Summary: Arthur's drum set was his voice. Merlin was the only one who heard it. A little sequel to my 'Eurovision'.
A/N: A little oneshot that came to me, following on from the shortfic I posted on Eurovision night. This is therefore a future!fic and a sort of return!fic.
Comeback by frostygossamer
Arthur was a man of few words. He spoke with his fists. Or, more accurately, he spoke with the two slim wooden sticks that he held ever so gently, ever so perfectly balanced in his two expert hands. His drum sticks were the tongue that made his drums speak. He was never more eloquent than when he was alone making music with his drums.
Percussion. That was my Arthur. And it was sitting at his drum set, face a mask of rapture, hands fluidly moving, coaxing the magic out of the rhythm, that's how I remember him best.
No one but me understood that about Arthur. No one understood Arthur the way I did.
But I just didn't think he noticed me. He was so lost in the beat.
('o')
So he was, not surprisingly, somewhat confused when I called him up last week. It was the last thing he would have expected, being contacted by a record label after all these years.
I still think that our finest hour was that night in 2011, when we came a respectable 11th in the Eurovision Song Contest, in the face of the UK's history in the competition. Despite this modest result, our band, The Round Table, went on to have an illustrious track record, including eight number ones. The pop fans of Great Britain were united, young and old alike, by their love of our music. We received fifteen gold records. Yes, it truly was a golden age.
Many years have passed since the band broke up, since the boys all went their separate ways, Lance to his own label, Gwaine to rehab, each of them accusing each other all over the tabloids. No chance of getting back together, no chance, no way, never.
Arthur's fairy tale marriage to his 'muse' broke down, in a flurry of recriminations and alimony. Gwen sold her story, and the exclusive rights to cover her outrageous second wedding. This time she married her new love, ex-band member Lance. After not one, not two, but three stays in the Priory, heroin rehab with a cool celebrity flavour, Arthur's career found oblivion.
There wasn't much left of Arthur by then. He sealed himself up in his penthouse refuge and became something of a recluse.
During those same years that I had watched his breakdown in the media, I had built on my song writing career, and slowly created my own independent record label, Camelot Records. Aesthetic sounds mostly, small experimental bands, underground artists, something new, something different, nothing mainstream.
Then one day, as I was packing up the last of the boxes for my move down from my old place in Hammersmith, out to the farm I was renovating in Cornwall, I found an old envelope of sheet music. And, all at once, I was taken back to the nights when we would sit up late after gigs, Arthur and me, semi-stoned, sketching out our ideas, thoughts, dreams, in quavers and semi-quavers. And I needed to call him, needed to.
Next day, back in the office, I got my secretary, Will, to find his number. He came up with nothing at first, but he rang around my old address book and, just before I left for the night, he walked up to my desk and placed a piece of paper in my hand.
"I rang him", he said. "It's real. And he's expecting a call. I didn't mention your name."
('o')
I took the slip of paper home, and when I'd taken off my coat and poured myself a drink, I steeled myself and rang.
"Arthur Pendragon", he snapped gruffly, somewhere at the end of nowhere.
"Arthur?", I breathed, recognising at once that familiar voice, that familiar slightly arrogant tone.
There was a long pause and then, "Merlin?", he asked quietly. My heart skipped a bar.
"You were expecting my call", I said, of course.
"What? No", he replied, "Unless? Camelot Records? Is that you?"
"Yeah, that's me", I answered, smiling at his confusion.
"Oh", he said. "Is this about a gig? Cos I'm not... anymore."
"I know", I replied. I paused. "It's about a reunion."
"That's not gonna happen", he snapped, brusquely. "Me and the band..."
"No, Arthur", I said. "Not the band. Just you and me."
There was a silence at the end of the line.
"Sure", he said. "I'd really love that."
('o')
That's how come we're releasing Arthur Pendragon's comeback album this month. Who would have guessed that Arthur could write such beautiful heart-tugging stuff, such aching refrains, such haunting rhythms, stepping to the beat of your heart and speaking to the pain within your very soul?
Listen and you hear it too, the anguish of life, the torture of being, the hopeless agony. And that terrible despair they call love.
Who knew that was what his rhythm spoke of?
I did. It always spoke to me.
The End