A/N: I posted this on my AO3 account a month ago and didn't realize that I never posted it here too! It's about time you guys/gals/nbpals got some more Merthur out of me, considering that's what most of you probably know me for, lol. It's been a while but this felt good to write. =)
This first time Arthur saw Emrys dance was on a school field trip to the Royal Camelot Theater.
He had been less than excited for that particular outing, mostly because he heard more than enough about that stupid theater when he was at home. It was his father's crowning jewel, his favorite of all the various theater and dance companies he was a patron of, and he was far from shy about it. Arthur was treated to grand monologues about how noble an institution it was on a regular basis and it grated on him.
Honestly, Arthur wouldn't have minded his father's enthusiasm for the place if it had been a genuine appreciation of the art, but he knew his father had little respect for those who dedicated their life to dance and even less patience for actually watching the ballet itself. He only gave it lip service so that he could sound cultured and sophisticated. It was all so painfully disingenuous, Arthur couldn't do anything other than offer up a thin smile and nod when his father seemed to expect him to.
So, no, Arthur had not been pleased that the school had chosen this of all things for the very last field trip of his very last year there. And such a cliche, too. Swan Lake. As if it hadn't been done a hundred million times before. The only difference—and apparently an enormous one, if the review he had seen in the paper the week before was to be believed—was that the Swan was being played by a boy, and a previously unknown seventeen year old boy at that. Whoopee.
Arthur had bitched and moaned the whole ride there, annoying Gwaine so much that the other boy had nearly gotten them thrown off the bus by trying to shove his own socks down Arthur's throat to make him shut up. Then he grumbled to himself all the way into the theater, sunk down as low in his seat as he could, and prepared to studiously ignore the entire performance as his own form of ineffectual protest.
His protest didn't last five minutes.
Five minutes in, Emrys set foot on the stage.
And the second he did, Arthur couldn't look away.
Later, when Gwaine had elbowed him roughly in the side and asked if it was all the long, slender legs on display that had him drooling or if he was just bored into stupefaction, Arthur hadn't even been able to muster the words to explain that seeing that boy dance had been something akin to a religious experience. His eyes had stung and blurred from how long he had gone without blinking and there had been a swooping feeling in his gut that had made him want to laugh until he cried.
All he had known then was that he needed to see Emrys again.
The second time Arthur saw Emrys dance, he was in his first year of uni. Pre-law was exhausting, the kind of exhausting that had had him dragging his feet on the best of days and not getting out of bed at all on the worst. Every class had made him want to put his head through a wall, but he'd had his father's voice in his ear every minute or every day to remind him of the expectations put upon him. He could not fail, no matter how much he may have wanted to.
His roommate Elyan had tapped him on the shoulder one night, startling him awake from the impromptu nap he had been taking on a stack of three open textbooks, and handed him a flyer.
There had been Emrys, photographed in mid-leap with every muscle straining and with wild makeup like scales, and suddenly it hadn't mattered that it was finals week and he had two exams coming up that he hadn't been prepared for. He would have gladly failed every exam from then until the end of time if it meant getting a ticket to The Last Dragonlord.
He had gotten on his hands on that ticket through very dubious means which he swore to himself he would never employ again—knowing damn well he would do it again in a heartbeat if Emrys was involved—and had been in the Royal Camelot Theater two days later, nearly bouncing in his seat from the excitement as he had waited for the Dragonlord to make his appearance.
He hadn't thought it possible for anything to surpass the last performance he had witnessed. And yet.
Arthur had waited by the stage door for as long as he could justify putting off his revision, but Emrys hadn't come out. In the end, the threat of his father's disappointment had driven him back to his dorm room.
How he had managed to pass his exams when all he could think of was the way the Dragonlord had flown across the stage, Arthur would never figure out.
The day Emrys disappeared was one Arthur would remember for the rest of his life. Or at least, the day he had found out about it.
It wasn't that the boy had been kidnapped or anything. There had been no immediate panic, no alarms raised, no search parties. He had simply...faded. His run with The Last Dragonlord had closed and he just hadn't signed on for another production. It had been weeks before the articles had started being published asking where he had gone, why he wasn't performing anymore, what would become of his career if it stopped here.
