Chapter 7 – The Betrayal
"I'm not sure it's such a good idea," Em whines for the thousandth time while they're driving to the club.
"It's gonna be fine, Em," Arthur says, a little annoyed already. "Stop freaking out about it. I've been there before, remember? And I had a good time, if I recall correctly." He winks.
"I just have a bad feeling about it, that's all." Em shrugs and turns away from Arthur to look out the window at the passing London streets, grey and shadowy in the late evening light.
The front of the club is already filling up with the inflow of people, but Em ignores it and leads Arthur to a back entrance for staff, then down a dingy corridor. Soon, they enter the main staff common room which doubles as the dressing rooms as well. It's packed with people, brightly lit, and filled with mismatched furniture—long, worn couches, makeup mirrors, and lockers with name tags attached to them. Arthur spots Em's locker with a huge "Merlin" sign over it. All that—messy and chaotic as it is—reminds Arthur of the familiar surroundings of a TV backstage area, especially when he notices a long table against the wall with thermoses of coffee and tea.
"Em!" exclaims a young girl with long hair and big doe eyes who runs to hug Em.
"Hi, Freya," Em says, brightening up and hugging her tight, even picking her up from the floor a little.
"Gods, I never see you anymore!" She huffs, feigning annoyance, but there is a hint of genuine sadness in her voice.
"I'm sorry, I know, I know," Em says, as he puts her down and kisses her cheek.
"No, no. It's okay! I'm happy for you. I'd rather see you with someone like your Arthur, who, you know… than him," she finishes almost inaudibly.
"Yeah," Em whispers, too, and Arthur can barely hear them now, especially with all the murmurs in the room. "But you know how he is. Why it has to be like this." Em's voice is strained. He keeps his hand on Freya's arm.
"Yeah." Freya nods and Em turns them both to Arthur.
"Come meet my Arthur, yeah?" He smiles while Arthur's heart stops because Em's just named him his. He's never imagined something so simple could mean so much to him. Jesus, I'm turning into a sappy sod, Arthur thinks while Em makes introductions.
Freya's palm is small and cool, tingling with magic underneath his fingers. He looks into Freya's eyes and she blushes.
"Em keeps talking about you," Arthur says. "You know, when he's not blubbering about nonsense, that is." He smiles. "It's always 'Freya this and Freya that'. I feel like I almost know you."
"Really, Merlin? You talk about me?" Freya beams.
"All the time. Actually he talks all the time, but certainly there's plenty of you in his rumblings. I wish I had a sister like you."
"Keep dreaming," Em says, starting to undress. He folds his clothes and stuffs them in the "Merlin" locker. He's just in his underwear now, but to Arthur's surprise he takes them off, too, and stands totally naked in front of the locker.
More people come and go, letting the distant sound of pounding music fill the place each time the door is opened.
"Okay," Freya says. "Let's get you ready. I'll fetch the cup. Arthur, you can sit there." She motions to a couch next to them. "Help yourself to tea or coffee, and if you need anything else just call for me, okay?"
Arthur nods and says his thanks. He sits down and stares at Em, who seems to be totally unaffected by his nakedness in a room full of people who generally seem to be very busy.
Someone hands Em a box from which he takes out the necklace with the crescent moon pendant Arthur remembers Em wearing when he first saw him in Avalon. He pulls it over his head, the glittering moon complementing the colour of Em's skin. Freya comes back with another wooden box and a small pouch made from black synthetic fiber. She also has a large piece of black cloth draped over her arm, which she hangs on the chair next to Em.
"Ready? Shall I call them?" she asks.
"Yes." Em nods, glancing back at Arthur. "You may… um. You may watch if you want. But if you don't like it you can leave at any time, okay? I won't get offended or anything."
"I told you. I want to see it." He finds it irritating they're going back to the same conversation over and over again. It's as if Em doesn't trust Arthur to stand by him no matter what.
"Okay," Em agrees. "I'll talk to you after, then."
He opens the wooden box and takes out a golden cup, then places it carefully on the table. Freya comes back, accompanied by three girls, also naked, covered only in dark capes draped over their shoulders and tied around their necks. Their hair is done up and they wear golden diadems and bracelets. The jewellery from that close looks old enough that Arthur starts wondering if all that gold may actually be real, even though the first time he was here he was sure it was all fake.
Freya takes a pot with clear liquid inside and pours it into the cup.
"Shall we?" she asks Em, who just nods silently.
Arthur watches as everyone stands around the cup holding their hands up, palms towards the inside of the cup. Em closes his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them, already gleaming with gold, and starts incanting something in a strange language that reminds Arthur of old English or Gaelic. He's never seen Em doing magic like this, in a prepared, ritualistic way, with words and practiced movements. He's always thought magic was something natural for Em, like his constant talking.
He can smell the familiar scent of ozone from the magic, which reminds him of the smell of city streets in the summer right after a heavy storm. He can see golden light shimmering out of the cup and liquid swirling inside.
Em stops incanting for a moment and reaches to the table for the small pouch, taking out something that looks like a pen. He puts its end to his finger; there's a soft clicking sound and Em squeezes his finger, letting a small drop of his blood fall into the cup.
