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Chapter Text

The shop in which Arthur found himself was cramped, poorly lit, and was so dense with incense it made breathing vaguely nauseating. There were gems and books and odd trinkets and delicate curios that looked as though they might break if he so much as sneezed in their direction, herbs hung from old, wood-beam rafters, bowls of painted shells were competing for space with carved candles and delicate jewelry and so very many decks of cards. An entire shelf was dedicated to tarot alone, and another to all manner of other decks. It was strange and alternative and precisely the sort of place Arthur would never dream of patroning.

Which meant it was, in a word, perfect.

Glass wind chimes sange merrily when Arthur entered in a rush, only to promptly slam the door closed again. He sagged against it, huffing to catch his breath, and kept sagging until he was properly sitting on the welcome mat. Really, his suit was much too expensive for that, but desperate times and desperate measures made a man do the unthinkable.

From somewhere deep inside the bowels of book shelves and... other shelves, a voice rang out. “Mordred!” it called, utterly incensed and followed closely by a set of angry footsteps and the frightened creak of decades old floorboards. “I swear to everything unholy, this is your day off. I told you to get out and stay- oh, you’re not Mordred.”

Arthur looked up, looked right into a set of the bluest eyes he might have ever seen in his life. “Hello,” he said, trying and failing not to feel too awkward about sitting on the floor.

“Hullo,” blue eyes replied. “May I help you?”

This was clearly some new age, hippy-dippy, spiritual trinket shop. There was nothing some bloke with a single earring wearing a witches hat of all things, could possibly do for him. Nothing, except- “Hide me.”

Blue eyes blinked, wide and curious and staring ever so intently. Then, underneath them, the smile stretched over his face was one that could only be described as feline. He glanced Arthur up and down, blue blue eyes sparkling with amusement. He dipped his head to the side, and with the motion the small earring caught a ray of dusty sunlight coming in through the display window.

Instead of saying anything that made any sort of sense, not that Arthur thought very much of his shockingly and regrettably candid request, blue eyes said, “You are aware you’re sitting on the floor. It’s very unsanitary.”

Arthur frowned. The chimes were laughing at him with the last of their bells. “You are aware that shops like this sell nothing but overpriced trash?” he said back, getting up and brushing himself off.

For a moment, a very brief moment, Arthur was the tiniest bit sorry about saying something that mean to a perfect stranger, no matter how true it was. But then said stranger hummed, his smile grew a fraction sharper, and instead of taking offense he said back, “Goodness, I hadn’t noticed. I’ll let the owner know right away, so we can close doors and let a primark move in. Oh wait, silly me, I forgot I’m the owner. And I happen to take pride in selling reasonably priced and entirely functional wares, thank you very much.”

“You’re the owner?” But he looked so... not normal, exactly, but near enough. Exempting his more eccentric choice of headwear, his clothes were quite usual. He was wearing a faded T, denims which had been mended around the pockets and on the knees with bright red thread, old but clean white trainers. No tattoos, no unnatural hair colors. Even the earring, strange but common in contemporary youth, he seemed ordinary. Not anyone Arthur would give a second glance to, had he passed on the street.

“Problem?” blue eyes asked innocently, too innocently. He batted his eyelashes and Arthur decided quite promptly that here was someone who was obviously more trouble than he was worth. “You can always leave.”

Yes, he could. But then, going back outside meant potentially meeting the harpy. And between her and a bizarre store owner with curious fashion choices who would almost certainly try to upsell him on an expensive ayahuasca retreat, well, Arthur could hazard a guess as to which was almost certainly the lesser evil.

Arthur cleared his throat. “No,” he said slowly, and attempted to make his tone sincere. “Surprised,” he settled on, trying to avoid looking too much at the hat. Personal choice? Or perhaps shrewd business practice. “You look young, do you run this place on your own?”

Arthur had meant it well, sort of. The stranger’s mouth hardened. “My,” he said, unimpressed, “full of compliments. Are you going to buy something or are you just stopping by to flirt?”

“I’m not-!” Arthur choked off his own words. God, that smile. Smirk, more like, a smug little smirk. Don’t give him the satisfaction, instead, he replied tersely, “Just browsing.”

Arthur tried to move past the stranger and into the interior of the shop, but the man reached an arm out and braced it on the nearest shelf, blocking the way. “You can buy something, or get out.”

Arthur looked the man up and down, making sure to linger in that judgemental way that always seemed to work for Morgana, the way that made other people start to second guess themselves. “You don’t let people browse?” The stranger was unmoved.

“You’re clearly not here to actually browse. But, I’m feeling generous today, so tell you what, buy something cheap and I’ll let you hide here for as long as you’d like.”

Right, pretense could defenestrate itself. “What could you be selling that I’d actually want?”

There was that feline smile again. Tinged with, what was that? Pity? Cunning? “I might have something,” blue eyes said, laughter lingering around the edges, then disappeared. Arthur was left, standing, for a moment, then the man popped his head around a shelf and said impatiently, “Come on then, they’re over here by the till.”

Out of curiosity, Arthur followed. Blue eyes circled round the front counter, all limbs and impertinence. He was still smiling, a bit too sharp and a lot too something else that was twisting Arthur’s stomach in knots.

“Four quid,” he said, already ringing in the price on an ancient looking a contraption that sounded like an old typewriter.

“For what?”

“For this.” He held up a coin and explained, without really making any sense at all, “It’s a protection charm.”

This man was clearly a lunatic. “You expect me to believe that?” Arthur said, but accepted the coin anyway, out of curiosity if nothing else. It looked foreign, thicker and heavier than anything standard, with grooves along the side and a hole in the center. Flipping it revealed one side had a three pointed star ending in swirls, while the other a series of runes that looked vaguely Celtic.

“Believe whatever you’d like. But the fact of the matter is, you came here to hide, and this will allow you to do just that. All you have to do is buy and it seems like the charm is already doing its job.” His eyes sparkled, youthful and oddly knowing. “You never know, you might find that it works.”

Despite himself, Arthur huffed a small laugh. “I suppose working in a place like this you need to be a good salesman.”

Most often, people took offense to those sorts of comments. Most people laughed it off, many politely deflected, some became angry. This man laughed, round and genuine. “A compliment and an insult in one. I suppose being a prat necessitates the skill.”

Arthur reaction was instantaneous. “I’m not a- you can’t talk to me like that!”

The man grinned. “My shop, my rules.”

“Talk to all your customers like that?”

“Just the prattish ones.”

Arthur dropped the coin onto the counter and crossed his arms, staring the man down. He seemed entirely unperturbed. “I don’t have to buy the stupid thing, you know.”

Blue eyes glanced over Arthur’s shoulder, lighting up as they did. “Oh, who’s that at the door, friend of yours?”

Arthur yelped, dove behind a shelf, felt his heart jump into his throat, and only then did it register that he never heard the doorbell. Instead, there was laughter, teasing and horrible.

Arthur glared at blue eyes. “Shut up.”

He was leaning over the counter to look at Arthur, eyes sparkling even more. Over the edge, he held up the coin for Arthur to see. “So, about that charm?”

***

By the time Arthur finally got home (he’d spent the better of two hours pretending to browse while he continued to do what work he could from his phone) he completely forgot about the coin. By the next morning, the ordeal as a whole was close to follow. He went through his usual routine- early rise, workout, very strong Nespresso, breakfast he could get somewhere on the way in- only to stop short at the door, his hand freezing on the knob right before he turned it.

A recent addition to his routine was the zing of anxiety that seemed to dog him wherever he went. The harpy knew where he lived, and though the footman had a talent for turning away undesirables in their many forms, in turn she made a habit of somehow, inexplicably, managing to slip past him. Barring that, she liked to ambush Arthur in the streets.

Always with those eyelashes of hers, and the nails, pressing into him, gripping. Dipping her waist and smirking whenever she though she caught him staring at her cleavage, and really who wouldn’t, she was practically falling out-

It’s a protection charm.

Arthur stared at the knob, stared at his own fist. Then he turned and contemplated his flat.

It was absurd, of course. Laughable, even. But then, what harm could a little superstition do? There was no way a little coin could possibly make things worse.

***

With the coin tucked safely in the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, Arthur was feeling... tentatively safe. This would hardly be the first time the harpy gave him a reprieve, and Arthur had learned to take the interims of peace wherever he could get them.

“Arthur,” a friendly voice called, barely a moment after he stopped out the elevator, almost as if this particular someone was waiting for him, “early as always.”

Arthur stared at her, a harpy in her own right. “Good morning, Morgana.”

“You sound dower,” she said, smiling sharply, “please say it’s because of me?”

Arthur forced his own smile, pushing past her towards his office. “Never, you’re a delight as always.” The hallways were empty so far, so were most of the cubicles. Arthur greeted the handful of early birds already in, they were the usual ones that arrived at this hour, all people he knew and trusted not to be secretly in league with she-who-would-not-be-name. He and Leon offered each other a brief, Good Morning in passing.

“Looking for someone, brother dear?” Morgana asked, all sweetness and pretend ignorance, while tailing him. 

“Oh, shut up.”

Flinging open the door, Arthur stepped into his office and tossed himself into his chair. Morgana hovered in the doorway, leaning against the frame and choosing to busy herself with inspecting her manicure. She always had a way of irritating Arthur, but this morning her radiating smugness was particularly maddening- the stress of all this must really be getting to him. He only just got in, how was he already exhausted?

Thank God for- “Where did this coffee come from?”

Two cups, sitting innocent as anything, were on Arthur’s desk.

“You just missed her.”

“What?”

“Your admirer,” Morgana said, snub laughter dancing through the word, “She was here, came with coffee and everything. But then she had to take a call- sounded mightily displeased, I’ll add- and off she went. Just about a minute before you scuttered in. Terrible shame, I know she’s been trying to catch you.”

“She’s a menace.” Arthur reached out, past the cups, and corrected his monitor. It has been pushed back, it all sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine, knowing she was here, sitting at his place at his work, on his desk, and idly sipping a coffee. One of the cups had an ugly pink smear across the lip. “Damn,” Arthur said, inspecting the fresh cup and recognizing the label, “I’ll have to find a new place.”

“How’s that?”

Arthur turned the cup so Morgana could see the label, too. “She’s figured out where I usually go.”

Arthur half expected Morgana to double down on laughing at his situation, it was, after all, her favorite pastime. But the expression wavered, then gave way to one that much better resembled sympathy. “You’re going to have to address this all, sooner or later.”

Arthur sighed, set the cup down, and slouched down into his chair. That smear of red was accusing, challenging. Disgusting. “Address how. You-” Arthur cut himself off, the anger suddenly bubbling up and chocking off the words. It had been simmering for weeks, months, ever since father brought up the ever present issue of his son and heir’s fascinatingly barren personal life. Honestly, he should be happy, Arthur could have been a philandering wreck. Instead he was a model son, a model employee and employer, he spent his whole life being perfect and- “You know what he’s like.”

Morgana twisted her mouth around whatever it was she was thinking, whatever she really wanted to say. There was, after all, no proper argument against Uther. For better or for worse, even though Morgana was only his sister by half a measure, she knew very well what their father was like. Especially, in later years, what his paranoia was like. “He was expecting you to make an announcement come the new year.”