No explanation had been given, no statement made. Speculation had been rampant, but Arthur hadn't cared for any of it. It hadn't mattered why he had quit, only that he had. All that talent and passion, gone in an instant.
His father had ranted and raved about the irresponsibility of that boy and the flightiness of dancers as a species, and even more about how his absence would negatively impact the fiscal solvency of the company. He hadn't understood why Arthur had walked out in the middle of their dinner without a word.
The third time Arthur saw Emrys dance was an accident.
His father had sent him across the pond to check in with one of his satellite offices. Apparently New Yorkers couldn't be trusted not to cut corners—or, more like, not to only cut the proper corners—and it was about time that Arthur learned the ins and outs of the position he would one day inherit. So he had flown out to NYC at his father's command, ready with a list of names of people he would soon be sacking.
Taxis made him feel uncomfortably squeezed tight, like there was no room to expand his lungs and no air to fill them with anyway, so Arthur had opted to walk to most of where he needed to be. One such walk had taken him through Central Park and past a variety of street performers, many of them mediocre but a few quite good. Only one had caught his eye, though.
He had been wearing a ripped up sweatshirt, one of the zip-up ones with a hood but no sleeves, and track pants cut above the knee. His hood had been pulled up, the better to hide his face, but Arthur would have recognized that form anywhere, even only having seen it twice before and from a distance.
Emrys had had classical music playing from a beat up boombox that looked like it might have been older than him, and the crowd of rapt spectators had formed a perfect circle around him as he danced. Arthur had fought his way to the front, his heart beating fast in his chest and disbelief warring with a growing sense of awe and gratitude, until he'd had a perfect view.
It was no less beautiful for the lack of a stage.
Arthur had been late to his meeting, but by then he knew that Emrys' eyes were startlingly blue up close and that had been more than worth the tongue-lashing from his father.
The fourth, fifth, and sixth times Arthur saw Emrys dance were on that same path in Central Park.
He'd had to rearrange his schedule, move a few meetings around with bullshit excuses that had had his father fuming from afar, but it had been worth it for those few moments in the park. It seemed like Emrys was there every day at the same time, always alone with his boombox, dancing like he didn't care if anyone was there to see. Like he didn't know anything but the music and the ground beneath his feet.
Most of the time his eyes had been closed, so caught up in his passion that the world would only have been a distraction. But when they opened, those blue eyes had fallen on him, on Arthur, every bit as rapt as the rest of the audience. And for a moment, Arthur could have sworn that Emrys had recognized him.
He would have gone back to the park every day for the rest of his life, and gladly, but his father had deemed him finished. The requisite pink slips had been given out, the appropriate people strong-armed into compliance, and Arthur's time in NYC was up. He had spent the flight back wondering if Emrys was performing right then and if he had noticed that Arthur wasn't there.
Arthur didn't expect there to be a seventh time seeing Emrys dance. From his anonymity and bucket of spare change tips in Central Park, Arthur figured Emrys had given up on formal performance and he would never be blessed enough to run into the man again. He resigned himself to that, no matter the ache it left low in his stomach, slump it brought to his shoulders no matter how hard he tried to pull them back.
His father had learned not to practice his speeches about refinement and culture on his son, not to mention the Royal Camelot Theater at all. Arthur did the tasks that were put in front of him. He pulled his weight at the company and followed his father's orders to the letter. He did not go to the theater, no matter how glowing the reviews were or how many times Elyan tried to drag him along, because it wasn't ballet in general that had captured him. No other danseur, talented though he might be, would ever hold a candle to Emrys.
For almost a year, Arthur buried himself in work and deliberately avoided all mention of things that reminded him of Emrys. Maybe that was why it took until three weeks into the run for Arthur to hear that he was back in town and headlining a new ballet, this one based on his own life experience. According to critics, the fittingly named Emrys was a masterpiece for the ages, and the man himself a genius and a legend for writing, choreographing, and starring in it himself.
