It was a Friday, almost six months after Merlin had moved in, when everything came to a head.
"Merlin! Merlin, get up, oh my god, Merlin!"
Merlin, vaguely aware he was going to have to kill someone once he regained consciousness, rolled onto his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head.
"Merlin! Get. Up," Arthur seemed to be saying rather emphatically and, much to Merlin's dismay, close by.
"Nffmggk," Merlin argued.
"I am so late I may as well just wait an hour and say I'm coming in early for tomorrow," Arthur said, rummaging around in Merlin's nightstand.
Merlin poked his head out from under his pillow. "What are you doing? That's my drawer."
Arthur ignored him and continued to riffle through Merlin's things. After a few moments he paused, then began emptying the drawer's contents onto Merlin's bed. Merlin sat up and rubbed his eyes on the off chance that this was all some cruel dream—but of course Arthur was waking him up on his first day off in recent memory, because if Arthur had to be awake, why should anyone else be allowed to have a lie in?
"Ok, stop," Merlin said, finding energy in his irritation as Arthur tossed Merlin's condoms and—Christ—his lube onto Merlin's legs. "Just, stop."
Arthur pulled a face, but paused. "I need your razor."
Merlin blinked at him. "What?" he asked incredulously.
"Your razor," Arthur said slowly, as though speaking to someone with a mental deficiency, "I need it."
Merlin rubbed his eyes again. "Why would I keep a razor by my bed?"
Arthur shrugged. "Well, it wasn't in the bathroom."
It took a lot of self-control on Merlin's part to let slide the fact that Arthur had obviously been rummaging through his things for the better part of the morning, but he'd learned long ago that with Arthur, it was a matter of picking your battles. Whatever Merlin might have been angry about, Arthur was more or less guaranteed to do something even more infuriating in the near future.
"Weren't you just going on about being late or something?" Merlin asked, on the off-chance that it might encourage Arthur to extricate himself from Merlin's room in a timely fashion.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes. Because I can't find my damn razor, and I can't find your razor, and I look like a vagrant! Do you even listen?"
"I was asleep, how could I be expected to listen?"
Arthur made a frustrated sound and stormed out of the room, leaving Merlin in a pile of his own embarrassing possessions.
"A razor! Christ, my kingdom for a fucking razor," Arthur shouted in the next room.
Resigning himself to the fact that sleep was probably not going to be an option until Arthur's personal grooming was seen to, Merlin shucked his blankets and crawled out of bed, cursing his failure to suffocate Arthur in his sleep when he'd had the chance.
Judging by the clanging sounds, Arthur had resorted to digging through the kitchen cupboards, as though he might have confused his precious razor with a ramekin or some such. Merlin stumbled blearily into their shared bathroom, and briefly considered taking Arthur's razor—which was sitting on the back of the toilet, of course—and disposing of it in some thoroughly violent manner, possibly involving a bodily orifice of Arthur's to be chosen at random. Rejecting the idea only because it would involve a lot of oozing and not a lot of sleeping, Merlin walked into the kitchen where Arthur was staring accusingly at a perfectly innocent loaf of bread, as though it might be harbouring his fugitive toiletry. Merlin held up the prodigal razor.
"Did you hide it?" Arthur asked in all seriousness, snatching it from Merlin's outstretched hand.
"Why would I hide it? Believe it or not, I have no particular investment in the texture of your face. It was on the toilet, in case you were wondering," Merlin said, following Arthur into the bathroom.
"I didn't put it there," Arthur grumbled, sounding less than confident.
"Right. The Shaving Gnomes must have come for it in the night and shifted it a halfway across the bathroom, the bastards," said Merlin.
"Could you not be so damn cheeky this early in the morning?" Arthur snapped, lathering the lower half of his face rather aggressively.
Merlin gave a sarcastic chuckle. "I can refrain, yes. Particularly when I'm sleeping. You know, as I like to do when it's my first day off in two bloody weeks," he spat irritably.
Arthur half-rolled his eyes, too focused on shaving to fully commit. "I'm sorry, I know how dreadfully taxing it can be, saving baby whales or unwed mothers—whatever it is you do with those beatniks."
