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Merlin watches the tendrils tattooed on his inner forearm shift between various shades of fuchsia, a color he’s come to relate with excitement bordering on frenzy. They had been turning into that color at least twice a day for the last few days; vaguely, he wonders if his soulmate got into martial arts or paintball or something recently.
The lift dinging open pulls him from his thoughts, and almost immediately he scowls as some obnoxiously cheery Christmas song blaring from the direction of his neighbour’s open door greets him for the umpteenth night in a row. This one features snow and sleigh bells and gingerbread men; Merlin swears that if he hears a list of Santa’s reindeer again, he’ll box someone’s ears in. Preferably, his neighbour’s.
As if the thought summons him, Arthur pokes his ridiculously golden head, clad in an even more ridiculous light-up elf hat, from around the doorway.
“Merlin! You’re home early. How do you like my Christmas carol of the day?” Arthur grins. Merlin’s very much tempted to take a satsuma from the grocery bag he’s carrying and aim it at Arthur’s stupid handsome smug face.
“You’re gonna have a home burglary one of these days if you keep leaving your door ajar,” he says instead, and goes about unlocking the door to his own flat while tuning out Arthur’s inane commentary. He notes absently that the tendrils have turned into a blend of dark purple and warm auburn – mischief and warmth. They’ve been recurring hues, too; maybe his soulmate was seeing someone, and doesn’t that thought just brighten up his day. Glad someone’s having a good time, he thinks wryly.
The next several days continue in the same way: Merlin leaves or comes home at various times of the day (or night) from work or from errands, only to find Arthur doing something involving loud and bright objects inevitably related to the upcoming holiday.
“Don’t you have to be at work,” Merlin snaps at him one day as he leaves for his own job at the hospital, himself already late courtesy of his broken alarm clock, and runs into Arthur exiting the lift.
“Day off,” Arthur grins cheekily and resumes his definitely not charming off-key rendition of Jingle Bell Rock.
“Why are you even still up,” Merlin gapes in disbelief at another time when he comes home in the early morning after a long night shift to find Arthur in the hallway with rolls of garishly colored tinsel scattered around him. His tongue is between his lips, which at the moment look distractingly plush, Merlin’s exhausted mind unhelpfully decides.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Arthur says far too cheerfully to be tolerable at at four in the morning, and goes back to trying to string up the tinsel on his door. Merlin tears his gaze from Arthur’s mouth and sees that the soulmark shaped into a ring around Arthur’s right thumb is an ironic drab grey. He wishes, a little hysterically, that he could conjure up Arthur’s soulmate then and there, lament on their twin bouts of fatigue, and then point to Arthur and wish them the best of luck.
It isn’t that Merlin hates Christmas; in fact, he’s looking forward to the week he’ll get to spend with his family and friends and amidst the mountains of food his mum will have made for them. No, it’s more to do with the constant barrage of over-commercialized Christmas products that assault him every time he steps foot outside his apartment building come the first of November.
Of course, it’s just his luck that his newest neighbour had to be a Christmas nutter.
Sometimes, Merlin thinks that Arthur must be faking it, because no one could be that into Christmas. Maybe, somehow, Arthur managed to find out about Merlin’s aversion to overindulgent holiday cheer, and amps up his fervor just to annoy Merlin as part of their petty feud that started when Arthur first moved in.
“I thought you said he was gorgeous,” Gwen teases, drawing the last word out, when Merlin comes over to complain about that right royal prat for the hundredth time. Gwen – and, by extension, Gwen’s boyfriend and Merlin’s friend, Lance – is one of the only other occupants of their floor. She had been the one to help Merlin get his flat after the last tenant vacated it over a year ago.
“That was before the stir-fry incident,” Merlin says exasperatedly. “Back when he wasn’t trying to get me arrested for “secretly trying to poison him”. I mean, come on,” Merlin waves his arms in frustration. “Isn’t that what good neighbours do, give delicious homemade delicacies as welcoming gifts? You love my stir-fry. How could I have possibly known that he’s allergic to sesame oil? And that was ages ago!”