Arthur sighed. “I know.”

“He expects you-”

“I know,” Arthur said again, sharply. Then he huffed another sigh. “Sorry. I just, I know. I know what he expects. But he knows I don’t even like her, let alone-” Arthur made a series of jerked motions with hands meant to encapsulate everything that the situation was, and Arthur’s feelings towards it. “We don’t even know anything about them! She could be, I don’t know, mafia.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow at him. He scowled at her. “Mafia?”

“Why are you still here?” Morgana was never one to idle her time away. If she was still darkening Arthur’s door then she clearly had something to say, even if she would rather rub salt in his wounds than to actually get to the point. 

Here, Morgana’s smile returned. “Well, you’ll be happy to know your luck has extended past- what’s that charming nickname you have for her?”

“Mor-gana, what is it?”

She rolled her eyes, but did finally say, “Dear papa had to jet off this morning, he’ll be gone for a week at least. Probably more.”

The part of Arthur that still considered himself a loyal son dismayed that he was happy by the news. But, well, a week with an absent Uther meant a week that Arthur didn’t have to bother with finding excuses to avoid him. “Really? Why?”

“Oh, something to do with your uncle making an ass of himself. Nothing for us to worry about, but it does mean that he’s taking a leave of absence.”

“Huh.” Arthur turned to the window, to London’s skyline and her gray sky. “Lucky indeed.” All of a sudden, the world seemed a might less daunting. Arthur hadn’t felt this hopeful since, well, since the new year, when this whole issue started.

“Quite,” Morgana said, striding forward. If she thought anything of Arthur’s introspection, she said nothing of it. “You wouldn’t mind if I take this, do you?” She asked, plucking the coffee off the deak.

“Please.” Happily, he took the other one and dropped it straight in the wastebasket. Good riddance.

As she walked back to the door, and hopefully back to her own office so Arthur could actually get to work, she took the lid off to inspect the contents. “You know, if you need a new haunt,” she started, “somewhere no one would think to look for you, I might have a recommendation.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

She tossed her hair and threw a wane smile over her shoulder. “It’s a little place, out of the way. A bit alt, not your usual.”

“Or yours.”

“That you know of,” she said, turning halfway, hand on her hip, to give him a flat look. “I go there with a friend of mine, actually. Unlike you I know people outside this office.”

Ah, back to the underhanded insults. “Friend is suspiciously vague. It’s not Gwen, is it?”

“I have other friends.” After a moment of staring, she went on, “Look, he’s what you would kindly call strange, or bizarre, or whatever other insult might happen to drop into your tiny little sheltered mind at any given time, so obviously I wasn’t about to inflict all of this on the poor thing,” she said, making her own gesture around them with her free hand. “Just give it a chance, let me know what you think.” Then she turned to leave.

Arthur considered letting her go, but he was seldom so cruel. Before she could leave, he called out, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”

She paused again, then gave him another eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“She could be trying to poison me.” 

She turned to leave, laughter following. “You work too hard, brother dear.”

Arthur watched her leave, idly listening to the echo of her heels, then a loud thud and a splash. Murmurs, then nothing.

He turned back to the monitor and typed in his password. “Well,” he told the empty room, “not everyone can be dad’s favorite.”

***

The establishment Morgana sent him to- because Arthur did end up taking her recommendation, he wasn’t daft- was a little hole in the wall quite out of his way. A whole tube stop and then a near ten minute walk out his way.

However, true to her word, it was very, as she put it, alt. It was no one thing, a combination of the moody decor and mismatched furniture and homemade baked goods alongside open-faced, Copenhagen style sandwiches, it screamed different. There was a whole wall dedicated to Polaroids alone, another to corkboard with all manner of overlapping fliers. No brand names anywhere, no attempts at marketing or upselling, no advertisements. Just happy staff and some smooth, pop-punk music playing from a speaker balanced on a stack of books. Morgana was right, no one would think to look for him here. It was perfect.

Anyone, except Mr. Blue eyes. “Well, fancy seeing you here.”

Out of his natural habitat, and without that utterly ridiculous hat, the man looked... not quite handsome- that was too strong a word. His ears were too large for that, and his chin had a pointed quality about it that lent his cheeks a sharp, gaunt edge. But then, there was something beguiling to his smile, something sparkling in his eyes.

Of course, Arthur was determined to remain unmoved. Blue eyes may be pretty, but Arthur was better than to allow himself to fall prey to such vanity. “I see you make a habit of haunting strange places.”

Blue eyes smiled, large and bright and relentlessly beguiling still. “Likewise, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” Arthur snapped, then felt silly for snapping. Then he made a point of going back to his phone and ignoring blue eyes. He would not be baited, not even a little.

In his peripherals, the man smiled even wider, clearly ignoring Arthur’s ignoring of him. He made his own show of examining Arthur. “You’re right,” he said eventually, sounding as though he thought anything but, “my mistake. I’ve never had a friend that could be such an ass.”

That shocked a laugh out of Arthur. Why did this person think he was, really? “Nor I one that could be so stupid. Do you know who I am?” Given his occupation, probably not. But anyone could see just by looking at him that Arthur was someone important. Or, well, technically the son of someone important.

The man made a show of another examination. When his eyes returned to Arthur’s, they were dancing with laughter and Arthur decided he hated it. But then, he was smiling too, why was he smiling? “A self important ass?”

Arthur’s mouth dropped open, absolutely gobsmacked and just as intent on telling this grinning idiot as much, when the barista cleared his throat. Almost in unison, they turned to him. “Arthur?”

Right, this was his opportunity to leave. “Thank you,” Arthur said, accepting the cup. Clearly, he needed to find a different coffee place, this café was obviously a lost cause.

As he turned to leave, blue eyes blurted, “Your name is Arthur?” saying it as if that particular pair of syllables were solely responsible for all the world’s ills.

Arthur should really keep walking and never look back. “Yes?” he asked, “what of it?”

The stranger, for the first time in their short and bizarre acquaintance, appeared wrong-footed. He shut his mouth with an audible click. “Nothing,” he said quickly. Squinting his eyes, he added, “Just trying to decide whether it’s contrived or ironic.”

He should really, really leave. “What’s contrived or ironic?”

Oh God, he was grinning again. Instead of answering, the stranger asked, “How’s that charm working for you?”

The worst part out of everything, was that ever since accepting the odd token, Arthur’s luck had considerably improved. His father was still in Naples with Uncle, and it seemed that whatever he was embroiled with there was keeping them both. Better, the harpy had become something of a non issue. Several times Arthur managed to avoid her by the skin of his teeth, much like that morning she tried to drop off those coffees at his office, thanks to a series of quite fortunate and unexpected events. On their own plausible but altogether elaborately conspired and borderline impossible.

Perhaps that was why, laughable as it was, impossible and absurd and ridiculous as it could only be, that was why he was talking to the man now (It certainly had nothing to do with the fluttering storm of butterflies blooming to life inside his chest, nothing at all, because that was dumb and Arthur was not about to become a poet just because he met someone with some of the most expressive, soulful eyes in existence) There were only so many convenient building sites, upended lorries, last minute schedule changes, and surprise parties that could happen within a single week before even the most reasonable of people started to become, barring superstitious, at least a little stitious.

Or maybe the stress had gotten to him and Arthur was the crazy one. He could always poison himself to orchestrate a hospital-vacation. “If you’re that confident in your wares, why ask?”

“I’ve a spotless record, with them. Call it quality control, you big business blokes ought to understand that.”

“Tell me,” Arthur asked, for the same unnamable reason he was still entertaining this conversation, “you don’t actually believe all that nonsense, do you?” He was a store owner, albeit of a small one. But to survive the center of London showed a wherewithal that few possessed. Surely he wasn’t quite so lost in the fantasies he sold people that he was entirely out of step with measurable reality. There must be a part of him that knew it was all little better than a sales act.

“You think I don’t?”

“I think only a certain kind of person genuinely believes in all that.”

The man took a step closer, leaned in, and Arthur was suddenly and violently aware of a whole three inches difference between their heights. “You know, Arthur,” and there was something to the way this man said his name, horrible how he let it roll off his tongue like the lush fold of melted chocolate, “I’ve come to learn that only a certain kind of person refuses to see magic in the world around them. Terribly boring, too, I’ve always pitied them. Please don’t tell me you’re like that?”

Arthur refused to take a step back, but holding his ground meant that he was close enough to see the faintest ring of dark, congac-gold around the blue, blue irises of the man’s eyes. “I refuse to have a conversation with a grown man about magic.”

“Pity.”

Then, the barista called another name.

***

“Merlin,” Morgana said, much later, between great fits of peeling laughter. “Old wizard with a pointy hat, Merlin?”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and pretended his headache was imaginary. “He said that modern depictions of the original Merlin are reductive and historically inaccurate.” And apparently the original spelling was something like Myrrdin.

Morgana kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. “Only you, brother dear, only you.”

And, if Arthur laughed a little with her, if only for the absurdity of there being a man out there in the world called Merlin of all things, practicing new age hoodoo magic, then that was between him and his sister.

***

“Are you following me?”

A set of blue eyes looked up, wide and surprised, and stared at Arthur for just long enough for him to start to feel the smallest bit guilty for the outburst. He did, after all, have a shopping basket in hand, clearly Merlin- if that was his real name- was just going about his day, the same as Arthur. He had almond milk and eggs, along with a a generous bag of oranges.

Anyone else might have been intimidated, caught off guard like this and accused of stalking a man. But Merlin was apparently not like most people in more ways than his profession. He smiled, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. “Are you following me?” he asked, laughter in his voice. Laughter that was quickly becoming painfully familiar. 

“Are you capable of saying anything with even an ounce of respect?”

Surprisingly enough, Merlin appeared to genuinely consider that. Then he said, “Are you following me, my Lord?”

“For the love of- you’re not really called Mer-lin. No one’s actually called that.”

“Would you like to see my ID?”

“Save it.”

The man supposedly named Merlin shrugged, and Arthur hated that he was starting to become familiar with his nonchalance, too. Hated how this dance of theirs had become just that, and how he let himself enjoy it. Merlin, for better or for worse, probably worse definitely better was not someone who let himself be cowed. And Arthur, being who he was, for better or for worse, was someone who had people like that in tragically short supply.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you might be as interesting as a reincarnated King of legend. My loss.” Peering into Arthur’s basket curiously, Merlin went on, “Live nearby, then? All that looks entirely too sundry for royalty.”

He wasn’t going to let his joke die, and it was already so old it might as well be geriatric. “If you’re not stalking me, why are you trying to make conversation? I told you we weren’t friends- You kmow what, no, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. Goodbye and good day.” Arthur turned down a random isle, this one furnished with pastas, rice, and legumes, but Merlin chased his footsteps. Or, not chase, exactly. More of an idle saunter, one hand in a pocket of his jeans while the other only barely supported his shopping babasket.

“You seem awfully concerned about stalking,” he conversationally told a bag of dried red lentils, as he picked it up. “You never did answer me about that charm.”

