Chapter Text
“You have to kill me.”
The world ends.
“Please. I’d rather die – I need to die.”
The world is in a perpetual state of end, day by day, piece by piece.
“If you love me… let me die.”
++++
The world begins to end on the second day of June.
It’s Merlin’s twenty-sixth birthday, early morning. The sky outside his window is smeared with peach tones of dawn as the sun makes its lazy ascent, and the city hums distantly with activity. Merlin’s bedsheets are thrown back, and he wakes to comforting warmth, an arm slung across his stomach and someone’s legs tangled up in his. He’s smiling before he even opens his eyes.
Lancelot’s head rests just below Merlin’s shoulder, waves of his dark hair fanning messily across the pillows. His breath is slow and steady in sleep, lips parted and near enough for Merlin to feel each exhale on his bare skin. Awake, it’s a ticklish sensation, and Merlin will find a way to retaliate in time.
But later. For now, his thumb traces slow circles over Lancelot’s hip, and his eyes wander, following the familiar lines of Lancelot’s face. Merlin is always the first between them to wake, lured out of his dreams by birdsong, and one could think he’d get bored of following the same routine, always admiring the same features at the same hour, before eventually coaxing his lover awake.
It isn’t boring. At least, not to him. Gwaine guffawed and Arthur shook his head despairingly when Merlin drunkenly confessed to this lovestruck ritual last Christmas, while Gwen patted him on the arm and proclaimed it sweet. Lancelot has even caught him at it once, in the early days. His eyes opening to meet Merlin’s, a beat of surprise before the amusement at Merlin’s awkward moves to find something else to look at. Merlin recalls the uncertain apology – they’d been dating for a few months at that point, and surely there are rules on when it’s appropriate for one to behave like a lovesick dope? Merlin thinks perhaps there ought to be rules.
(As if he would ever be the kind of person to follow those rules.)
But Lancelot doesn’t mind the gazing. If anything, he adores Merlin all the more for it, and gently teases Merlin over it at any opportunity he can get.
It doesn’t bore Merlin, and it evidently doesn’t make Lancelot uncomfortable. More than anything else, it’s… peaceful. Precious moments of not-quite solitude, alone in his thoughts but not in his bed, a pocket of quiet love before Lancelot inevitably has to wake up and get ready for work.
In the old days, Merlin and Lancelot would go through all those motions together, take the same bus through the city, work the same theatre corridors. Now, Lancelot works in set design for theatre and television alike, while Merlin commands a stage here and there, a screen more often, and chats with his agent about future roles. It’s a more comfortable life than he feels he has any right to – and yet, it’s his.
Six years since it all changed, Merlin thinks, and it feels more like a lifetime. When he closes his eyes he’s there again: nights in the village spent memorising scripts and finding bootleg show clips, waiting for the day that something would come and give him the chance to shine. The after-school shows put on with his friends, Will sewing costumes and Freya coaching the younger kids on their performances. A life that should have been happy, and was.
Just not quite enough.
At twenty, the world begins to shift. Freya is studying classic Welsh literature in London – ridiculous, Will says, as if there aren’t plenty of Welsh lit courses closer to home taught by actual Welsh professors – and Merlin has his apprenticeship an hour out of the village, real theatre work, and it should be enough now. But it isn’t. Not yet. Sometimes he could swear he feels the big stages calling to him, calling in his bones, a restless tug that he can’t ignore.
Spring comes, and with it an audition in Cardiff. Merlin takes it without a moment’s hesitation. Mum wraps him up in warm hugs while Will offers well-wishes, and even the neighbour down the lane steps out of his cottage to press a rabbit’s foot into Merlin’s hands for luck. Merlin holds onto it all while the train carries him south, and by the time he arrives he feels buoyant on his optimism. This is it. The thought burns in him. This is when everything changes for the better. This is the beginning.
He doesn’t get the part.
But he does find something that, perhaps, might just turn out to be better.
