He was itching. No, not itching, he corrected himself, decaying. A scratchy, uncontrollable, wicked shiver was running down his arm as he followed the boy in front of him, struggling to catch up. Sadly, his friend - well, sort've - was pacing fast in front of him, swiping through the local park's trail of trees urgently, not daring to glance back. Merlin, on the other hand, was strutting back, unsure if he should look at his arm more and get some help, or cover it up before his friend had time to ask questions. Because asking questions, especially about this, he was not ready for.
"Wait, could you just-"
"Don't try getting out of this, Merlin." But his eyes fell down to his forearm, which was flooding with green bumps. The itching was starting to burn. The boy in front of him flicked his head back at him impatiently.
"I'm serious," Merlin growled at him, "Just wait-" But when his friend swerved towards him sharply, Merlin pulled his sleeves down harshly and jerked backward.
"What are you doing?" Merlin growled.
"Let me see it!" His friend snapped. "Seriously, Merlin, this rash better be a big deal, because we are running late." Merlin rolled his eyes.
"Do-Don't worry about it," Merlin said, clenching his teeth, "I'm fine. And it's not just a rash. It's..." But he wasn't fine. Actually, he wasn't fine at all. Every few years, to not stand out in the community he lived in, Merlin had to go to the Warlock of Harlem to get a long-term youth charm. Sure, he could probably do it himself, but he wasn't skilled like these Americans. They mastered in magic that most people in Europe haven't even started on yet, which was half the reason he came here only a few centuries ago. But now, since he had gotten his last youth charm a few months ago - he could swear that there was silver growing on his chin! - his skin had been getting worse and worse. He was lucky that his roommate hasn't noticed yet, or else he would have to explain to him why the heck he had green goose bumps on his skin. Honestly, he'd probably assume it was cancer.
"Then come on, would you?" His friend remarked, pacing quickly once again. Merlin pursed his lips as he staggered forward.
"I mean, seriously," his friend went on, "I understand that you're mad that you lost the bet but it's not that bad."
"Please," Merlin argued, "That was an entirely unfair bet!" When his friend turned his face again, he noticed a playful smile sprawled across his lips.
"Unfair?" His friend mimicked. "Actually, I thought it was plenty fair. I mean, you never asked the girl out."
"She had a boyfriend!"
"You never even talked to her."
"Did you see the guy behind her?"
"Could've been her brother."
"He was at least six foot!"
"And you are too." By the time his friend turned around again, they were out of the park entrance and facing a shabby, grey building. His eyes fell towards it, looking at the dirty stone exterior, the crooked door, and the eroded cement steps. The windows were dusty, a long vine was taking over half of the square building, and he could already smell the horrid stench from inside.
He exhaled.
"I don't even understand why you like volunteering here," Merlin exclaimed, waving his hand towards the welcome sign, "Gregory Fall's Mental Institution. Does that actually sound fun to you?" But when Merlin saw the look on his friend's face, he knew that he thought it was more than fun - it was exhilarating. His friend loved the sticky stench falling out the door, he loved the sound of madness, and he appreciated people who were a little off. His eyes seemed to lighten up as he grew closer to the door, his smile widening.
"I don't expect someone like you to understand, Merlin." His tone was playful, but when Merlin heard the words, he flinched back. A flashback hit him, harshly, remember him saying something similar hundreds of years ago. Something his friend has no recollection of, something that shouldn't have even bothered him. But it did.
"Whatever, Mordred," Merlin said, clearly exhausted as he dug his fingers into his sleeves in order to scratch the bumps, "Whatever." He shivered, the words mimicking in his head again. Mordred. I was here with Mordred. Something, though Mordred and him shared most of their lives together, it still shook him up. Sometimes he didn't even know how the friendship, after hundreds of years, could have even been repaired. But after he found out about reincarnation - or, in other words, a person's next life after they die - something changed in him. Something he couldn't ever explain.
Every couple generations he would run into somebody reincarnated - Guinevere as a jazz singer, Lancelot protesting against Vietnam - but somebody he had always seen, during every generation, was Mordred. He had hated him at first, despised him even. But something, he realized through the centuries, drew Mordred to him. He had spent many lifetimes hating him, trying to get him back for what he had done. Attempting to kill him, ruining his life, destroying him. He was blood thirsty for more than just murder. But for how long, he asked himself one day, would he let himself live in anger? Mordred (as far as he could tell) didn't remember his past lives, so why should he hold his sins against him, when Mordred doesn't even remember them? And once he accepted that, things started to foil down rapidly. Nine generations later, he was Mordred's best friend now - almost as close as he was to Arthur. It made him feel awful sometimes, but what if Mordred just went nuts? What if he was wrong about Mordred, and if he had minded his business as Mordred once told him, would Mordred have killed Arthur? It took many years for him to accept this, and move on, but he had. And once he did that, most of his grudge seemed to dissolve. But there was still sometimes, when life was still and he had nothing to distract him from his pain, when he would look at Mordred and hate him. Bitterly hate him. Which was why he insisted on being close to him - he would never live easily unless he saw the good in Mordred every single day.
