Disclaimer: I don't have any claim to BBC Merlin. You know how it goes.
Note: A lot of people have asked me what happens after OMWWA ends. The answer is: that's up for you to decide. This ficlet is simply my head canon. I encourage you not to take it as scripture. I'm not posting this to undermine anyone's interpretation. I just wanted to write a little something for the fic's one year anniversary. If you have a different head canon, I'd love to hear it.
The summer sun beat down on the cliffs, and the wind caused the bright green grass to dance and ripple. Arthur closed his eyes and listened to the waves below crashing against the rocks, and he could taste sweet salt on the air. He pulled his knees into his chest and hugged them, feeling content in the silence.
Someone next to him shuffled at sat upright on the grass. Arthur's eyes fluttered open and he turned his gaze to Merlin, who was rubbing the tired from his eyes. They were slightly bloodshot when he lowered his hands and stretched.
"How long was I out?" he asked groggily.
"Long enough," Arthur told him.
Rattling sleep from his head, Merlin leaned forward and grabbed the quarter-full wine bottle and his empty glass, still with a coating of red dregs ringing the bottom. Arthur watched the last of the wine slosh into the crystal.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," Merlin said before taking a sip.
"You always do by the water."
"No," Merlin sang, but he was smirking like he knew it was true.
The glow of the sun highlighted his skin and illuminated the tips of his dark hair. Despite the warmth it caused, Merlin shivered.
"The breeze picked up," he said. "Is there a blanket in the car?"
Arthur cast a glance over his shoulder at the Continental. He hadn't recalled the car being there. In fact, he didn't remember how they got there at all.
"I'm not sure."
"You're useless," Merlin mumbled into a sip.
Arthur brought his eyes back to Merlin, who suddenly looked different against the sky. He was fairer somehow, and the color of his eyes was off a shade—or was it? Arthur suddenly couldn't remember.
Arthur blinked rapidly, and everything returned to normal.
"Stop staring at me like that," Merlin ordered. "I'm cold." He leaned in to rest his head on Arthur's lap, and Arthur stretched out his legs to allow it. Once Merlin was situated, Arthur smiled down at him and brushed his fingers through the black hair. It felt coarse. His knuckles grazed Merlin's forehead in the motion, and his skin was stiff and lacked warmth. It didn't feel like skin at all, but rather something brittle and stretched too thin.
An image flashed before Arthur's eyes. It was night, and Merlin's head was in his lap again. He was as pale as a ghost. His eyes were red and veiled.
Arthur blinked it away. It felt like a memory.
Merlin brought his wine glass to his lips again and took a sip, but gravity got the better of him and streaks of red slid down his chin. He started choking on the liquid.
It was night again. Arthur wrapped his arms tighter around Merlin, whose body was trembling violently. He was sputtering, and gurgling sounds were coming up from his throat. Arthur was praying his name.
"Oh. I do love you."
Merlin sat up and gave Arthur a shake.
"What's the matter? Arthur?"
He looked concerned, but he was pale again. The color of his eyes had faded and glazed over.
"Arthur?"
"Arthur, you're dreaming."
"Merlin—"
Arthur blinked awake to the sunlight pouring through the window on the opposite side of the tiny bedroom. It was open a crack, allowing for the autumn breeze to come through and make the red curtains billow out.
He was lying on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the pillow, and he felt himself tense. There was a presence over him and, once he caught his bearings, he looked over his shoulder to find Mithian perched on his side, sitting upright on his twin-sized mattress.
She was giving him empathetic eyes.
"Mithian?" he croaked, his eyes still adjusting to the light. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to check up on you. I was worried. We all were," she told him, her voice louder than usual to Arthur's ears. "No one's seen you for over a week, and you haven't been picking up your phone."
It took more effort than it should have for Arthur to roll onto his back. He slid up on his pillow and propped himself against the wall. A pounding headache was blooming in his temple and his mouth felt like cotton. His entire body felt clammy, and he realized he was still in the same clothes from yesterday. His shoes were even still on.
Mithian was looking around the room. She had distaste written on her features, no matter how much she tried to hide it. Arthur took a look around, too. It was a mess. The lamp had been knocked off the dresser and rested in shattered pieces on the floor. An open shoebox was a few feet away from it, with piles of scattered photographs littered around it. Next to the bed, a bottle of scotch had rolled halfway towards the wall. Its amber contents had spilled out and left a sticky mess on the floorboards.
Arthur groaned and held his palm to his head, trying to stifle his headache.
"Did Morgana send you?" he asked.
"No," Mithian said honestly. "But I am here on her behalf. Arthur, you are coming this evening, aren't you?"
"This evening?"
Mithian sighed patiently. "It's Kara's birthday. Tell me you've forgotten?"
"No, no," Arthur told her. Honestly, he had remembered, it just slipped his mind. "I've already gotten her a gift. It's in the next room."
Mithian seemed relieved but hesitant. "Good. Because . . . Well, you've missed the last two. It would mean a lot to her if you were there, Arthur. You know how she loves you."
"I'll be there," he snipped. "She's my niece, Mithian."
"I know," Mithian said. She reached out her delicate hand and placed it over his on the mattress. Arthur looked down at, at the diamond wedding band on her finger. "But I know what else this day is for you."
He pulled his hand out from under hers. He heard her sigh again.
"I hate seeing you like this," she said, sounding a little exasperated. "He wouldn't want you to be so depressed."
Arthur snorted. "He'd want me to be miserable."
"It isn't healthy," she went on. "You should be enjoying yourself. You're your own man now, Arthur. And yet, you still think you're trapped. Have you ever considered . . ."
Arthur's eyes flickered to her, and she was searching his face in trepidation.
"Have I ever considered what?" he challenged her to continue.
"Have you ever considered that Birmingham isn't far away enough from Kent?"
Arthur closed his eyes again, but the only image that swirled through his mind was Merlin's face. It had begun to mix in with the black as of late.
"I just want you to be happy, Arthur," Mithian told him with sympathy. "And I want you to promise you'll be at Kara's party today."
"I will," he promised with an exhale. "There's just something I have to do first."
Mithian nodded, seeming to accept it. "Would you like company on the drive?"
"No," he said immediately. "Thank you, but I'd rather silence. And . . ." His eyes trailed down to her stomach, which was too large for her thin frame. She was just about ready to pop. "You shouldn't exert yourself. Gareth will worry."