Lancelot’s smile is the first thing that catches him, followed very shortly by his hands. No sooner has Merlin stepped out of the audition hall than Lancelot is crossing his path, almost right into him. Merlin is giddy off his audition and veers severely to the left to avoid a collision. Lancelot, apparently more sensibly minded, only takes a small step out of the way. Merlin shoots a smile over his shoulder as Lancelot passes, receiving one in return, but fails to account for where his redirection has sent him. Head, meet wall.
“Oh, fuck.”
Merlin barely has time to do more than stagger back before there are hands on his shoulders, warm, firm, keeping him upright. There’s the instinct to be humiliated – Merlin, you absolute turniphead, Will’s voice rings out in his mind, and Merlin can’t even argue with it this time – but the pain blocks everything else out, and he can only lean gratefully against the support while he tries to get rid of the pain through sheer force of will alone.
It’s only when there comes the question – “Does this happen to you a lot?” – that the realization kicks in, belated reacquaintance with his surroundings. And then he replays the question in his mind, and any embarrassment stands no chance next to his indignation.
He turns around, peering suspiciously. “What do you mean, does this happen to me a lot?”
He’s met with a shrug. “Well, the way you moved away from me…”
“Made me look like a clumsy oaf?” Merlin guesses.
“You don’t strike me as an oaf.”
Well, thanks. Merlin shakes his head, and promptly regrets it when a twinge of pain hits. “Well, it’s my first time doing that in Cardiff, let’s put it that way,” he says, and earns a grin.
“And hopefully it’ll be your last.” The stranger offers Merlin a knowing look. “I hear going in straight lines can help with that.”
The knock to the head has clearly put his singular brain cell out of commission for the foreseeable future, because Merlin bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he replies, “that’s no use to me, I can’t do anything straight.” He sticks his hand out. “I’m Merlin.”
“Lancelot.” He readily accepts Merlin’s handshake, and tips his head back at the audition hall. “If nothing else, you definitely made a memorable exit.”
Merlin’s face falls. “Did they see that?” He cranes his neck to check if anyone is looking, and Lancelot chuckles.
“You’re rather hard to miss.” Lancelot’s smile turns more sincere. “I’ve been watching some of the auditions. You’re a fine actor.”
Merlin’s surprise is immediate, forgetting the potential witnesses in an instant. “Really?” A grin threatens to split his face wide open. “I – that’s – thank you!” Will has always warned Merlin about him being a sucker for praise coming out of a pretty mouth, and now here he is barely able to string a sentence together.
As it is, Lancelot’s smile warms even more in the face of Merlin’s spluttering.
(In retrospect, Merlin considers himself lucky that Lancelot is inexplicably attracted to his particular brand of social eccentricity.)
“Are you an actor, too?” he asks once he recovers himself.
Lancelot laughs. “No,” he says, “the stage isn’t for me. I do set design, props… Nothing special, just part of the backstage team.”
“Are you kidding?” Merlin shakes his head in disbelief. “You are the stage!” Lancelot looks dubious, and now Merlin is the one laughing. “Really! Without you, actors are just… wandering around empty space.”
Lancelot is too flattered by that to disagree, though he’s quick to turn the compliments back around to Merlin, as he says generously, “Well, I thought you did some excellent wandering up there.”
Merlin is very aware of how he and Lancelot are blocking the path for everyone else finishing their auditions, and aware too of the headache that’s beginning to throb – but he can’t find it in himself to care.
“I’m sure I’ll be even better once I’m working on your set!” he declares.
Unexpectedly, Lancelot looks a little disappointed at that. “I’m not actually with this theatre, to tell the truth,” he admits. “I’m with The White Dragon. About twenty minutes from here?” He pulls a business card out of his pocket, holding it out for Merlin to see. The title on the card is silver, delicate cursive, and the card offers Merlin The White Dragon’s contact information, along with a promise to experience ‘magical productions’.
Merlin glances over at the audition hall before he returns to Lancelot’s gaze. He lowers his voice, unable to keep the mischief from his expression. “So, what’s the strategy? Send in your most charming man to lure all the actors out before we sign any contracts?”
Lancelot looks tempted to play along with that idea, but he shakes his head with an amused smile. “No, we’re sister theatres, you could say. We like to promote each other’s shows, share actors…” He shrugs. “Perhaps coming in on an audition day is too much, but you never know what you might find.”
