Arthur has a framed sampler hung on the wall over his desk. It's not a real sampler, just a printout of a picture of one, but it lends his study area a feeling of homey sophistication. Merlin had found it online and gifted it to Arthur - frame included - as a "have fun in hell" present just before the start of finals week, and for four days now it's sat perkily on the spotty plaster and livened the room with its warming message: Behold! the field in which I grow my fucks. Lay thine eyes upon it and see that it is barren.
Arthur isn't really the decorating type, let alone a cross-stitch aficionado, but recently he's been thinking of putting up a couple more.
Nothing flashy, of course, and definitely nothing trite. Something simple and straightforward. He actually already has two phrases in mind, and thinks that Rain should be illegal in December would pair nicely with It clearly fucking isn't.
When people talk about winter - December especially, like it's some kind of holy month exempt from all unpleasantness - no one mentions the wet. No one wants to discuss the early snow that melts into mud and sludge, or the thin, frigid drizzles, or the stinging pellets of ice that try to blend in with ordinary rain. No one talks about it, so no one really thinks about it, and Arthur goes most of the year forgetting that December is a truly ghastly month.
And then suddenly it's December again and halfway through finals week, and Arthur's leaving his exam building to find that not only is it pouring down rain, but that the temperature's apparently dropped just enough over the past two hours to turn the rain to ice anywhere it lands.
It bears repeating. Rain should be illegal in December.
He hunches into his coat a bit more and tries to ignore the sensation of freezing water trickling down the back of his neck. The flat isn't that far, falling well within campus bounds, but the roads are slick and putting one foot in front of the other requires more and more attention as the icy rain seeps down through layers of fabric not made to withstand this kind of onslaught.
He can barely feel his fingers by the time he gets to the building, despite the gloves and the depths of his pockets, his clothes are wet through, and there's definitely ice in his hair. He can hear it crackling when he first walks in, and it starts to melt as he makes his way up the stairs to the fifth floor.
He has keys, of course he does, but he has enough trouble first trying to find them (they'd fallen to the bottom of his bag, under papers and textbooks and a thermos he could have sworn he'd taken out last week) and then trying to find the right one (his fingers have now thawed to the point of burning uselessness) that Merlin gets to the door before Arthur can fit the key into the lock.
"Are you quite all right out there?" he asks as he pulls the door open, but Arthur only gets a glimpse of the teasing smile before it's slipping away. He's in a t-shirt and sweats, and his hair suggests he's only recently gotten up. Arthur feels a tiny twinge of guilt at the thought that he'd woken him up, but couldn't have been making that much noise, could he? Merlin had been absolutely slammed with exams earlier in the week, and Arthur doesn't think he's been sleeping much at all recently.
"Arthur?" Merlin says again, with a definite note of concern. "Are you okay?"
"My hands are cold," Arthur says simply, flexing stiff fingers before tucking the keys into his pocket. He really should put the flat key on a separate ring. Sometime. "Did I wake you up?"
Merlin ignores the question and gives him a careful once-over. "Your hands are cold?" he repeats, incredulous. "Arthur, you're soaked. What happened?"
"It's raining."
"Your lips are blue," Merlin tells him gently, "and there's ice in your hair." He reaches up as if to touch, like he can't quite believe it, then seems to snap back to himself. "God, you must be freezing. Go sit in the kitchen, it's warmest there." He steps back, ushers Arthur through, closes the door behind him. "I'll get a towel."
"Merlin, it's fine," Arthur protests, but Merlin's already ducked off to the bathroom so Arthur makes his way to the table in the kitchenette. There's a pan of something heating on the stove, and even the meagre flames of the burner are enticing.
Merlin comes back with a fluffy blue towel as Arthur's peeling off his semi-frozen coat. They trade wordlessly: Merlin takes the coat and passes him the towel, then gives him a gentle push into one of the chairs nearer the stove.
"Go on, get your hair dry," he says. "You'll never warm up with it dripping like that."
"You're just worried about the carpet," Arthur jokes, but it falls flat. Merlin sighs.
"No, you prat, I'm worried about you." He goes off, probably to hang the coat up somewhere to melt and dry. Arthur just sits, looking down at the towel in his hands. The warmth of the building is starting to sink in, bringing with it the delayed awareness that he is, in fact, really fucking cold. He shivers then, or maybe he's been shivering but hasn't really noticed. The cold is bizarre like that. Sometimes it's inescapable, but sometimes it settles in deep and goes unnoticed until it's driven away.
