Chapter Text
Part I
o-o-o
The thing was: destiny did not always have a good start.
Sometimes, destiny started a Friday morning in September in the amphitheatre 2 of the Literature Department during the Music History discovery class where only half of the students had turned up, most of them still hungover from the night before. Two weeks later, professors will be sending emails, begging students to actually come to the discovery classes, inventing a mandatory attendance mark which did not exist (and will not) to make them come; predictably, it was mildly efficient.
Merlin was one of the students who actually did turn up this first Friday morning. Contrary to what his friends liked to believe and spread around like the pests they were, he did not skip class that often, and he did not intend to skip his first Music History class despite how optional it seemed.
However, he had the pesky habit of arriving late – oh, just a bit late, but to all of his classes still. The four pints last night certainly had not helped him face this morning, and he had barely remembered to brush his teeth before going. He still felt like he had a bastard behind the eyes and spent the whole walk internally begging for the aspirin preciously taken the instant he had gotten up to do its job at some point, preferably right the fuck now.
Finally, seven minutes late precisely, he entered the amphitheatre through the door situated at the back of it, behind the rows of seats, and joined the other late students who were stifling yawns behind gloved hands and throwing small empty paper cups in the can before coming in. He wished he'd had the time to make some tea before coming, but alas, he had been late. It was his curse and he had accepted it a long time ago.
He scanned the back of the amphitheatre that was starting to get a bit crowded (not the same could be said for the front rows) and spotted an empty seat in the middle of a row, just next to a – very – blonde bloke.
He went to sit there, making everyone move and get up and saying bare sorrys, almost falling into some poor girl’s lap on the way. Merlin enjoyed the whiplash on her face when he very politely apologised to her and thanked her for the helpful steadying hand, a bright smile on his face; his 70s anarcho-punk style had always given quite the strong first impression, be it the dozen (visible) piercings, the combat boots or his tall silhouette, always in black. And to complete the – quite stunning, dare he say – contrasting display that was his entire person, he had otherwise boyish looks and had always been the victim of a clumsy nature (that he preferred to describe as a “little attention problem”).
He played with it a lot; he always liked to surprise people.
He finally sat next to the blonde lad, eyebrows rising as he sneaked a look at his light denim dungarees and cream jumper under it. He looked posh and gay, which was not the most common association of words Merlin could think of, given that most upper-class people he knew were horridly homophobic and just looked like inbred Tories. He did not know a lot of them though; perhaps he should, if they could look like this one.
Because he looked proper fit: broad shoulders, Roman nose, pretty, plump, lips, and other interesting shapes and curves… The need to see him vertically as soon as possible had Merlin praying for a fucking fire alarm test.
In the meantime, he forced himself to stop staring at him like some kind of famished eunuch when it was barely 9 o’clock in the morning. He had always been renowned for his almost impeccable behaviour towards the people he was attracted to, and he was not going to break that pristine reputation today.
Thankfully, the professor finally started her lecture, and soon after, Merlin let himself be pulled in a soothing trance by her words crackling into the mic and the low rumble of students still talking about their weekend. He wrote the essentials of what she said about the origins of music and the instruments that populated its history until today; she seemed really into the instruments but, unfortunately, Merlin was more interested in the people who made the history of music so he started to daydream pretty quickly after the class began.
For a minute, he thought the guy next to him was being especially attentive – or was obsessed with centuries old music instruments too – which made him weirdly hotter to Merlin’s eyes until he noticed the title of the OpenOffice document the other was adamantly completing.
Comparative Politics – 22/09/22.
Yikes.
That was just his luck: of course, the Hot Blonde Bloke from Music History discovery class was from the Department of Economics and Politics. Now, Merlin really hoped the guy was gay for totally different reasons than just because he was pretty.
The three hours went by very slowly. Merlin mostly stole a glance every once and again at his desk mate and scribbled random music-related words, staring at the window or his phone. Gwaine woke up at some point, late and still fuddled from the night before, asking what the fuck had happened last night on the group chat, and Gwen and Lancelot scolded him, mostly taking the piss out of him (as much as Gwen and Lancelot were able to take the piss out of someone, as soft-hearted and kind as they were). This was entertaining, but certainly not as much as how the autumn light made the blonde head next to him glow like some regal celestial creature; it was kind of annoying, actually, to see nature siding with someone who was already kind of blessed (apart from the terrible choice of studies).
Merlin could not be happier when the bell rang: ogling (admittedly very hot) people made the time only go so much faster. And while he did love music just like the next person, taking a class on it obviously tended to suck the fun out of it, especially a Friday morning in an amphitheatre full of hungover students who took advantage of the vastness of the room to chatter and do a full three hours long debrief of last night’s party. God, Merlin wished Lancelot had taken this class with him – maybe he should try to convince Gwaine to come, even though he was not even a student any more.
As it had been said, Merlin had a little attention problem – which easily explained what happened next.
“Okay, what?” said the blonde bloke, suddenly turning towards him and making him startle badly enough that the other saw it.
He did not look impressed, eyebrows raised and mouth tight. He also looked vaguely irritated. Merlin checked to his right if, by some miracle, the lad was actually talking to the person next to him but that only made the other roll his eyes – quite dramatically.
“Yes, I’m talking to you. You’ve been staring at me for the past three hours, like a creep. Is there something on my face?”
For someone wearing nice dungarees and a soft looking jumper, he sure was acting prickly, haughty even; almost like a prat. Maybe he liked to surprise people too, looking all pleasant and accessible only to make his ghastly personality shine even brighter.
He did have a point about Merlin staring at him though (he had never been the most discreet, unfortunately), but Merlin would rather burn his own eyes out than actually recognise this out loud, especially when it seemed pretty obvious he had zero chance to orientate this conversation in a way that would allow him to get the other’s number.
“I wasn’t staring at you specifically, to be honest. Aren’t you being a bit self-centred?”
He expected his light, joking tone to be quite evident; apparently, it was not, as the other’s expression grew a bit wilder, fake smile stretching on his face as he said: “I’m the one being self-centred? Christ, I can’t imagine what it is when you actually want to give someone your attention, then.”
“Listen, mate, I was just bored,” deflected Merlin, laughing a bit (because it was actually quite funny despite the other’s peevishness), gathering his things, and because he could not resist: “Also, you look like you’re 5, with your little dungarees and stuff… Don’t get the wrong idea.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, you can be sorry,” smiled Merlin, getting up.
“You have some nerve, talking about how I dress when you look like a Tokio Hotel reject yourself,” the guy bit back, tone annoyingly snooty and maybe just a tad self-conscious, getting up too, putting his stuff back in his bag with efficient, a bit too forceful movements.
Okay, Merlin did not expect to have a bloody argument with Hot Blonde Bloke (was actually hoping for more carnally satisfying results) at the end of class but it was well on its way to take astronomical proportions, unless he took a step back.
