Work Text:
“In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.”
—The Quiet World, Jeffrey McDaniel
----
There are mornings, there are afternoons, and then there are nights.
Mornings are what Arthur tolerates. He wakes each morning to a flat, empty other than himself; to dull sunlight spilling through the sixth-story window onto the vacant pillow beside his own. The sheets are always crisp and uncreased, as if they don’t register Arthur occupying them at all.
In mornings past, his flat might have been filled with noise: BBC One broadcasts spilling from his alarm at 6:15, prompt, Arthur cursing to himself as he stubs his toe against the foot of the dresser on his way to the toilet. Voices of the middle-aged couple next door, raised and tense, arguing, drifting through the walls as he showers. News reporters chirping about this and that—this is the weather, this is the traffic, this is how you should be feeling today—as he makes his breakfast of toast (two slices, with jam) and tea.
But there is no presence other than Arthur himself, anymore, no mumbled curses or neighbors or reporters to tell him how he should feel each day. Instead, he is left to decide for himself.
Arthur bases his mornings on the sound the water makes in the shower; smacking against the ceramic tiles—harsh, like bullets. Loud enough to echo throughout the bathroom, probably the entire flat, although Arthur has never checked. He listens to the slap of his wet feet on the floor when he gets out, the scratching of the razor against his skin when he shaves. When he goes to his kitchen, he listens for the ching! of the toaster when his bread pops up. The scrape of his knife against the bread. His own chewing; his own exaggerated, drawn-out swallows.
Some mornings, Arthur is convinced the volume of all these things (cars whizzing past down below, the creak of the cupboard door, birds outside, singing, screaming, because they can) will drive him mad.
But instead of lingering on those thoughts, he leaves his flat—key clicking in the doorknob nicely, loud, of course, and secure—and goes to work.
Depending on what kind of sounds his morning has yielded thus far, Arthur will either walk or take the Tube. Each has its own advantages, of course—walking takes him past the Tesco just two blocks down from his flat, where he will sometimes catch a stray word or phrase, past the park to his right where people walk their dogs, hoping for them to bark at the squirrels chasing each other about, past the school bus stop where six children stand each morning, silent and stubborn, waiting for someone else to slip up first. The Tube is quicker, but usually proves to be less satisfying. Arthur finds the people there almost always completely silent—attention not on those around them, but rather on the newspapers in their laps, the iPhones gripped tight in their fists.
Then again, the ride is sometimes worth it for the smooth, female voice that announces, clipped and metallic over the intercom, “Notting Hill Gate. Gloucester Road. South Kensington.”
This morning, Arthur walks. He chooses to spend his “Good morning” on Gaius, the man who owns a small bookshop a few blocks away from his office, only because he looks so unsuspecting, hunched over and setting up his display outside. A beaming smile is his reward.
----
Afternoons aren’t any easier. By 1:00, Arthur has usually had enough of clicking keyboards and heels clacking on linoleum and slamming doors to last him the entire week, if not a lifetime.
Today, Arthur’s acquired a headache roughly the size of Russia, and has to slam the papers he’s holding down on his desk because if they crinkle in his hand just one more time, so help him God. The only person to speak to him so far today has been his PA, who managed to slip out “documents are faxed, what—” before snapping her mouth shut, the click resounding stubbornly in Arthur’s ears, as she realized she could just as well relay the message to Arthur via post-it note.
To make up for it, he leaves the office for lunch with Lance and Gwen, who are from accounting and advertising, respectively. They’re his two best mates from work, they are, and he appreciates that on days like this—the ones that seem endless, not quite worth it—they seem to save a few words for him, especially.
They walk to a small caff not far from the office, where Arthur points to “fish and chips” on the menu; smiles politely at their waiter when he nods and looks to Lance and Gwen in turn, inclining an eyebrow as means of requesting their orders.
While they wait for their food, Gwen shifts in her seat, covers Lance’s hand with her own to imply that her next words are coming from both of them. “How are you?” she asks, eyes earnest as they search Arthur’s, in case he doesn’t have the words to answer.
He does, but he pauses a moment before he replies, lets Gwen’s voice sink into his eardrums, his skin, like music, before he breaks the moment. He often forgets the gentle lilt of her voice; how it comforts and eases him.
“Missing,” is the word he chooses. He knows Gwen and Lance well enough; spent enough time with them, in the old days, to trust them to understand what he means. They do, if Gwen’s sad smile is anything to go by. Lance portrays his sympathy through a slight nod, as if he understands. As if he possibly could.
After they finish their food, Arthur walks behind his friends on the way back to the office. His eyes settle on Guinevere’s hand folded into Lance’s, and his jaw locks shut.
---
Nights are the reasons Arthur endures mornings and afternoons.
When he gets back from lunch at 3, he rushes through the last few hours standing between him and the end of the workday. He usually finishes up at 6, leaves by 6:15, is home by 7, but today, there is something desperate strung along inside his chest, something a bit wretched tucked up tight behind his teeth. He’s a little forlorn, maybe. Just a bit miserable. Missing.