Merlin watched in the mirror as his own cheeks went pink, and reminded himself of all the unpleasant clean-up murdering Arthur would entail.
"Not everyone can be paid to shag their secretary all day," Merlin said, keeping his voice as level as possible.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You're just jealous I never shagged you when you had the job," Arthur said flippantly.
Merlin felt his eyes widen.
This was one of the central problems with Arthur as a person: he was very Important. So much so that it was impossible to deny it, even in anger, even for the sake of argument. Arthur Pendragon, heir to the Pendragon fortune, heir apparent to Uther Pendragon's corporate stronghold, Camelot Investments, was, undoubtedly, Important. What was irritating was that it gave Arthur the impression that anyone or anything not important in the way he was Important was therefore Not Important. Merlin had begun attempting to beat this delusion out of Arthur roughly fifteen seconds after they met, and he'd achieved some measure of success, but every now and then Arthur, apparently, felt the insatiable urge to remind Merlin and anyone else in the vicinity that he was, first and foremost, an insufferable berk.
"And it's the environment. I'm working to protect the environment. You know, glaciers and things?" Merlin said.
"Right. Ice. Very controversial, ice," Arthur said, no longer really listening to what he was saying.
Merlin opened his mouth to protest that yes, actually, global warming was pretty controversial, but it was obvious Arthur's attention lay with his own face and not Merlin's life's work. Typical.
"Weren't you saying something about being 'oh god so unforgivably late,' or something?" Merlin asked, passing Arthur a towel automatically when he held out his hand. Certain aspects of being Arthur's one-time personal assistant were difficult to shake.
Arthur let out a long-suffering sigh. "We've been over this. Because I couldn't find my razor. Or your razor. Where is your razor, by the way?"
"It broke two days ago, can't you tell?" Merlin examined his chin in the mirror and realised that sadly, you couldn't much tell. "I haven't bought another yet because this is the first time in recent memory I haven't been at work or asleep. More the former than the latter," Merlin said, rubbing his eyes again involuntarily.
Arthur at last had the good grace to look slightly contrite. "Right."
"And anyway," Merlin continued, pleased with receiving what qualified as an apology coming from Arthur, "since when does shaving your blond, completely invisible stubble rank higher than maintaining your perfect record for punctuality? Your father won't be happy."
Arthur paused long enough to shoot Merlin a glare. "My father isn't giving a presentation in front of the entire board about why he should be allowed to take over the company next year."
Merlin grimaced. He had forgotten. He knew, vaguely, that Arthur had been gone a lot more than usual, but Merlin hadn't been around much, either. He'd been making a concerted effort to get out more, encouraged by Gwen's constant nagging that if he didn't put himself 'out there' (wherever the hell that was) while he was young and pretty, he was going to end up shrivelled and alone, having it off over pictures of strapping young blonds and the skinny men who loved them. Perhaps it was a good sign that something so hugely important in Arthur's life had barely registered, but mostly, Merlin just felt guilty.
"I still don't understand why the board has to approve it. I thought when Uther stepped down you just sort of inherited the throne." Arthur glared at him again, this time in the mirror. "No?"
"Camelot Investments is not a monarchy, Merlin, and even if it was, my father wouldn't let me anywhere near his precious company without completing some sort of hero's quest to prove my dedication first," Arthur said, sounding like someone who had accepted an unpleasant reality a long time ago and could nearly talk about it without a note of bitterness. "There would almost certainly be dragons involved."
"Well, I'm sure it doesn't matter. Who else would they have in charge, Gawain?"
Arthur snorted. "Not likely. But they could vote to sell off the company's assets to its competitors if they don't think I'm up to the job," Arthur said calmly.
Merlin nodded. For all that he complained about it, and he did, at exhaustive length, Camelot Investments meant the world to Arthur. Even Merlin, crusader for the little guy and all around anti-corporate bleeding-heart, couldn't begrudge Arthur his success. Arthur was always the first person at the office and, more often than not, the last to leave. For him, it was about more than profit margins and stock prices. It was about his father, who cobbled the whole operation together out of warring companies, who looked to Arthur to carry on his legacy and uphold everything he had built. It was about every last employee whose salary depended on Arthur's ability to convince a boardroom full of cutthroat, well-moneyed men that he was worthy of their confidence. For Arthur, it was a matter of honour.