Merlin nods his understanding, before he ventures, “And have you found anything today?”
Lancelot considers, a solid show of contemplation if not for the lingering glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Well,” he replies, “I suppose only time will tell.” And then he smiles, stepping away without another word.
Merlin turns his attention to the card still in his hand. The White Dragon…
He’s confident about what he’s come here to achieve today. He wouldn’t have bothered auditioning if he didn’t feel capable of it.
But all the same…
He tucks the card into his pocket.
Today feels like a step in the right direction – though quite where that direction leads, Merlin can no longer tell.
Six days later, Lancelot fills Merlin’s thoughts almost more than the audition.
Seven days, and he’s rejected for the role. No reasons are given, and he’s encouraged to audition again for future shows.
Eight days, and Merlin is on the train. It’s something he can’t explain, not to himself nor to the city that opens up before him.
The printed Google directions are neatly creased from a train journey spent folded up in his pocket, with the lines running deeper every minute from the way Merlin keeps checking and rechecking his route. It’s a little further than he expects, but Lancelot is right – the two theatres could be sisters for their likenesses, between the heavy crimson doors and the ornate, shapely windows.
Warmth envelopes him as soon as he steps through the doors, and once inside, that’s where the resemblance ends. Even here in the foyer, far from the main hall, the ceiling swoops high – rather like being inside the belly of a dragon, Merlin imagines. White pillars around the spacious room stand like frosted giants, glittering faintly in the daylight.
According to the website listed on the card, The White Dragon isn’t holding auditions for any upcoming shows until next Thursday, which makes Merlin six days early, but he’s not about to let something like that stop him.
It not being an audition day – nor, according to their available programmes, a show day – the theatre is quiet as Merlin wanders through it. On the occasion that he crosses paths with someone, he’s met with simple smiles, no trace of familiarity but no absence of warmth. It almost feels as if he belongs here, moving unquestioned through the building.
Maybe that’s partly why he doesn’t hesitate to smile in return, every time, until he’s met by the sounds of busy instructions, hammers and footsteps and instructions. He follows the noise down a rickety staircase and a long corridor, to two open doors.
Through one, he finds a half-painted wooden Christmas tree. Making an early start for Panto season, Merlin surmises. Next to the tree are two elaborately crafted presents, and some kind of spring-mechanised Rudolph, sitting in a box. The three theatre staff inside don’t seem to have noticed him, and he moves away quietly before he distracts them from their work.
And through the next doorway… Merlin halts on the threshold, with a tentative smile.
As if sensing his presence, Lancelot looks up. His returning smile is immediate, radiant. “Merlin! I hadn’t thought – well. Actually…” He studies Merlin. He doesn’t elaborate.
Merlin surveys the room, filled with Lancelot’s work. There are sketches all over his desk, some encompassing a full stage and others only detailed corners of the set, or single items. There are even more sketches on the far wall.
In front of Lancelot, there’s something more striking than the illustrations. He’s got a replica of the main stage in miniature, complete with set pieces scattered around. The pieces are little more than roughly cut chunks of cardboard with scribbled designs on them, and the stage looks one hard exhale away from collapsing. But Merlin can only imagine what vivid scenes play out when Lancelot tests his designs.
When he meets Lancelot’s eyes again, the gaze that greets him is modest. “They’re not all mine,” he says, as if he knows exactly what’s just been going through Merlin’s head. “I’ve only been doing my own designs for a year or so; usually, I’m assisting the senior designer.”
Even just a year of set designing is impressive by Merlin’s standards, and he’s not shy about saying so. Lancelot just laughs, and the look in his eyes shifts to easy-natured amusement.
“So,” he says, “what brings you all the way here?”
Merlin considers. Every significant decision he’s made over the past ten years has more or less been predicated on his hopeful future career as an actor. Coming to Cardiff today, to Lancelot, has no clear explanation. If anything, it defies explanation entirely; he’s only met Lancelot once before. What does that make Merlin, jumping on the train just to find a near total stranger?
