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Somewhat predictably, Gwen spends the next week and a half hiding from Arthur. To be honest, she doesn’t have to try very hard, as he’s busy doing whatever the hell it is that future kings of England do. But there are a couple phone calls she lets ring through to voicemail, a couple texts she ignores. Unfortunately Merlin, coming round to her flat inquiringly, is a little harder to put off.
“He thinks you’re avoiding him,” he says.
“Am not,” Gwen says, putting the kettle on and searching through her boxes of tea.
“Anything but Earl Grey,” Merlin says. “And if you’re not avoiding him, then why haven’t you returned any of his calls?”
“I’ve been busy,” Gwen says, staring in dismay at all the boxes of Earl Grey. “And what are you, his—”
“Private secretary,” Merlin interrupts. “Did you forget?”
“Well, he should know better than to send someone else to do his work for him,” Gwen sniffs.
“So I should tell him to come round then?”
“No!”
Merlin smirks at her. “You have to admit, getting people to run messages around for him is kind of in his job description.”
“Yes, exactly,” Gwen says. “He’s the prince. I cannot talk to the prince of bloody Wales about how I made out with him two weeks ago. I just can’t, it’s too weird.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you stuck your tongue down his throat.” He ducks as she throws the box of Earl Grey at him.
“You are not helping.”
He smiles before delicately ripping open the package and dropping a tea bag into his mug. Then he says hesitantly, “You know, he’s just a boy—”
“Oh, Merlin, he is not just a boy,” Gwen scoffs.
“Okay fine, he’s not just any boy,” Merlin allows, “but he is still a boy who made out with a girl and now is wondering why she won’t call him back.”
Gwen huffs, taking Merlin’s cup of undrunk Earl Grey for herself.
“Look,” he says gently. “If you’re genuinely not interested at all, that’s one thing. But either way, prince or not, he still deserves to be told. No one likes to be left hanging.”
“Oh, fine, you’re right. I’ll talk to him.”
“Oh, thank god,” Merlin says. “Because I am so sick of hearing him complain about it.”
*
With any other boy, she’d send a text asking if he wanted to meet for coffee at the local cafe. This is not, obviously, possible with His Royal Highness the Prince of Freaking Wales. And she doesn’t want to go to Clarence House, the scene of the, uh, crime, as it were. While Arthur’s done a fairly good job at making the place seem less like a palace and more like a very large, very imposing flat of a very rich person, Gwen can’t face having that embarrassing “Sooo, we kissed, what now?” conversation anywhere remotely royal or remotely related to their prior makeout session.
Fortunately, Morgana inadvertently comes to the rescue, ringing the next day about the Phillips wedding.
“Leon has to go to the MTV awards,” she complains. “He thought he was off the hook, but the label is making the band go. They’re not performing or even presenting, it’s utter bollocks, and now I don’t have a date for Percy’s wedding this weekend.”
“Morgana, I am sure there are a million blokes who’d jump at the chance to escort you to a semi-royal wedding,” Gwen says, tucking the phone on her chin as she absently checks email.
“Oh please, I do that and the papers will be all over me for allegedly stepping out on Leon,” Morgana says.
“So I guess Arthur’s out of the question too, then,” Gwen says, and then pauses. “Or does he already have a date?”
“Subtle, Gwen,” Morgana replies. “I can’t go with Arthur, the bloody Daily Mail will never let that go, and besides, he’s a totally boring date, always getting dragged away to talk to people.”
“Ah,” Gwen says and waits.
“And I have no idea if he’s got a date or not, maybe if you bothered calling him back you’d know that,” Morgana finishes.
“How did you—?”
“Merlin won’t shut up about how annoying he’s being. Look, it’s a wedding, we’ll get dressed up, have a few drinks, and hide in the cloakroom and make fun of people’s outfits. It’ll be fun!”
“Well…” Gwen thinks for a moment. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Ha,” Morgana says. “Leave that to me.”
“Oh, god,” says Gwen.
*
Because Morgana is not at heart a mean person and because she knows Gwen will not leave the house in anything outlandish, the dress she ends up picking is actually rather nice. Well, except for the color.