"Gareth always worries," Mithian said, rolling her eyes, but she looked happy.
The mattress shook slightly when she heaved herself up.
"Alright," she said with finality. "I'll see you later on . . . And—," her eyes flickered to the bottle of scotch, "—be careful driving, Arthur."
He nodded, not able to look her in the eyes. She leaned in a pressed a kiss to his hairline before disappearing out of the room. Momentarily, Arthur heard the front door click closed, and he was alone in the emptiness.
It took Arthur a few more minutes get out of bed but, when he managed it, he reached down for the scotch bottle on the floor and set it upright on the end table. He'd clean up the mess it left behind later; the same went for the broken lamp.
He immediately padded towards the pile of pictures and sat down, cross-legged, in front of them. They were all from Morgana's phase when she couldn't put down her camera. She would drive Arthur crazy, always pointing that thing in his face and blinding him with its flash. It had been a few years since she'd given him that box, and he never had the nerve to open it. It seemed he'd found his courage to do so the previous night at the bottom of a bottle.
There were some pictures from Paris that he didn't understand why she'd put in the box. None of them had anything to do with him. Then there were a few of him with Mithian or Leon, all of them looking much younger in ways Arthur couldn't quite pinpoint: possibly a few pounds lighter, or hair a few inches longer, or with less lines around their eyes.
And then there was Merlin.
There were pictures of the two of them around the Continental, lounging inside the parlor of Camelot Manor, or strolling in its back gardens; they were whispering together or playing or sometimes posing for the camera. And then there the photographs that Arthur didn't know had been taken at the time, in which he was too enraptured in Merlin, like the rest of the world stopped turning.
Sometimes it was still like that.
There was a picture of Merlin from New Years, 1947, on a rare occasion when he actually wore the uniform he was supposed to. It was a black suit with a matching bow tie that Arthur said looked handsome on him, but Merlin only rolled his eyes at the compliment. He had said he wanted to look nice for the occasion, and Arthur knew he was referring to the anniversary of their first kiss rather than ringing in the New Year, even though neither of them admitted it.
He was still just nineteen in that picture and, that night when the fireworks exploded around the moon above their heads, neither of them thought that Merlin wouldn't make it to the next year.
On top of the pile, in the dead center, was another picture of the two of them, another that Arthur didn't remember being taken, but he was hardly its subject. It was taken over him, the side of his face in the forefront, blurred out of focus so that Merlin's face was clearer.
He was looking right at the camera, and the photo seemed to be posed, but there also something candid about it—forever suspended between what was and what was expected. He was grinning widely and genuinely, making dimples indent his cheeks and his eyes crinkle with glee. Arthur wondered what had been done or said to make him smile like that but, whatever it was, Merlin seemed to shimmer.
The picture was grayscale, unable to accurately depict how deeply black Merlin's hair was or the exact shade of nighttime blue of his eyes, but it was beautiful. It somehow captured everything that Merlin was.
Arthur fell in love with the photograph.
For the first time in a long time, Arthur could actually feel his heart beating against his chest. The photograph made him ache with a sorrow that he hardly noticed anymore. It was perpetual, and deep in his bones. He'd learned to live with it always tingling at the peripherals of his mind during day-to-day life, but looking at the photos made the longing crash down upon him anew. It was a longing for something he could not have, and something he could not deny.
He missed Merlin. How could something so simple hurt so much?
But there was something lying underneath the pain, too. It snuck up on while he wasn't paying attention. The photograph reminded him of happiness, an emotion he thought he could feel a pinch of now, but maybe it was just a memory. He wondered if he'd ever find that sensation again; he wondered if he would be able to hold on to it if he ever did, or if it would again flee from him like raindrops down a windowpane. As a child, he used to sit in the parlor of Camelot Manor on rainy days and chase the racing droplets with his fingertips. They were always too fast for him. He only ever succeeded in leaving filthy smudges on the pristine glass.
He propped the photograph up against the clock on the dresser before standing up to search through the drawers. Soon, he was cleaned up and dressed in a white collared shirt, a black waistcoat, and black trousers. Like Merlin on New Years, he wanted to look nice for the occasion, but he didn't have a tie. He hadn't had one for years, which was fine by him. After all, life as a mechanic rarely called for the article.
He'd never learned how to tie one properly, anyway.
He collected his car keys and headed out the door.
The red of the Continental on the drive stood out against the green grass, which was browning slightly from the turning weather. Leaves were starting to change their color and drift off the trees in the gusts. They cascaded around the tombstones. The tall buildings of London stretched up towards the sky in the distance.
Arthur walked up the familiar path past the mausoleum of a family whose surname was inscribed over the entranceway. All those years and he never once thought to read it, just as he idly passed by the stone crosses and granite crypts belonging to the bones and ash of hundreds of lives he never considered real people. There was only one headstone he paid mind to, and it made him sick to think other living visitors of the cemetery only saw it as an obscure grave in the backdrop—just something to set the scene.
He found it next to an old, drooping oak tree. Before he reached it, he passed Balinor's tombstone. It had a large vacant space under his inscription, space left for Hunith's name and dates for when the time came—for when the Emrys' family line would officially end. Arthur tried not to grind his teeth at the irony of their bloodline's mortality.
Next to Balinor rested his son, whose headstone had become worn by the weather. Green grass had grown over the plot long ago. A fresh bouquet had been placed there, telling Arthur that Hunith had already been there that day. He still heard from her from time to time, much less as the years went on. The last he heard, she was still in Essex, working as a receptionist at the hospital in which Gaius attended.
Merlin Emrys
12 April 1927 – 5 October 1947
Arthur stared blankly at the dash in between the dates. It was the only sign that a life had been lived between those days, the only symbol to express how important and how fleeting that life was. It fell rather short of the task.
Arthur remembered when the inscription was new. He could still picture the people standing around, dressed in black, against the overcast sky. He could still hear the priest's prayer as he sprayed drops of holy water onto the descending casket. They hadn't even let the water dry before having a tearful Hunith step forward to drop in the first fistful of dirt to tarnish the glossed wood.