Would it count as the truth if he pulled out the business card? He tries it, and at once, Lancelot nods with enthusiastic understanding.
“Ah, now that’s what I thought,” he says, light. “This theatre is just too good for any actor to resist.”
Well, that’s half the truth. Between anxiously refreshing his emails for audition results, and co-organising the village’s Easter Fete musical, he’s managed to squeeze in the time this past week to scour The White Dragon’s social media, and he’s even found several clips from their most recent productions. And it’s true – they are too good to resist. Three days before his rejection comes in, Merlin finds himself falling down a rabbit hole of cast and crew backstage vlogs – which he’s certainly not just watching for the occasional glimpse of Lancelot wandering past in the background – and even better than just producing great shows, they all seem like genuinely lovely people, too.
But that doesn’t quite manage to explain him turning up six days earlier than any of their next auditions.
He can’t just keep standing here like he’s got cabbage for brains, though.
“I love my village,” is the first thing that bursts out of him. “Really, I do. Ealdor is a wonderful place to grow up. But it’s not…” He sighs, gesturing up around him in a wide circle. “It’s nothing like this. Before I got my apprenticeship, the biggest stage I ever knew was the primary school’s assembly hall. It had chronic woodworm. The acoustics were a fucking nightmare. And the audiences were just…”
He shakes his head. “You people are all just so nice! Like, ridiculously nice. Not that I expected you all to just be self-absorbed dolts, but – well, you know, city folk-” Lancelot raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t interject, and Merlin continues unhindered. “Do you know what I get? I have organised dramas and pantos; I have been singularly responsible for handling forty children in a production that needed fifty. I have played pensioners, peasants, sentient potatoes, I even starred in the Benjamin Button version of the Nativity – and all I get, every time, is just… make it even better next year, Merlin, or what’s the point in funding another show? Just once I’d like some actual recognition of my work. I want to be on a stage that doesn’t feel about to collapse under my feet. I want…”
Lancelot regards him with gentle interest, as Merlin finally tails off for air. He doesn’t seem scared off in the slightest by the amount of nonsense that Merlin’s just thrown at him, which Merlin thinks might be the most surprising thing about this entire encounter.
“You want to be seen?”
In that moment, Merlin thinks he just has been.
He nods, still breathless. “I do.” He brandishes the business card again. “Look, maybe I’m just nuts, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking it. You’d hardly be the first, and you definitely won’t be the last. But if being nuts gets me to where I need to be, then I’ll stick with it. I…” He looks askance around the room and the corridor behind – and looks away again quickly from the head poking inquisitively out of one doorway. He returns to Lancelot’s gaze. “I like it here,” he says finally. “I like what I’ve seen of your work. And I really like the thought of working on a stable platform. So… here I am.”
“You know…” Lancelot sits back. “This isn’t exactly the West End.”
“It’s closer to that than where I’ve started out.”
Lancelot chuckles. “Well, then… welcome to The White Dragon. We’re glad to have you.”
“Well, I still need to actually get in,” Merlin replies. Some of his bravado falters. “The audition…”
For a beat, Lancelot looks alarmed. “It’s not already-”
“No!” Merlin exclaims. “I’m just… early.” He gingerly steps in front of a poster on the door that bears a schedule for the month. “Quite early.”
Unfortunately for Merlin, Lancelot locates another copy of the schedule with ease. “You’re… very early.” He looks up, bewildered for a moment before it smoothes over into fresh understanding. “You came all this way… just to tell me you’ll be auditioning?”
Lancelot seems remarkably skilled at figuring out what’s going on behind all the chaos, Merlin thinks, a little perturbed. He’s like Will in that regard. Merlin still hasn’t figured out how to hide from it.
“…yes.”
He drags it out, in a miserable bid to bide his time until he can think of an explanation that doesn’t sound so hopelessly weird.
But, unexpectedly, Lancelot’s face lights up. It’s a surprise that, really, Merlin feels like he should be more surprised by; somehow, Lancelot just inexplicably accepts every weird thing that Merlin offers him, and more than that, more than acceptance, he actually seems to like it.