“It’s very…pink,” Gwen says doubtfully.
“Pink is in,” Morgana says. “Didn’t you see all the Paris shows?” Gwen looks at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Just trust me.”
“Why can’t I have something like your dress?” Gwen frowns, glancing enviously at the gorgeous green satin that slinks over Morgana’s body. “Although really, Morgana, is that entirely appropriate for a wedding?”
“It’s Versace,” Morgana protests, offended. “Versace is always appropriate. And no, don’t you dare ever wear this color green, it’ll make you look sickly. Gwen, we’re going to be late!”
“Ugh,” Gwen says, and stalks into her bathroom.
“See,” Morgana says a few minutes later.
“Oh, shut up,” Gwen says, smoothing the silk over her hips. The deep rose color does bring out her skin tone, and the cut is flattering in all the right places—but she’s not going to give Morgana the satisfaction of knowing that.
“Shoes,” Morgana says, and then together they clatter down the stairs and into the waiting car.
The wedding is at some jaw-dropping estate that comes complete with its own church just outside of London, and the weather has cooperated with one of those too-few late summer days, with just the right amount of breeze to keep from getting overheated. The first thing Gwen notices is the hats. There are many hats, in all different shapes and sizes, and the only thing they have in common is their propensity to defy gravity. “Why aren’t you wearing a hat?” she asks Morgana as the latter snags two glasses of champagne.
“And cover up my hair?” Morgana replies, sipping.
“Oh, of course.”
There are tents set up all over the lawn, and people drift in and out, conversing. White-jacketed waiters swoop and glide efficiently around, proffering drinks and appetizers. There are actually a few faces she recognizes, people from Arthur’s circle or Morgana’s secondary school friends, and they spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries with this or that elegantly dressed person. Then Gwen catches sight of Merlin, looking surprisingly handsome in his suit, and a flash of blond hair.
“Let’s go—over there!” she says hurriedly, dragging Morgana away from a white-haired lady who might have been named Alice or Elise.
“What?” Morgana says. “What?”
“Come on.” Gwen tugs her friend across the lawn and into the safety of a tent.
“Gwen, the hell?”
“Sorry, I just—really wanted to see the inside of this tent.”
Morgana narrows her eyes. “I thought you wanted to talk to Arthur.”
“I do! I will! Just…not right now.”
“When, Gwen? Because let me tell you, I can’t take much more of him sulking around like an idiot. I swear, it’s like he’s never been rejected before.” She pauses, considering. “Actually, he probably hasn’t. Hmm.”
“I’m not—rejecting him! I’m not anything him.”
“‘Not anything him?’” Morgana repeats. “What does that even mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know! Look, I haven’t—I don’t know what I’m feeling yet, all right? I promise I will talk to him.”
“Today,” Morgana says sternly.
“Yes, today. Just give me a bit, okay?” Gwen fidgets under Morgana’s assessing stare. Finally the other girl shrugs and presses another glass of champagne into Gwen’s hand.
“You really think drinking will help the situation?” Gwen asks.
“Probably can’t hurt,” Morgana grins.
“Morgana! Gwen!” a voice exclaims and they swing around to see Elena striding towards them.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Morgana says, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.
“Arthur called at the last minute, of course,” Elena says, rolling her eyes, and moves to kiss Gwen as well.
“Ah,” Morgana says, directing a significant glance at Gwen. Elena, of course, notices right away.
“What?”
“It’s nothing,” Gwen starts as Morgana says, “Gwen snogged Arthur, and now she’s avoiding him.”
“Morgana!”
“What? It’s Elena,” Morgana says, as though this explains everything. Which, Gwen supposes, it sort of does.
“Well, keep your voice down,” Gwen scolds, “someone could hear.”
“Sooo,” Elena says. “When did this happen?”
“A couple weeks ago,” Gwen says. “But it wasn’t a big deal. I don’t think. I don’t know.”