Within a week, Arthur found himself once again at the Royal Camelot Theater, so excited that it bled over into anxious. He tore his program into bits before the curtain even rose, much to the horror of the old woman seated beside him, but he couldn't bring himself to care when he was only minutes away from seeing Emrys on stage.
It was like breaking the surface of a lake after an eternity of holding his breath, that first painful gasp of air that stung his skin and made his lungs burn. Emrys spun and leapt, he rose and fell, he did things Arthur had never seen done on a stage before. The man seemed to spend more time in the air than he did on the ground, like he belonged up there.
Like even gravity wasn't enough to weigh him down.
Arthur bought another ticket, and then another. He didn't care that they were expensive, or that he had no one to take with him, or even that his father voiced concerns about him falling behind on his paperwork. He just knew that he needed to go, he needed to sit in that theater and watch Emrys move with such emotion. Arthur would swear he felt more in those few hours in the theater than he had in the entirety of the last year.
His second viewing of Emrys—his eighth time seeing the man dance—was every bit as awe-inspiring as the one before. Afterward, he waited by the stage door, exchanging polite smiles and compliments with the other dancers as they filtered out and waiting for the one person he had come to see. But Emrys didn't leave, or he used another exit to avoid the crowd. Arthur tried not to be too disappointed, but he found himself lingering far longer than he should on the thin hope that Emrys might appear.
He realized that he might be edging into stalker territory, but the other option was going back to his large, empty flat and his desk covered in papers and ledgers and forms and an inbox full of demanding emails from his father-cum-boss and he couldn't make himself return to that. Not just yet, at least. He felt like, if he could just meet Emrys, if he could speak to him in person and see those blue eyes truly focus in on him and him alone, then maybe his life wouldn't seem so heavy.
Arthur didn't bother with the stage door after the next show. Instead he brought a bouquet of flowers with him and sweet-talked the assistant stage manager into letting him into the dressing rooms by pretending he was a cousin of an ensemble member whose name he had picked at random out of the program and wanted to surprise her. He got a few odd looks as he wandered his way through the backstage area, but no one told him to leave and he finally found the small room with M. Emrys on the door.
It was closed, and Arthur spent a good two minutes dithering over whether he should knock or wait for Emrys to come out in his own time. Or just leave because, honestly, this was feeling a bit stalkerish and maybe it would be for the best if he didn't let this continue any further. Emrys would probably be disturbed and think him a creep and call security to remove him and get a restraining order and then Arthur would never get to see him dance again and he would have no one to blame but himself and—
"You certainly took your time."
The voice from behind him startled Arthur and he nearly whacked the flowers against the wall as he spun around. And there, like a vision from a damn dream, was Emrys. In loose track pants now instead of the tights he'd worn on stage, but still bare chested. He was glistening with sweat and had a damp towel slung across his shoulders, using one corner to mop his brow. His eyes were blueblueblue and his painted-pink lips were tugged up into a smile that looked almost teasing.
"Wha—" Arthur shook his head to try and shake off the shock, to get his brain into working order again. "I came straight after the show. What do you mean, I took my time?"
Emrys slid his hands into his pockets with a shrug, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside his dressing room door. His smile grin widened.
"Well, this is...what, the sixth time?" he asked, then nodded to himself. "Sixth time I've seen you at one of my performances."
Arthur's face grew hot and he opened his mouth to deny it, to wave it away, maybe to apologize for coming across so obsessed, but then Emrys was laughing. It was low and throaty and possibly the most beautiful sound Arthur had ever heard, and best of it, it even seemed genuine. Like he wasn't creeped out. Like he even liked that Arthur was such a fan.
Arthur bit his lip and ducked his head to scratch at the back of his neck, laughing a bit too.
"Then you didn't see me the first three times," he admitted.
Emrys laughed again, head thrown back to expose the long, slender column of his throat. Everything about him was long and slender, despite the breadth of his chest and width of his shoulders. Lean muscle and pale skin, strength wrapped in grace and bathed in a strangely powerful type of vulnerability that could only be conveyed through movement. And those eyes. They glittered with amusement as they fell on the bouquet still in Arthur's hands.