Not many people were there that day. There was Merlin's Uncle Gaius and Aunt Alice and a few servants from Camelot Manor. Morgana and Leon were there, too, as was Mithian, holding on to Arthur's hand for comfort as he pretended it was Merlin holding it instead. Uther had not been in attendance that day. In fact, Uther had not been in attendance for the next ten years, and Arthur was contented to keep it that way.
Parts of him still blamed his father, while other parts blamed himself. He stopped trying to find fault in either one of them years ago, as it was good for nothing. Still, he wouldn't lose sleep at night if Uther lived the rest of his life thinking Arthur hated him. The truth was worse than that, anyway.
The truth was, Arthur was completely apathetic towards him.
There was a sudden movement out of the corner of Arthur's eye, and he turned his head to find a strongly built man in a faded leather jacket, with shoulder length brown hair and scruff walking in his direction. He had a sorry looking bouquet of flowers clasped in his fist, and he shot Arthur a tight but friendly smile when they locked eyes.
"Hey," the man said, stopping next to Arthur and casting a look at Merlin's grave. Arthur felt something in his stomach twist—uncertainty? He'd never seen this stranger before, and yet he was clearly there for Merlin. He was situating his flowers next to Hunith's.
"Hello," Arthur greeted unsurely as the man moved to stand next to him again.
The man squinted in the sun as he looked at the tombstone. "You knew him, eh?"
Arthur cleared his throat. "Yes, I—"
"Wait." The man rapidly fixed his gaze on Arthur. "You're not—what's his name? Arthur?"
Arthur blinked and gaped for a few moments until it occurred to him to answer in the affirmative.
"Ah, Merlin talked about you a lot," the man said. He held out his hand for Arthur to shake it. "I'm Gwaine. Me and Merlin were in hospital together."
"Oh," Arthur realized and shook Gwaine's hand. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Gwaine snorted. "Don't be. I'm glad I knew him." He turned his head back towards the tombstone and said, more solemnly, "He was a good bloke, Merlin. Opened my eyes to a lot of things."
Arthur followed Gwaine's line of sight. "Yeah. That was Merlin."
"I wondered what happened to him after he just disappeared that day," Gwaine went on. "Wasn't until later that I found out what happened . . . I tried to do right by him—stir up as much trouble as I could, but I got transferred out not long after."
"To some place more humane, I hope?" Arthur asked.
Gwaine laughed again. "Well, I got the help I needed, anyway," he said. "And it was some place I could be an out-patient after a while." He shrugged. "Suppose things could have been worse."
Looking at the grave, Arthur had to agree.
"They certainly could."
"At least that bastard Odin got what was comin' to him, right?" Gwaine said, unexpectedly patting Arthur on the back.
Arthur had to admit that he found some solace in Odin's ward getting closed down. It took years, but the experiment lost funding after it became clear that it didn't yield any results. That was the official reason, but Arthur sometimes wondered whether Uther grew a conscience and pulled his sponsorship. Either way, Odin would go down in history without success, and Uther—Well, so much for his legacy.
"Hey, you wanna get a drink?" Gwaine asked, knocking Arthur out of his thoughts. He nodded to the grave. "Swap stories?"
"No," Arthur said, not interested in hearing any more about Merlin's time in the hospital. "I—um. I'm sorry, but I'd quite like to visit some more."
Gwaine pulled another tight smile, this one more sympathetic. "Fair enough. I'll toast him for the both of us."
Arthur gave him a stiff nod, and Gwaine disappeared back down the row towards the path.
Once he was sure he was alone again, Arthur crouched down in front of the patch that now symbolized Merlin, and stayed quiet for quite some time, listening only to the rustling of leaves.
"Merlin," he began, not really knowing how to follow it up. He always felt so silly talking to nothing but a headstone. He didn't even know if he believed Merlin could hear him, but he hoped. "I'm sorry I didn't bring any flowers, I . . . They only remind me of funeral homes, anyway."
And Merlin deserved something that wouldn't rot and wither away: Arthur's mother's brooch—the family heirloom he'd given to Merlin on their first Christmas together. Arthur had slipped it into Merlin's breast pocket before they closed the casket at the funeral.
He still laughed softly when he thought about how angry Merlin would be that he had to wear a suit for the rest of eternity.
There was another presence standing over him. It knelt down at Arthur's side, and at first he thought Gwaine had returned, but then he turned his head to find Merlin.
Merlin gave him a soft smile, and Arthur returned it.
"I found some old photographs of you today," he said, and Merlin instantly looked down coyly.
"Oh, god. Did I look like rubbish? I bet I looked like rubbish . . ."
"You looked very handsome, actually," Arthur corrected. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the smiling picture of Merlin. He held it gingerly between his hands and stared down at it, captivated, like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Merlin hummed in thought as he peered at it. "Not bad. But you're a bit blurred."
Arthur let out an exhale, a touch of dull humor riddling it. "Yeah. I am."
He shook himself out of the daydream and, when he did, Merlin returned to the earth. Arthur ran his fingers through the blades of grass that had grown from Merlin's body before grabbing at some in his fist. He didn't tug before letting them go, and he stood up.
Casting one last look at the dash between the dates, he fit the photograph back into his pocket and started away.
Arthur had to balance the wrapped gift on top of the plastic container in one hand but, when he'd maneuvered it, he reached with his other and gave the knocker a few pounds. He stood back on the porch, gazing up at the sizable estate that rose above him, located just a few miles out of the city. He could hear indistinct adult chatter, playful childish squeals, and a muffled Elvis record from inside.
Then, there was a pattering of footfalls, and the door swung open quickly. At first, he thought no one was there, but then he looked down at the small child in a powder blue dress and a matching hair bow that accentuated her fair curls.
"Uncle Arthur!" she shouted merrily.
"Hey, there she is!" he said with a large grin. Despite the balancing act he was performing in his other hand, he scooped her up and rested her on his hip. It seemed she was heavier every time he saw her, so he was grateful when she relieved the strain by wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug.
"Where's Mummy and Daddy?" he asked her as he walked them into the foyer and kicked the door closed. "You shouldn't be opening the door all by yourself."
She rolled her eyes in a way that was so very Morgana. She may have gotten Leon's looks, but she was her mother all over again.
"Uncle Arthur, I'm eight," she said like she couldn't possibly become a day older.
"Of course, my mistake."
"What'd you get me?" she then asked, eyeing the brightly wrapped gift.
"A pony," he answered, bouncing her and making her giggle.