… which he did not, because Merlin never took a step back, especially if he had the opportunity to get into a fistfight with a pretty (but bloody pestiferous) person. Even someone less pretty: Merlin was quite the belligerent shit-stirrer, even on his best days.
“I mean, the Tokio Hotel look definitely works on people, you know.”
“No, I don’t know, and I don’t care. You look like a damn emo moron like this.”
“Well, at least I don’t look like my mum still dresses me,” said Merlin, folding his arms and relaxing against the row behind them – it was almost starting to be fun.
All the students trying to leave at the same time had created a line up the stairs to their left and some people were getting interested in what was happening, either judging or laughing, or both. Merlin barely noticed them: he only had eyes for how rigid the posture of the other suddenly became and how his expression shuttered, when it was mostly frustrated and similarly starting to get amused just a minute before.
“Don’t talk about my mother.”
“What, she–”
“You don’t talk about her, you tosser.”
While Merlin did immediately feel a bit guilty about this (because someone being touchy about their parent was never a great sign), he did not like how in his face the guy was getting; he opened his mouth to answer but, unsurprisingly, the other cut him: “And you don’t talk to me again, or I will beat you up, all right? (a pause.) And stop staring at me.”
He then proceeded to make a dramatic exit by pushing Merlin flat against the row behind him (ouch) and then walked all the way to the other side of the amphitheatre, only to be stuck in the line up the stairs. All of that just to not have to wait next to him.
“Okay, fucking prat,” finally muttered Merlin, ignoring the whispers and comments of the other students around him, and the small uncomfortable feeling that was mixing with the complete exasperation simmering in every part of his body.
There were no other words to describe his meeting with one Arthur Pendragon – because he soon learned that it was his name – and all that followed: it was an exasperation, and it consumed him. It was destiny with a bad start, and Merlin would not have it any other way.
o-o-o
They got quite the – unwanted – reputation after this.
They fought a lot during Music History class and students were bored so, of course, they talked, and very soon after, Merlin and Arthur were known as ‘Heads and Tails’. Merlin assumed it was because they were always against each other, always riling each other up but never keeping away either (were basically just two sides of the same coin, whether they liked it or not), but he suspected it was probably just a stupid sex pun.
He had seen the TikToks people were making of their quarrels, with significant captions like heads and tails still @ it 😳😳 or my fave entertainment in music history or can they just hate fuck already lmao, which, all right, Merlin guessed he and Arthur made quite the spectacle of their constant bickering.
He did not know if Arthur knew about it; he certainly was not on TikTok but Morgana, his terrifying and very popular sister, was and she must have seen the TikToks.
Merlin wondered if Arthur would be bothered by the comments and the nickname if he knew. He laughed just thinking about an outraged Arthur going on a violent and scalding crusade against paparazzi; he knew Arthur was definitely self-righteous and stubborn enough to do just that.
The thing was, Merlin and Arthur gave way too much material to their fans – or whatever people who filmed other people in amphitheatres without their consent were called.
Every Friday morning, Merlin sat his arse down next to Arthur, greeting him with a shit-eating grin or a big yawn that made Arthur either groan or roll his eyes, and they spent the next best three hours of their week.
Not that either of them would ever admit it.
They just had so much fun and so much annoyance together and it was fucking grand. And Merlin was sure it was reciprocated, because Arthur never told him to actually fuck off or not sit next to him – even after their first calamitous meeting, which was conveniently never mentioned between the two of them except the second time Merlin sat next to Arthur, saying “I will not talk about your mum, don’t worry,” to which Arthur replied with “then why are you here?” with the most long-suffering and exasperated look on his face. Merlin had just smiled and said: “Because I’m not that big of a fan of medieval music instruments and I just kind of want to know how much I have to piss you off before you hit me during class”.
And so it began.
Every Friday morning, they gave bickering a new name. They trashed each other’s fashion style with passion, Merlin stole Arthur’s pencils and snacks (sometimes discreetly, sometimes right in front of him – which always ended with both their ribs and arms bruised), Arthur pushed Merlin’s stuff to the ground unprompted and always stole his first coffee or tea of the day.
Merlin got into the habit of bringing two cups. Arthur stopped slapping and punching him when he stole his snacks, just sighing and getting another one out of his bag. He kept complaining about his pencils though, so Merlin offered one of his at some point. That only made Arthur more suspicious and certain that Merlin was in fact the one who stole them in the first place but it was just one of their favourite arguing topics so it never turned ugly.
Nothing ever turned ugly between them because, even though they thoroughly read each other for filth every week, that was the only expectation they had of each other.
They did not wait or hope for more; it was perfect and it was theirs.
o-o-o
Of course, it changed. And because destiny was taking on a more modern charm here, it was at a party that it happened; Thursday night, of course.
Merlin had not even been sure he was going to go at this party in the first place, but, like many key moments in his life, Gwaine had been the one who had dragged him there.
Also, Gwen. People always thought Gwen was nice and kind of a pushover, but they could not have been further from the truth: Gwen was a tormentor. A gentle, unrelenting tormentor.
Gwen and Gwaine together were demons.
So, Merlin went to this party. He was not even that opposed to it – he liked to party just fine –, he was just starting to get a bit nervous about the assignments dangerously piling up for the upcoming weeks. One night could not hurt, though. It had been a long time since he went to dance with his mates and have a fun time and, perhaps, have a little too much to drink and make embarrassing mistakes he would regret the next day.
Regrets were always for the next day so why worry about it before that?
The party was organised by Mithian, a lovely bird who reigned over the Department of Economics and Politics – same as Arthur, which was not something Merlin was thinking about at all.
Mithian had already hosted one big party in October for Halloween, inviting almost all undergraduates from her class and friends of friends had been allowed to come too. Merlin had been there and it had been a wild night. Morgana had knocked a pushy guy out in front of everyone, Gwen and Lancelot had finally shagged each other after two months of their long-suffering friends pushing them to actually get their heads out of their arses and understand they were made for each other, and Merlin remembered having been propositioned to have a threesome by a proper hot couple. He had said no because he had been way too pissed to do anything but he still regretted not getting their names or number.
And now, one month later, Mithian was throwing another one of her, apparently, monumental and life-altering parties in her monumental and life-altering house.
Merlin could not believe people still grew up in manors but, evidently, they still did. He would have bet all of his money – not that it meant a lot, actually – that Arthur lived in a manor too, if not a bloody castle. He could very well see him wear a damn crown on his spare time.
When Merlin arrived at the party with Gwaine – after a long and soggy walk through the countryside, because, of course, Mithian’s manor was not in the middle of the city and neither Gwaine nor Merlin wanted to stay sober for the night, so they had walked –, most people were already buzzin’, some were dancing, and all of them were loud, talking and laughing and yelling and fighting. Gwaine slapped his shoulder, took a big gulp from the flask that had kept him company on their walk, and immediately went to mingle.