“She really doesn’t know,” Morgana says confidingly. “It is very amusing for the rest of us.” She serenely ignores the dirty look Gwen sends her way and asks Elena, “He hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”
Elena shakes her head, her lips pursed. “No, but then again, I’ve barely talked to him today. He’s been off with his father the entire time. Which reminds me, I have to make him spare at least five minutes for a strategic photo-op.”
“You know,” Morgana says critically, “using Arthur to make Vivian jealous only works if she doesn’t already know you’ve never in your life been interested in him.”
Elena groans, thumping her forehead dramatically against the small hightop table currently holding their drinks. Morgana winces and Gwen grabs the champagne flutes before they can fall.
“I know,” Elena wails, “I am so bad at this! I thought all the mind games were only supposed to be for all you straight people.”
“Everyone plays games,” Morgana says briskly. “Buck up and get better at it.”
Gwen gives Morgana an exasperated look and says, “Ignore her, Elena. I really don’t think trying to make Vivian jealous is the best strategy here. You should call her after the ceremony, talk to her.”
“Oh, like the talk you’re going to have with Arthur?” Morgana’s smirking, eyebrows raised.
Gwen makes a face. “Sometimes I don’t like you.”
“Nonsense,” Morgana says, linking arms with Gwen and Elena and herding them back outside. “You couldn’t live without me.”
*
The only downside to being Morgana’s date is that they have to sit right behind the royal family in the church. Gwen’s braced herself for Arthur’s glance as he follows his father and seats himself, but all he does is raise an eyebrow at her before nodding to Morgana and the rest of the row. She deflates a little, frowning.
Fortunately, the ceremony isn’t very long. The bride cries, and the bridesmaids take turns wrestling with her truly ridiculous train. The groomsmen look very handsome and very stoic, and Morgana smirks, “Is it wrong that I know what most of them look like naked?”
Gwen elbows her in the ribs, as is only proper.
Afterwards, Morgana gets ensnared by some stuffy-looking men and Gwen goes darting down a random hallway before she can get stuck listening to them complain about Uther’s latest policies. She’s about to round a corner when a hand reaches out and spins her into an alcove.
It’s Arthur. His suit is even better-looking up close and he smells incredible, and she would be reminded of all the reasons why she snogged him in the first place, except that he’s frowning at her.
“Hi,” she says, for lack of anything better.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says point-blank.
“Uh,” she says. “Well. Yes. But don’t I always?”
He blinks. “You haven’t avoided me since the first time you yelled at me, and that was ages ago. It’s not about the kissing, is it? Cause I thought—” he lowers his voice a little—“I mean, it seemed like you, uh, enjoyed that part.”
“Oh! Yes. That part was—nice,” Gwen says awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to call you back. I’ve just been…busy.”
“Busy,” he repeats. “I see.” His face clears and he steps back. “Well, sorry to have bothered you again.” He’s about to move out of the alcove when Gwen shakes herself a little in frustration. “No, Arthur, wait. I didn’t mean it like that. I just…this is weird, all right? I mean, you’re you, and I’m me, and I don’t really know…”
“What do you mean, ‘You’re you and I’m me?’” he asks. “We’re the same people we were before.”
“Yes, but I hadn’t snogged you before,” Gwen says, exasperated.
His brows go up. “Soooo, you have no problem yelling at me, but as soon as we swap bodily fluids, it’s weird.”
“Well, it was considerably less weird before you used the phrase ‘swap bodily fluids,’” Gwen points out.
Arthur grins at this. “Sorry. That was rather gross, wasn’t it?”
“A little bit.”
“Well…”
“Yeah… Um.”
There’s an awkward silence. Gwen fidgets as Arthur’s eyes sweep around desperately. Then just as she rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to take the situation in hand, Arthur says, “Bugger it,” steps forward, slides his hand under her chin and kisses her.
It goes on for quite some time. The kiss, that is. Gwen snakes her fingers underneath Arthur’s jacket, and his hands find their way down her bum, and then they stumble into a wall and he anchors her body securely against it, his knee slipping in between her thighs.