"Kara, where have you gone off to—Oh." Morgana had come into the foyer, stopping dead at the sight of Arthur. She blinked a few times like her eyes were deceiving her. "Arthur. You came."
His smile faded, not matter how hard he tried to keep it plastered on his face.
"I wouldn't miss it," he answered, trying to make up for his lack of presence at the previous few birthdays.
"Well, everyone's in the drawing room. You can put your gift in there," Morgana said just as Kara's weight became too much, and Arthur lowered her to the ground. "Come on, sweetheart. It's almost time for cake."
She held out her hand for Kara, who scampered over and grabbed it. Arthur followed them into the drawing room, which was packed with adults and rowdy children alike, and bright party decorations hung from every wall. He located the stack of gifts laid out on one of the long tables against the far wall and placed his on the pile, but kept the container held between his hands.
He peered around unsurely, watching all the cheerful faces and trying to get used to the noise level of the room, but all he wanted to do was go home. All his life, he'd been accustomed to forcing mirth and playing the part of gracious host, even when he wasn't up for it, but he was rusty after so many years without practice.
He spotted Morgana across the room, laughing with a man whose back was facing Arthur, but the sight of him cause Arthur's heart to skip a beat. He had a tall, slender build and short, raven colored hair. Arthur blinked, wondering if he was imagining the man, but he remained solid.
Morgana must have felt Arthur's gaze, because her eyes flashed to meet his and she waved him over while calling his name.
The man with her looked over his shoulder at Arthur, and the illusion faded. His features were striking and he was quite handsome, but he was unfamiliar. Steeling himself, Arthur gripped the container a little tighter and paced towards them.
"Kay, this is my brother, Arthur," Morgana introduced. "Arthur, this is Kay. He's a live-in for one of Kara's friends."
"It's nice to meet you, Arthur," Kay said as they shook hands. He very obviously eyed Arthur up and down. "Morgana's told me a lot about you."
Arthur's eyebrows darted to his hairline. "Has she?"
He shot her an accusatory look, but her expression remained innocent.
"What have you got there?" Kay asked, nodded towards the container.
"Oh, it's—It's a shortcake," he said, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it. It was probably subpar compared to the no-doubt extravagant cake Morgana had gotten for Kara.
However, Morgana seemed happy for it, "Oh, marvelous! Homemade, I assume?"
"You cook?" Kay asked, seeming impressed. He took a step closer into Arthur's personal space, and Arthur tried not to be rude by stepping away.
"I dabble," he answered modestly.
"Oh, quiet," Morgana said, slapping him gently on the arm. She turned to Kay. "Arthur's fabulous in the kitchen. He inherited all the practical skills."
"Well, I'm sure Kay's much better than I am in his line of work."
"Oh, no, you won't find me in the kitchen!" he joked, putting up his palms in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just awful at cooking. I set everything on fire."
Morgana laughed, and Arthur could only muster a tight smile.
"Well, I'll just take this into the kitchen," she then said, taking the container from Arthur. "Would you gentlemen excuse me?"
She surreptitiously—or at least she thought so—shot Arthur a meaningful look before disappearing, leaving the two men to an awkward pause into which Kay looked down at his shoes. Arthur cleared his throat.
"So, um . . . Morgana tells me you both grew up in Kent," Kay said, and Arthur wondered whether or not it was question.
"Yes."
"There's some beautiful scenery down there. Have you ever been to the cliffs?"
Arthur's jaw involuntarily clenched, and he wished he had a drink to focus his attention on.
"Yes," he answered shortly, trying to keep his tone even.
Kay seemed to feel more at ease with the conversation, because he leaned even further into Arthur. "I went to Dover once on a school trip when I was kid. A few of us tried to sneak off and climb down towards the water." He shook his head, smiling at the memory. "The things children do . . ."
"Yes, Kay—would you excuse me for a moment?" Arthur asked, having not really heard what Kay said.
Kay's smile drooped, but he nodded after a moment. "Of course," he said while Arthur was already pushing past him. He needed to get away from the crowd.
On the way out of the room, he spotted Mithian, Gareth, and Leon chatting. Leon tried to call him over, but Arthur pretended like he hadn't heard his name and carried on until he reached the spacious kitchen. It was empty, save for a few stray decorations, still in the packaging, and leftover hors d'oeuvres. His shortcake was on the island counter. He stood in front of it and closed his eyes, trying to push out the background noise filtering in from the other room.
"It's a little dry," Merlin said with his full mouth, and Arthur opened his eyes to him leaning in on the other side of the counter. He was holding a plate with a slice of the shortcake in one hand while putting another forkful into his mouth.
"At least it isn't burnt," Arthur told him, making one side of Merlin's lips quirk upward.
"No, you're making progress."
He set the plate down and walked around the counter until he was standing next to Arthur, who oriented his body to face Merlin.
"What is it? Afraid you won't fit in with a bunch of eight-year-olds?" Merlin asked as he touched his palms to Arthur's hips.
"You certainly would," he chided. Then, he sighed. "It's not that. It's the adults that worry me."
"Oh, fuck them!" Merlin said, rolling his eyes. "And cheer up. Cake's soon, remember?"
Arthur smirked and closed the space between them. "Why don't we forget the cake, too, and just go home?"
"Because I want something that isn't dry," Merlin retorted, but his arms tightened around Arthur.
Morgana stormed into the kitchen, knocking Arthur back to Earth.
"What are you doing in here? Why aren't you talking to Kay?"
Arthur stiffened slightly, looking at the empty space in front of him. There was no longer pressure on his waist. He turned around to look at Morgana.
"I didn't know I had to," he said simply.
"He's a very nice man."
"I'm sure he is."
She placed her hand in front of her eyes and shook her head. "Arthur. You have to stop this."
"And you have to stop trying to set me up with people," he shot back. "You're always doing this. Why can't you mind your own business?"
"It is my business. I'm your sister," she argued, sounding exasperated.
"Half the people you've tried to set me up with aren't even gay," he went on as though she hadn't said anything.
"And half of them are in denial," Morgana corrected. "So what if I am trying to put you out there? One of us has got to do it."
He felt anger surge in his gut. "On today of all days?"
She took a few steps closer to him.
"I know what today is. But, Arthur, it's been ten years," she said, as though he didn't know. As though he hadn't counted every day.
