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The snow starts just after sunrise, one fat flake after another, falling faster and faster until the world is white and muffled, every living creature huddled somewhere under a blanket of earth to wait out the storm. The wind is miserable, harsh, screaming around the eaves and bullying its way in through cracks and windows.
“It’s no use,” Arthur tells Merlin when Merlin tries to wrap himself up in his coat and leave before noon. They’re both standing at the open front door watching the snow build up in the drive, a handful of servants hanging back and looking unhappily at the snow driving in past them onto the newly-cleaned floor. “You’ll never make it home. We’ll find you frozen on a corner somewhere.”
“I should have left last night,” Merlin says, but he turns away from the door and lets a servant take his coat again.
“Nonsense,” Arthur says, feeling generous. “That sad sap Edwards is still here somewhere—passed out on the divan and had to be carried to his room—and Leon is around; he’s probably already cornered the others into playing whist with him. There’s a reason I keep a house this large, you know.”
“I thought it was your father’s house.” Merlin’s voice is bland, but the little look he gives Arthur is playful, teasing.
“Details,” Arthur says dismissively, and nudges him in the ribs. “Come up to the library, we’ve some new papers from the Royal Society that might interest you.”
They spend the day tucked away in the library, pulling their chairs close to the fire while they leaf through books and pick at the food the servants bring them. Arthur finds A Gentleman’s Account of Travels with the Amazonian Savages and reads the exciting bits out loud. Merlin rolls his eyes and ignores him.
They stop only when darkness pulls in close around them, pressing in from the windows where the snow still flies thick until he can barely make out the words on the page in front of him. Arthur’s never seen this much snow—in London, no less!—and he’s sure the day would have driven him to complete distraction without Merlin trapped here with him, his toes tucked under him where he’s curled in his favourite armchair. Arthur puts down the papers he’s holding, lets himself look at Merlin until Merlin feels his gaze and glances up. Arthur raises an eyebrow, and Merlin doesn’t so much as blush, only lays his own book aside and stretches, curving the angles of his body.
“It’s late,” Merlin remarks.
“It’s barely six,” Arthur argues, but he doesn’t put much effort into it. He wants the night to fall completely, wants the clock to tell them it’s acceptable for them to withdraw, to close the door of his room and climb into his bed together. He wants to pull off the clothes Merlin had pulled on that morning, wants to strip Merlin bare and press his skin against Merlin’s, the best, the only complete warmth against the foul cold weather.
“Late enough,” Merlin says. “Unless you want to lose more money to Leon.”
Arthur shakes his head. “I think I’ve given him enough of my money this week.”
“Good,” says Merlin, and leaves with one last look at Arthur: a warm, dark look, a promise. Arthur fidgets for five minutes longer before he can bear no longer and darts up the stairs, taking them two at a time and throwing the door to his room open. Merlin will be a half hour longer, at least, making a fuss in his own room, ringing for a nightcap, turning down and rumpling the sheets before he slips out down the hallway and raps quietly at Arthur’s door. Arthur paces until he hears the tapping, and he flies to open the door with half his buttons undone.
“You’re already a mess,” Merlin tells him, grinning while Arthur locks the door behind them, leaning his elbows back on Arthur’s bed in a criminal invitation.
“You’re insufferable,” Arthur growls back, advancing on him, and sets about putting Merlin in just as much disarray as he is.