"I don't see how anyone wouldn't want you running their company," Merlin said.
Arthur laughed humourlessly. "Yes, well, no offence—" A sure sign Arthur was about to say something truly horrifying "—but you and your co-workers wear matching t-shirts. You'll have to excuse me if I don't trust your business savvy."
"It's a non-profit. And the shirts aren't mandatory. But you're missing the point," Merlin said, trailing after Arthur as he went into his own room and stripped off his pyjama shirt. Without much warning, Merlin's point made itself scarce, the way Merlin's points often did when 'Arthur' and 'unexpected nudity' intersected. Even after months in suffocating proximity, the way Arthur's skin rippled when the smooth muscles of his back tightened never ceased to make Merlin's breath catch just a little.
"What is the point then?" Arthur supplied, oblivious as always to the effect he was having on Merlin's breath and, yes, alright, other parts of his person.
Merlin shook his head. "The point is it's not always about business, Arthur. The board is going to vote for you because you're you, and anyone with half a brain can see you were born to run that company."
Arthur shrugged on a perfectly pressed dress shirt and toed on his shiniest leather wingtips.
"We'll see," Arthur said, and sprinted out the door, snatching his briefcase from the kitchen counter along the way.
Merlin sighed and sat down on Arthur's bed. There was, theoretically, nothing to prevent Merlin from going back to sleep. It wasn't his life-altering meeting, after all, and just because Arthur's entire future depended on the events of the next few hours didn't mean Merlin should lose sleep over it.
Except, of course, that he couldn't sleep.
Something nervous and uncomfortable bubbled beneath Merlin's skin as he imagined Arthur walking into that big, echoing board room and trying to convince a bunch of trust-fund babies and stodgy old men of what Merlin already knew: that Arthur was, despite being spoilt and moody and a complete sod at times, the most qualified man on the planet to steer Camelot Investments into the future.
And, judging by the overstuffed folder on Arthur's bureau, he'd forgotten the quarterly earnings reports he was due to present in just over an hour, each annotated in Arthur's tight, meticulous scrawl.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding," Merlin said to no one in particular.
For about three seconds, he wished he could un-see the folder altogether, but then he thought of Arthur, anxious, brave Arthur, with his armour of Anderson & Sheppard suits and his utter inability to admit defeat, charging into the boardroom without his meticulously prepared handouts and—well, obviously Merlin was going to break his skinny neck to keep that from happening. It was what he did, after all, what he'd been doing since twenty minutes after they first met, when Arthur, in his enthusiasm for telling Merlin what a moron he was, failed to notice a bloody crane swinging towards him, and Merlin had thrown him out of the way without thinking. What mattered was that Arthur did courageous, stupid things, and Merlin saved his well-formed arse.
It wasn't that Arthur was afraid of the board, exactly. His father had started forcing him to sit in on meetings when he was still at university, and he'd had drinks with every last board member on numerous occasions. They were just men, and Arthur knew himself to be a better leader than any of them. But still, as he prepared to enter the boardroom—an hour early, despite his minor hygiene-induced breakdown—the lingering swell of doubt brought on by years in Uther Pendragon's mighty and unforgiving shadow threatened to choke him.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Pendragon?" Arthur's painfully stylish assistant asked as Arthur paced past her desk for the fifth time in as many minutes.
"No, no, thank you Miss Mettihew," Arthur said, reflexively. "Actually, a coffee. Or tea. Whatever's hot."
"Right away, Mr. Pendragon," she said before scurrying away in the manner of all highly competent, well-paid staff.
Long before Miss Mettihew, there was a brief period during which Merlin was Arthur's assistant. That their friendship survived Merlin's tenure at the company, Arthur is still amazed. On the other hand, though he'd never ever admit it under pain of death, what Merlin had lacked in useful skills and, to a certain extent, common sense, he made up for in bizarre charm and a natural immunity to Arthur's most intimidating glares. He'd only lasted a year or so as Arthur's assistant, but when Arthur had found himself suddenly lacking a flatmate and had found Merlin lacking a place to live, he'd more or less bullied Merlin into living with him. To keep him out of trouble, of course.