He scoffed at the floor and whispered, "Only?"
At first, her posture tensed, and she appeared not to know what to say, but she apparently found words. "You wouldn't feel that way if you let someone else in, you know?"
He groaned and turned his back to her before moving to the other side of the counter. He rested his fists on the granite top and leaned into them.
"I don't want to talk about this right now," he decided.
"Which is exactly why we need to," she answered immediately, standing directly across from him and leaning in, too. "You can't keep clinging on to the past. Honestly, Arthur, you've even driven the same car for the past fifteen years!"
"Oh, what has that got to do with anything?" he shouted over her in frustration before she even finished the sentence.
"Everything!" she insisted. "You're not even trying to move on. It's like you want to live in this pain. I can't understand it. I thought you were past feeling guilty. Do you not think you deserve a chance at happiness? I have a good feeling about Kay. He might be good for you."
He shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he didn't look at her. "I just don't want a relationship."
"Well, I'm not saying marry him—"
"No, that wouldn't be legal," he interrupted curtly, suddenly able to meet her eyes. He was glaring ferociously, and she seemed to mellow.
"Then, what is it, Arthur? Still grief?" she asked in a softer tone than before. Arthur was sick of sympathy. "For god's sake, dear brother, take off your funeral suit. It's time."
Part of him knew that she was right, but the other part didn't want to listen. Everything she had to say to him had already crossed his mind, anyway. He kept his gaze on the countertop, tightening his fists on it until his knuckles turned pallid.
After a pause, Morgana gave another heavy sigh. "What is it with the Pendragon men not being able to let go of past loves? Arthur, if you keep harboring these feelings, you're going to end up just like—"
"Don't, Morgana," he cut her off severely. "Don't say it."
"Why not, if you need to hear it?" she challenged. "Look at yourself. The anger, the scotch. Arthur, you're a better man than he is, with more qualities of your mother than of him, but this . . . What I will say is, I worry for you."
He exhaled through his nose. "I know."
"Then, tell me what you need," she almost pleaded. "Let me help you."
He shook his head thoughtfully. Mithian's words from that morning echoed through his mind.
Have you ever considered that Birmingham isn't far away enough from Kent?
He knew it wasn't, but there was a whole wide world out there; a whole wide, Merlin-less world. It didn't seem practical to think there was somewhere out there he could be happy again, and yet he sometimes found himself wondering if there were. Maybe it was just a matter of looking.
"There's nothing you can do."
"Arthur—," she sounded frustrated again, but he stopped her.
"Morgana . . . I hear you." And he meant it.
She dropped her shoulders, seeming to accept his words, but she still wouldn't back down. She opened her mouth to say something, but thankfully Leon popped his head into the room.
"Morgana, everyone's ready to sing, and Kara has to be manhandled away from her gifts, so we'd better hurry. Have you got the cake?" His eyes widened, obviously having read the situation. "Oh. Am I interrupting?"
"No," Arthur said at the same time as Morgana's, "Yes."
But then she let out a breath and said, "No, dear. I have the cake here. I'll be right out."
He disappeared again as Morgana headed towards the refrigerator. From it, she produced a large sheet cake with half a dozen of sugar flowers and scripted, colorful letters on the icing.
"Just give Kay a chance," she ordered before dropping the subject. Then, she started out of the kitchen. "Now, come on. And bring your shortcake."
Arthur cast another look around the empty kitchen before doing as he was told.
After the cake had been reduced to spongy crumbs and smears of icing, and Kara excitedly unwrapped her gifts, the children got back to playing and the adults got back to gossiping. Arthur busied himself with talking to Mithian and Gareth for a short time, but they soon excused themselves from the gathering to head home; and Leon and Morgana were busy mingling with their other guests.
Arthur soon found himself on the porch outside the front door, eager for a bit of silence and fresh air, but Kay had beaten him there. He was leaning against the wall with a cigarette held loftily between his fingers. From where it was placed at his side between puffs, spirals of gray smoke drifted upwards and got lost in the wind.
He gave Arthur a little bit of an awkward smile before looking away again, not initiating conversation. It made Arthur feel a bit guilty. He hadn't been very polite beforehand.
"Have you got another?" he asked Kay, who looked back at him as though he didn't understand Arthur's meaning. However, his gaze soon flashed with recognition.
"Of course," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a box. "It's a new pack."
"Do you mind?"
"Not at all."
He opened the pack and slapped it against his slender hand, causing one cigarette to pop out. He then held out the box for Arthur to pluck it from the rest.
"Need a light?"
Arthur hummed in the affirmative and placed the cigarette between his lips as Kay took out a matchbox. He struck one and held his fingers next to it against the breeze; Arthur leaned into the flame, trying not to make eye contact as he did so. However, he felt Kay's gaze on him, and his eyes flickered up to find the man smirking at him.
Thanking him, Arthur stood up and took a few steps away, enough for comfort but not enough to put too much space between them. They smoked in silence for a few moments before Kay said, "I imagine you wanted to get away from the noise, too? There are one too many sugared-up children in there."
Arthur snorted in laughter. "You're a child minder."
"There's only so much one can take," Kay answered with a playful grin. "Mind, the view out here isn't bad, either." He nodded towards the drive, particularly at the Continental. Arthur took the compliment personally.
"She is beautiful," he said fondly, staring off at the car.
"Hold on, is she yours?" Kay asked, standing off the wall again when Arthur nodded. "What year is she? A forty-one?"
Arthur's brows darted upward, impressed. "That's right. Do you know much about cars?"
Suddenly, Kay looked modest. "Oh, it's more of a hobby, really. I wouldn't call myself an expert by any means. The interested started with Aston Martin for me. It grew from there."
"You're a man of taste."
"But, unfortunately, not enough wealth for an Aston Martin," Kay joked with a sideways smirk, and Arthur found himself genuinely chuckling. The realization stopped him short, and his smile faded as he looked down to his shoes.
Then he remembered Morgana's order to give Kay a chance. Arthur expected there was no harm in it, even if it wasn't going anywhere. If anything, it would get Morgana off his back for the time being.
He cleared his throat into the silence.
"Tell you what, the party will probably last a little longer," he began, gesturing vaguely towards the car. "Would you like to go for a ride?"
Kay's eyes lit up. "Would I? Really?"
"I owe you for the cigarette," Arthur said in ways of excuse.