Gwen’s quite enjoying the feeling of his chest against hers and his tongue in her mouth and she can’t totally remember all the reasons she had against snogging him again. One of his hands drops to her thigh, pulling up the hem of her dress, and she knows in the back of her mind that this is probably a bad idea on many, many levels, but then his other hand drifts up her side and cups her breast through her dress and she stops caring.
“Arthur, I don’t—augh, not again!” wails Merlin. Arthur and Gwen jerk apart. Merlin’s half turned away, his hands over his face. “I cannot take any more of this. I can’t keep walking in on the two of you making out in public places, it is not good for my nerves.”
“What have your nerves got to do with anything?” Arthur asks irritably as Gwen tries hastily to straighten her dress.
“I stay up at night worrying about someone other than me walking in on you—say, a member of the press?” Merlin says acidly. “Who are here, by the way. And then I have to deal with the fallout. You two. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I am going to wait at the end of the hallway and you are going to talk about this, and you’re not going to leave this alcove until it’s resolved.”
“What if my father comes looking for me?” Arthur says.
“You are not going to leave this alcove until it’s resolved or your father comes looking for you,” Merlin amends. Gwen opens her mouth to object and he says a little wildly, “Don’t talk to me! Talk to him!” Then he stalks off down the hallway, radiating disapproval.
“Well,” Arthur says, looking a little taken aback.
“Yeah,” Gwen agrees a bit sheepishly. “Look—”
“Gwen, I—” he says at the same time. They both stop and grin awkwardly at each other.
“Why are we so bad at this?” Gwen says plaintively.
“I don’t know! I’m not normally this bad,” Arthur says.
“That’s not what I’ve been told,” she grins.
He rolls his eyes. “Look, whatever people have said—”
“I was joking, Arthur.”
“Hmph.”
She sighs. “I am sorry for not returning your phone calls. I know it’s probably frustrating for you to hear, but it’s not easy, the idea of you.”
His lips twist crookedly. “I know. I do know. I just—this whole situation is weird to me. You’re not like the other girls I’ve ever been interested in before, and I don’t know how to deal with it, really. Actually,” he says, looking into her eyes, “that’s one thing we’ve got in common. Neither of us know how to deal with the other person. That could be something.”
She frowns skeptically. “I’m not sure how we’re supposed to navigate a relationship where we don’t know how to deal with each other, Arthur.”
“Well, that’s just it,” he says. “We’re both feeling rather off-kilter here. Let’s be off-kilter together.”
Gwen laughs. “That’s…”
“I know,” he says. “But Gwen…” He trails off, stepping closer and crowding her back against the wall. His hands fist into the material of her dress at her hips. “This is something. You can’t deny it.”
She bites her lip, furrowing her brow and he groans. “What?”
“You, just now, biting your lip. You can’t do stuff like that and expect me not to react.”
“Oh,” she says, heat rising into her cheeks. “Sorry.”
Arthur snorts, pressing his body into hers. “Don’t apologize. Believe me, I didn’t mind.”
“So…” she begins uncertainly, trying to ignore the swooping sensation in her stomach at the feeling of him against her.
“Look. We can go as slowly as you want. I’m okay with slow. But I think we owe it to ourselves to at least try, don’t you?” He cups her chin, running a thumb over her cheekbone. It drifts lower, grazing her lips, and she shakes her head. “Arthur. We should focus.”
“I am focused,” he says, his voice dropping lower, then his head follows suit and he kisses her again. A few breathless moments later, she pushes him away. “Arthur. Seriously.”
“Sorry,” he says, his grin unrepentant. Then his expression clears and he says, “All right. Seriously. Come over tomorrow night. I’ll cook you dinner.”
Gwen raises a brow. “Have you ever cooked in your life?”
“I’ve observed.”
“Because I remember what happened when Morgana tried to cook something. I’m pretty sure the fire department hasn’t forgiven me. I know my landlord hasn’t.”
“Please,” he sniffs, “I am going to be loads better than Morgana, give me some credit.”
“I’ll bring takeaway menus, just in case,” Gwen says.
“You have no faith,” Arthur says.
“I’m a realist,” she corrects, and then smiles. “Okay. It’s a date.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “Looks like it is.”
**