“I am ignoring you.” Arthur picked a can pickles at random. He didn’t need any, but his hands did need an occupation.

“Shame you didn’t need protection from nosey store owners. I don’t sell any like that though.”

“I’m going to keep ignoring you.” He put pickles back and moved further down.

“Of course, I could try making some. Perhaps you might help me test them?”

He did need tagliatelle. Not desperately, but he liked Italian food, he reliably always needed more pasta.

“Then again I’ve a hundred other spells I’m trying to make work, at the moment. You wouldn’t believe how fiddly it all is.”

Arthur turned sharply, faced Merlin, plastered his most obviously disingenuous smile across his face and said, “It’s working perfectly, just like magic. Is that what you wanted to hear? Satisfied?”

Smile lines creased around Merlin’s blue blue eyes. “It is magic,” he said, because Arthur was learning that he never said anything serious, ever. He reached behind Arthur, leaning in a fraction too close, just enough that Arthur’s heart skipped, then came back with a bag of rice in hand. He dropped in his basket with a heavy thud. “Of course,” he went on, as he started a meandering pace down the isle, “it won’t last forever.” He glanced at Arthur over his shoulder, eyes still creased.

Merlin continued, and Arthur… Arthur knew he was going to regret following him. “I’m going to regret asking, aren’t I?”

“Clever.” Merlin turned a corner, Arthur went after him, into the frozen section. “It’s only a token. You’ll either need a new one, or need to have yours charged.”

“Right,” Arthur drawled, “that’s not a sales gimmick at all.”

“Awfully convenient, isn’t it?” Merlin laughed, and tossed another grin over his shoulder, this one conspiratorial. 

And so it was that Merlin followed Arthur around Sainsbury’s, and Arthur followed him, as they continued to pick out the necessities of life. When they reached the teas they both went for the same box of Yorkshire gold, but then had an argument about biscuits, (Walkers, obviously, were superior to the digestives that Merlin championed) That debate carried them all the way to the tills, at which point they moved on to discussing the relative merits of biscuit shape versus size and the affect thereof on dunkability. And before Arthur knew it, they were already walking down the street together, and in between magnanimously sharing his clearly superior opinions on films, and books, and music, he found himself quite curious to hear Merlin’s.

It was going a bit too well, and true to form it all came crashing down quite abruptly when they rounded the corner leading to Arthur’s building. He was forced to grab Merlin by the scruff of his shirt and haul him back around the corner, the moment he noticed a specific person prowling outside his door.

“What was that for?” Merlin exclaimed. He tried walking around the corner, as if Arthur had not just, in fact, rescued him from exactly that. Arthur held him back with a rough tug and a, shh! “And you call me strange. Want to explain this, Mr. Bonkers?”

Arthur hesitated a moment, then said, “She’s there.” He already, embarrassingly, blurted out, hide me, once before. However, in this instance, their avoidance of the menace in question was much more important than Arthur’s pride.

“She?”

“The... person I’m avoiding.”

Contrary to sense, Merlin’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Really?” He tried to lean around to get a better look, Arthur pulled him back again.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself,” he hissed. Thank his lucky stars that poor blood pressure was not an issue in his family.

“Wait,” Merlin said, his excitement slowly melting away, “you properly have a stalker? A real one? I thought you were being dramatic!”

“I wouldn’t call her a stalker, exactly. She’s just... dedicated.”

“Sure, yeah, dedicated can be a word for it.”

This was his punishment for entertaining Merlin. Cosmic karma, probably. “Look, why are you even here? This is my problem, not yours. Just go home.”

Merlin stared at him, he stared for a good long while. Then said something so unexpected it had Arthur laughing all over again.

“Come home to mine.”

***

This was such a bad idea. Arthur was in too deep.

But, well, he had freezer goods. It would be… a waste of peas, to let them defrost.

This was still a bad idea.

Merlin was smiling, but somewhere along the way of meeting in Sainsbury’s, having an argument in the street about inviting a relative stranger into his home for no better reason than pity- not that it was pity because Arthur was above needing that- and a fifteen minute tube journey, the smile lost all its original, feline edge. In its place was something warm and indulgent and in the place of Arthur’s spike of irritation was-

He was committing to not thinking about it. Letting himself think about that was letting his thoughts go to dangerous places he decided a long time ago they could never go.

Merlin had his key in the lock when he suddenly turned to Arthur, and with utmost seriousness, said, “You don’t hate cats, do you?”

“Um,” Arthur had never owned one. His father hated them, calling them as untrustworthy as the vermin they killed, but Arthur never had such strong opinions about them. “No?”

“Right, good. What about dragons?”

“What?”

Merlin kept staring. Big blue eyes wide and expectant.

“If you’re expecting a legitimate answer then you’ll be waiting a very long time.”

Merlin stared a moment longer. Then he shrugged, unlocked the door, and out poured chaos.

Merlin’s flat started with a cramped hallway, barely wide enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder, made smaller still by an overflowing rack of shoes and a burdened coat hook. The worst part of it all, however, was the color, overwhelming, visual noise. Somewhere beneath everything, the wall might have been white, but he covered them. Old photographs, newspaper clippings, pressed plants set into frames, stained glass wall art, something that was drawn by a child, a mosaic made out of toy marbles, a Venetian mask, a shrunk head- bones? Were they real?

Merlin grinned like he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking. “Mi dinas, su dinas.”

Arthur was going to regret stepping inside. He was going to regret asking, “What?”

The door shutting behind him was the final gong that marked the end of Arthur’s life. This was the home of a sociopath, he was going to be murdered and his skin harvested for a grimoire and he was going to have his eyeballs pickled- “Like, mi casa, su casa,” Merlin was saying, as she toed off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat. “But, dinas.”

He started walking in, but paused when he noticed Arthur wasn’t following. He looked back, then grinned wider. “Dinas is old Welsh for castle. I’m welcoming you in.”

Merlin was a very strange, bean pole of a man. If it came to it, Arthur could take him. Might be difficult to explain it to the neighbors, but if he claimed self defense… “What is wrong with you?”

“Lots, anything specifically?”

“Who the fuck knows old Welsh?”

Merlin’s laughter followed him as he left Arthur alone in the entryway. “You’d be surprised.” From the uncertain bowels of this upside-down world, Arthur heard cabinets opening, glass clinking.

He untied his shoes, like a proper person. “It’s a dead language.”

“Maybe I’m a necromancer.” If that was true, it was probably good Merlin couldn’t see how Arthur was rolling his eyes.

“Right.” And now for the task of wrestling his coat onto a hook. They were overflowing, how did Merlin live like this?

“Would it help if I told you my cat’s name is Archimedes?”

Fucking Christ. “I would murder you on the spot.”

Merlin’s continued laughter was bright and, as much as Arthur hated to admit it, infectious. How was someone like him even real? “That’s good, then. Her name’s Aithusa.”

“What sort of name is that for a cat? Actually no, don’t tell me-” Arthur said, as he came round the corner, “it’s old something or other for something or other?”

The rest of Merlin’s flat was much like the entryway, and truly, like the man himself. It was like Arthur’s in that it was open plan, the living space and kitchen sharing a single room, though the similarities ended there. For one, there was clutter everywhere, half finished hobbies littered every available surface, the windows were shrouded in greenery, the sofa burdened with uncountable and clashing pillows and throws. There was an utter infestation of books, strewn across tables and tucked in and around each other in what might have once been organized shelving, there was even a fat textbook propping up an uneven leg of a stool, upon which a jar of something festering sat.

Don’t say anything rude, don’t say anything rude. “It’s worse here than your shop.” Nailed it.

Merlin was leaning a hip against the side of a small collapsible table. Had his state of affairs been in any sort of order, it would have made for an efficient solution to the ever present issue of too small a living space. As it stood, the table was open, meaning a tight and awkward way round to the kitchen area, and no way of closing it due to every square centimeter being taken up by what could only be described as potion making equipment. Merlin really might try and pickle his eyes, he really, really might.

“It means peace, light, and new beginnings. At least, if I remember my etymology correctly. Did I get that right?”

One of the pillows on the sofa meowed loudly. It made Arthur jump almost right out of his skin. The pillow blinked at him with small, golden eyes, a pink tongue came out to dart at its nose.

“I know, darling,” Merlin was saying, speaking to the not-pillow. It- she, had long white hair, and was larger than the average house cat by a monstrous margin. Arthur was a broad man, and he knew he would need both arms to carry this thing. “Your father’s brought a man home. It wasn’t planned, I swear.”

The pillow hopped off the sofa and onto the kitchen counter in one, elegant leap. She installed herself there, wrapping a fluffy tail as long as an arm around her paws.

Merlin heaved off the table to instead rest his hip against the counter and glare. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said, crossing his arms, “not that sort of gentleman caller.”

The cat growled. Arthur had no idea that cats were capable of sounding incredulous, and he was too concerned over that to be too terribly embarrassed about the insinuation.

“He’s not!” Merlin exclaimed, scandalized.

The cat mewed, but all Merlin had for a response was an offended huff. He turned around and went back to rumaging in the back of a cuboard.

“I take it you’re Aithusa?” Arthur asked, addressing the animal.

The cat turned large, baleful eyes on him, her pupils were two, needle slits. When no answer was forthcoming, not that Arthur truly expected one, he instead turned back to Merlin and asked the only thing that made sense to him. “You let her on the counter?”

Merlin laughed, loudly, and if it hadn’t been quite so happy, obnoxiously. “Clearly you’ve never lived with a cat. Are you a beer man, or a wine man?”

“Er-”

“Beer, or wine? You’re my guest and I intend to serve you.”

Merlin was dangerous. Arthur should leave before anything happened, before he started wanting something to happen. “Wine. Red if you have it.”

Merlin’s answer smile was pleased, like Arthur somehow passed a test. “Take a seat, Sire, will Shiraz do?”

***

Somehow, they ended up watching Disney’s sword in the stone. Arthur really couldn’t tell which one of them was having more fun laughing at their onscreen counterparts. On one hand, Merlin was an eccentric, wrinkly old fart. On the other, Arthur was pubescent, and there were few insults that could be counted worse.

They drank red, at some point Merlin produced popcorn, then a frozen pizza. And then crisps and chocolate. And all of this junk was really going to mess with Arthur’s meal plan, but Merlin smiled at him and offered a stern, “You’re my guest,” and despite his better sense Arthur stayed.

He stayed through the film and he stayed as the credits started rolling slowly past. He stayed when Merlin topped up their glasses and settled into the couch, leaning that much closer. Their knees almost touched, almost, and Arthur should have put a stop to this long, long ago.

Aithusa was sprawled between them. Arthur had a hand over her back, where he was idly running his hands through long, soft fur. Merlin brushed his fingers across her cheek, making her snuffle and purr a little louder. It almost looked like she was smiling. “You know,” he said, his voice soft like Arthur had yet to hear from him, soft and warm like the brush of lush velvet, “she’s usually never this affectionate with strangers.”

Arthur kept running his hand across her back, from the dip between her shoulders to the side of her haunch. “I thought cats were supposed to hate people.”