He jostled down the porch steps, an exuberant Kay in tow, and unlocked the driver's side door when he reached it. Kay situated himself into the passenger's seat, seeming overwhelmed as his gaze flittered along every inch of the interior. Arthur started the engine.
Arthur finished buttoning up his shirt, leaving him without distraction from his tousled hair and the disheveled bed sheets behind him in the reflection. He'd have to wash the sheets, or else he wouldn't feel clean. Or maybe he'd just have to burn the mattress. That's why he never had anyone in his own bed, under his own roof. It somehow seemed indecent.
Whenever he was with anybody, he always felt like he was being unfaithful. Bringing his one night stands home was, for all intents and purposes, a slap to the face.
He heard Kay shuffling around in the next room, no doubt just as dissatisfied as Arthur was feeling. It wasn't that it was bad sex—it was pretty good sex, but not as good as Merlin. No one ever was.
Arthur's heart wasn't in it. If Kay couldn't at first tell that Arthur was pretending he was someone else—someone in particular—there was just no denying it after Arthur accidentally called out Merlin's name. It was awkward after that, but Kay at least did Arthur the courtesy of faking it.
Deciding it was time to get the worst part over with, Arthur straightened himself out and walked into the small living room. Kay was standing over the couch next to the open window, in the light of the fading sun, smoking another cigarette.
"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you back to my sister's?" Arthur asked, seeming to knock Kay out of his thoughts. Neither of them quite met the other's eyes.
"No, I think I'll just get a taxi. I wouldn't want to put you out," he said, even though they both knew that wasn't the real reason.
There was a long pause between them until Kay shifted on his heels and continued, "Well, I'll be off, then."
"Yes, this was—yes."
God, what was he doing? Arthur was always so bad with the aftermath, and he knew this goodbye would be a particularly bad one when Kay had gotten immediately out of bed. His only solace was that he'd never have to see Kay again. If Kara ever had another party, Arthur would simply have to avoid Kay like the plague. It was the only reasonable course of action from here on out.
Kay collected his jacket from the couch and saw himself out.
"Well, Arthur," he said, now standing halfway in the open door. "Thanks again for the ride."
Arthur knew he meant the car.
He let out a breath of relief when the door clicked closed. And for a beat, he just stood there, not knowing what to do next. Just when it occurred to him that he should change the bed sheets, the phone on end table cried out for attention.
Arthur wanted to ignore it—to hide away from the world until this dreadful day was over—but something made his fingers twitch towards the phone. Figuring he'd humor the caller, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.
"Arthur!" Morgana's voice yelped after he'd greeted her. At first, he thought she was calling to ask him why he'd left the party, but her tone was too frantic for that.
"Morgana?" he asked, suddenly concerned. "What is it? What's wrong?"
There was a long pause, like Morgana was rethinking the call. However, after her doubtful hesitation, she said slowly, "It's Father . . ."
Arthur felt a bit dizzy being back in Camelot Manor. It hardly looked real anymore. Everything had remained exactly as he remembered it, like it was a set for a film, full of props. They had passed the parlor room on the way in, and Merlin had been inside dancing to a slow tune on the record player, calling for Arthur to join him. The only thing different was that the house staff had shrunk, as Uther had lived alone and required less people.
Arthur still felt just as uncomfortable in the leather chair in Uther's study as he had his entire life, even though his father wasn't currently the man sitting across from him and Morgana.
Instead, it was Uther's lawyer, Geoffrey Monmouth, a man who looked like he was perpetually sucking on an invisible lemon.
Arthur couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Uther was dead. It wasn't that he mourned the fact that he'd never get to see his father again—he wasn't interested in that, anyway. Rather, it was that Uther had died on the same day Merlin had. Arthur was beginning to think the day was cursed.
The funeral had already taken place, and Uther was shoved away in a marble mausoleum next to Igraine. There was only one thing left to do.
"To Morgana, I entrust the closing of all outstanding business affairs and fifty-percent of the inheritance," Geoffrey was reading. "To Arthur, I leave Camelot Manor and all its contents, in addition to his fifty-percent share of the inheritance."
Arthur looked around the office like he could see beyond the walls. He mentally wandered through the corridors and rooms, all the nooks he knew as a child. He knew at once he didn't want any of them. Too many memories were attached to the wood like wallpaper, patterned to look exclusively like Merlin.
Geoffrey finished reading the will and placed it flat on Uther's desk. He folded his hands together on top of it and quietly leaned back in his chair. The look on his face suggested they should ask any questions they had, but severely encouraged them to keep their mouths shut.
"What if I don't want the manor?" Arthur asked anyway. He felt Morgana's eyes on him, but he did not look at her. He wondered if she cared whether or not the property would stay in the family. He assumed not. The place hadn't been home to her for a decade—not since that night, when Morgana ran to Leon's family estate until they were married and Arthur followed, crying into his sister's lap for weeks until he got on his feet.
He hadn't been back to the manor since, but he knew, after a while, Morgana paid visits.
Geoffrey seemed thrown by the question, but after some initial stammering, he said, "Well, you could sell it, amongst other options."
Arthur didn't care about the other options. "How soon?"
"Are you certain this is what you want?" asked Geoffrey. Arthur didn't even have to think about it before saying yes. He didn't want the responsibility.
More than that, he didn't want such a tangible connection to the past.
After the meeting, he and Morgana stepped onto the roundabout drive and headed for the Continental. The gravel had been replaced with solid asphalt, and Arthur found himself missing the crunch of rocks underfoot. Perhaps he'd overlooked small details; perhaps other things about the manor had changed as well.
"You really want to sell the place?" Morgana asked him as she crossed to the passenger side of the car.
He looked at her from over the roof. "I don't want it. Why, do you?"
She laughed at first, but her smile faded as she squinted her eyes at the top floor windows of the house, like she was considering it. Arthur wondered if she was thinking about her old bedroom.
"I wouldn't know what to do with it," she said at last. "We'll have to let the staff go, you know?"
Arthur had already considered that. Even if he didn't sell the manor, he'd have to fire everyone, anyway. He wasn't about to move back in, so their jobs would be nonexistent. "We'll give them good references."
She hummed in the affirmative and opened the door. Just as she was about to slip inside, Arthur stopped her.