“It’s only been a few weeks since you called him our ‘hot new neighbour with the fit shirt and the lovely pecs’,” Gwen reminds him, her tone appreciative.
“I heard that!” Lance’s voice floats from the kitchen, trying to sound stern.
Gwen giggles and continues. “I’m just saying, he might not still be upset with you over that; it could all be one huge misunderstanding. He could genuinely love Christmas.”
“Your inner Grinch is showing, Merlin,” Lance calls out, before he emerges bearing a tray of his own homemade pastries and mugs of tea. Gwen beams, and Merlin can see the faint golden glow Lancelot’s soulmark emits through his t-shirt, right over his heart, before it is awash with other colors.
Merlin knows that the infinity symbol imprinting the side of Gwen’s neck, though currently covered by her curls, will have looked similar just then. He smiles before he remembers what Lance said, and shoots him a dirty look.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he accuses as he accepts the peace offering-slash-plum tart Lance presents him with.
“He does have a point. You might be letting your Christmas issues cloud your judgement,” Gwen interjects. Merlin sputters around his mouth full of tart and she rolls her eyes indulgently.
“Not Christmas issues; it’s the over-commercialization of the holiday,” Lance recites before Merlin can. ”And no distracting from the point; you have to admit there’s some truth there.”
Merlin throws an ornamental stuffed penguin that had been sitting beside him at Lance, who catches it easily. Merlin retaliates by helping himself to another tart.
“Just promise you’ll think about it,” Gwen urges. Merlin doesn’t have the heart to say no whenever Gwen goes into Well-Intentioned Friend mode, so he hesitantly nods.
Lance goes on to ask him about work, and he takes the out Lance silently offers him, though he ignores the twinkle in his eyes that matches Gwen’s knowing smile.
Later, as he’s fishing for his keys in front of his door, he hears unfamiliar footsteps coming towards his direction. He looks up to see a dark-haired woman with striking features slowing and stopping her high-heeled pace when she notices him, the ginger-haired man beside her doing the same.
Merlin feels the distinct sensation of being scrutinized before she smiles, cat-like, and extends the hand that isn’t holding on to the man’s. Merlin’s momentarily perplexed about whether he should shake it or kiss it.
“Morgana Pendragon,” she says as he opts for the former. “I’m Arthur’s sister.”
The ginger man also reaches out to shake his hand. The ring on his left ring finger complements Morgana’s. “Leon Young,” he smiles gently.
Merlin’s about to introduce himself when Morgana beats him to it.
“You must be Merlin!” She exclaims, and at his confused look adds, her smile now a full grin, “Arthur talks about you all the time.”
He thinks of all the possible lies and exaggerations Arthur could have been telling them, and almost misses the warning glance Leon shoots at Morgana. Huh.
He’s about to ask what it is precisely that Arthur’s been saying, when the door across his is wrenched open to reveal Arthur glaring at his sister.
“Morgana,” he says, his voice clipped, then “Leon” in a friendlier tone, before, bizarrely, he blushes as he nods at Merlin. Merlin nods back, frowning at his uncharacteristic bashfulness and ignoring the traitorous voice at the back of his head pointing out how cute Arthur looked like that.
Morgana alternates between sweeping her eyes over Merlin and watching her brother, but before she can say anything more, Leon ushers her into Arthur’s flat with his hand on the small of her back.
“It was nice to meet you,” he says to Merlin, and Morgana gives him a wink and a wave of her fingers. They both walk deeper into the room, leaving Arthur by the door still looking at Merlin.
“I see you’ve met Leon and Morgana,” he remarks, still blushing, and was it just Merlin’s imagination or did he seem a little nervous?
“Erm, yeah. They seem nice. Morgana was quite friendly.”
“I’ll bet she was,” Arthur grits out, before the look of apprehension creeps back onto his face. “What exactly did she tell you?”
Merlin was about to say something along the lines of how he didn’t realize he took up so much of Arthur’s headspace, but then remembers the look Leon had given Morgana and decides to file what that might’ve meant for later.
“She wanted to apologize for her idiot brother,” he smirks instead. He had a feeling this would not be out of character for Morgana, and is rewarded with Arthur’s more familiar glower.