“Pfft. They don’t hate people, most cats are just choosey. Aithusa only ever lets me or my dad pet her. She even stays away from Mum, she’ll just sit and stare.”

The screen offered little light, but it was enough to see the powder pink blooming to life behind Merlin’s pale cheeks, the small smile playing at his lips. It was enough, but the dark swaddled them, the dark was the sort of place Arthur could drink his fill of looking at Merlin. In the relative darkness, he could think oh no, because he knew this. He felt this before, he knew the meaning of his beating heart and the heat rising in his chest. He knew that twist of terror, or exhilaration, he’d spent years very carefully ignoring it.

It was too late, Arthur should have left while he still had the chance.

Merlin glanced up, that lovely, dangerous little smile still on his face. “So?” With his free hand, he balanced his glass on his thigh. With a finger, he traced part of the rim in slow, lazy circuits, running over the overlapping pattern of crescent, blood moons left behind by the wine. With as little as a glance, he captivated all of Arthur’s attention.

“So?” Arthur asked back, and tried to ignore the tight heat building in his chest.

“So what’s your deal? Really?”

“My... deal?”

The credits flashed, the music changed over to a new song. The dark was waiting, eager to hear all of Arthur’s secret desires. “Look,” Merlin started, glancing aside, “I have a... varied clientele base.” He looked back, teeth flashing in a brief, half-smile. “One thing they all have in common is they tend to seek me out. They already- they don’t need convincing. So, what’s your deal? You came into my store and said hide me, and you’ve been insulting me ever since.”

Right, because at the end of the day, Arthur was still just a client. And there was no reason that the thought should disappoint him. After all, he and Merlin were both men, and Arthur had responsibilities, and that was that. It was probably for the best.

Arthur sighed, leaned further into the sofa, and took a long drought of wine. He decided to borrow one of Merlin’s own tactics of obfuscation. “You never answered me, about whether or not you actually believe in magic.”

Merlin’s face pinched. “You wouldn’t believe me either way.” Was that... sadness, in his voice?

“What does it matter?” Arthur asked, surprising himself in that he was genuinely interested to know. “If some random person off the street doesn’t believe you. It wouldn’t stop you from doing whatever it is that you do.”

Perhaps that was why Arthur had found himself suddenly so taken with Merlin. Because here was a person possessed of such resolve of character, no amount of pressures from the would could possibly make him cow. Arthur might not agree with his lifestyle, his business, his anything, but he could admire anyone so unshakably persevering. He could even envy it, he always did envy those staunch enough to take their freedom into their own hands.

Merlin laughed, a soft, snufled thing not too terribly unlike the content little murmurs from his cat. “No, it wouldn’t.” Then, softly and almost under his breath, he added, “but you’re not just anyone, are you?”

Arthur had no idea what to say to that, he had no idea if he was supposed to say anything at all. Either way, Merlin rescued him from having to. “Do you want me to recharge that protection charm for you now?”

“Against a charge, I’m sure.”

Merlin’s laugh was bright and sparkling. “I’ll accept an I owe you.”

Arthur hesitated only a moment. A moment was all his curiosity needed to see Merlin’s supposed magic in person.

He got up and went back to the door, sparing a nuzzle in apology to answer Aithusa’s confused, disappointed chirrup at being jostled. When he came back to the living space, prize in hand, he was faced with a choice.

There was nothing stopping him from sitting closer to Merlin than before. There was also, technically, nothing stopping him from doing the sensible thing and putting distance between them. But Arthur, flush with drink and indulgent with opportunity, wasn’t especially inclined towards sensibility.

When he sat down again, their knees were touching. Arthur almost regretted sitting so close, but then Merlin leaned in, lifting a hand expectantly.

“Do your worst,” Arthur told him, a bit like an order, a lot like a challenge, and pressed the token into the waiting palm.

Merlin was apparently theatrical. He took the token with a flourish, made a show of inspecting it, all the while watching Arthur watching him out of the corner of his eyes. Making a grand gesture, he collapsed his free over the other, encapsulating the coin between them. “Ready?”

“You’re stalling.”

“When did you get to know me so well?”

“Still stalling.”

Merlin offered him a small, secret smile, he looked like he was sharing a joke with himself. “You need to close your eyes.”

“Else the magic won’t work?”

Merlin cocked his head to the side, and at once Arthur was struck by how much he and Aithusa resembled each other. His smile now was like the first one Arthur saw, sharp and feline. “You could say that.”

Arthur huffed a breath. He wondered to himself, when Merlin started making him feel this way, when he allowed it of himself. Usually his flings were brief, exclusively sensual, entirely discreet, and never with anyone who had such a talent for irritating Arthur the way Merlin was. Merlin was dangerous, because he was none of those things, Arthur had a sinking suspicion that here was someone who might change his life.

He was too drunk for this. Merlin was dangerous. A dangerous, bad idea. But Arthur still closed his eyes.

A moment later, and Merlin was muttering a nonsense word. “Scildan,” he said, his voice taking on a strange inflection. “Scildan tohweorfe.” He rolled with the r’s, tenor dipping with he valleys and sang with the hills of ages past. There was a strenge weight to it all, an unexpected pressure rising around them. 

When Arthur opened his eyes, Merlin was very close, closer than before. He swallowed, tried for a laugh, saying, “Your magic spell?” 

Merlin’s teeth flashed again, sharp. “Just old Welsh,” he said, his voice having returned to his usual lightness, dispossessed of the weight it had taken on a moment ago. “I don’t bother with all that Latin nonsense, all the best spells are from Albion of old.”

Arthur swallowed past a dry throat, clearing it, and tried to remember what it was to feel like himself. Perhaps Merlin could work magic, how else was Arthur to explain the way he had trouble breathing when Merlin looked at him like he was. Like there was nothing else in the entire world, beyond the two of them.

Arthur’s flings were supposed to be brief and ultimately unimportant. But, no one had looked at Arthur the way Merlin was, and he’d had enough wine to admit to himself that it terrified him. “Are all spells in dead languages?” he said, trying for levity, trying for a laugh. “A thousand years from now, when no one speaks like us anymore, are they going to do magic in english?”

Merlin laughed, his was proper, and so unbothered Arthur slightly hated it. Was he that unaware of his presence? “I’m sure there’s some who already do.”

A hand landed on his, and momentarily the world stopped. Arthur froze, the coin was pressed into his palm. The metal was unnaturally warm, and Arthur was sure he was either drunk, drugged, or suffering a severe mental break, because he was sure it was pulsing. Beating in time to his own, wild heart.

Merlin’s eyes were blue. Blue and bright and it might have been Arthur’s imagination but they were much too attentive. His lips were parted, just a touch, and it could be the light but they were looking plump and glistening.

No. Arthur decided a long time ago that this, he could never have this. Merlin might be free as a bird, But Arthur wasn’t. This was too much, too deep, too suddenly.

“I should go back,” Arthur said, voice tight, heart beating in his ears. Too much, too deep, to-

God, too Merlin.

Merlin blinked. He leaned back, stared, blinked some more. It was only when he took his hand back to himself that Arthur realized Merlin’s palm had been resting in Arthur’s all this time.

“Home?” he asked, a note of disbelief colouring the word.

“Yes,” Arthur said, standing. “I- I have work tomorrow. I should get back.”

Arthur made the mistake of looking at Merlin, of having to face the shatter of disappointment cutting through his expression. “Thank you,” he made himself say, swallowing hard, “but I’ll take my leave now.”

A moment of silence, the credits ended, and the screen went black. The sort of buzzing black that came with attentive absence. Merlin recovered quickly. “Sure,” he said, all false bravado. “Whatever you think is best.”

In the fluorescent light of the London underground, surrounded by the quiet hum of background modernity, Arthur was reminded of exactly how ridiculous all this was. One evening in Merlin’s little flat, tucked away from everything that made sense, and Arthur’s whole world had been flipped on its head.

He had to remind himself that Merlin was someone entirely untenable. He was too sharp, too abrasive for Arthur’s life. There was no fling, there couldn’t be. Either because, once Arthur sobered up Merlin would go back to someone he could hate. Or worse, when he sobered up, Merlin would remain fascinating, and Arthur enthralled.

People shouted and laughed too loud, a teenager with too much makeup was filming herself posing with a knockoff Versace purse, a couple in the corner were eating each other’s faces. It smelled of burning fuel and filth, the carriage cars squealed when they stopped, and Arthur could finally breathe. Here, in the real world, with all its grime and sound and cruelty, the weight of Merlin’s presence eased off and Arthur could breathe.

He hated that there was a part of him that missed the way Merlin’s smile and laugh stole the air right out of his lungs.

***

It wasn’t because Arthur missed him. That would be absurd.

He just happened to be passing by. That was all, it wasn’t as though he spent the last several days agonizing over how he left things with Merlin.

Walking into the little shop, he found Merlin in the back, crouched on the floor and restocking what looked like a collection of owl figurines, all carved and polished to a smooth, colourful shine.

Arthur swallowed, gathered his resolve, and said, “Have lunch with me.”

Merlin, who was apparently so obvious to the world that Arthur’s presence went entirely without notice, jumped at the question. All the owls went scattering loudly.

A moment later and Arthur was on the floor with Merlin, hoping none shattered, and helping him collect them. Merlin looked at him, his eyes glinting from under the wide brim of his obnoxious hat.

“You want me to have lunch with you?” he asked, as he scooped figurines off the floor and dropped them into the box from which he’d been unloading them.

Now Arthur felt silly. “Only if you have the time.” Merlin might be alone in the store, Arthur couldn’t remember of he ever mentioned an employee.

He dropped the last owl into the box, still staring, then wordlessly held out his hand. It took Arthur a long moment, but he looked down at his own hands to find a final bird. It fit nicely in the palm of his hand, made of marbled red stone, with a bright streak of purple sediment bisecting its head, and another line of deep green running through the heart.

He gave it back, mindful to keep them from touching. His heart fluttered anyway, traitorous.

Merlin contemplated the owl, letting his thumb run down the stroke of green as he did. When he looked back, his face was carefully blank. “Sure,” he said, feigned ease, “Mordred’s here, he can mind the store.”

Another one? “Mordred? Please tell me that’s a fake name.”

Here, Merlin’s feline smile returned. Arthur never thought he might be happy to see it. “When I met him,” Merlin said, dropping the owl in the box and making to stand, “I thought it was almost as funny as my name, I had to hire him. A fine set, us.”

That was not jealousy burning the back of Arthur’s throat. “And my name?”

“Somewhere between the two, I think,” Merlin said, commiting the sin of winking as he did. Arthur stood to join him, Merlin dusted off his trousers. He was wearing wool, well worn and obviously comfortable, they made him look like an old librarian. “Have anywhere in mind?”

They ended up sitting by the Thames, holding matching paper bundles of New York style sandwiches. The wind was blowing fiercely, spring was too early for it to offer an real relief to an otherwise typically London, gray sky. Arthur’s fingers were cold, and the tip of Merlin’s nose turned red.

It was bitter and cold but the air was fresh, and Arthur was once again caught in that limbo of not being able to breathe while his heart was sincerely trying to beat out of his chest.