Arthur was jerked unceremoniously from his reverie by the sharp click of frightening Italian stilettos against marble floor.
"There you are," Morgana said. "I thought you'd be here hours ago. There was a pool going, you know."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Arthur spat moodily.
Morgana shrugged and collapsed into Miss Mettihew's chair. "Save your sympathy for Gawain. His money said you wouldn't go home at all. How is Merlin, by the way?" she asked casually in a voice that told Arthur he was missing something important.
Arthur resumed his pacing. "He's fine? I don't know. I've been a bit busy lately. I'm not his mother, you know."
"I should hope not," said Morgana, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You're his… what are they calling these days?"
Arthur gave her a look he hoped conveyed his absolute confusion. "His friend? His flatmate? What are you on about?" he said, momentarily forgetting what he should have been worrying about in favour of worrying about Merlin. So, nothing new there.
"Honestly, Arthur, have you never considered the fact that Merlin is the first person you've met, male or female, who's been willing to live with you longer than the duration of a really nasty flu?"
"Comparing me to illness now, are you?"
Morgana rolled her eyes. "I am merely pointing out that Merlin has been around a lot longer than most, including Sophia. You shouldn't take it for granted."
Arthur shuddered involuntarily. He still ran into Sophia at least twice a year at uncomfortable business functions and she never seemed to run short of ways to bring up their brief but traumatic relationship. It was coming home to find Sophia in flagrante delicto with one of Camelot Investments' more obnoxious attorneys that had lead to Arthur's anti-monogamist sentiments of late.
"And I'm still not sure what you're on about. He's… well, he's Merlin, isn't he? Hardly my type," Arthur said, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that the conversation would end there.
"Yes, I'd forgotten about your discerning tastes. You like them—what did you say that one time at the pub? Attractive and willing?" Morgana said with a positively evil smirk.
"I was pissed and you know it—"
"Pissed and terribly emphatic," she said coolly. "And Merlin, well," she paused to give him a knowing look, "is certainly the former, in his way, and if you haven't scared him off by now, I'd be willing to bet he's the latter, as well."
"Gambling is a sin," Arthur said darkly, putting his hands on the desk and leaning in close.
"So's lust," Morgana said, leaning in so that their faces were inches apart, and Arthur could almost swear he saw her tongue dart out to wet the corner of her lips in a very distracting manner.
Arthur shook himself. "Enough, Morgana. In case you've forgotten, I have the alpha and omega of meetings in less than an hour."
Morgana let out a cool, tinkling laugh. "Oh Arthur, you're much too dramatic. It's all for show, and you know it," she said, with the confidence of one whose job was more or less secure so long as half the board continued to live in fear of her and the other half would amputate a limb to see her take off her obscenely tailored blouse.
"You'll have to excuse me if I don't take your words of comfort to heart," Arthur said, positioning the desk between himself and Morgana's pointy, pointy heels. "Now, to what do I owe the aggravation of your company? Or have you just come for the show?"
"I came to make sure you weren't harassing the underlings to calm your nerves. Where is your assistant, by the way?" she asked, suddenly concerned by Miss Mettihew's prolonged absence.
Arthur blinked. "I… may have sent her for… something."
Morgana stared. "Something?"
"I don't remember. That's what I have an assistant for," Arthur snapped.
"Alright, alright, I see you are the essence of composure. I won't keep you," Morgana said patronizingly, extracting herself from the chair in one improbably graceful move. As she drew near, some part of Arthur, bourn of instinct and years of dealing with Morgana at her most annoyingly perceptive, began to shriek girlishly with alarm. "Just, try not to lose sight of what matters, Arthur," Morgana said quietly, fussing over his shirt collar.
Arthur glanced at her uneasily. "And the future of the company—of your employer, I might add—that's not what matters?"
Morgana flashed him an infuriating smile. "For someone so clever you can be so thick when you want to be."
Arthur laughed. "Is this your socially inept way of wishing me luck?"