"Did you get those for me?"
Arthur had almost forgotten about them. He offered them up now, holding them out in front of him like the most awkward of teenagers on a first date.
"Yes," he said quickly. "I know that's usually more of an opening night type thing, but I—"
"They're lovely," Emrys said easily. "Thank you."
He took them, and Arthur wondered if it was his pathetically overactive imagination or if Emrys' fingers really did linger when they brushed against his. He rocked back on his heels as Emrys entered his dressing room and swapped the flowers out with some older, wilted ones in a vase there, wondering if that was it and he should leave now. But Emrys looked back to smile at him once more.
"You coming in or aren't you?"
"Do you want me to?" Arthur asked, not wanting to intrude or impose or anything.
"You've come to see me so many times," Emrys said, turning around to lean back against the table, "I feel like I should at least know your name."
Arthur hovered in the doorway for another moment before stepping through, his heart skipping in his chest at the pleased look it put on Emrys' face.
"It's Arthur," he said. "Arthur Pendragon."
"I'm happy to finally meet, Arthur Pendragon," Emrys said. "I'm Merlin. Emrys, obviously. Merlin Emrys. But apparently one-name stage names have more of an impact, so everybody around here just knows me as Emrys."
As if Emrys—Merlin —needed help making an impact. As if he weren't the most talented danseur of the century. As if everyone with eyes in their head didn't know that.
"But you don't care much about that," Arthur said. "Do you?"
Merlin tilted his head, a question on his face.
"Making an impact," Arthur clarified. "Making a name for yourself, getting famous. If that were the case, you wouldn't have run away from your fame to dance in parks for a year or two instead."
Merlin chuckled again, ducking his head.
"You're not wrong," he said. "Maybe just because I started so young. Too much too soon, you know? I needed to step back and remind myself of why I loved what I did. And it's not for the applause or the accolades. It's for me."
"It shows," Arthur told him. In every line and movement, his passion for his art showed. It was what made him great.
"So that's why I love it," Merlin said. He pushed himself upright again, sauntering closer. "Why do you?"
Arthur frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"According to you, this is the ninth time you've seen me perform," Merlin pointed out. "And at least three of those performances have been the same thing over again. Even my mother doesn't come to see my shows that many times. So what keeps you coming back?"
Arthur's breath stuck in his throat, caught on the jumble of words that couldn't seem to find their way to his lips. It was like sixth form all over again, speechless in the face of Gwaine's teasing laugh and friendly ribbing, only now the swooping feeling and the ache were bone deep. Unbidden, he remembered how Merlin had looked as the Dragonlord, years ago, with the scales painted on his face and down his neck, shifting across muscles that stretched and bunched as he threw himself across the stage.
"Do you remember," Arthur said slowly, "that scene from The Dragonlord where you were captured? When you were bound but your dragon was injured and you broke free? You threw off the chains and...and you flew. " He shook his head, still awed. "I'd never seen anything like it."
Merlin smiled, something gentle as he stepped closer.
"One of my favorite pieces."
"There's something about you, Merlin," Arthur said, helpless against the confession that he'd been holding in for so long, since he had seen that first dance. "About the way you can't seem to stay on the ground. Nothing can keep you there. You're just free. "
"And you want that same freedom," Merlin guessed. "You want to break free."
He was close enough now that Arthur could feel the heat of him, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the hints of green hidden in the blue of his eyes. Those eyes pinned him to the spot, but he didn't feel stuck. More like he would float away without them to anchor him to the earth.
"Tell me, Arthur," Merlin said, his breath warm on Arthur's cheek. "What are your chains?"
Arthur tried to think of his father and the numerous fronts he put on, of pre-law and cut corners, of paperwork and emails and long hours and nothing but disappointment. But all he could see was blue eyes and shifting scales and the green of Central Park in spring.
"That's just it," he whispered against Merlin's lips. "When I watch you dance? I can't even remember."