He kept thinking about that night. He tried, he really did, not to. Sitting here with Merlin, again, it felt like tempting fate, and fate had never been a good friend to Arthur. He knew he would likely lose, sooner rather than later, but there was something in him that refused to let go, something that became insatiable.

“A nurse? Really?”

Merlin peered at him. He was still wearing his witches hat- how it stayed on in this wind had to be magic. All Arthur could see of his face was the sliver of skin between the brim and edge of the scarf he had wrapped around his neck, all the way up to those large ears of his. “You don’t see it?”

“Well, no. I mean, not no, exactly. I’m just surprised.”

“It was years ago, of course,” he shrugged, then took another bite.

Sadness was a rare look on Merlin. At least, rare as far as Arthur knew him. He tended to wear his happiness on his sleeve, “You quit?”

He nodded, chewing.

“You miss it.”

Merlin peered at him again. He swallowed, then asked, “Are you trying to be perceptive?”

It’s a lie, but Arthur said, “You’re easy to read.” Arthur was well enough acquainted that he could tell the broad strokes of Merlin’s expression, but little besides. Sometimes he got this introspective look on him, and Arthur was left floundering outside, trying to decipher it with only half a cipher.

Merlin huffed a small laugh but refused to meet Arthur’s gaze. Instead, he considered his deli sandwich. “Too many strikes,” he said at last, “and they never really fixed anything, in the end.” He heaved a long sigh, and tipped his head back to face the sky.

That insatiable thing that had taken residence in the hollow of Arthur’s chest opens its mouth wide. Here Merlin was actually sharing something of himself, something real, something almost tangible. “I just always wanted to help people. And... it’s hard to do that in a system you can’t control. In a system that’s designed to shuffle people along without actually doing anything for them.”

Merlin finally looked at him, blue eyes brimming with weight. That real, tangible weight and Arthur thought oh no all over again. If he was falling before then he was utterly gone, now.

“You’re going to think its stupid.”

“I won't.”

“Every time I mention magic, you say it isn’t real.”

Gone, utterly and completely gone. Arthur heard himself say, “I won’t.” The most surprising part is that he believed it. Not the magic, exactly, but Arthur thought he might believe in Merlin.

Merlin searched his face for a long, agonizing few seconds. Arthur shouldered his gaze, let his blue eyes roam his face until they drank in all they needed.

Apparently, Merlin found something worthwhile. “I have a gift,” he said, quiet and sincere. He meant it, he meant it the way most people didn’t- couldn’t, because most people said that sort of thing just to boast. But Merlin said it like it was a responsibility, a cross to bear. “When I was younger I tried to run away from it, but after a while I saw the world needed me. I don’t know if I’m doing a good enough job, or going about it the right way. But at least with what I’m doing now, I can really help people. I have a connection with them, I can see them healing. I’ve never not wanted to help people.”

This would all be a lot easier to deal with if Merlin was a shitty person. Arthur had flings with shitty people in the past, so long as they were a good lay he didn’t have to think about anything else. This thing with Merlin, they hadn’t even done anything. All Merlin had done was exist as himself, unabashed and molten hot, and here was Arthur, buying him lunch and talking about his sordid past in healthcare.

“I think that’s very noble of you.”

If Merlin was a shitty person, he wouldn’t have any reason to look at Arthur as if he could open up his eyes and stare directly into the depths of his own, blemished soul. And yet, here they were.

Whatever he was looking for now, Arthur couldn’t say. But Merlin was driving needles into his joints to lock them there. Whatever Merlin saw, whatever he found, he breathed out a painfully genuine, “Thank you.”

“Come round to mine.”

Stupid stupid.

“What?”

Arthur swallowed past trepidation, too late now. He didn’t even really mean to ask at all. Or, maybe he did a little. But not in that way, at least, blunt and inelegant. “To return the favor. Let me cook you dinner.” Oh God, that was too forward, wasn’t it?

There was that penetrative gaze again, but this time it came accompanied by a smile that grew up the one side of Merlin’s face like creeping ivy. “Alright.”

***

Merlin turned in place, long and slow, and let out an equally long and slow whistle as he  took in Arthur’s flat. It was all clean lines with muted grays and whites, a bit brutalist, a bit colorless, the main room at least five times the size of Merlin’s whole flat. It was easy enough to live in, and that was all Arthur really cared about. He left making bold statements to people who felt they needed something to say.

Though, looking at someone like Merlin taking in a space like his, Arthur was struck by a sudden discomfort. It was all such a far cry from Merlin’s cozy little home, from all his colour and texture and more is more. With Merlin here, his own living space seemed at once too large and empty. Merlin was too warm for this sort of place, a bright splotch of vibrancy where there shouldn’t be.

“Swanky,” was the adjective Merlin eventually landed on. The inflection was off, though. He didn’t mean it.

Trying for casual, Arthur made a lazy circuit of his aisle counter, picking up his apron along the way, from where he discarded it to go open the door. Merlin took little notice, he was staring up at the two story ceiling. “What do you really think?” Merlin hesitated, so Arthur offered, “I didn’t choose much of it myself. Dad hired a designer, and she took care of everything. I never hated it enough to change it.”

Big blue eyes snapped to him, forcing Arthur to a stop, hands behind his back and halfway through knotting the apron ties. This was one of those times, when he said something. It happened, every once in a while, where someone’s reaction would make him confront some aspect of his life he didn’t know was abnormal. There was a young man, once, who angled to make Arthur something appalling like a sugar daddy, and he got this horrid, tittering laugh whenever Arthur said something a touch too rich.

“Empty,” Merlin said, at length. After another thoughtful pause, he clarified, “It looks empty. Like a catalog. It’s not bad, just...” he glanced around, eyes clouding over with an emotion Arthur was having trouble placing, “empty.”

Arthur looked around himself, trying to see it all through Merlin’s eyes. It wasn’t... empty, per se. Over there, on the coffee table, he had his copy of Reader’s Digest, left after thumbing through it yesterday. And on the far wall, he had his cabinet of cut crystal glasses and his favorite decanter, he was very fond of those. And though they hung in the hallway, across the door to his bedroom, he had three of Gwen’s paintings, a set she did specifically for his flat.

“Maybe,” Arthur hummed, and tied the apron off, “it’s a little big for one person.”

Merlin scoffed, but all the same joined Arthur. He stepped up the small platform that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space, and stopped at the aisle, across from Arthur.

“Wine?” Arthur asked.

Merlin huffed a laugh. One of the secret ones that sounded like he was sharing a private joke with no one but himself. “You don’t do this a lot, do you?”

Arthur’s hands paused. “Do what?”

Merlin was still laughing at- with, himself, and shaking his head. “What sort of wine d’you have?”

Dinner was finished in short order, Arthur already had it half done by the time Merlin arrived. Merlin stayed at the aisle, Sipping wine and prattling on about everything and anything. It was tragic, how nice it was, for Arthur to turn his brain off enjoy the task, enjoy the company. When he refilled Merlin’s glass, he was treated to bright blue eyes and pink cheeks.

“Mum always insisted on cooking for us,” Arthur said, sometime after the meal, after having been treated to the further pleasure of Merlin’s compliments on his culinary ability. He tried not to preen too much, but cooking was a point of pride for him, and Merlin so rarely gave praise without undercutting it with humor. “She used to say that money could buy anything but the time it takes to make good food.”

Merlin’s cheeks were still flushed, his smile bleary and tender. “Smart woman.” Arthur sat at the head of the table, and Merlin to his left. He had offered the other head, but Merlin laughed in his face and pulled out the chair next to Arthur. Now he was leaning, attentive, close enough that Arthur caught that ring of cognac-gold again.

“It’s how I keep her memory close, I suppose.” Arthur never talked about her, not even to Morgana, certainly not to their Dad. Her memory was too precious a thing to take out in conversation with just anyone.

“She’s... not around anymore?”

The tug at Arthur’s chest was like an old war-wound. The pain had long since receded but the memory of it was something he would carry until the day he died. It flared whenever he thought of his mother, her sweetness, her warmth, her carbon steel backbone. Had to have one of those, to suffer marriage with Uther.

Then, suffer might be the wrong word. While she was alive, his dad had been happy, in his own way. He was never like that anymore, instead choosing to shrivel away from the world and embroil himself in bitterness.

“Years ago. It was complications of her pregnancy, it was hard enough to have me. They never figured out what it was, just that it eventually made her body give up on her. I was fifteen.” She made sure, in the end, during those long, long days in hospital, to tell Arthur every chance she got that it hadn’t ever been his fault. That she was so proud to have known him, to have been there for his childhood. Arthur didn’t believe her at the time, and after she left he did what his father did, rage at the world. He spent his teens bitter and angry and doing everything he could to distance himself from a family name that felt like a curse. It was eventually Morgana that brought him back into the fold, but by then the damage to his and their father’s relationship couldn’t be undone. The damage to Uther himself couldn’t be undone.

As an adult he thought he understood a bit better. Maturity brought gratitude that he had any time at all with her, however short. He shuddered to think of the person he might have become, if he never knew his mother at all.

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur looked at Merlin, he was just as attentive as before. Looking the way he was, Arthur could almost convince himself that Merlin might genuinely care. “It wasn’t as if we didn’t know it was happening. I’ve made my peace with it.”

Merlin absently ran one of his long, slim fingers up the stem of his glass. “What about your sister?”

“Half sister, technically.” Another reason to rage at the world. Arthur never had the courage to ask his father if Ygrain knew, if he ever confessed to his betrayal. If Morgana’s father knew, either. Arthur took after his mother, but Morgana bore a distinctive resemblence to their father. At least, she did in her adulthood, perhaps as a child it was less obvious. “We grew up together, but didn’t know we were related until our early twenties.”

Merlin’s eyes blew wide. “You didn’t know?” he exclaimed, outraged. Oh, he said something again. Didn’t all families have secrets? Surely it shouldn’t be that shocking.

“We only found out because we had to unseal some records, when I semi-formally took over the company. She fucked off for a while, but it brought us closer together in the end.” It helped that their father seemed to genuinely try and meaningfully connect with her, as a daughter. Even in his own, strange and stilted way.

He always insisted they come to the estate, for these awful, formal dinners they both despised. He knew they despised them, of course, but he patently refused to come to London proper. And as far as Arthur and Morgana were concerned, they made peace with the fact that he would never change, not really. They decided that it was better to have some of their father, than nothing at all.

And, well, something of a blessing that the city could be a safe haven for them, from him. So long as they stayed here, he could only monitor them through what he was told, and could read of the company. He was still the CEO, but he exercised his rights infrequently, and so both Arthur and Morgana enjoyed a degree of freedom in London.

“Let’s go to the balcony,” Arthur said, perhaps a bit suddenly. It was more relaxed out there, and Arthur did really hate awful, formal dinners.

Merlin looked startled, but only for a moment. “Sure,” he said, and picked up his glass.

The wind was bitterly cold, so far up, so early in the year. But Arthur had wall heaters, and the walls around the balcony were built such that they interrupted the worst of the wind. The night was clear, so much so that a handful of stars managed to reach through the underglow from the city.