There’s a distinct possibility that beneath that handsome, friendly exterior, Lancelot is an even bigger weirdo than Merlin.
It feels like a possibility that should be investigated at once and in thorough detail, and before Merlin can hesitate, his confidence swells, and he’s blurting out again.
“I was also wondering-” Lancelot’s gaze turns expectant, and Merlin hadn’t been wondering anything specific, actually, but the words are out there now, so he feels compelled to go on. “If you’re available, I mean – not busy – well, no, you are busy, I can see that – but if you’re not too busy, and if you actually want to, I was wondering if today, you and I – or even tomorrow-” Train wreck. An absolute train wreck, imploding across his mind. Wheels and carriages flying in all directions. For a moment, all Merlin wants to do is turn around and make a hasty escape, all his wants be damned.
But he doesn’t. He’s already spewn a bunch of words that would be better placed in therapy, in front of a man he barely knows, plus at least one curious eavesdropper down the corridor. He’s already proven himself to be a public disaster, functioning in the face of every possible embarrassment. There’s no reason for him to stop now.
All the while, Lancelot looks at him with that warm smile. It feels easier, now, for Merlin to smile in return. “I was wondering,” he says resolutely, “if you wanted to have lunch with me. Today.”
Lancelot’s smile breaks into a grin that could probably light up the city year-round. “Yes,” he replies, already dusting off his jeans. “I do.”
Merlin stirs; he’s dozing off in memories, and Lancelot still shows no signs of waking, too comfortable in his dreams to bother with the real world yet. Early morning sunlight bounces off his ring, and Merlin slots his hand alongside it, twinned silver bands shining together.
It’s not so much that Lancelot completes him. Merlin knows that nobody ever really can; he completes himself, a whole whether or not someone is by his side. But Lancelot… brightens the world. Brightens Merlin. He could have found happiness on any path, but now that Lancelot is in his life, Merlin can’t imagine any other way.
Maybe that’s why it’s become so routine for him now, even after these six years, relearning Lancelot’s face every morning before the day starts. Sometimes he still can’t believe his luck. He feels like an absolute cliché for it, so romantically adoring that by all rights it ought to be sickening. But it is what it is. Merlin would never change Lancelot, nor himself, so he allows himself the moment simply to admire. A morning ritual.
His stomach is demanding attention and his thoughts are drifting through memories of an autumn wedding by the time Lancelot’s eyes flutter open, and Merlin greets him with a soft smile.
Lancelot smiles in return, tender amusement. “How long have you been up?” he asks.
Merlin hums, trying to think, trying to ignore the way Lancelot’s sleep-rough voice sends shivers down his spine. “Not long,” he replies. “A few minutes.” A few years, in his head.
Lancelot’s eyes are roving over every part of Merlin that the sheets don’t bother to cover, but his voice is sweet, as he reaches across to clasp Merlin’s hand. “Was I distracting you?”
Merlin barks out a laugh. “You think highly of yourself.”
Lancelot shrugs. “If I get to be married to you, then I must be amazing.”
Merlin laughs again, tempted to roll his eyes. Instead, he tugs Lancelot’s hand up to press a kiss along his knuckles, and amusement turns to quiet triumph as Lancelot’s expression softens, head sinking back against the pillows as sleep threatens to reclaim him.
He remembers just in time, though, and sits upright to press a kiss to Merlin’s jaw. “Happy birthday.”
“Twenty-six…” Merlin muses. “It’s going to be a good year.”
“You say that every birthday.”
“What, that twenty-six is going to be a good year?”
Lancelot groans. “That every year is going to be a good one.”
“Well, I’m always right, aren’t I?” Merlin grins. “First time I said it, we sold out over half our shows running… and there was you. I turned twenty-two, and The White Dragon had its best year yet. Twenty-three…” Merlin is still a little taken aback by the memory. “My first TV role.”
Lancelot hums, looking more satisfied than Merlin by it. “Twenty-three,” he says, “you were a break-out star. Like I said you’d be.”
“Oh, like you weren’t a star that year, too?” Merlin scoffs. “An Olivier-nominated show-”
“Yes, that I didn’t actually get to design for.”