Merlin loved this very specific atmosphere you could only find at the beginning of a wild night, full of electricity but warm and able to destroy everything; like a forest fire you can not see yet.
He waved at Gwen and Lancelot who were cuddled up on a couch, both fetching and radiant, brew in their hands, smile on their faces. Merlin was so glad that they had finally found each other; they were destined to be, in his opinion.
Intending to come back to them with a drink in his hand, he went to the kitchen, smiling and greeting people on his way, complimenting Mithian on her hairstyle when he passed her. He saw Gwaine too, who was dedicating himself to his two favourite pastimes: drinking a pint (how did he manage to get one that fast?), and antagonising Morgana. Merlin thought him reckless for it at first, but he quickly realised that Morgana never hit Gwaine – and she was not one to hesitate to throw a punch if a man was pissing her off.
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was full of tipsy people starting to sway and gesture a bit too wildly for it not to be a dead giveaway.
The kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, had Arthur Pendragon in the middle of it, in all his pastel glory, talking to a woman with intense blue eyes and who was leaning into him with insistence. As usual, Arthur was smiling formally, as if it was the only way he knew how to smile, and he seemed uncomfortable; Merlin had to pity the poor lady who decided that this was attractive to her (at least, he himself had noticed Arthur when he was not looking that constipated). He hesitated to just turn around and come back later, because there was frankly not a lot of spectacles he would rather not watch than someone attempting to flirt with the uptight hot disaster that was Arthur, but then something stopped him dead in his tracks.
The woman had just put something in one of the plastic cups; he was sure of it.
She had been waiting for Arthur to turn for a second (he looked positively desperate for someone to save him from the interaction; but again, when did he not? Merlin had discovered that Arthur was quite the introvert, despite his self-assured appearance – although it might have been just the bad company this time), and she had spiked his drink. Merlin instantly forgot his plans to go nick a drink from Gwaine or anyone who was kind enough to let him, because he was now vested with the unfortunate responsibility to save Arthur’s arse.
“Hiya there, Your Majesty,” he saluted, eyeing the drink the woman was pushing in Arthur’s lax hand.
It was definitely the spiked one.
Arthur immediately groaned when he saw him arrive but he also looked way more alive than he had just a few seconds ago, and Merlin could not help but feel weirdly pleased by it. Not that he appreciated giving Arthur a reason to look alive but, well. Perhaps he did appreciate making Arthur at least lose his awful fake smile.
“Merlin,” Arthur greeted him like ‘Merlin’ was a walking slaughterhouse instead of the perfectly charming bloke he was. “Why are you talking to me?”
“Don’t be like that… I thought we were the best of friends,” protested Merlin, smiling his own large dimply smile that he hoped hid how anxious he felt about the drink now firmly in Arthur’s hand. “Aren’t you going to present me, you prat?”
“Why on Earth would I do th–”
“I’m Merlin,” he cut Arthur off, ignoring the raised eyebrows and indignant sputtering to turn towards the icy, splendid woman. “And you are?”
“Nimueh,” she answered with frost hidden behind her smile.
Merlin reciprocated and he savoured seeing how Nimueh started to frown, looking suddenly less confident in her sick little plan. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur roll his eyes at what he probably assumed to be an outrageous flirting display, and start to rise his white plastic cup to his lips.
“I’ll grab that, actually,” said Merlin, snatching the cup from Arthur’s hand, making it overflow a bit over their two hands before starting to recede, conscious Arthur was not going to appreciate the fact that he was doing all of that for him. “So kind of you to prepare me a drink, Arthur! You’re the best!”
“Hey! No, Merlin, you–”
Merlin made a show of fake drinking from the cup, made a turn to go away when he realised that Nimueh could still drug – or whatever she was trying to do – Arthur, and he gyrated on himself again, feeling a bit foolish but determined (as he often did). Arthur looked furious but his eyebrows flew to the ceiling again when he saw Merlin come back and grab his arm this time.
“You know what? Let’s talk for a bit, I need to show you something,” babbled Merlin, aware that it sounded as fake as it was, so he added: “It’s about Morgana!”
“What? No, you bell end! I’m not talking to you about Morgana–hey!”
Leaving the kitchen, Merlin threw the cup into a large trash can and then dragged Arthur to the corridor of the central staircase – because, yeah, there was a central staircase like in those damn princess movies that Merlin and Gwen liked to hate-watch together – far away from Nimueh, and then stopped. Arthur wrenched his arm away, looking positively fuming now.
“What the bloody hell, Merlin? Are you insane? Is that it? I can’t–”
“She tried to roofie you.”
“What? Who? Morgana?”
“No, you tit! Nimueh,” pressed Merlin, knowing this was probably not the best approach to convince Arthur but he was having a hard time handling this role of protector with grace – Arthur just had a way of making it a very ungrateful task.
He knew it was asking for the impossible but he really wanted – needed – him to believe him without question.
Arthur did not look like he believed him.
Merlin added: “She put something in your drink. I saw her. That’s why I took the cup.”
Arthur stayed with his mouth open for three seconds – and it would have been almost comical if Merlin was not so stressed and agitated about what just happened – before his face contorted, eyes going to the left before coming back on him, wild and disbelieving: “You literally drank from it! I don’t even–Why would you say–Do you think I’m a fool, Merlin?”
“Of course I think you’re a fool,” confirmed Merlin, starting to feel the delicious annoyance that only one Arthur Pendragon could make him feel. “And no, I fake drank from it. And honestly, I don’t care if you believe me or not! Just don’t trust her (he grimaced:), please. I know what I saw, just–don’t accept drinks from her, all right?”
And Merlin ended their conversation on this very pathetic note before turning around and leaving Arthur planted in the middle of the corridor. He had already saved Arthur, and he was pretty sure the fact that he cared, deeply, ridiculously, regrettably, had transpired. He hoped his frustration came through too, though. Considering how dense Arthur could be sometimes, it was probably not too much to imagine that his frustration will be the only thing Arthur will remember of this whole mess of a situation.
And Merlin had plenty more frustration to substantiate that there was nothing else.
He did not see Arthur, nor Nimueh, for the rest of the night. He tried to have fun: he kept close to Gwen and Lancelot, and Gwaine when the happy couple was being a bit too coupley for him, he danced and flirted with a nice bloke from the Arts Department who had cute freckles and nice arms, he drank a bit too much.
Ultimately, he just went home around 3 am, getting drenched on the way and feeling a bit sorry for himself.
o-o-o
The next day, and after much hesitation, Merlin decided he was not feeling that hungover that he would skip the Music History discovery class.