Merlin lay his free hand on the railing, slipped his eyes closed, and took a deep breath. He let it out with a sigh, like this was his first breath in too long. The wind tugged at his hair, carding through it and ruffling the small curls at the end.

Dangerous. Beautiful and dangerous. Arthur was enjoying this too much, but the wine made it easier not to care.

Arthur allowed himself a moment of looking, then turned back to the city. Her lights, her sounds, all the unfulfilled promises cities like these always offered. Arthur loved London, for that reason, it was too easy to slip into the crowd and become just another face in a million.

“I didn’t think people like you actually existed.”

Arthur turned to face big blue eyes. They were turned almost green with the distance lights, a jeweled cyan like the skies of Babylon.

“What?”

“Okay, ah, that came out wrong.” Merlin leaned his elbows against the railing, leaving his glass suspended over the distant city below. Anyone else and Arthur might be concerned he would drop it, but Merlin’s face was as calm as the smooth surface of a crystal lake, and there was nothing that could make him disturb those waters. “What I meant was, I never thought I’d actually meet someone who has...” he trailed off, looking for the words. Then gestured around them a bit helplessly, finishing with, “all this.”

Arthur hoped Merlin wasn’t the type. He didn’t seem the type, but God, how Arthur desperately hoped Merlin wouldn’t look at him and see nothing but money and privilege.

Arrhur was probably foolish for hoping, his father always said his desire to love for the sake of it was foolish. But then, it could never be that, between him and Merlin. They were men, and Arthur was still… Arthur. Arthur Penn, and all that came with that. All the privilege, all the burden.

“Don’t take this the wrong way-” Merlin continued, but Arthur was already laughing.

“You have a particular talent for saying things the wrong way. How else am I supposed to take it?” The earned Arthur a swat on the arm. Not painful, but very unexpected. “What- what was that for?”

“For being an ass!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re lonely.”

“Pardon?”

“I said not to take it the wrong way,” Merlin said, like that would help. Like that would change the insult.

Only, Arthur knew him well enough by now, to know that Merlin hadn’t meant It badly. Honestly, certainly, but if that honesty hurt Arthur, then those feelings were more a product of his own deficiencies than it was malice on Merlin’s part. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but to me it seemed like you were probably wondering if I was dazzled by all this. And I guess I am, a bit. But I know what it’s like, enough to know it's a double edged sword.” He cast his eyes down, past his glass still dangling off the edge and down into the sparkling abyss below. “When you have something everyone else wants, when that gives you power over other people, they’re either dazzled or afraid, or envious. I think it’s a bit sickening, and I think you’re lonely.” Here, he chanced a glance at Arthur. “The only time you seemed properly happy was when you were talking about your mother.”

And Arthur, he had no idea what to say. He'd rarely had anyone look at him like that, certainly never anyone who tried to understand him the way Merlin already had. No one peeled back the layers of his skin to reveal the soul beneath, and then having seen his soul, look upon him without judgment.

“Or? Am I wrong?” He coughed, clearing his throat, and tried to shrug away. “In which case I’ve just introduced my food to my mouth and I’ll go ahead and see myself out.”

Arthur dashed out a hand, stopping Merlin by his arm. “Why did you come here?”

Blue, blue, blue eyes. “Why did you invite me?”

Arthur wet his lips, Merlin caught the motion. “I told you, to repay the favor.”

“That’s your excuse,” Merlin said, the curve to his smile at once stern as it was gentle. “Why did you really invite me?”

Here they were, then. This was the point of no return.

Arthur necked the last of his wine and set aside the glass, took a breath, gathered his resolve, and said, “Am I not too far out of line to ask if there’s something here, between us?”

A certain wonder crossed Merlin’s face, threading through the creases and blooming behind his eyes. “Here I thought you were a bit too emotionally constipated for that.” But he was leaning in, and suddenly he was very close. One of his hands inched forward, leaving an invitation’s worth of distance between them.

Arthur wanted to reach out, he wholly intended to. But the painful part had to come first. “I can’t offer you anything.”

Merlin paused at that, confusion creeping into the corners of his face. He glanced inside, at the opulence there, then back at Arthur. “Okay?”

“You don’t understand, I-” he leaned forward, elbows resting on the railing, heavy with the weight of his name. “I can’t- I have responsibilities. I have- there are expectations of me, of what I make of myself. Of... who, I invite into my life. I can’t be public in any way.” Not in any way that mattered. Of course, this wouldn’t be the first time Arthur invited a man into his life. But they were always discreet affairs, emotionless, perfunctory. Merlin was none of those things and that was possibly why Arthur wanted him so badly.

Merlin huffed a sigh, short and exasperated. Borderline impatient. “You’re not out,” he said, a question phrased like a statement. Ostensibly unbothered. “And you’re asking if I’m alright with being a secret.”

“I’m being honest about my situation.”

Merlin, damn him, he leaned in. He pressed the whole of his arm against Arthur’s, it was warm through their clothes. A burning line from shoulder to elbow. “Do I seem like someone who’d be okay with that?”

Regarding him, Arthur thought about Merlin’s spitfire personality and the ease of his challenges. Of his leaving a whole profession behind because it didn’t make him happy, because it constrained him from doing what he really wanted. “No.”

Merlin laughed, a small, quiet thing that erred on self deprecating. There was a bitter edge to it. “I’m going to really regret this.”

“Regret what?”

“This.” Then he reached out, and before Arthur fully processed what was happening, Merlin’s hand was already on the back of his neck. He was already being pulled down, down into the depth of Merlin’s murky waters. Arthur sighed against him, melted, and though Merlin was dangerous, Arthur could not help but tempt this particular fire.

***

Arthur learned a lot about Merlin. Mostly unimportant details, like how he loved strawberries and apples, and wasn’t especially fond of citrus. He learned that Aithusa was an old family cat, Merlin chuckled and called her an heirloom. He learned that Merlin went to medical school beside his oldest, childhood friend, before Merlin switched to nursing. Merlin liked hiking, liked botany, and had an unusual breadth of knowledge pertaining to herbs. He tried learning guitar as a teenager, he liked quoting vines and knew a little too much about the Pixar meta-verse.

Arthur learned all the ways Merlin could say his name, he learned the feel of his nails, the hitch of his breath. Arthur learned to map his skin, until he could do it by memory alone. Arthur learned, he swallowed every lesson as a man starved would his first meal.

At one point Morgana asked him what on Earth had Arthur smiling so much. Arthur came a little too close to admitting he met someone. Instead he screwed up his face and told her nothing. She laughed at him, threatened that she would make him talk one way or another. It would only placate her so long, but she liked the game and Arthur knew that whatever this thing he and Merlin had, tragic as it was, it probably wouldn’t last as long as Morgana’s curiosity. He wasn’t thinking about that part, about the end, instead he let himself luxuriate on this rare happiness he managed to carve out for himself.

He kept learning all there was to know about Merlin, until the day he learned a lot more than he bargained for.

***

“Arthur!” Merlin greeted him happily, his voice ringing with the bells at the door.

“Merlin,” Arthur greeted in turn, smiling as the man came round the corner, then tilted the brim of his hat up to steal a kiss.

Arthur drew back quickly, overly aware of the windows, of the people teeming outside. “Anyone could-”

“Oh, come on,” he said, the faintest bit impatient. “It’s been weeks, are you really still worried about perfect strangers seeing us?”

“All it takes is one person to be at the wrong place at the right time.”

Merlin pursed his lips, glanced up at the bells as they stopped ringing, before returning his attention to Arthur. “Either you’re more of a worrier than I thought, or you think yourself much more important than you are.”

Instead of humoring him, Arthur asked, “You said you wanted to show me something?”

Merlin glanced away. “Right. I did, didn’t I?”

“What’s with that tone?” Merlin so rarely sounded concerned. He was usually a force of confidence, laughing in the face of his betters just because he could.

Merlin tried for a smile, it was tight and small and far from genuine. As he reached around Arthur, he said, “S’pose I’m just a bit nervous.” The lock clicked shut, and Merlin drew away.

“It’s nothing bad, is it?”

“Depends on your definition of bad,” Merlin said, studiously nonchalant, walking towards the front counter.

“Merlin, you’re starting to worry me.”

“So you are a worrier.”

“Mer-lin.”

He turned, leaned against the front counter, and took a moment to examine Arthur. Through his small, strange smile, he gnawed at the inside of his cheek. “Fine, I confess, I’m worried...” he trailed, looking into the bowels of his shop as if his wares had the answers. “I’m worried if I’m making the right decision. It’s not a small thing I’m about to show you.”

“It’s clearly important.”

That had Merlin huffing a laugh. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Anything.” Anything to keep Merlin from looking like the floor might swallow him up.

He hesitated only a moment before asking, “Can you ring them again,” he said, nodding towards the windchimes at the door, “and tell me what you think of me. Really think?”

Arthur glanced at the chimes. Long ago he learned to take Merlin’s more eccentric ways of being with a generous spoonful of salt. “The chimes?” he said, looking back at Merlin with all incredulity he felt.

“They have a truth spell on them. So long as they’re ringing you can’t speak a lie.”

Arthur took a deep breath, letting it out like a sigh. This man, how on Earth had he managed to wind Arthur around his finger like he had was anyone’s guess. But, along with that spoonful of salt, came a great deal of indulging his oddities. After all, Arthur had learned to sort of like them.

Reaching up, he gave the longest chime a flick, sending it cascading into all the others. “I don’t need a truth spell to tell you,” he said, approaching Merlin, “that you are the singularly most strange, unusual, baffling, utterly incomprehensible person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. And whatever it is you have to show me, could do nothing to change that.”

Merlin’s smile grew, it grew until it warmed his whole face. “Even if it was real magic?”

Arthur came to a stop just in front of Merlin, looking down at him, where he made himself shorter by slouching against the counter. He almost answered, sure, but this was clearly important to Merlin, strange as it was. So instead he used the last of the chimes’ bells to say, “Even if you have whatever you call real magic, there is nothing in this world that would make me give you up.”

Something changed in Merlin’s face. the ease dripped away, he usually wore aplomb like armour, and here it suddenly dropped away and revealed some inner sanctum of his heart Arthur was unprepared to see.

It lasted only a moment. A second later and Merlin was trying for one of his patent grins. “I still think I might regret this.”

“I certainly didn’t regret anything the last time you said that.”

Merlin snorted a laugh, his mouth screwing up with the sort of a smile a person gets when they try to fight it off. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Either this is the biggest mistake of my life or the best decision I could ever make.” He pushed off the counter, went around it, and towards the back door. Glancing Arthur’s way, he motioned with a jerk of his head, “Come on, then. Don’t just stand there.”

Now, Arthur thought himself a sensible man. He’d seen this particular backroom, multiple times. He and Merlin had stolen a very nice twenty minutes out of each other’s days not a week ago, in this particular backroom. Arthur knew it was small, with unassuming white plaster walls and filled to the brim with inventory. This room was, for lack of better word, normal.

So Arthur, sensible and non-religious and non-superstitious and just about every other iteration believing quite firmly in the scientifically explainable, yelped when Merlin opened what should have been a normal door.

“Merlin,” he said, staring, “what am I looking at?”