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t believe everything she says, Merlin,” Arthur huffs, and with another, more curt nod, goes back inside and shuts the door.
Well, that was interesting.
Merlin blinks before continuing the search for his keys, too preoccupied to register the anxious pale yellow and irritated bright orange swirling together on his forearm.
Days go by, and it’s as though Arthur’s determined to forget about Morgana and Leon’s visit. Any conversation a curious Merlin tries to make that starts with “your sister” always ends with Arthur sulking – “not sulking, Merlin, you should have your eyes checked” – or changing the subject.
Whatever happened between the three of them seems to have made Arthur too distracted to carry on with his Christmas shenanigans. He’s still his usual clotpole self (Merlin figures that there was no remedy for that), and the warbled caroling and atrocious Christmas decor are still very much present, but the caroling has now turned into hums and he’s given up on trying to spread his Christmas tinsel onto the wall around his door.
He’s almost pleasant enough to actually talk to now, too, and Merlin finds himself falling into conversation with him here and there. Gwen, in her infinite kindness, only smiles when she chances upon them in the lift one day.
Merlin allows this train of thought to take over one Saturday morning after a night of restless sleep following an especially draining double shift, when he’s interrupted by a series of incessant doorbell rings.
As he shuffles closer to the front door he can hear a faint, out-of-tune Winter Wonderland being crooned, followed by some boisterous knocking and more doorbell ringing. He glances at a wall clock. It isn’t even 8 yet, and on a weekend morning, too. Peering through the peephole, he sees Arthur right outside, holding something covered with tinfoil in one hand and the other hand raised halfway. Merlin pulls the door open before Arthur can damage the wood varnish any further.
“It’s too early, Arthur,” he grouches, cutting Arthur off when he opens his mouth. Arthur ignores this, instead beaming even wider and raising the tinfoiled object that Merlin now sees is a baking tray.
“I just made a batch of snickerdoodles and thought you might like some,” he explains. Merlin eyes the tray warily, and hazily glimpses the muddled brown of Arthur’s soulmark that mirrors his own befuddlement. He feels a spark of empathy for whomever Arthur’s soulmate is; it seems as though Arthur's soulmark is a perpetually grumpy or moody color whenever he sees it. Even as he watches, a sympathetic deep blue whorls in.
“Don’t you have someone else you’d rather give them to?” He replies, brushing off the coincidence.
“They taste better when they’re fresh, and everyone else I could think to give them to lives too far away, or isn’t fond of them.”
“And you thought I would be?”
“Well, you always get that blended cinnamon thing from the coffee shop across the street, so I figured you might like them.”
Merlin stares; Arthur was right on both counts. “How on earth did you know that?”
Arthur just shrugs. “I’ve seen you with a cup of it a few times.” He lifts the tray even higher. “So, where can I put this?”
Merlin stares a little more, and is about to say that he can take the tray from where they were standing, when Arthur spots his kitchen island over his shoulder and zooms past him towards it, setting the tray down.
“I’ll just place this here, shall I?” he says, and begins to rummage through Merlin’s cupboards.
“That’s – I – Oi!” Merlin stammers, bemused by this sudden invasion of space and barely remembering to close the door.
“Where do you keep your containers or cookie jars?”
Merlin doesn’t move from where he was standing, though Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. It’s only a loud clang as Arthur presumably knocks over his carefully stacked up pile of pots and pans that snaps him out of his confusion, and he stalks towards the kitchen.
Then he stops again as Arthur produces a kettle and two mugs he must’ve found while rifling through the kitchen cabinets.
“I brought some vanilla chai tea bags that’ll go great with the snickerdoodles, unless you have a different blend you’d prefer?” He looks at Merlin expectantly as he fills up the kettle with tap water.
Merlin starts to shake his head, then breaks off. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
Arthur gives him a look as though he were being a petulant toddler. “I’m making us tea,” he says languidly. Merlin grits his teeth.
“I mean, what are you doing here? What are you giving me cookies for? Who even bakes at arse o’clock in the morning, on a weekend?”