Perhaps, the only reason he went was that he wanted to see how Arthur was feeling after the party; he had sadly given up on caring about which wind instrument had revolutionised the 19th century and had embraced the relaxing atmosphere of this big amphitheatre full of murmuring students as the opportunity to talk to Arthur for three hours.
Late as usual, he walked up the stairs to the amphitheatre 2 with his nose buried in his big red scarf because he had started to get the sniffles right after coming home in the rain last night and it was cold as tits this morning. He was actually faring way better than most of the people present at Mithian’s party that he noticed in front of the doors and between the rows of seats: some were still glaringly in what they wore the day before and some were in their pyjamas, yawning into cups of coffee, already starting their night back on the tables. He himself had taken the time to take a shower this morning and had put on makeup (as long as putting black on his lower eyelid could be called makeup), as any good punk did. He sometimes amazed himself for his staggering daily hygiene.
Seeing the familiar blonde head at the back of the amphitheatre brought a smile to his lips; the baby blue jumper was just the cherry on top.
He tried to temper his very obvious joy by slinging next to Arthur and throwing himself in the chair next to him, ‘accidentally’ bumping his shoulder with his own. Arthur made no sign of noticing his arrival but Merlin saw how his hand furiously writing a draft for an Economics assignment hiccuped above the paper.
Merlin waited a bit, always enjoying to let the tension rise, but soon, he could not hold himself any longer (he had always been a very chatty and not very patient person): “How was your night?”
The hand stopped this time. Arthur did not seem that tired or hungover… or upset, for that matter. But he probably had had enough time to repress anything he felt about last night, anyway.
Merlin wondered if Arthur could feel his eyes burning the side of his face – if he did, he did not show it.
“I got paranoid because of what you told me,” he finally answered, calm and low, almost emotionless (which was not what Merlin was used to – not between the two of them, at least). “I tried to have a good night but I couldn’t, so I went home.”
An odd silence followed. Merlin, slouched in the back of his seat and arms crossed before him, scoffed, feeling unfastened and wrong-footed.
“Are you seriously blaming–”
“Thank you,” interrupted Arthur, turning towards Merlin, eyes clear and honest like a summer sky, and Merlin wondered sometimes if he would ever see Arthur being dishonest. He never seemed capable of it: even when he was wrong or lying (to himself or to others), it was always transparent, and the worst of it is that he seemed to believe everyone was like him, either sincere or too bad at deceiving for it to matter. “Clearly, we don’t like each other and you’re the most insufferable person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, but you–huh. You helped me, so thank you.”
If Merlin thought the previous silence was odd, this one was an unforeseen event that left him stunned, agape and overheating in the weirdest and sweetest way. But he knew the feeling – and wasn’t it strange not having seen it coming when Arthur kept surprising him like this? When he kept showing the signs of having this kind, fragile, stupidly vulnerable heart, even underneath the sarky remarks and casual insults, the yelling and the prattish contempt?
He was insufferable; Merlin hated him.
“Well,” he started, the biggest smirk taking over his features, “what I’m hearing is that you’re basically in love with me (“I am not! You’re sick, Merlin!”), because I have never heard you say ‘thank you’ before in my life. I could cry; they really are telling the truth when they say that it’s never too late for miracles.”
“Shut up, Merlin,” said Arthur, smile easy and pushing his shoulder a bit harder than necessary when Merlin mimed praying to the sky.
They spent the rest of the class scribbling on each other’s papers, showing each other muted videos on their laptops, and giggling like two young jackanapes, heads close together. When they left, they took a bit more time than usual getting their books back into their bags, and Merlin forced Arthur’s hand to give him his number, joking about how he needed a way to contact him in case he was in danger, trying to infuse some insouciance in what will actually be a quite fucked up memory. Arthur’s hand was not forced at all; Merlin suspected they have both been waiting for this to happen and he savoured this thought as he watched Arthur’s forearms flex, typing on his phone and entering his contact as ‘Nuisance’. Merlin tripped him in the hall for that.
They could not stop talking, and they lingered in the stairs in front of the Literature Department, looking like two prepubescent fools who did not know how to quit each other. Without realising, without noticing anyone but each other, they made time disappear into November’s cold air; it was slowly becoming their new norm – or perhaps it had always been like this.
o-o-o
After this, they only had enemies as a title: despite the fact that they swore left and right that they could not, in any circumstance, bear with each other, the reality (them trying to spend every waking minute of their day talking to each other one way or another) stretched to prove them wrong.
They texted each other daily: Merlin sent memes and random photos, taken during the day, of things that made him laugh or that he knew would infuriate Arthur; Arthur sent hilarious jibes and voice messages of him yelling at Merlin, sputtering through an offended speech. Merlin would have never believed that, one day, he would love to hear this arrogant, inimitable prattle so much. He wondered if Arthur felt the same when he sent him one of his resplendent, flawless selfies (Arthur definitely tried to never say anything positive about them); he hoped so, only because it would at least indicate that Arthur had good taste.
They started to eat lunch together on Friday noon, after Music History, and, whether they wanted it or not, their respective friends mingled. Some already knew each other (their social circles overlapped way more than Merlin would have guessed): Morgana knew everyone, Gwaine and Lancelot both already knew Arthur, Percival and Elyan (they played football together), and Gwen knew Leon from their own discovery class (Polish Language). Also, obviously, Elyan was Gwen’s brother, which made Merlin curious about how many times he had almost met Arthur before this. He had hung out at Gwen’s before, and Elyan had been there; had he ever mentioned Arthur?
At any rate, they all got on quite well during these lunches and it was always a delectable spectacle to see Gwaine and Morgana flirt/fight with each other. Everyone had given up trying to put a pin on their relationship: ‘sexual tension’ was probably the best way to define it, next to ‘murder but make it sexy’, or ‘courtship of the praying mantis’.
Merlin tried not to think about how people would readily say the same about Arthur and him; clearly, they did not know anything about sexual tension because, while his own intentions were questionable, it was pretty obvious that Arthur had never tried to instil anything sexual into any of his interactions, especially with Merlin. The man was basically the least libidinous person he had ever met: he had yet to see him flirt with a woman without sounding like someone was holding him at gun point to do it, and flirting with a man would probably make his head explode, considering how agitated and obnoxious he had became when he had seen Gwaine jokingly flirt with Merlin.
Merlin had assumed nothing of it because Arthur tended to get like that anytime he talked to his other desk neighbour in Music History, even when he was not flirting. He guessed the guy was probably just a bit possessive of his new friends because he did not have a lot; Merlin understood that because he also did tend to get jealous of the students trying their luck at approaching Arthur at the end of class – not for the same reasons, though.