Merlin’s expression was sort of melancholy and hopeful all in one. “You’re looking at the real shop.” Then he stepped inside, holding the door open in the strangest invitation Arthur had ever recieved.

It was all dark wood, in there. Dark and old and it put Arthur in mind of a hobbit hole. There was a great fireplace on the far wall, lit, and crackling merrily. Before it was a plush rug, and three massive armchairs with a decoratively carved, round table between them. To the right were shelves and cabinets, and candle sconces between them, with all the same sorts of strange curioes Arthur had come to expect of Merlin’s wares. To the right was another counter, this one a massive thing that looked like it might be growing right out of the floorboards, and behind it was a dizzying collection of small drawers, some no larger than matchbox, all with neat, white labels too far away and with too small script to read.

It looked old, ancient. It looked like this was a place that had been standing for centuries. Arthur stopped at the threshold, and if Merlin hadn’t been standing inside, he would have thought this was some image he strung up in the doorway. All Arthur had to say of it was, “It’s dark.”

Merlin swept a welcoming hand out. “Step inside and I’ll light it.”

Arthur didn't know what he expected. Perhaps reality should have warped, perhaps the moment his shoes touched down and made the floorboards creak, he should have dropped to the ground and started convulsing- this was clearly some delusional hallucination.

He did not expect Merlin to close the door behind him, then raise his hand and say, “Forbearnan.” He certainly did not expect Merlin’s eyes to literally glow, bright and gold and like the sun itself and so, utterly and impossibly impossible. He didn’t expect all the candles in the room, numbering some three dozen at least, to all flicker to life with dancing little flames.

He did not expect for his gut to twist, for some half-strange instinct buried somewhere deep inside his chest, near the place he kept the memory of his mother, to tell him this was actually happening. For a moment, for a damning, terrifying moment, Arthur’s forefathers reached up from the dredges of their graves and with voices that echoed with knowledge of the world beyond worlds, told him that this was all to be believed.

He should have probably expected the fragility in Merlin’s voice when he tentatively said, “Arthur? You there?”

This was probably going to hit him later, violently. The complete and utter upheaval of everything he understood as the true and natural world. The very fabric of the universe had been turned inside out and upside down, but Merlin was standing beside him, and he was corporeal and worried and his eyes had gone back to familiar blue.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, hearing his own voice from some distant part of his mind. He wasn’t sure if he believed himself, if he completely meant what he said. But he did need Merlin to know that he was... not fine, with this, but not about to run out on him either.

Mesmerized, Arthur approached one of the sconces. “Is it actually fire?” he asked, watching the flame. It looked the same as any other candle, excusing the cast iron monstrosity affixed to the wall, holding it aloft. It looked halfway medieval.

“Kind of?” Merlin answered, now behind Arthur. When he lifted a hand to touch the flame, Merlin warned, “Close enough to fire that it’ll burn you.”

“It’s all real?” Arthur turned around, looking at Merin with wonder.

“It’s magic.”

“You meant everything you said, didn’t you? You never lied, I just didn’t believe you.”

Merlin shrugged. “That’s usually how it works.”

“I’m not the first person you’ve told,” Arthur said, not so much a question as it was a statement.

To his surprise, Merlin stepped closer and said, “You are, actually. Will knew since we were children, I was too small to know how to keep a secret. The only other person who knew, besides mum and dad, found out by accident.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that monster called jealousy, that purred at the thought of Merlin trusting him and no one else with this secret. That he alone was the only person in all the world to whom Merlin made the concious choice to share this secret.

And, oh, that was why. That was why Merlin contented himself with being Arthur’s secret. Why he, someone who lived and breathed pride in everything he said and did, who existed in staunch opposition to all that was expected and truly thrived off his own ability dance along the borders of normalcy, why he allowed himself to be tucked away. He already knew what it was, to hide himself. To possess such power and to live in fear of other people’s reaction to it.

Shit, Arthur thought, if he wasn’t careful, he might start wanting to change the world for this man.

***

They spoke for hours. Merlin guided Arthur to the arm chairs with gentle hands, sat him down, and talked. He spoke freely of his childhood, of his earliest memories of being different. He spoke of Druids, real druids, and their old rituals cast down from generation to generation.

“And your name?” Arthur asked.

Merlin smiled, it was brighter and ran deeper than Arthur had ever seen of it. “Old family name. Couldn’t tell you how many Merlins there’s been.”

“Am I supposed to believe in Camelot too, now?”

“Only if you’d like. After all, King Arthur’s supposed to return, one day.”

They spoke of magic, and of that Arthur had endless questions. How it worked, what language the spells were, did it follow any self governing laws, what were the limits? Before him, Merlin conjured butterflies and twisted smoke into the likeness of galloping horses, he brought a small carving of a dragon to life and just as easily returned it to lifeless wood.

“You’re not... freaked out.”

“Should I be? You’re not going to turn me into a toad or anything, are you?”

Merlin’s laugh, as it had always been, rang clear and beautiful as silver bells. “How about a squirrel?”

It was Arthur’s turn to laugh. “Shut up.”

Merlin ran idle hand over the armrest he was leaning over. They pushed their chairs close to each other, a while ago, close enough to lean their heads together. “You’d make an ugly squirrel anyway.”

“Shut up!”

Merlin’s eyes sparkled in the firelight, they sparkled with wild anticipation. “What would you like to see?” he asked.

“Anything you’d like to show me.”

Merlin brewed potions, but apparently transformation was a step too far into fiction. He could imbue charms into inanimate objects, but placing them on people was apparently taboo of the worst sort. He took clients, but according to him most everyone who came to him were more in need of a good therapist rather than a good sorcerer.

“Raising the dead?”

“The ancient art of Necromancy has been lost to the ages. Apparently the Holy Grail was the only thing powerful enough to do that. Oh, but I could possibly summon a ghost, with enough practice.”

“Turning time?”

“I’ll leave that to sci-fi.”

“Love potions?”

Here, Merlin smiled, coy and dangerous. So very, very dangerous. “And who are you wanting to make fall in love with you, hmm?”

Later, much later, Merlin sat with his back pressed up against Arthur’s headboard, and Arthur lay cushioned on his thighs. It was dark, but he had the curtains drawn back, revealing the city skyline and a barely-there smattering of stars.

“So, there’s so many of you. And you all just... hide? Under our noses?”

Merlin drew his mouth into a thin, contemplative line. Arthur watched the tendons in his neck bunch as he swallowed. This was his favorite view of Merlin, this way he could admire the smooth plane of his chest, the bristles of his hair, the slope of sinewy shoulders as they transformed into neck, meeting his jaw. His cheekbones seemed all the sharper, the shadows from his eye lashes cut long, delicate lines across them.

“We don’t really know how it started,” Merlin said, voice soft and contemplative, matching the silken shadows of nighttime. His eyes were distant, staring in the direction of the window and looking deep into his own memories. “Best as we can tell, when monotheistic religions crossed the ocean into Britton, they elbowed out the old Gods and Goddesses. Our people probably went into hiding, and we never came out again. After that there were all kinds of Holy Wars, and merging of church and state. And then magic became more folklore than it was anything real, and people forgot.” His hand made idle patterns on Arthur’s chest. Swirling, repetitive, he wondered if they meant anything or if it was just his fingers wandering.

“Seems a shame,” Arthur said, thinking out loud. “Seems too great a thing to keep hidden.”

He didn’t know he struck a chord, not until Merlin pitched his head down, to stare at Arthur with shrouded eyes. “Are you sure you’re alright with this?”

Arthur wasn’t, it was all too encompassing. But there was one thing he was sure about. “I don’t think it should change anything here.”

He meant it as assurance, but Merlin’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t-” he started, swallowed, then started again, “This wasn’t me trying to- I don’t know, pressure you. I didn’t want anything to change.”

“Neither do I,” Arthur said, his own brow pinching in turn. “How do you mean?”

“I told you the truth about me because I wanted you to know, because I trusted you. That wasn’t my way of trying to pressure you into telling your truth to everyone else.”

Ah, there was his old friend, guilt. How long was this going to last? How long could Arthur draw it out, before circumstance forced him to end it? And after Merlin had shared this of himself, taken the fabric of Arthur’s whole reality and ripped. “I never thought that,” Arthur said. But an unease settled low in his gut. Merlin chose to put everything on the line, but could he do the same?

Merlin still looked conflicted, so Arthur gave him a light, affectionate flick between the eyes. “Hey!” Merlin exclaimed, his hand snapping up to his forehead.

“You’ve too good a heart to be manipulative like that.”

Merlin paused, his hands freezing. It was his turn to regard Arthur with wonderment. “You really think so?”

Arthur grasped Merlin around the back of his head, gently encouraging him down. Against his lips, he said, “I don’t need a truth spell to tell you I know so.”

***

The promise of a long lunch with Merlin had been what got Arthur through a terrible morning meeting. And dinner with him later would be his prize for surviving the rest of the day.

Only, when he entered the building, the ground floor receptionist flagged him down. “Mr. Penn, sir,” she said, distress in every syllable.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur asked, glancing about them. Nothing appeared amiss.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Penn-”

“Oh, is that all? I’m afraid I haven’t time for drop-ins today, but I’d be happy to see them next week.”

The poor girl gaped at him like a guppy. “Mr. Penn, ah, it’s just that it’s Mr. Penn, sir- ah, your father, that is.”

Dread filled Arthur’s stomach. What happened? Had someone from the house contacted the company? “Is he hurt, sick?”

“He’s in your office.”

That’s worse. That was so much worse.

Uther always cut an imposing figure. Even in adulthood, in Arthur’s own office, with his father so obviously depleted after these last many years, he still slightly terrified Arthur. Only slightly, but enough that it made his palms sweat and his blood run thin.

He was standing by the window, hands behind his back, looking out over everything. Outwardly calm, but Arthur had a terrible sense of foreboding about this whole affair. “You’ve been distracted of late, son,” he said, no preamble.

Arthur stared at Uther’s back, at the crisp lines of his suit. Had Merlin had such an effect on him, of late? “Dad,” he said, trying to wrestle the surprise out of his voice and failing by a mile, “you’re here! In London!”

Uther turned his face only enough to regard Arthur out of an angry corner of an angry eye. “Yes,” he said, huffing the word imperiously, “since you’ve seen fit to ignore me completely.”

Oh God, Arrhur knew sooner or later this all would come back to bite him. Of course, Arthur hadn’t been ignoring him precisely, more like he saw an opportunity in an unreasonably busy quarter to allow himself to be less than absolutely diligent in seeking his father out. It had just been so peaceful.

“I-” Arthur hadn’t done anything wrong, but he also knew his father wouldn’t see it that way, “I’m sorry. There’s been a lot to do, especially considering the Valentine’s gala this weekend.”

“Of course,” Uther said, something of a snear curling in the back of his voice, “remiss of me, you have been busy.”

Arthur forced a smile, and chanced coming closer. Not quite shoulder to shoulder with the man, that always seemed to set him off, but only half a step behind him still meant Arthur could see at least half his face. “It’s good to see you in the city. What brought you here?”

“You’re too smart to play the fool, son. You know exactly why I’m here.”