"Of course not," she said seriously. "You don't need it."
And with an uncharacteristically warm kiss to Arthur's cheek, Morgana turned on her heel and strode off to terrorize the interns, or whatever it was she did when she wasn't destroying the marriages of vice-presidents or making Arthur feel like a twelve-year-old in the worst possible way. This time, however, as he watched her recede down the tastefully-lit hallway, Arthur found himself unaccountably grateful for Morgana's peculiar brand of irreverent concern.
"Right," Arthur said, glancing around. Without waiting for to find out what beverages the lounge had on offer, Arthur strode into the conference room and tried to ignore the war-drums he kept hearing in his head.
"Bugger, bugger, fuck, goddamn—" Merlin muttered as he sprinted towards the tube. He could have taken Arthur's extra car, which Merlin had long suspected Arthur only kept around to irritate him, but he refused to drive it since discovering Arthur had given him the only key, like some sort of kept man.
It was Friday, for fuck's sake, the day of rest in Merlin's do-gooder, non-profit managing, highly underappreciated, obscenely over-worked existence. The fact that he was both vertical and conscious annoyed Merlin immensely, but that he was doing it because of Arthur – can't bloody stand to see anyone well-rested – Pendragon, well, that was just the frosting on the cake of misery Merlin felt he was being force-fed by the universe.
Of course, he could have gone back to sleep, theoretically. Once Arthur was out the door there was nothing keeping Merlin from rolling over, tucking in, and taking a nap so epic minstrels would compose ballads about it. Nothing except the memory of Arthur's face, pale and uncertain, as he waged unnecessary war on his stubble in the bathroom mirror. Nothing except the fact that, at some point, Arthur's happiness and general well-being had become intrinsically linked to Merlin's own, without his knowledge or consent. Living with Arthur had been a bit like gradual brain-rape, so that one night Merlin went to bed with the understanding that Arthur Pendragon was a classic ass who could barely tie his own damn ties without Merlin's help, and woke up the next day concerned about Arthur's potential, or something. It was really very unfair.
Two trains and one brisk walk later, Merlin reached his destination. Standing before the looming monolith of Camelot Investments never ceased to make Merlin feel insignificant. It didn't help that the large, lethal-looking security guard in the lobby failed to call Merlin by the correct name even once in almost a year of daily encounters. Merlin just hoped the memorable size of his ears would be sufficient to get him inside.
"Hello, Rogerson," Merlin said, feigning good-cheer.
Rogerson looked at Merlin impassively, the way a mountain might look down upon an anthill. "Hello, Martin."
"It's… It's ah, it's Merlin, actually… Not that it matters," Merlin said, glancing between the clock and Rogerson's shiny black head. He'd never been clear on whether Rogerson was the man's first or last name, but Merlin was pretty sure asking for clarification might be the last thing he ever did. "I just need to speak with Mr. Pendragon—err, Arthur, that is."
Rogerson looked at him appraisingly, and then nodded once. "I will have him paged," he rumbled. Merlin wondered if this was the sound small creatures heard just before being crushed by a rockslide.
"No! I mean, you can't," Merlin said. Rogerson raised one eyebrow, obviously unaccustomed to being told what he couldn't do. "I mean, he's got this meeting, this presentation thing, and I just… I need to see him. If that's alright," he added quickly.
For a long moment, Merlin was sure Rogerson was going to forcibly remove him from the building, and Merlin prayed he would use both hands, if only to spare Merlin's dignity, but then, much to Merlin's surprise, Rogerson nodded in the director of the lifts before returning to whatever it was human land formations did to pass the time. Once the fear-induced paralysis wore off, Merlin pelted towards the nearest lift and mashed the "up" arrow three times, for good measure.
"Am I to assume this means you are prepared for your presentation?"
Arthur jerked up from where he'd let his head fall against the cool, varnished wood of the enormous round conference table. Like a chopping block, he thought morbidly.
"Of course," he said, clearing his throat in a manner reminiscent of the man standing in the doorway.
Uther gave a thin smile. "Very good." He stepped into the room with the quiet confidence of a man who could probably have you killed quickly or painfully, depending on his mood, and so quietly even he wouldn't know about it.