They all started to go for knees up at the favourite pub of Merlin and his friends, which was named The Rising Sun and was the coolest dive there was out there. Merlin had hoped Arthur’s posh arse and nice little jumpers would not handle the shoddiness of the pub and would throw a fit about it but, again, Arthur was full of surprises. Even if he seemed awkward – but he always seemed awkward in social non professional situations –, he fitted right in, between Gwaine who kept accidentally elbowing him, and Gwen who loved to passionately rant about forging when encouraged. Arthur always encouraged her, asking questions with genuine curiosity at first and now partly because it made Elyan whine at him: Gwen and their father apparently never shut up about forging (she was on her third year to obtain her Precision Metal Working Degree, doing an apprenticeship in her father’s metalworking company at the same time), and Elyan was done with it – but he also always told Gwaine to lower his damn singing volume if his sister was talking at the same time.
Merlin noticed how Arthur was extra careful when he got a drink, never accepting one from anyone now. It kind of made him want to violently kill someone – Nimueh, preferably.
Since he could not do that (his mother had made him promise to not get himself in prison before he was 30), he gladly shared the info that she was a creepy cunt who tried to roofie people at parties, and his mates, especially Gwaine and Morgana, always the extroverted or popular ones, helped spreading it. No one ever knew it was about Arthur though; Merlin let people believe it was about him. He just wanted people to be wary of Nimueh.
Not long after that, Arthur and him started to see each other alone, going to cafes after classes and walking aimlessly in-between, always talking, always taking the piss out of each other, always pushing each other in walls and street bins.
It seemed inevitable that Arthur finally came at his house on a Saturday.
Merlin lived on the second floor of a house owned by a university professor of Physics named Gaius whom Merlin considered as the (grand)father he never had, mostly because he knew him since forever, his mother and Gaius being long-standing friends – for obscure reasons they had refused to give to Merlin time and time again. They both were at the Department of Spatial Sciences and Merlin could not wait to have him as a professor next semester.
He insisted to pay rent – way lower than he should have, given the advantageous location near the city centre and all the space he had on the second floor – and he and Gaius shared groceries and meals as if they were family, and they were, in a way. A weird little family constituted of an old man with a passion for research and some impressive eyebrow game, and a young man who was obsessed with the stars and was way too witty for his own good.
He missed his mother though; he was, undoubtedly, a mummy’s boy and she just lived too damn far from Bristol.
So, notwithstanding the rumours about them, Merlin invited Arthur to his second home. The official reason was that Arthur was talking too much shit about how talented he was at FIFA and Merlin wanted to prove him how wrong he was – he was actually pretty certain he could not, unfortunately, shut Arthur up about this, but whatever. Revenge was a dish best served cold and, in the meantime, Merlin would be allowed to give lip to Arthur, see him smile this blinding, arrogant, annoyingly charming smile when he will inevitably win, and then, finally, he would get his revenge, one way or another, and make Arthur yell, then laugh, then yell some more.
Seemed like a pretty perfect plan, from his point of view.
The unofficial reason, unsurprisingly, was that Merlin wanted to spend as much time as possible with Arthur, which was not far from the official reason, the only difference being that he never had to say that out loud.
So here was Arthur, in a ridiculous lavender jumper under a light camel coat, cheeks and nose pink from the cold, a tiny smirk already fixed on his face. Merlin could not help himself: he smiled too, falsely exasperated, helplessly fond: “Are you lost? Redland is the other way around. I’m surprised you didn’t get mugged, wearing this… not a lot of love for our posh neighbours on this side, I’m afraid.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, for the first time of the day, the umpteenth time since they met, and said, effortlessly haughty: “Excuse me for trying to meddle with the plebs, just like any good King has to.”
“Oh, you’re a King now?”
“Have you seen me? Of course I’m a bloody King, Merlin,” he smiled, pointed canines glinting in the dim sun of November – like it was all too happy to prove him right.
“What does that make me?” he asked, letting Arthur come in, trying to ignore how good he smelled (probably one of these perfumes that costed more than everything Merlin was currently wearing).
“My fool.”
“Oooh, right. Why would I even ask?”
If he had the time to think about it, Merlin would have been embarrassed at how Arthur calling him his fool made this warm, stupid, familiar feeling spread in his whole chest, just under his Siouxsie black shirt. Thankfully, he had to follow Arthur to show him the house, making fun of what he was wearing just a little more (“you look like Inspector Gadget”, “piss off, Merlin, at least, I don’t look like I’m still deep in my teenage rebellion phase”), and quickly forgot about the disturbing (disgusting, really) feeling.
They were alone, Gaius was not here. He had left just yesterday for an important symposium he will present in London on Monday morning; he had wanted to visit London and some of his old friends who lived there over the weekend before that. Merlin had presented his best friends, Gwen, Gwaine and Lancelot, to Gaius before, but it was the first time that he invited someone while Gaius was absent; it felt like a happy miracle that it coincided with the moment when Arthur and him started to talk about hanging out at each other’s house. He still felt like he was going behind Gaius’ back, inviting someone (Arthur) while he was not here, but Gaius had made it pretty clear that Merlin was here at home and that it was his space as much as Gaius’ (as long as he did not destroy it in any way, intentionally and unintentionally).
Anyhow, Gaius probably would rather that Merlin invited people when he was not here. He could be a bit of a recluse sometimes, and, even though he was doing Merlin’s mother a huge favour by welcoming Merlin, he was a man who mostly kept to himself, always ready to help but not liking to be lost in a crowd. Merlin still remembered Gaius’ carefully crafted expression as he had let a long silence before commenting, about Gwaine, “quite the animated lad, that one”. It'd had them both in fits of laughter for at least five minutes after this, before they had decided to make themselves some calming tea.
Not meeting Arthur was actually, presumably, the best gift Merlin could ever give Gaius.
After all, he could be quite an odious character and Merlin focused on that to ease his weirdly tense nerves, starting a thorough and dramatic presentation of the living room, the kitchen, the toilets, even Gaius’ bloody bathroom (that was pristine, compared to Merlin’s) on the first floor, before they made their way up the stairs to Merlin’s room. Arthur was smiling during the whole visit but did not make any of his usual taunts (he was always pretty respectful to anyone who had the chance of not being Merlin in this case) until, of course, the second he entered his room: “Oh please, Merlin, you did not have to clean up for me, really, that’s too kind!”
He picked one of the multiple t-shirts that were piled up on Merlin’s desk chair, badly repressing a mocking grin. Merlin rolled his eyes, snatching the t-shirt back, and shoulder-checked him when he passed him.
“I did clean up, you arsehole,” he muttered, letting a second go by before admitting, knowing the reaction he would get. “These t-shirts were all over the floor before.”
Arthur laughed (“you’re a lazy sod”), and Merlin decided to ignore him (ignore the weird proud feeling in his chest), turning to his PS4 to make himself look occupied. He untangled the controllers’ wires that were on the floor, regularly peeking at Arthur who was walking around the room, seemingly curious but silent, which just made Merlin more febrile. He would not have put it past Arthur to do it on purpose because he was a damn scrutinizing prat even on his best days.