And why Merlin would never die and let himself rest in peace? He never knew. But it wasn't until this life did he appreciate being alive.
"Anyways," Mordred murmured under his breath, as he opened the crooked wood door, "It's only for a few hours. And then you can go back to watching your soap operas." Merlin wrinkled his nose.
"It's not a soap opera," he growled, "It's-
"Hello, Ella," Mordred shouted and opened the door so that the dim light could pour on them, "How are you today, baby?" Merlin felt a crush in his chest when his eyes drew towards the front office. He wished he could say that Mordred was talking to the young lady at the front desk - thin, fair, with long auburn hair that glittered a soft caramel in the light - but he wasn't. Instead, Mordred was talking to the parrot, only a few inches away from her. Merlin noticed how her eyes drew to Mordred, and how they lightened like a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm.
"Oh, don't you see why I like him?" The front desk lady told Merlin, only a few weeks ago. "Dark curly hair, broad shoulders, smooth skin. He's beautiful."
But he never even said hello to her, he thought sadly. A girl was in love with his best friend, and his best friend didn't even notice. Merlin watched as her eyes seemed to fall when Mordred stepped past her, without saying hello, and went straight to the parrot. Merlin smiled apologetically at her, and she attempted to smile back but her lips faltered down.
"Whose rambling spats are we listening to today?" Merlin asked, stepping towards her.
"You're listening to their issues because it's thereuptic for them to speak to people they don't know so they can live in the outside world efficiently," she corrected, "And you actually have quite the list today. Peter Pince, Arabella Yancy, Morgan Mashfield, and-"
"Please tell me..." Mordred said suddenly, whipping his head towards her. She blushed.
"Ah, so you know about him already? Yes, he's here," she said, her cheeks redenning, "But Mordred you should-" But Mordred was already halfway down the hall, pacing fast. Merlin jolted towards him, and when he met up at him he looked back at the girl, whose eyes were in front of her again.
"Hey," Merlin hissed under his breath, cautious for her not to hear, "That girl was speaking to you. Did you notice at all?" Mordred's eyes looked at each thick, white door that they passed intensely.
"Shut up," Mordred wavered him off, "I'm looking for someone." Merlin rolled his eyes.
"Mordred, you're always looking for someone," Merlin snapped, "You're always doing something. Have you ever thought maybe the reason you're so obsessed with crazy people is because-" Mordred clapped his fingers to Merlin's mouth.
"Maybe if you shut up," Mordred said as he smiled lightly, "I will show you something." His eyebrows furrowed down and caught Mordred's gaze.
And then suddenly he heard it - the crying screams coming from the end of the hall, at the very last door.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Mordred asked breathlessly. Merlin shot him a disgusting look.
"What are they doing? Torturing the man?" Merlin growled. "Those screams..."
"Are in horror," Mordred said breathlessly, "Steve called me and said there was a paranoid schizophrenic in here. A paranoid schizophrenic! How amazing is that! There are so few of them nowadays..." Merlin threw his hands up in the air.
"Why are you so addicted to these screwed up nut cases?" Merlin snarled. Mordred shook his head.
"Because we can fix him," Mordred said, stepping in place as if charged with excitement, "We have the chance to take someone totally screwed up and change him. How many chances do we have that in the world, huh, Merlin? Everybody is only half screwed up nowadays, but him. He is absolutely crazy!" Merlin opened his mouth, but then he closed it, scratching his green-goose-bumped arm, Mordred was already at the door. Merlin stepped in after him, about to clamp his ears so he could tune out the patient's unruly screams.
But when he saw him, Merlin stumbled back, gasping. In front of him stood three men: two large, male clinic nurses, and between them was a slightly-tall, broad statued guy. He was thinner, but he was lean. His jaw was slightly crooked, and the left side of his face was slightly sharper than his right. Messy, hay-stack like dirty blonde hair whipped over his forehead, almost covering his eyes. Merlin couldn't stop but stare at his split lip, the thin cut that took over his right cheek, the red yet overwhelming look in his eyes that made Merlin shudder.
"MERLIN!" The boy shouted in a throttling scream, yet to Merlin his voice seemed a million miles away.
"Merlin, where am I?" The boy gasped, his breathing heaving slightly. "Who are these idiots who dared to - Do you know who I am? I am the King of Camelot! And when I get out of here, I will-" But then his voice jolted, his eyes placed firmly on Mordred.
"You," the boy said, and he looked like he was going to puke, "You are...you are alive." The king stopped pulling and slumped back, unable to focus his eyes on anything specific, yet let his eyes daze around him.
"You know him?" Mordred said, anxiety striking in his eyes. "Merlin, who is this?" But when Merlin spoke next, it seemed as if a dream.
"Arthur," Merlin said, "my best friend."
I was going to include chapter one and chapter two in only the first chapter, but I didn't feel like writing that much and I wanted to see if anybody liked this so far. It isn't perfect, but it's a fan fiction so of course it isn't amazing. I just ask to review, or else I won't update it because I need to know someone wants more.