"Morgana," he said, regaining her attention. "I didn't know he was sick."
She blinked at him. "You never asked."
His eyes fell down to the reflection of the glaring sun on the top of the car. He heard Morgana's door shut. It was the only thing that brought him back to reality.
He made a point not to glance at the rearview mirror on the way down the drive. It wouldn't matter if he did, anyway. Merlin would be in the backseat obstructing Arthur's view.
Sleep eluded Arthur all night. Sometimes he would glare at the ticking clock on the wall on the other side of the room, angry that time kept moving forward and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't tell if he was wasting time or if it was wasting him.
Regardless, the last time he checked the clock, it had been a little past three in the morning. He wasn't sure how much time had gone by since then. It felt like hours, but it may have just been minutes. He was too tired to prop himself up and make certain, so he stayed on his back as his blank vision painted swirls on the dark ceiling.
Next to him, Merlin sniffed and shuffled on the edge of waking up. "Can't sleep?" he murmured in a thick, groggy voice. His eyes were still closed.
Arthur turned his head to look at him, and he smirked at Merlin's tousled hair. It stuck up in every direction against the pillow as he lay on his side. His chest was pressed softly against the line of Arthur's body, making Arthur comfortably warm.
"No," he answered. "I'm thinking."
Merlin blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted to the moonlight streaming in through the crack in the curtain. "Don't," he advised. "Everything's worse at night." He yawned, "Rubbish time to think too hard."
"You never thought hard a day in your life," Arthur chided, but the words made his heart sink.
Merlin only chuckled sleepily. "Prat."
He dipped his lips down and pressed them against Arthur's bare bicep. Arthur thought that might be the end of it, and Merlin would roll over again in sleep, but he moved closer, trailing his kisses up Arthur's shoulders and into the crook of his neck. He ran the flat of his palm up Arthur's chest, tangling his fingers with the fragile blonde hairs.
"Merlin," Arthur protested weakly. "Go back to sleep."
Merlin broke away to roll his eyes and argue, "Well, I'm awake now." He lifted himself up to roll halfway on top of Arthur and meet his eyes. "Don't think," he urged with a sweet smile. Arthur couldn't help himself from kissing it.
And soon nothing plagued his mind. All he could think of, all he could feel, were Merlin's fingers tickling and rubbing until both of their bedclothes were thrown to the floor or lost in the bunched and knotted sheets wrapped around them.
Arthur was pressed on top of Merlin, his face buried into Merlin's sweat-slick chest, with Merlin's legs wrapped around his hips. Merlin's body moved in rhythm with his just the way it always had, and he exhaled grunting, gasping breaths every time Arthur inhaled. The air was always sweeter when they shared it. Merlin's palms were always burning when they rubbed the tension out of Arthur's ached shoulders and when they tugged at his hair.
He always let Arthur come first. He said it was because the way Arthur slammed against him, the sounds he made, the way the muscles of his back rippled, and how he would grip onto Merlin tighter than ever before was what got him to finish, too. Arthur thought it was actually because Merlin wanted all the focus on him for a change, like Arthur's mind didn't spin on the thought of him every moment. Like his thoughts didn't constantly drive him crazy with the sung mantra of Merlin, Merlin, Merlin . . .
There was peace and quiet in the darkness again. Arthur's heart was still racing against his chest and pumping in his ears. Merlin was panting, but after a while his breaths evened out until Arthur couldn't hear them anymore.
Arthur's eyes started to droop. He wanted the last thing he saw that night to be Merlin, so he rolled onto his side to mirror Merlin's position.
Reaching around, he pulled Merlin in closer again and buried his face into the crook of his neck. Merlin chuckled tiredly and squirmed a little in his grasp.
"Again?" he asked with laughter in his tone. He hooked his ankle around Arthur's under the blankets, and Arthur breathed him in.
"No," he said into a sigh. "It's just . . ."
Merlin pulled away slightly to fish for Arthur's eyes, but Arthur didn't return the gaze.
"What?" Merlin whispered, suddenly concerned.
Arthur rested his head on his pillow and watched Merlin do the same across from him. He studied Merlin's face: the high cheekbones and glistening skin in the moonlight, the straight nose with a faded scar on its bridge, and soft eyes that reflected the darkness. He could see all of Merlin's features so clearly in that moment. They all flooded to the forefront of his memory, and he was certain they were all correct, down to the freckle above his brow.
"I just . . ."
"What? Miss me?" Merlin mocked playfully, but his face fell when Arthur nodded solemnly.
"Arthur," he said with more seriousness than before.
"I see you in everything, Merlin," Arthur said before Merlin got another word in. "I thought time was supposed to heal, but it's just made me empty. Sometimes I think I'll never get right."
Merlin took in a breath, appearing thoughtful.
"Maybe Mithian's right," Merlin suggested after a pause. "Maybe you just need to get away—put some distance between you and the memories. Give yourself some space. Uther's left you enough money to go anywhere."
"Where would I even go?" Arthur asked, feeling small against the rest of the world.
"Kent and Birmingham aren't the only places out there, Arthur," Merlin told him. "There's France, Italy, Spain, Germany . . ."
"America."
"You could go to the Empire State Building."
"Right to the very top."
Arthur felt a sense of dizziness and excitement at the prospect, and it paralyzed him when he realized it. His gut twisted and he shook his head.
"How could I just leave you here?"
"Arthur," Merlin said in such a low voice it might have been the wind through the curtains, "I'm not here. You are. Why would you waste that?"
He smiled a little sadly as Arthur searched his face, and Arthur felt his own grip loosen around Merlin's waist.
"I want you to stay," Arthur told him through the lump in his throat. "I want you to haunt me."
Merlin seemed to find humor in that. He breathed out and smirked, his long eyelashes sweeping downward as he averted his gaze.
"No you don't," he said.
Arthur raised his cheek off his pillow a little urgently. "Why would you say that?"
"Because it's true," Merlin countered, and his eyes were back on Arthur's again. "You know it is. Everything that Morgana and Mithian said to you—you've been thinking them for years. You just don't want to think them."
Arthur couldn't deny it. All the worries and solutions expressed to him had already crept up on him in lonesome times. Or were they times of clarity? He didn't know. He just pushed them away.
And then he'd gone back to Camelot Manor. Suddenly, he couldn't deny it anymore. The realization hit him like a wall. The miles were still too few. He knew it the moment he stepped foot inside the house. If time couldn't cure him, maybe distance would.