There was not much Merlin expected Arthur to be interested in during his inspection even though the room was big and just under the roof, giving the impression of living in a tree-house. Merlin had hung up posters of his favourite bands and movies on the slanted ceiling and there were crates full of books under them, some overturned with books nicely aligned in them, one exposing a model of the solar system he had made when he was 13. Merlin had a gamer set up because he did love to play on PC – much more than on PS4 – and to have a nice, practical, desk. Under the large skylight of his room was the only really interesting thing he had: a telescope. Arthur circled it, looking intrigued and lost in thought, before realising he had an audience and making his way back to Merlin, a curious mix of boldness and sheepishness smeared on his face – a mix Merlin was learning to easily associate with Arthur Pendragon.
He threw a controller at him which he only caught thanks to his, admittedly, impressive reflexes (Merlin had not been surprised to hear that Arthur was an athlete and devoted hours of his week to football), before gingerly sitting down on Merlin’s twin bed.
“Why do you look like you have a stick up your arse?” asked Merlin, turning around to see Arthur fidget, generally just being awfully awkward. “Even more so than usual, I mean.”
“I do not look like I have–I’m just trying to get comfortable on your ridiculous bed, Merlin. Obviously, you’ve never learned to make it just like you’ve never learned to clean. I feel sorry for your mother, it must have been hard raising you.”
“It was a joy actually (well, as long as his mother liked to have a calamity for a son – which she did, even though she did not always admit it), you can ask her,” Merlin half-lied confidently before he started FIFA 22 and threw himself next to Arthur. “It’s actually your fault my bed is not made.”
“How could it be my fault?”
Merlin was starting to get that there was no greater pleasure in life than getting Arthur to be outraged about the most meaningless things. He smiled, feeling how mellow his own expression had become (he would have time to be mortified about it later) and seeing it in the way Arthur’s eyes widened a bit: “I was texting you while you were walking. You were distracting me.”
“Now, that’s just the stupidest excuse I’ve ever heard, Merlin,” answered Arthur, eyebrows raised, turning his head towards the medium-sized TV that had followed Merlin from Ealdor to Bristol. “You still could have made your damn bed, like the almost functioning adult you’re supposed to be.”
Perhaps he was avoiding looking at him; Merlin indulgently let him do that for a few seconds before he opened his mouth again, catching his attention: “I’m not the one who isn’t able to walk twenty minutes without talking to his dear old pal Merlin. I’m basically your emotional support dog at this point.”
“Every second you make me regret a bit more coming here. That’s an incredible talent: you should nurture it. Could probably help you in a bad situation.”
“Too bad it only works on you. Everybody else says I’m a delight.”
“A delight,” Arthur repeated like the word was a personal offence to him, shaking his head. “I don’t want to know the lunatics who would call you a delight.”
That made Merlin laugh and ready himself to answer, but Arthur, after a furtive glance at him, sat up straighter than ever and, head held high, cut him off by finally opening the actual, important hostilities of the day: “So, are you finally ready to let me wipe the floor with you?”
Merlin knew he was going to get annihilated, only because he also knew that he had to ask Gwaine to lend him a FIFA game five days ago and that he had only really played at FIFA when he was a teen and Will, his childhood best friend, had been obsessed with it. So, to say he was not great at it would have been an understatement.
Merlin did not really care. He already had what he wanted.
o-o-o
Two hours, several games and a long streak of defeats for Merlin later, he went to fetch some tea and, when he came back to his room after the most dangerous stair climb of his life (considering he had two left feet to this day, two mugs to bring, and two floors to climb), he was graced with the view of Arthur who had finally relaxed on his bed, leaning back comfortably against all the pillows Merlin possessed, looking like some spoiled, indolent, prince. His controller was abandoned next to him and he was intensely texting someone, a lazy smile dancing on his lips. Merlin desperately tried to get over the whiplash of seeing Arthur Pendragon on his bed, apparently happy and serene, when, just a few weeks ago, he would have likely rather chundered all over himself than willingly gone anywhere near Merlin’s bedroom.
Noticing Merlin’s questioning eyebrow (mastered after too many hours spend in Gaius’ company), Arthur simply said as an answer: “Morgana.”
“What does she want now?” asked Merlin in quite the theatrical tone, setting their cuppas on the floor before the bed and trying not to stare at the way Arthur’s thighs were a bit pointlessly spread, just like how any heterosexual man who has never thought about how his physical language could be read would sit (or rather just how a friend would sit next to a friend – and Merlin just had to blame his stupid fucking hormones for desperately wanting to make it something else).
He hoped to hear Arthur scoff and explain but when he turned to him, spontaneously leaning a bit to see over his shoulder what Morgana actually said, Arthur slammed his phone against his chest, looking up at him with almost panicked eyes, face frozen as Merlin could see the cogs frantically turning in his head.
“She,” he started, weirdly toneless and squinting at him, “she wanted to know–”
“What? How to invent a big fat lie on the spot?” mocked Merlin. “I’m sure she’s way better at it than you.”
“I wasn’t going to lie!” protested Arthur, going a bit pink all over, then, predictably, as he always did when he was embarrassed, he abruptly changed the subject: “So, Merlin, I have yet to see your atrocious collection of emo… goth, whatever, accessories. Where are they?”
“So you mean, you didn’t snoop around in my bathroom?”
“Why would I do that?” grimaced Arthur, sitting up to get his tea. “I’m not a creep, like some people–”
“Yeah, right, blah blah, you’re a creep, Merlin, I’m just an innocent posh bastard who has never done anything wrong in his life and certainly wasn’t rude as fuck when we met, blah blah blah, well, apparently, you’re the one interested in what’s in my bathroom so who’s the creep, really?” Merlin rattled on, blowing on his tea, suddenly putting it back down and getting up before Arthur could even say one word. “Wait here, I have an idea!”
“Why would I move when I’m having such a great time?” grouched Arthur at his back.
Merlin went to his bathroom, opening the drawer on the left where his jewellery mixed happily with his makeup and all that could serve as his ‘emo, goth, whatever’ accessories, as Arthur had so delicately presented them. He fished what he needed in the back of the drawer and quickly returned to his room where Arthur was still smelling his tea, looking cosy.
Merlin badly wished to always come back home to this somehow – which was just a chill thought, actually. It did not mean anything important or life-changing. Everybody wanted their friends to be here, in their bed, when they came home.
Yep.
“Here,” he said, letting his findings fall onto Arthur’s lap. “Wanna try some?”
It was two bottles of nail polish, one black (of course, Merlin’s) and one baby blue that Gwen had left the last time she'd came and that Merlin had forgotten about until the moment he had realised the perfect person for this particular nail polish was sitting in his room.
“This one is perfect for you, don’t you think?” he remarked out loud when Arthur did not say anything.