“But they did consider you for the job.” Merlin crosses his arms, and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “If they’d picked you for it, they’d have won that Olivier award.”
“Perhaps.” Lancelot presses closer and gives Merlin a look that is altogether far too adoring for such an early hour.
“I may not have an Olivier award,” Lancelot says. “But that’s fine by me. I have something even better.”
“Oh?” Merlin already knows where this is going. But he looks expectantly at Lancelot anyway. “And what’s that, then?”
Lancelot leans in for a kiss. “My husband.”
“You’re killing me,” Merlin groans as soon as they break apart. “You know I don’t have any chance of being that romantic back.”
Lancelot just offers a lazy shrug. “You knew I was this kind of man when you married me,” he replies.
“Knew it when I met you,” Merlin says.
Lancelot’s eyebrows quirk. “That soon?”
“You just…” Merlin gestures airily. “You have this energy. Hard to miss.”
Lancelot considers this information. “Good energy?” he checks.
Merlin lays a playful slap on Lancelot’s chest, earning a mildly wounded look. “Of course!” he exclaims.
“I see.” Lancelot nods, agreeable enough, and Merlin smiles, right up until Lancelot says, “So good that you cringe every time I act on that energy?”
“I-” Merlin has nothing on that argument. “I am a human disaster,” he retorts, finally, “and you knew that when you married me.”
“True.” Lancelot ignores Merlin’s startled jolt at that agreement. “And you are my favourite disaster.”
“You know more than one?”
“Well…” Lancelot blanches, uncertain, and then-
“Arthur,” comes the answer from both their mouths, simultaneous.
Lancelot looks away guiltily, while Merlin cackles. “He’s a good man!” Lancelot insists. “Beneath it all, all of the…”
“Disasters?” Merlin offers.
Lancelot shows remarkable restraint. “Gwen’s a lucky woman to have him – they’re lucky to have each other,” he amends. “Arthur may be a disaster, but he’s… dignified with it.”
Merlin stares at him. “Are you saying I’m undignified?” He flops his head back against the pillows in abject shock. “I can’t believe you’re bullying me on my birthday.”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Lancelot starts, but Merlin rolls over dramatically, arms crossed.
“No, it’s too late,” he says. “It’s too late, you’ve broken my heart forever. I can’t believe this.”
Lancelot chuckles, though he quickly reins it in when Merlin shoots a stern look over his shoulder.
“In that case…” Lancelot moves closer, hooking an arm around Merlin’s waist and ignoring the way Merlin stubbornly grumbles. He gives a lingering kiss to Merlin’s neck and smiles, already half victorious when Merlin glances at him. “Let me make it up to you,” Lancelot offers. “Let me show you exactly how much I love you.”
Merlin narrows his eyes and considers. “If you love me…” Another morning ritual. “Make me breakfast in bed.”
“I made breakfast for you yesterday.”
“Yes, but now today’s my birthday.”
Lancelot raises his eyebrows. “If you love me,” he returns, “you’d make breakfast with me, so we can spend even more time together.”
Merlin groans, close to defeat. “If you love me, you’ll let me be lazy on my birthday.”
Lancelot laughs, hugging Merlin close. “I didn’t get to my lazy on my birthday,” he retorts. “I had work to do. Lots of it.”
“That’s because your birthday present was a puppy.”
Lancelot nods. “And do you know why that means you can’t be lazy today?” he asks.
Merlin glowers at him. “Because you’re unoriginal, and always stealing my ideas.”
“Because Leon needed a friend.”
As if in agreement, there’s a sleepy huff from the furry heap on the other side of the bedroom. Neither dog stirs, only snuggling up deeper into each other’s sides as they dream, and Merlin can’t argue with that sight before him.
He looks back at Lancelot, only half-tempted to roll his eyes when he finds Lancelot’s satisfied smile. He kisses him instead, and Lancelot hums into it, content. Merlin smiles, warmed by the sunlight pouring over them both. Yes, he thinks, this is going to be a very good year indeed.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, a porter wakes on the floor of a hospital mortuary, and tries to find a rational explanation for the gash on her arm.