. He doesn’t realise until they’re undressing how bloody cold it is, and Merlin grimaces at him when he mentions it.
“We don’t put the heating on at night,” he says. “Waste of money. That’s why I made you bring your good hoodies.”
Merlin’s bed is a single and he insists Arthur take it, relegating himself to a rather sad-looking airbed on the floor. Arthur is embarrassed that he assumed Merlin would have a spare room that he’d be sleeping in, understanding now why Merlin felt the need to warn him against being an arse.
The airbed barely carries enough air to squeak as Merlin tosses and turns, but it gets on Arthur’s nerves anyway. When he hears Merlin’s teeth chattering, though, it’s the last straw.
“Merlin,” he says gruffly. “Get up here.”
Merlin doesn’t make him ask twice. He slides in next to Arthur within seconds, ice cold and yanking more than half of the duvet to his side. Arthur yelps.
“I meant — topping and tailing!”
“Sounds fun,” Merlin says, grin evident in his voice. “Are you the top or the tail?”
“The top, obviously,” Arthur says without thinking. He holds his breath. Merlin squirms a little, seeming conscious of Arthur’s gaze burning the back of his neck, and then does the unthinkable and turns over, eyes glowing silver in the moonlight through the curtains.
“I’ve never… had the occasion,” Merlin says, hushed now.
Arthur can’t decide if he’s surprised or not. Of course he’d noticed that Merlin never brought anyone back to the house, but he could just as easily have been staying over with other people, as Arthur had a couple times. In the end, Arthur had realised that his attempt to square away his burgeoning feelings for Merlin over the summer had failed dismally, and the few black-haired boys and blue-eyed girls he’d slept with since September did nothing but leave a bad taste in his mouth.
“Really,” he says, and it sounds less like a question and more like… appraisal. “I thought you would’ve…” He makes an aborted hand gesture. “You know. We are at uni.”
“Don’t ever make that gesture again,” Merlin says, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are searching Arthur’s face like he’s looking for something, some condemnation that will never come. “And no. I guess I’ve had the opportunity, but it never went anywhere.”
Merlin had had a girlfriend in first year, Freya. Arthur had been both relieved and incensed that he didn’t live with Merlin at the time, feeling a peculiar desire to know everything about what they were doing together, and the relief had intensified when the relationship had ended after just three months. It felt selfish at the time, and Arthur had struggled to understand why he couldn’t just be happy for his best friend. The only surprising thing about realising his feelings for Merlin was that Lancelot managed to sit him down to discuss it before Gwen did.
Arthur hums. “Hm,” he says. Merlin’s face is open and beautiful before him, and Arthur feels like he’s floundering in open water. “That’s too bad.” Too bad? Too bad? What is it about Merlin that saps him of all his charm?
“It’s okay, really,” Merlin says, huffing a laugh. “Freya loves seeing the look on people’s faces when she tells them she made me realise I’m gay.”
Arthur laughs to cover his heart skipping a beat. He knew Merlin liked men, but he’d never said it in so many words.
“You haven’t had a girlfriend at uni, right?” Merlin asks, apparently determined to continue this vulnerable conversation and apparently unaware that Arthur is drowning right before his eyes.
“No boyfriend, either,” Arthur says glumly, and stops short of telling Merlin about his misadventures in romance during sixth form, shuddering when he thinks of Vivian. His father had been so pleased Arthur had a rich pretty girlfriend that he’d overlooked that Vivian was rude, fussy and arrogant to a fault. “My ex… she was like me in first year, but worse.”
“Worse? I can’t imagine,” Merlin says, laughing.
“I didn’t know her very well when we got together,” Arthur confesses, spurred on by the half-light of the room and the stars in Merlin’s eyes, “and once I did know her, I didn’t like what I saw.”
Merlin makes a face. He adjusts so his arm is pillowing his head, but for one heart-stopping moment, Arthur thought Merlin was going to touch him, and his heart thumps so loud he almost misses what Merlin says next. “Well, I know you,” Merlin says warmly, “and you’re — you’re wonderful.”
There’s an intake of breath, like Merlin didn’t mean to say that, to be so honest. Arthur doesn’t think anyone’s ever called him wonderful before. Hot, yes, charming, of course — but wonderful?
“Thanks, Merlin,” he says, lightly enough that he could be teasing. “I… I think you’re wonderful, too.”
Merlin just smiles at him, breathtaking and making Arthur ache that they’re in bed together through coincidence rather than choice. He reclaims some of the duvet and rearranges the blankets on top so they cover Merlin too, and hardly remembers saying goodnight before he falls asleep, the cold forgotten.