Arthur straightened up, subconsciously, and wiped his palms on the knees of his trousers, just as he had when he was eleven and Uther had decided he was ready to start learning about the company he would one day run. You are my son, and as such, you have the right to everything in my domain. But with privilege comes responsibility, Arthur, and yours is to your shareholders, your employees, and your name, he'd said, and Arthur had nodded furiously, petrified and exhilarated all at once, and how could that be?
"Did you need something?" Arthur asked after a lengthy silence. His father didn't make social calls, and he never left his penthouse of an office without a reason.
Uther glanced at him, and then went back to staring into the middle distance.
"What happens here today will determine whether the name Camelot Investments lives to see another generation of successes, or dies with my retirement," he said, matter-of-factly. "I know you will do your best, Arthur, but if you fail today, I want you to know—"
"I'm failing you and not just the company," Arthur interrupted, feeling the anxiety he'd kept banked in his stomach catch like a spark in a drought-ravaged field.
Uther paused and studied him.
"If you fail today, I want you to know I am proud of you," Uther said, his voice cool and level.
Arthur blinked at him stupidly for a moment before realizing that he was probably supposed to respond soon. "Right…" he said, feeling his stomach twist with something odd and unfamiliar.
Uther nodded once, and swept out of the room, leaving Arthur alone in the loaded silence of the impending storm.
"Fuck!" Merlin shouted, having accidentally pressed the button for the 30th floor, which was just below the button for the 32nd floor, where Arthur's office was located. "Shit," he added, for emphasis.
If only Arthur wasn't such a prat, Merlin thought irritably. He would have said this aloud as well, but he secretly suspected the lifts had ears. Because really, if he thought about it—and he certainly didn't—it wasn't that he minded acting as Arthur's flatmate-cum-lifepartner. Given the chance, Merlin knew he would probably spend the rest of his life picking up Arthur's dirty socks and delivering mind-bogglingly important documents that Arthur couldn't be arsed to remember. And that was sort of the problem, because no matter how willing Merlin was, sooner or later Arthur was bound to find someone else to fill the role. Someone tall and pretty with enormous… potential, or broad and angular with, well, enormous potential. Then Merlin would be relegated to bachelor friend, former live-in nanny, and desperate pathetic mess destined to get sloshed at the wedding, make an emasculating toast, and probably cry in the coatroom.
It wasn't all pining and moony eyes, or anything. Merlin didn't fall asleep at night thinking of Arthur and wake up consumed by his unending passion, nothing like that. It was just that with Arthur around, Merlin found it difficult to imagine there being anyone else. How would they spend Sunday nights drinking wine and watching horrid Bollywood musicals if Merlin was busy being in a healthy relationship? It would never work. He just couldn't explain it to Arthur in so many words for fear of actually burning alive with the intensity of his own flaming gay.
Merlin leapt out the moment the doors opened, ran halfway down the hall, and then promptly realised he was on the wrong floor. "Idiot lift!" he shouted. A passing accountant shot him a filthy glare. Merlin ignored him and ran for the stairwell he knew to be nearby from his experience snogging an attractive broker in it while he worked for the company. The man, Richard was his name as far as Merlin could remember, had bright blue eyes and a thing for sex in public, slightly unsanitary locals.
Three flights up, Merlin remembered another vital detail from his clandestine romance—the key they'd needed to get out of the stairwell. Some genius in security had thought it clever to make the doors lock automatically except on the ground floor to discourage people sneaking in. It mostly had the effect of discouraging anyone from using the stairs, ever, and trapping hapless interns. And Merlin, apparently.
"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to wait until he sleeps and end his worthless life," Merlin muttered to himself. Folder still clutched in his now-sweating hand, Merlin planted himself in front of the door to the 32nd floor and started knocking. Thirty seconds later, when his knuckles began to throb, he amended, "I'm going to wake him up first. I want him to see death as it comes for him."
"Oh. Oh god," Arthur said quietly, eyeing the growing crowd in the conference room through the chic glass walls.
"Something you require, Mr. Pendragon?" Miss Mettihew said in her calm, posh accent.