Arthur finally looks taken aback. “Like I said, I figured they might cheer you up after last night, so I brought some over. And I thought we could share a neighbourly pot of tea, while I was here. And I like baking in the early morning; it makes for a calming start to the day.” He raises an eyebrow. “There. Can I continue making the tea without the Spanish Inquisition, please?”
But Merlin only catches one thing: “How did you know I needed cheering up?”
“What?”
“Last night, you said. We didn’t see each other last night, Arthur.”
Arthur flushes. “Oh, Gwen mentioned that you weren’t feeling so well.”
But Merlin didn’t remember seeing Gwen or Lance, either. He had gone straight home from the hospital, too tired for anything other than a meager meal of slightly burnt toast and a quick shower.
He tells Arthur this; this time, Arthur pales.
“Er, Gwen must’ve been told me some other time,” he retracts. “I dunno, I might’ve seen you through my peephole last night, or something.”
Merlin feels his own eyebrows lowering. “You saw me through your peephole? Do you have any idea how stalker-ish that sounds? Or did you just happen to be waiting for Santa?”
He moves to fold his arms as Arthur’s cheeks burn up again when he spots a flicker of red, and looks down.
Arthur makes a sound at the back of his throat, but Merlin ignores it in favor of watching the angry scarlet on his arm become rapidly saturated with anxiously bleached indigo and a blanched tint of seaweed green, the outline of which is tinged with the fleshy pink of embarrassment.
He looks up again in time to see those very emotions brought to life on Arthur’s face, before the other man tries (and fails) to school his features. Arthur’s hands are still gripping the kettle as though he’s frozen, the astonished electric blue band around his thumb lazily pierced by the amber glimmer of epiphany.
“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly. “Are we soulmates?”
“I –”
“Specifically, did you know we’re soulmates, but had no intention of telling me?”
Merlin expects – wants – to hear a denial in any form, but Arthur stays stubbornly silent. He counts three deep breaths.
“Merlin –“
Merlin cuts him off with a glare.
“Why! Were you so disgusted with the thought of me being your soulmate? Is that it? Oh wait, it can’t be, since you so graciously invited yourself into my flat just now –”
“I wanted to woo you!”
Merlin breaks off, glancing at Arthur in alarm.
“You wanted to what?”
Arthur’s hands start moving again, and he busies himself with heating up the kettle, studiously avoiding Merlin’s intent focus on him. The burning on his cheeks has extended to reach the tips of his ears.
“I didn’t want you to – to jump into my arms or anything just because you found out I was your soulmate,” he replies with a surprisingly steady inflection.
At this, Merlin softens up. “And so you thought that – what, you’d charm me with your pompousness and your tuneless caroling?”
Arthur looks at him then, assessing and hopeful. “Excuse me, my caroling is nothing but angelic. You’re lucky enough to get to listen for free.”
They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before they dissolve into giggles.
Merlin comes over to hop onto the counter next to where Arthur’s fiddling with the tea bag envelopes, tracing the auburn on his arm that he first noticed all those nights ago.
“When did you realize it was me?”
Arthur leans against him a little, grinning impishly.
“When my mark turned into a purple rainbow when you got all shirty with me after giving me your Noodle Bowl of Death.”
“I got all shirty? You were the one threatening to sue me!”
Arthur’s blush returns. “As Morgana repeatedly likes to tell me, I can get a bit overdramatic. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been quite chipper for Christmas as of late.”
“I might’ve noticed,” Merlin concedes dryly. Arthur shoots him a sheepish grin.
“Right. Sorry about that, too. I did take it down a notch,” he says earnestly. Merlin reaches over to take one of the envelopes from him, squeezing his fingers as he does so.
This would all explain his uncanny ability to be present with his Christmas Special of the Day during Merlin’s comings and goings.
“I think,” he finds himself saying, “I know how you can start making it up to me.”
Arthur looks at him with interest.
“Have dinner with me and we’ll be on our way to calling it even.”
A shy but broad smile blooms across Arthur’s face, and Merlin remembers why he thought of Arthur as gorgeous in the first place.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Merlin beams back at him. The mark around Arthur's thumb radiates a warm shade of gold.