He had to do something with his life, anything. He could not remain stagnant, only to become twisted and bitter. He could not become Uther.
"It's okay," Merlin told him, reaching up and cupping the nape of Arthur's neck in his palm. If Arthur concentrated really hard, he could feel it.
He could almost feel it.
"It's good," Merlin went on, giving Arthur an encouraging grin, but his eyes were glistening. Arthur felt a pressure behind his own, and he let out a shaky sigh.
Merlin withdrew his hand from Arthur.
"Say it again, then," he whispered. "Tell me you love me."
Arthur nodded towards him. "I do. I do love you," he said like it was a promise. "Every day until the day I die."
Merlin shot him his best summer smile. It lit up the darkness.
"I know."
Arthur blinked a few times at the wall, at the empty space before him. He splayed his fingers and ran his palm over the cold sheets. Soon, he closed his eyes in sleep.
It took a little under a month to get his affairs in order. He sold his flat to a young couple with a baby on the way. He gave the Continental as a parting gift to the owner of the garage he worked at right after quitting, and didn't ask what was to become her fate, even though he knew she would be used for parts. Camelot Manor had not been sold yet, but Arthur had very little to do with that process, anyway. He let Geoffrey take care of it, and told him to wire him the money from the sale once it was all said and done.
Arthur had stayed with Morgana and Leon for a week and a half as he waited for his visa to arrive. Strangely, he found himself enjoying being around his family so often. Maybe it was because he knew how much he'd miss them. Or maybe he was still just a little bit doubtful that this was the right thing to do.
On the day before his flight, Morgana had surprised him with a large farewell dinner. Mithian and Gareth had been in attendance, and Arthur made them promise to send word to him as soon as the baby arrived. He wished them well when it was time to part, and he hugged Mithian for a few moments longer than he'd intended.
At bedtime, he told Kara a story about a dragon that took her on adventures to far-off lands, and she fell asleep before the story ended. She wouldn't be awake by the time he left for the airport the next morning, but he let her sleep. He tucked her in and gave her forehead a gentle kiss before realizing Morgana was standing in the doorway.
"How long have you—?" he began to ask, blinking and standing up straight. She silenced him with a finger to her lips and then gestured him out of the room.
She closed the door when he was on the other side of it and nodded down the corridor. "Come with me," she whispered, and led him downstairs to the empty kitchen.
"Are you all packed?" she asked at a normal volume as she filled the kettle with tap water.
"I'm sure I'm forgetting something," he said, settling onto a barstool and leaning into the counter. His head was spinning. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind, but now, in the middle of the dark night, the world was calm.
The prospect that there was an entire world apart from Arthur's comfort zone of England was suddenly daunting again. He wasn't so sure he wanted to leave anymore. His stomach sloshed too much for it.
"We could always send anything you have forgotten," Morgana assured him. She sat across from him at the counter. "It's not like we'll never hear from you again." It wasn't posed as a question, but something in Morgana's tone—and in her eyes—made it so.
"I'll write once a week and phone whenever I can," Arthur promised, forcing his tone to be light.
She seemed to brighten somewhat. "Good. We'll have to visit you once you get settled."
Arthur didn't know when—or even where—that would be, but he found himself looking forward to it. To being content. To peace.
"Arthur," Morgana said, her voice suddenly soft and heavy. She reached across the counter and took his hand in hers. It was warm and delicate. "You will take care of yourself, won't you?"
He didn't know how to promise that. In that moment, he wasn't certain of anything. But he'd have to be ready for the future, certain or not.
"I'll just have to, won't I?" he told her. "Since you won't be there worrying over me anymore."
She chuckled at the countertop and released him from her grip. He wished her touch had lingered just a bit longer. He supposed by now he should have learned that nothing ever stays put for very long.
When her smile faded and her expression turned to emotion, she began, "Arthur . . ."
"Oh, don't tell me you'll miss me!" he teased.
She scoffed, molding her face back into humor. "Miss you? Dear brother, I can't wait for you to be gone."
He beamed at her, and she grinned back with that sly smirk that suggested she knew far too much for her own good. She always had.
He supposed he'd miss her, too.
One Week Later,
New York City.
Arthur needed a city that never slept. He needed a place that was too big, too bustling. He needed to wake up.
New York looked nothing like its pictures. Sure, all the buildings were in the right place and the number of windows on each skyscraper remained the same, but there was something about the streets that could not be captured in stills. New York moved too quickly to be still, anyway. It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but New York is worth a million, and each of them is true.
However, none of them spoke as loud as the photograph of Merlin, always in Arthur's breast pocket. Sometimes, for many years, Arthur would feel it like a weight over his heart; although, mostly it would serve as a map, but not one lined with roads, longitude, or latitude. It did not lead to a place, but to a feeling. Arthur would know it when he found it.
The grandness of the world before him should have made Arthur feel small, like he had on the plane ride to New York. That feeling had gone away now. He felt on top of the world, and he supposed he literally was. Overlooking Manhattan from the top of the Empire State Building, the rest of the buildings looked like dollhouses.
He rested his arms on the railing and leaned into them, paying no mind to the hiss of the frigid winter wind as it whipped around the building with enough force to make Arthur sway slightly. Around him, the sea of gray and magic neon lights expanded on for what seemed like forever. Car horns, sirens, and shouts filtered upward from every direction. It was hard to imagine there was any other place in the world.
But there was another place—just one: a patch of grass in a graveyard just outside of London.
Merlin wasn't there. Not anymore.
He was in the rhythmic words of the beatnik poets along the endless American roads. He was in the soft, pale sand on the beaches of the Caribbean and in the thick, white snow of the Alps. He was in the rainforests of Brazil, in the sunsets of Greece, in the African Savanna, and on the waterways of Shanghai. If the stars illuminated the darkness over the land, Merlin had once been there, waiting to be found.
Arthur thought the top of the world was a good place to start looking. It gave him a good vantage point to pick where to go next. He knew he had to keep moving until he found the feeling the photograph gave him, or until the longing for it faded from his bones.
Merlin was so far ahead of Arthur. He'd gotten a ten-year head start. But Arthur would chase him across the entire world, just as the sun chases the moon over the horizon, until he caught up.
The End.