Arthur’s heart stuttered. In perfect truth, it could be anything. Some small infraction Uther deemed legitimate, an entirely figmented offense, hearsay. There was usually only one right answer, when it came to his father. And Goodness knew what that answer might be, Arthur was always left floundering to find it.

Taking a wild stab in the dark, Arthur ventured, “The gala is much anticipated. Will we have the pleasure of your attendance?”

Uther gave Arthur another of his sideways glances. “I blame myself, of course, I allowed you too much freedom.” Oh, this was taking a hard left turn. “I allowed those around you to indulge your whims, too often. And this is clearly just another symptom of your continued and nigh chronic lackadaisical attitude towards your duties.”

“Lackadaisical?” No, take a breath, be calm. Getting offended never helped any, with the man.

Uther, as was his way, pretended not to notice Arthur’s tone. “You really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Notice what?” Arthur asked, sharper than he should have. He would pay for that.

He knows, that ever since his father deteriorated and became a shut in, no matter his spontaneous and frankly baffling appearance now, Arthur’s improvements on the company finances and running have been no mean feat. The numbers don’t lie, and they told a very favorable picture of Arthur’s abilities. So what was there to notice? 

“The projects I oversee consistently perform the highest,” he said, ignoring the plaintive edge to his own voice. “Ever since I-” wait, no, can’t insinuate fault on his father’s part, “I have maintained the success of this company. Maintained our family name, You’ll have to excuse me for wondering what this is about. I might have been a little distracted of late, but that has done nothing to-”

“So you admit it?” Arthur’s heart froze, realizing his mistake. Uther sniffed, unimpressed and disdainful in one, “I thought you might try and find even more excuses.” Here, he turned, smiling with about as much warmth as the icy touch of slim, winter sun. “I am glad that, if nothing else, I can still count on your honesty. I understand that men your age need certain fancies, but it’s time you grew up and out of yours. Long past, in fact.”

It was times like this Arthur wanted to shake the man, yell in his face that ever since his mother passed Arthur had done nothing but grow up. That Uther was the one that retracted himself from the world and Arthur was left, forced into the unforgiving limelight of polite society. But then, he could never actually say that, cruel or not, Arthur was proud of the work he did, and proud of himself for shouldering it. He would have never cultivated that strength if he hadn’t been forced to it. A cruel lesson, but a good one.

“I see,” Arthur said, even though he really didn’t. There was still a chance that all of this didn’t actually have anything to do with anything. It might just be his father looking for trouble, inventing character flaws to find.

“Do you?” Then, Uther reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and produced the death knell of Arthur’s happiness. “I’ve been patient with you, son,” he said, laying a stack of photos down on the desk. Arthur’s mouth ran dry, his heart stopped. “All these years I’ve allowed you your indulgences, if nothing else I appreciate that you’ve been private about it all.” Blue blue eyes, that was all Arthur saw. A snapshot taken at a distance, an intimate moment stolen out of time. The picture that lay on top, it was from yesterday, in Merlin’s shop. God, Arthur had looked, how had he missed someone with a camera? And he told Merlin, anyone could see, all it took was one slip. One, small kiss.

“But you’re too old for this foolishness, and it’s time it stopped.” Uther shifted the photographs, revealing the rest. One was from behind, the two of them in a bookshop, standing just a bit too close to be friends, smiling just a bit too tenderly. Another, a park- or no, a garden. Arthur remembered that day. They managed to get away for a weekend, just one night, they rented a little bnb on the coast with a private garden. There was one of them coming out of that cafe that Morgana recommended, one more from a luncheon not too different from the one they just had. Several of them weren’t even that damning, but seen with the rest...

And the last- how could a person even get a picture like that? “If you can’t restrain yourself, then it’s my responsibility as your father to put an end to this.” Arthur barely heard his father, the words and their implications barely registering. He reached out, he took the picture, and it was as if he was transported back to that moment. Regret was too small a word to describe the guilt and shame that ate him up from the inside out.

It was taken from far away, grainy with distance. But there could be no mistaking either Arthur or his flat. Certainly no mistaking the other man in the picture, all wild black hair tossed in the wind, a wine glass dangling precariously over the edge of the balcony railing. There could certainly be no mistaking the hand on the back of Arthur’s neck, his own grip around Merlin’s waist, the sweet slide of their lips against each other.

The token sat heavy in his pocket, pulsating with all the anger Arthur knew he should probably be feeling. All he felt now was drained, empty, numb. This was it, the fat lady was singing.

“Nothing to say, son?”

Was there anything to say? It was over, it was done, this was it. Here was a crossroads, on one side stood Merlin, with all his magic and joy and pride and wonderful contradictions, and on the other, the only life Arthur had ever known. And the terrifying truth of it all was knowing that while he was standing here, yet too numb to properly know whether he was more angry than he was sad or vice versa, he had no idea which he wanted to choose. Which would bring the least anguish, which would feel the least like cutting off a limb.

He’d always been afraid of this. That allowing himself the space to fall in love would one day be his undoing. And that was what this was, wasn't it? Somewhere along the way of meeting the strange and infuriating person that was Merlin, he fell in love. Irrevocably, tragically.

His father huffed, business-like and short, just enough disapproval that it cut. “You’ll be happy to hear I’ve decided to attend this year’s gala. I look forward to seeing you there- with an appropriate guest.” With that he swept away. The door to Arthur’s office opened and closed, and he was alone. Alone, but for a stack of blue blue eyes.

***

His first instinct, and it was terrible that it has become his first instinct at all, was to call Merlin. His voice, his gentle presence, his sharp quips, they all inexplicably had a way smoothing over the ridges of the world and making it all that much less harsh.

Instead he went to Morgana. After all, she more than anyone understood what it was to be Uther’s child. She understood the feeling of so desperately wanting to earn his approval while simultaneously slightly despising everything that he was.

He hadn’t quite worked out what he wanted to say, but he did manage to find his anger. He slammed open her office door and demanded, “You told him I was distracted?”

Morgana, as ever, patently refused to become ruffled. She jumped at his entrance, but then her face seamlessly settled into cool disapproval. “Hello Arthur, good afternoon Arthur, are you going to tell me what this is about, Arthur?”

“Dad,” he said, stepping and roughly shutting the door behind him. “You told him I was distracted.”

Morgana set her pen down and clasped her hands delicately. “You can’t trust a thing that man says.”

Uther had a habit of pitting them against each other. Had done, all their youth. A part of Arthur was grateful for it, the challenge made them both soar to yet greater heights. But then, the other side of that blade meant that he was always wondering what Morgana knew, what part she had to play in any given upset in Arthur’s life. As adults, they usually managed to talk past those sorts of things, it helped that their interaction with their father was limited to when they attended him at the estate.

Unless the man suddenly decided to break all protocol and indeed his own paranoia and come to the city. “He was just here, darling sister. Oh, didn’t he mention it?”

Morgana scoffed. “Right. Had anything to drink this afternoon? Should I be worried, it’s not even one.”

“He’s coming to the gala, and he just told me personally.”

Morgana must have seen something in his face. She squinted at him, then went to the phone. It rang twice before reception answered. “Yes, hello, this is Morgan Penn. Tell me, has my father payed the building a visit today?” Arthur couldn’t make out the exact words, but he could hear the same agitated cadence the receptionist used with him, earlier. Morgana’s face lost its colour. “Thank you.” More garbled anxiety, then, “No, no, I understand. It’s quite alright. Yes, thank you, bye.”

Delicately, she replaced the earpiece onto the receiver, clasped her hands again, and looked at Arthur. “What could have been so important that he came all the way here?”

“When did you see him last? What did you say, about me?”

“Two or so weeks ago, for dinner.” The fact that she answered without argument said more about how rattled she was than much else. “He asked why you weren’t there and why you wouldn’t give notice, I said you were busy, I-” She stopped, mouth slightly parted while her thoughts ran in very fast circles behind her eyes. 

“What did you say?”

“Well I- I said you seemed happier, of late.”

Of course. Arthur started laughing, high and about as sour as cheap whiskey. It burned twice as much. Of course, of course. Only in Uther’s world would happy equate to distracted. Which would in turn necessitate having him followed.

“Arthur, what’s going on?”

Arthur never planned on telling anyone, on coming out, as the term went. He never planned on telling his family and God forbid the board or public. But Merlin was different in many ways, different in entirely mundane ways that had nothing to with the fact that he was an honest-to-God wizard. That had him laughing even more, because what a world this was, how utterly absurd. How completely broken.

Something as normal as his sexuality didn’t seem so vitally important.

“I started seeing someone.”

Morgana was smart enough to know that if this was the crux of the issue, this someone must have a defect in Uther’s eyes. There was also the fact that he was laughing like a madman. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Him.” And there went the last of Arthur’s sanity.

It took Morgana a moment, then, “Oh, Arthur.” He almost never heard her sound like that, understanding and so horribly sympathetic.

“Save it. He found out, it’s over.” Something, at least, was over. Arthur still had to decide which limb to chop.

“Don’t tell me you’re just going to give up-”

“Oh, save it,” Arthur said again, harshly. He might be slightly more angry than he thought he was. “The last thing I want to hear now is one of your diatribes. I’m not one of your causes. I’m not like you, I can’t just galavant off with my little projects and my little charities, I actually have to keep everything going. So don’t talk to me about giving up.”

With that, any sympathy Morgana might have felt for him drained. Arthur’s guilt doubled. “Get out.”

Arthur should have known better, than to speak to Morgana like that. But then, he should have known better than to allow himself to get so involved with Merlin. And that was always his weakness, the moment he gave his emotions a little bit of space to grow, they swallowed him up and clouded his better judgment.

Well, let the anger have him, today. With a terrible sense of vindication, he marched out of the office and continued out of the building. Let Morgana keep the ball in her court for once, she was always so eager to prove herself. Let her handle the frenzied, last minute preparations for the gala.

Arthur had no sure direction. He walked, through the streets, past the people. Somewhere along the way he ripped the token out of his pocket and threw it as far as he could manage and kept walking.

In waves came anger and grief, he scolded himself for allowing his father to leave so easily. He should have demanded where the pictures came from, why he felt it necessary to have them taken. You had me followed? Investigated? he should have screamed. How long have you known? he should have asked.

Are you really that disappointed in me?

Arthur kept walking, into London, into the crowds. Into the greater world so he could try and catch his breath. Where he could try and remind himself that his little human life was short and ultimately worthless, and all the rage and sorrow and confusion welling up inside himself would one day be forgotten.

“Hello, Arthur.”

His blood ran cold, colder still, then it had been in his office with his father. He turned, and he came face to face with her.

“You- how did-”

“You’ve been hiding from me,” she said, her voice like a dagger. Her smile was just as sharp. “I don’t know how, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve found you.”

She grabbed his wrist, her grip cold and unforgiving as ice. She hissed something, Arthur was sure she did, but the words were foreign and strange and wait- her eyes were glowing, blazing molten gold and Arthur knew what that was-

He had just enough time to think, shit, before the world clouded over. London and her streets melted away, leaving only twin stars baring down at him, leaving only her, only Morgause.