Either way, it's not long before the towel is being taken from his hands. Merlin dries his hair with a vigor bordering on unnecessary, muttering something about "hopeless" and "wouldn't last a day without me."
"Thank you," Arthur says belatedly, though he suspects it gets lost in the thick folds of fabric.
"Honestly, even your sweater is wet." Merlin plucks at the material, which snaps back in a jolt of cold on Arthur's arm. "Have you heard of this thing called an umbrella?"
Arthur pulls the towel off of his head and glares. "It's December. It isn't supposed to rain."
Merlin snorts. "It's England. It does whatever it bloody well wants. I'd have thought you'd be used to it by now."
"Not in December," Arthur protests, and shivers on cue.
"You're pathetic," Merlin decides heartlessly, and hauls Arthur up. "Put on something dry before you kill yourself through your own negligence."
That's a bit harsh, but Arthur goes, taking the towel with him, into his room. It's not until he's stripped out of his wet things that he realises exactly how frigid his skin is, and he dries off as quickly as he can before pulling every piece of warm clothing he thinks will fit and not look completely hideous.
The final assembly is less than fashionable but Arthur is warm enough not to care, and it's not like Merlin's one to judge, anyway.
Arthur pulls on one final pair of socks and pads back into the living area, stopping first to hang up the towel in the bathroom (he may be dressed like a slob, but he doesn't have to act like one). Merlin's busying himself at the stove when he comes back, but turns as Arthur comes up to lean against the countertop next to him. "Better?" he asks. Arthur nods. "Good." Merlin turns back to the pan he's stirring. "I'm glad. You were looking pretty rough there."
Arthur grimaces. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to make such an...entrance."
"Pshhh." Merlin waves his apology away with a wooden spoon. "I'm used to you being a drama queen."
"Oh, well, in that case."
Merlin butts his shoulder into Arthur's. "You know what I mean."
Arthur pushes him back. "You mean you love me the way I am."
"Sure, let's go with that," Merlin mutters, but his cheeks flush brilliantly and there's that stupid smile crinkling up his eyes. "I'm making cocoa, by the way. My mum's recipe. It's delicious."
"If you do say so yourself."
"Shut up, I can say that if it's not my recipe. And it is delicious."
Arthur pushes himself up off the counter and peers over Merlin's shoulder. Admittedly, he has no idea what cocoa not made from a mix should look like, but there's nothing overtly wrong with what's simmering gently in the pan, and it certainly smells good enough. "I think I should be the judge of that. You might be biased."
"Mm, good point. You should definitely have some, in that case. In the name of objective criticism."
"Obviously," Arthur agrees, and goes to get down a pair of mugs.
The cocoa is, of course, suspiciously delicious. There are probably drugs involved. Possibly cocaine. Or heroin. Whatever it is, it's highly addictive, and Arthur has two mugs - two large mugs, at that - and is seriously considering going for a third when the sugar hits him and he's overwhelmed by the urge to put his head down on the table and take a nap.
"God," he groans, face pillowed on his arm, "what is in that?"
"Family secret," Merlin says promptly, sounding completely unaffected. Arthur flips him off. He's probably been habituated. He grew up on the stuff, after all. And he's only had one mug.
"It's codeine, isn't it?"
Merlin just laughs. "Don't blame the cocoa, Arthur, it's an innocent bystander. You were already exhausted, and a warm drink was just the thing you needed."
"You planned this," Arthur accuses half-heartedly. "You bastard. I need to study." He does, but the table has never been this comfortable and he's actually warm now...
"Your next exam isn't until Thursday. Take the afternoon off."
Arthur's pretty sure he says, "I hate you," and he's even more sure that Merlin actually did put something in his drink, because he wakes up that evening in his bed with no recollection of how he got there, and a with a gleaming new fake sampler pinned to the wall over his desk. The letters are large enough that he can make them out across the room, and he can't help the slow smile that follows.
I love you the way you are.
A/N: Written as part of merlinchristmasfest on tumblr (prompt was "cocoa"). Thank you for reading! Feedback is always welcome.