"It's supposed to be a sad song," says Sophie into Arthur's chest. Arthur had shown up there a few hours ago. Sophie was already drunk and Arthur was drunk with sadness, and now they're lying in a tangle of sheets and limbs. Sophie turns over under his arm, her skin feeling like satin. "But I always listen to it and feel happy, you know? It's like, he just wants her to know who he is. It makes me so happy."
"Mmm," hums Arthur absentmindedly. Sophie's been talking about "Iris" for the last ten minutes. Arthur can't tell if she's deeply touched by the song or if she's just drunk. Maybe both.
"It's like – he just really loves her, you know?" sighs Sophie. She starts to cry a little, and Arthur lets her curl into him. "He just loves her so much," she keeps murmuring listlessly into him, and Arthur wishes he cared.
Arthur leaves when she falls asleep, clutching the pillow next to her.
When he unlocks the door to his apartment, it looks emptier than he's ever seen it. Arthur has never fully appreciated how little he owns—it was all Merlin's. Everything is missing—it looks like he's been robbed. Morgana's made up the bed, finally, and Arthur wants to pull back the sheets frantically to see if it's still held Merlin's shape, but he knows it hasn't.
Morgana's done a thorough job—it's as if Merlin never existed, just a figment of Arthur's imagination.
Arthur is alone.
Morgana is at a loss. Her brother has reached a near-comatose state, listlessly shifting from depressed to moody.
So Morgana does all she can, which involves calling Uther. You might be able to say a number of unflattering things about Uther Pendragon, but that he does not care about his son is not one of them. In fact, Arthur and success are about the only two things Uther concerns himself with.
"What's wrong with him?" Uther demands over the phone.
"He and Merlin broke up," says Morgana, diplomatically deciding to leave out the part in which Arthur cheated on Merlin. Water under the bridge. "And Arthur's been moping for about a month now. I thought he'd snap out of it, but he hasn't. And you're the only person I know who can fix this." There is silence. "Please, Uther. I'm on my knees here."
There is a long moment in which Morgana fears Uther has hung up. He doesn't like doing favors for Morgana, and she half-expects him to say, "I do not run errands for you, Morgana." But instead, he says shortly, "I'll be over in half an hour. Notify Arthur."
Uther Pendragon is a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Yet his uncomfortableness with feeling is only matched by his love for his son. And so, one has to sway.
When Uther enters Arthur's apartment using the spare key Morgana gave him, he finds his son in jogging bottoms. Jogging bottoms. Uther hasn't seen Arthur in jogging bottoms since he was about six and running through a field.
"Arthur," says Uther in a voice that allows no flexibility, "Let's go to lunch."
Arthur has not even looked up from his spot on his bed. He's staring at where Merlin's desk used to be, with its stacks of nerdy books and his laptop and Lord of the Rings memorabilia.
"I don't very much feel like lunch, Father."
Uther doesn't quite understand: the son he raised wouldn't blatantly disobey him. Why isn't Arthur getting up? With a fight, maybe. But Arthur isn't even making a move.
"Arthur," says Uther more menacingly, "Get dressed. We're lunching."
Arthur remains impassive. "No," he comments casually, "I don't think we are. I think I'll stay here. You can go if you want."
Uther fights the anger brewing in his blood. It's like an animal, Uther's rage, and he's working actively to keep its venom at bay.
"Arthur," Uther tries once more, "You are a Pendragon. You are an intelligent, deeply important person with more to offer the world than this squalor you're living in. Now please get up."
The fact that he's begging his son does not suit Uther well, but desperate times call for desperate measures, he supposes.
Yet Arthur does not move. He doesn't even roll over. Doesn't even twitch.
Losing his temper, Uther strides over to his bedside and growls, "If you loved Merlin – really loved him – you'd stop sitting in your own self-pity. You are a Pendragon, Arthur. You have dignity. The Arthur I raised would not betray his heritage in such a way as this." Uther pauses. Arthur has tilted his head toward his father, which gives Uther some hope. "Find the Arthur I raised," Uther continues, "and then meet me in the car."
It takes thirty minutes, but Arthur slides gracefully into back of the town car next to his father, freshly showered and wearing a suit.
"Father," Arthur acknowledges with a dip of his head.
They are men of action, not of emotion, so the Pendragon men do not discuss the prior conversation all afternoon. The closest they get is Arthur's quiet, "Thank you for lunch, Father," as the cheque is paid by a quick brandishing of Uther's credit card.
Uther says nothing but hums with quiet satisfaction.
On the way home, Uther tells Arthur, "I called your supervisor and told him you'd had a personal emergency. He also has received ten thousand pounds. You, in turn, have not lost your job at the newspaper. If I hear you've missed even one day for the next three months, I will be sorely disappointed."
Burning with shame, Arthur murmurs his gratitude.
When his father's car has pulled away, Arthur goes upstairs, retrieves the jogging bottoms, and throws them in the dustbin.
Arthur scrawls something on a Post-It note from a stack on his desk, walks over to the one that used to belong to Merlin, and tacks it on the hutch atop it.
Because I love you, I will love myself.
It's a stupidly girly sentiment, Arthur knows, but he also knows it's really only his love of Merlin that will get him through the months ahead. It's not pride in himself, because he hasn't got any, not really, or love of others, because they all pale in comparison. It's knowing that he mucked things up with Merlin, but it's more than that. It's knowing that Merlin was truly the other side of his coin, the one person in the entire world who was more than a person, he was an event. He was love itself, and he made Arthur feel safe.
It's this love that makes Arthur want to stop killing himself slowly.
Because I love you, I will love myself.
Arthur cleans up the flat, cleans out his closet. He's showered and dressed well and living in a nice flat. There's really only one piece left that's tarnishing the perfect Arthur he should be, and that's a stain that will not be rid of easily.
Its name is Sophie, and he's also been fucking it for the past month.
Arthur holds the phone in his left hand, ready to dial.