“How come you have this? I certainly never saw you with this colour on you.”
“It’s Gwen’s. She never asked for it back and I kind of forgot about it. But you should definitely take it, it will go well with your whole My Little Pony aesthetic.”
“I’ve never put on nail polish,” Arthur said, voice low and eyes never leaving the two little bottles. “My father would probably kill me if he saw me with blue nails or something.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think, Merlin?”
“You already look pretty gay to me, to be honest,” answered Merlin, making Arthur slap him on the shoulder, but he looked amused so Merlin took it as a win (and it made him wonder, hope really, about the sexuality of the other man for the umpteenth time).
Arthur muttered an additional “bugger off, Merlin” for good measure before taking the blue nail polish and giving the black one back to Merlin, but he immediately seemed at a loss at what to do next.
“Shall I?” offered Merlin. “But I must warn you, I’m really bad at it, despite my flaming bisexuality and emo tendencies. Gwen is the master.”
“I’m sure, given your overwhelming clumsiness at everything else,” Arthur commented dryly.
“For that, you’re leaving with nail polish all over your fingers, you knob.”
Arthur chucked a bit before affirming: “I’m not leaving with nail polish on, though.” He gave his hands to Merlin. “You can have your fun now but I need to remove it before I go home.”
“All right,” Merlin said quietly, taking Arthur’s left hand in his own after opening the nail polish bottle and balancing it on his thick geography textbook that he brought on the bed just for this undignified purpose.
He had never paid much attention to Arthur’s hands before but he certainly noticed them now. They were pale and sturdy, with long fingers and surprisingly long nails, and – Merlin hated himself for even thinking it – they were kind of perfect. He would absolutely love them on certain parts of his body; would love to know if the nails would scratch just right on his shoulders, leave marks at the small of his back.
Merlin was really grateful Arthur was a prat most of the time because he could not imagine what damages someone looking like him but with a nice personality could do to his poor brain right now.
But, again, unfortunately for him, he loved that Arthur was a prat. Most of the time, at least.
He started to apply the nail polish, ignoring Arthur’s complaining (“it stinks!”) and humming along with the music he'd put after their last game on a low volume. It was Sam Fender, which was not really punk or like the more energetic rock Merlin usually liked, but he loved this singer; he knew Arthur liked him too because it was one of their rare musical agreements (along with Radiohead, Iron & Wine, and Fleetwood Mac – but which insane person would not like them, anyway?).
“This is strange,” suddenly remarked Arthur, voice soft and eyes focused on the blue nail polish Merlin was carefully applying.
“Good strange?” he asked in the same tone, feeling like the world was shrinking to just his room around them, leaving them small and warm and hopeful.
“Yeah.”
Merlin smiled, forcing himself to concentrate on not putting too much nail polish on Arthur’s skin, to not be tempted to glance at the look on Arthur’s face. He was actually doing an amazing job, way better than his average; Gwen would have been proud of him.
He felt giddy with all of it.
It did not last long. Arthur’s suddenly more sombre voice made the room grow back again and the outside world crash down in the middle of it: “I wish I could leave it on. It’s such a small thing. (he shook himself.) But then, again, it’s just a small thing. I don’t–actually need it.”
“I’m sorry you can’t leave it on,” answered Merlin at last, careful not to comment the rest of it (yet). “Are you going to move out soon, though? Get an apartment?”
“I–um, well. Morgana offered me the other room in her apartment since her roommate will leave soon to go on Erasmus in France for a year,” Arthur said, nervous, almost self-conscious, like he did not think he deserved it or would not dare think about it – maybe because of the terrifying freedom it would offer him. “She can’t wait for me to leave our father’s house. She–she says I will feel a lot better, being away from him. I’m not sure she’s right, though. Totally right, I mean. She’s not–my father and her don’t have a good relationship. And it feels wrong, leaving him alone–like that. Especially since I know I will work in his enterprise in a few years. I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful to him.”
The more he talked, the surer of him he sounded; sure like someone reading a script, not like someone speaking from the heart.
Merlin, who had the seemingly infinite privilege to have a great mother, was grateful to her too; however, he had never felt the kind of guilt that seemed to radiate from Arthur right now. His mother had always been very straightforward and never pushed any expectation on him, except for him to be able to communicate with her – which he did, unquestioningly, because his mother had always made talking to her something simple, warm, reassuring. Safe.
This guilt that encompassed Arthur did not make him sound grateful: it made him sound condemned, trapped. And he was looking at Merlin like he expected him to give him answers, better ones that the ones he had.
Merlin could do that; he was just not sure it was the ones Arthur was waiting for, especially considering he found himself thinking that Arthur’s father did not sound like a great father (to say the least) and that Morgana was, as usual, right to be openly spiteful to him.
He tried to make an effort to stay politically – more like emotionally – correct for now, since it was such a nice moment and he did not want Arthur leaving while screaming bloody murder before ghosting him for days because Merlin had made the unfortunate but correct observation that his father was a controlling and bigoted cunt.
“You can be grateful and not have to sacrifice everything for your father,” he finally said, putting away the nail polish, and, between two sentences, started to blow on Arthur’s nails to make them dry faster. “You’re going to see your father at work in the future – seems like a lot of time spent together. I think you can go live somewhere else: it’s what children do at some point, you know. (a pause.) Also, no offence, but Morgana does seem like a better roommate than your father. At least, you would be able to wear the nail polish I so kindly apply for you.”
Arthur scoffed a bit at that (“wouldn’t that be lucky”), letting him blow on his nails and never taking back his hands from the gentle hold Merlin had on them to do it himself. Perhaps, Merlin was starting to panic a bit about that, heart thumping wildly in his chest and his eyes having some difficulty meeting Arthur’s – which was stupid. It was just Arthur.
But just Arthur with a soft, almost adoring, look on his face – and Merlin did not know if it was for the nails or for him, probably for the nails, right? But how to be sure? His damn stupid heart was certainly not sure –, and Merlin had just discovered Arthur had a shitty father and pretty hands and it was hard not wanting to know more, to see more.
He did what he always did when he started to have too many feelings bubbling up at the surface of his poor bisexual heart: he annoyed Arthur’s arse.
“Oh my God, stop blowing on them like that!” Arthur yelled when Merlin constricted his hold on his hands and started to blow on his nails like a maniac. “You’re going to mess it up with your breath, you absolute moron!”
Merlin cackled a bit before letting him go and getting the black nail polish for himself. It had been a long time since he had put some on; Arthur pulled the worst conventional habits out of him (only balanced by the fact that he also relentlessly, unconventionally, imagined having his mouth around Arthur’s cock and vice-versa, or, unfathomable desire of the queer man meeting the attractive heterosexual one, making him discover the wonders of his prostate by a smart, repeated pressure on it).