"Yes! I mean…" he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Nothing you can help me with, thanks." Arthur ran into his office and closed the door, scrambling through the papers on his desk like a man possessed, hoping he was wrong, hoping he was hallucinating from the stress, because how could he have forgotten the bloody printouts for his presentation—that were his presentation. There was absolutely no way. Say what you will for nepotism, but Arthur graduated in the top five percent of his class at Cambridge, and he'd out-worked every last junior executive his first year on the job. Arthur did not forget things, important things, because when Arthur fucked up, it wasn't just egg on his face, it was egg on his father's last name and unemployment for his people.
And he had seriously fucked up.
If it hadn't been for Merlin, who was clearly at fault in all this, Arthur's sure he would have remembered to grab it. Ok, it was just that he'd been dressing and Merlin kept looking at him like he did when he didn't think Arthur would notice, and it had taken every bit of Arthur's depleted self-control not to punch him in the mouth or, just maybe, throw him across the bed and figure out exactly what Merlin was staring at.
God, it was always Merlin. Merlin, who had been nothing but trouble from the day they met. Merlin, who ate his expensive cheeses and slept in his favourite Harrow t-shirt because he said it smelt of money and latent homosexuality. Merlin, who had never once in five years been any more or less kind to Arthur because of his last name.
Arthur stood in his lavish office, with just the right amount of morning sunlight streaming in through the spotless windows, and realised, with uncomfortable certainty that somehow just about everything in his life existed in relation to skinny, annoying, uncoordinated, big-hearted, wonderful, wonderful Merlin. And suddenly it didn't matter quite so much that he was about to lose the company to Valiant and his band of sell-happy followers, who would use Arthur's inability to remember his own stupid papers as evidence of his ineptitude, as a portent of the financial ruin to come. Because when he went home at the end of the bloodbath with his father's angry voice still echoing in his ears, Merlin would be there making disgusting fusion dishes in Arthur's expensive kitchen. And, apparently, that was what mattered.
Morgana was never going to shut up about this.
"Well," he said aloud to himself in the calm tones of someone aware that they are having a breakdown, "I suppose that settles it."
Arthur walked out of his office slowly but without hesitation. He walked past the photo of Merlin and Gwen at the beach that hung on his wall, and past the Rubik's cube Merlin had bought him for his birthday two years ago so they could both learn to solve it and have Drunken Cube Races.
On his way into the conference room, Miss Mettihew gave him a polite smile, and Arthur tried not to hold it against her that she wasn't really the best assistant he'd had.
"Is there anything I can get you before the meeting?" she asked helpfully.
"No, no, I think I'm fine," he said, and was somewhat surprised to realise he was telling the truth.
"Morgana! Morgana!" Merlin shouted, banging on the door with one of his trainers.
"Merlin? What the hell are you doing in there?" a very puzzled looking Morgana asked, opening the door to the stair.
Merlin, so overjoyed at the sight of her in all her low-cut professional glory, grabbed her by the face and kissed her firmly on the cheek.
"You are spectacular! May you and Mordred have lots of sex and offspring," he said, to Morgana's continued bewilderment.
"Are you on drugs?" she asked, looking both alarmed and amused.
"No! I've got—Arthur's got—that presentation, I have the things for it. The papers. No time!" Merlin yelled over his shoulder, sprinting down the hall in what he hoped was still the direction of Arthur's office.
"You've got what?" Morgana called after him.
"His papers! Long story, explain later. You are a goddess!" Merlin screamed, loud enough that two passing secretaries began to giggle amongst themselves.
It was 8:57, which meant he should have had three minutes to spare, were it not for the fact that Arthur's internal clock was set ahead by five minutes at birth. So Merlin tucked the folder under his arm and pelted down the hallway, dodging harried-looking interns and, if Merlin wasn't mistaken, the thin, well-groomed woman Arthur had hired to replace him. He thought about how inconveniently big Camelot Investments' headquarters were, and how tired he was, and how badly he wanted to slow down, stop all together and let Arthur fend for himself, because really, Merlin didn't owe him anything. Really, Merlin was just his friend and his flatmate, and nothing more. But mostly, Merlin thought about Arthur and kept running.