So today, he finishes at 5:30; rushes out without saying goodbye to anyone because he decides no one’s earned it. He takes the Tube just to save those extra ten minutes, and itches the entire time he’s wound up in his seat. He jumps at the laughter of two women seated across from him. Doesn’t bother to lean forward, soak in their sparse conversation.
He is home at 6:20, and it is only then that he realizes it does not matter that he’s rushed. He has to wait, either way—the late shift at the coffeeshop ends at 9, so Arthur has until 9:30, at the earliest.
Instead of moping about it, he sets about making dinner—just a bit of pasta, he’s never been the best cook—and settles down with it in front of the TV he rarely uses, a Chaplin film playing out before him.
At 8:42, Arthur’s mobile rings, and he shoots upright from where he’s been slumping into the sofa, trying his hardest to ignore the digital numbers blinking at him from the cable box.
He fumbles for the side table where he left his phone, wondering—it’s too early, surely, there’s no way. But small miracles do show their faces around Arthur every now and then, and he stares at the caller ID in wonderment until the word fully registers. He breaks into a grin that he’s sure looks quite ridiculous, quite unaccustomed to be taking up residence on his normally stoic face. He flips the phone open, and, pressing it to his ear, feels a wave of relief so grand, so violent, that he can’t help the laughter that bubbles up out of him.
“Merlin.” The word escapes him in a soft exhale. He doesn’t care enough to even try to reel it back in; wouldn’t deny to anyone that it’s his favorite word to say. The curl of the r on his tongue, the finality of the n.
He hears the smile before Merlin even speaks. “Arthur,” he greets, like the word holds more meaning than a mere name.
Arthur isn’t usually the dramatic type, but today, hearing the word feels no less significant than he imagines a gulp of fresh air would feel to a drowning man—like tipping his chin above the surface, if only for a moment.
“I used twenty-two today,” Arthur says proudly, counting as he goes. “I’ve saved the rest for you.”
When Merlin doesn’t respond, Arthur knows that he’s used one-hundred and sixty-six words throughout his day, and saved just the one for Arthur; for his name, for his ears. It’s enough.
Arthur is up to thirty-three now, and sets off into the last one hundred and thirty-four. He’s been planning these words all day, preparing what to say, imagining how they’ll sound to Merlin’s ears. Like a prayer, he hopes.
He asks Merlin how his day was, even though he knows he won’t get an answer, because he wants Merlin to know that he cares, anyway; would like to know. Asks him how his mother is, silently hoping the last round of chemotherapy went better. He tells Merlin that he walked to work this morning. That he spent his good morning on Gaius. That he talked with Lance and Gwen, although that’s a bit of an overstatement. He tells him of the pasta with tomato sauce he ate for dinner.
It is 10:17, and Arthur has seventy-two words left. He has stretched out the sentences he’s used so far, leaving gaps of time between to listen to Merlin pull in air through his nose. He knows Merlin is still listening, but he likes to make his words last as long as he can. He wishes he could hear Merlin’s voice. He wishes, but he doesn’t begrudge the fact that Merlin is who he is. He forgets, Merlin does; he spills words to almost everyone he comes across, hoping to brighten their day with the knowledge that some stranger cares enough to smile and say, “You look nice today.” He is too polite. He says “please” and “thank you,” much to the surprise of those around him. As if the words are ones people still use, besides him. But perhaps, Arthur thinks, they mean more this way than they ever did before.
No, Arthur doesn’t resent this. He loves it about Merlin, how can he not? His desire to make other people happy; his constant optimism, present even when speech cannot be.
He wishes he could tell all this to Merlin, but he is almost out of words.
Instead, he says, “They say this is so we look into one another’s eyes more often.” Pauses, listens to Merlin inhale. Pictures him lying on a sofa in the dark, as Arthur is, only in his mum's house in Wales instead of here, next to him. Imagines the soft curve of his eyelashes against his cheek, and the pink of his tongue, darting out to wet his lips, as if he wants to speak. As if he wants Arthur to know.
“But Merlin, there’s no one here I need to see. If I had you with me, I’d know your eyes better than I know the shape of your words, the rise and fall of your lungs.”
He waits for the catch of Merlin’s breath that he knows will come; that always does. It feels like a hook attached to Arthur’s chest, pulling his heart this way and that. He knows it will always follow wherever Merlin goes.
It is 11:56, and Arthur has twenty-three words left. “I love you,” he says. He spends his last twenty on the same three words again and again, all the way until 11:59, when he has to stop after “love,” and wait for the clock to change until he can finish,
—12:00am, midnight, “you.” And he stays on the phone, breathing, listening. Staving off sleep for as long as he can, in favor of continuing to memorize the cadence of Merlin’s exhales.
He saves the rest of his one hundred and sixty-six for later.