“Wait,” Arthur interrupted, reaching out, hesitating, and then making up his mind more resolutely, as he often did. “Can I?”
“Is it to get revenge and paint my whole hands black?”
“No! I want to try!” protested Arthur before saying, looking earnest and serious like a good little student: “I promise I will try my best. I’m sure I can actually do a better job than you. Wouldn’t be hard.”
“This would hurt more if your hands actually looked like a mess, but they don’t. I did a perfect fucking job, you prat.”
“You’re the prat.”
“Brilliant comeback.”
“It’s not a comeback, it’s the goddamn truth!” exploded Arthur, exasperated and snatching the nail polish from his hands. “Now, shut up and let me do your bloody nails, Merlin.”
So Merlin shut up and let him do his bloody nails.
o-o-o
Later, and once the nail polish had been conscientiously removed from his nails (the nail polish remover also stank), Arthur went home, leaving Merlin feeling light, weirdly lonely. It was too easy getting used to Arthur being in his space, just like it had been too easy sliding next to him in the amphitheatre these first Friday mornings.
Before he had left, Merlin had given him Gwen’s little blue bottle and, when Arthur had protested, he had said he would just buy her a new one, not mentioning the other reason Arthur was reluctant to take the nail polish. This one was just destined to be Arthur’s; so Arthur had taken it, shoving it deep in one of his ridiculous coat’s pockets, trying to make his face guarded again but ending up just looking unexpectedly – still stiffly – bashful.
Merlin knew he would find himself missing Arthur a lot, always, because, beside the fact that Arthur was climbing fast the ladder to become one of his best friends (if not the best), it was just pretty obvious Merlin had been harbouring the biggest, horniest, most hopeless crush on the bloke since the very first second he had seen his blonde stupid head.
There, he admitted it. He had a crush on Arthur Pendragon. Big fucking deal.
But now, here lied his issue: it was a big deal.
It was taking way too much of his attention and, honestly, Merlin did not have time for that. Mainly because, as it had been established, he did not know if Arthur was gay (was pretty sure he was not): he just had way too much conflicting information about Arthur’s sexuality and it kept piling up in the most ridiculous pile of conflicting information you could ever have on someone and Merlin was done with it, especially when what he had memorized as proof of Arthur’s potential queerness only appeared as wishful thinking as soon as he held it in another light.
And when he took a look around at what others thought, it got worse:
Arthur’s friends, Leon and Percival, seemed to think he was straight, always encouraging him to go for it when they noticed a bird eyeing him at the pub.
Morgana often commented on how repressed and uptight Arthur was, but she never clarified her statement and it applied to a lot of situations: she had called him that once when he had refused to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race with her, but she had also said that when he had refused to drive over the speed limit, so it was not the most reliable opinion. But, at the same time, it was undeniable that Arthur tended to be repressed about everything, and Morgana was right: it just did not make it any clearer to Merlin if the repression could take its most specific meaning here.
Lancelot was uncomfortable discussing someone’s sexuality, even if it was to help Merlin (not that he had asked for help), and Gwen was convinced Arthur did not know what he was and was confused. She had said that mostly because she was Gwen and because she had been made aware of the fact that Merlin was crushing hard on Arthur when he had complained for thirty-five minutes to her on the phone about how annoying (and annoyingly pretty) he was and she had asked, tone compassionate and curious, “don’t you love spending time with him, though? I can’t remember the last time you didn’t invite him to the pub with us… not that I’m complaining! I love Arthur,” which had unravelled a horribly revealing conversation about Merlin’s embarrassing feelings. Since then, Gwen had been on the ‘Arthur is gay’ team; in a few months, she will probably be organising an intervention (and forcing Lancelot to participate) to help Merlin out of his straight crush.
As Merlin’s other useless friend, Gwaine had offered to simply ask Arthur ‘as a service to the people’, which had turned to be as bad as it sounded when he had proceeded, during their next gathering, to heavily insinuate that Arthur fancied him in front of everyone, to what Arthur had answered with a roll of his eyes and a blunt “if I fancied someone, it wouldn’t be you, Gwaine”, which was open to interpretation. But then, Arthur had been awkward and quiet for the rest of the night, only coming back out of his shell when Merlin had elbowed him and found just the right insult to make him talk again.
To conclude, that was why Gwen was Merlin’s favourite, and Lancelot and Gwaine were terrible friends.
At this point, Merlin had pretty much given up on ever knowing Arthur’s sexuality, and was just trying really hard to ignore his blossoming – well, more like continuing – crush on him.
It was a bit ridiculous thinking about them together, anyway – Merlin always scoffed when people suggested it (and they have been doing that a lot lately).
They were separated by a world of differences, be it their upbringing, their personalities or, less seriously, their fashion preferences. Arthur had a cunt of a father who gave him a shit ton of insecurities, especially concerning his social relationships (Merlin was actually gobsmacked at how different Arthur was to how he seemed at first glance: he was still a posh prat but not nearly as confident and insensitive as you would think), and Merlin had a loving mother who had taught him to trust people and, above all, to trust himself.
He had discovered that Arthur was almost never rude or prattish with people other than Merlin himself (and his sister) – and he did not know if he was offended or flattered to be the exception. That just made Arthur his exception too, because Merlin was never as voluntarily irritating and mouthy as he was with Arthur.
That was the thing between them though: they got each other and they could not get enough of it. They had difficulties agreeing on anything, but they also both behaved quite similarly in lots of ways.
They both were always trying to help others and had pretty obvious self-sacrificing tendencies. Merlin had stopped counting the number of times either of them had arrived in Music History with deep dark circles under their eyes, Merlin because he had taken an extra shift at the Fish & Chips he worked at, Arthur because he had pulled an all-nighter to write a two-person assignment because Leon was sick this week – or because of any other reason that gave both of them the opportunity to sacrifice themselves to help someone. Merlin was working on it but being in Arthur’s vicinity was not helping – quite the opposite actually.
Merlin was starting to get pretty familiar with the fact that he would die for the bloke if he could and if it was needed. Which was, maybe, pushing his ‘crush’ into something way less chill, way less easy to admit, and, especially, way more important.
He and Arthur were just always reacting to each other. They brought the best out of each other and made it sound like it was the worst. And they just kept doing it, like two addicts, like a fucking old married couple who did not know how to separate – and would not even try because they knew they stayed together for a reason. A very simple reason.
So yeah, they were as different as they were similar and they only did that with each other, which made Merlin confused more than anything else because he would not have believed he would ever feel this close to Hot Blonde Bloke from Music History – especially when their relationship was destined to be platonic.
Arthur was a unique event in Merlin’s life, and Merlin was pretty sure he was one in Arthur’s life too.
When he went to sleep that night, after sending one last idiotic gif to Arthur, he was still thinking about their hands held together over his crossed legs and the smell of nail polish everywhere.
It was perhaps the best smell in the world.