Arthur expects the liquid to sizzle or bubble, or maybe even smoke, like in the movies whenever someone makes a magical potion, but there's nothing of that sort.
Em puts the injector pen back inside the cover and turns around. His eyes are still golden and unfocused, his face calm and serene. He feels very distant to Arthur like this, not like his Em at all. Freya takes the cape from the chair, wraps it around Em's shoulders, and gives him a light shove to indicate he can proceed. He flips the hood of the cape over his head, and Arthur can now see the Merlin he met the first time he was here—strange, powerful and intriguing. He wants him as much now as he did that first time he saw him, or maybe even more.
One of the girls takes the cup and they all stand in a line, like in a procession, silent and focused on Em at the end. He doesn't turn around to look at Arthur as they walk out of the room. Arthur stares at the closed door, not sure what he should do, until Freya touches his hand and asks, "You wanna go watch?"
"Sure," he says, even though he's not really certain he should be disturbing Em with his presence by the stage.
For the next hour he watches Em—his Em, but not his Em at all—giving himself out to the crowd in this communion of sorts. People go into a frenzy when Em turns his golden eyes to them, their bodies dancing and swaying, sweat glistening on their skin. They're not worthy of Em's attention and Em's magic, Arthur thinks.
The cup isn't emptying even though more than a hundred people have already drunk out of it. It feels like it lasts for hours. Arthur's whole body has gone stiff and he tries to stretch before leaning back on the wall to support his aching back. But then, suddenly, Em nods to the accompanying girls and they all stand up to move from the stage, leaving the last clubbers waiting in line looking disappointed.
"Come on," Freya emerges out of nowhere and once again puts her tiny hand on Arthur's arm, steering him back to the changing room. "Let's help him to come down."
Back in the room Arthur wants to go to Em immediately and talk to him. He starts with, "This was incredible—" but stops mid-sentence when he realises Em is still a bit in a trance, his hood down and eyes glowing with the last hints of gold.
Freya helps Em take off the cape and the necklace, and even assists him when he dresses up in his own clothes. Em goes through the motions petulantly, like a small kid being dressed up by his mother. Then Freya sits Em down on the couch and vanishes for a moment, coming back with a big mug of something hot and aromatic and placing it in Em's hands.
"Drink," she orders, but Em just leans back on the couch and closes his eyes. His skin is very pale, almost translucent now, and he looks lifeless, a bit like he looked when Arthur drove him out of the TV building after Edwin's bomb attack.
"Make sure he drinks this," Freya tells Arthur, motioning to the mug in Em's hands.
Arthur sits down next to Em and wraps his arm around Em's shoulders, stroking the cool, humid skin of the boy's neck.
"Drink it like Freya says, Em. You look cold," he scolds. When Em doesn't respond, Arthur takes the mug from his hands and brings it up to his lips. Em complies and takes a few sips, but then he just shakes his head and murmurs, "Later."
It takes what feels like half an hour, or maybe more, before Em finally opens his eyes and starts drinking his tea.
"You okay?" Arthur asks, because Em still doesn't look okay.
"Mmm." Comes the answer that can mean anything.
"This is why you're never with me anymore," says a cool, velvety voice and Arthur looks up to see the boy he met at the mall with Em. Mordred. The dangerous and twisted but oh-so-sensitive one, as Em claims.
Em tenses up and sits straighter on the couch.
"What are you doing here?" Em asks. It's said gently, not at all challenging, but Arthur can hear a strain in Em's voice.
"Well, you don't call anymore, you don't answer my texts, so I thought I might as well come here on your Merlin night to see you. I miss you." Mordred's intonation sounds strange—as if it's filled with genuine feelings and mockery at the same time. "Or maybe you don't want to see me anymore? Now that you have your new boyfriend, your prince in shining armour. Maybe you don't need your old friends anymore?"
The words are innocent, full of hurt even, but there's something about Mordred's demeanour that puts Arthur on edge. He makes a move to stand up, but Em places his hand on Arthur's thigh and squeezes, indicating he wants Arthur to keep still.
"You know it's not like that," Em tells Mordred, slowly standing up, holding tightly to the couch. His body is still exhausted, muscles shaking lightly. "I'm glad you came."
Mordred nods. "Good. Good," he says. "Because here I was thinking you chose him, after all." He waves towards Arthur. "Even though you know what that would mean for all of us. We talked about it. Unless you want it?"
"No. I don't want that." Em walks towards Mordred and… Fuck. Arthur can't believe his eyes when he sees Em kissing Mordred lightly on the lips.
"I missed you, too," Em says while Mordred places his arm possessively over Em's shoulders in much the same gesture as Arthur made a few moments ago. Em leans into this touch, allowing Mordred to caress his hair. Arthur's too stunned to process the scene unravelling in front of his eyes. His heart stops beating and then picks up again, the rhythm somewhere in his throat. His vision's going black around the edges. He tastes sick-sweet saliva in his mouth.
Em's standing with his side pressed to Mordred, body bent in an awkward position as if he wants both to be both closer and farther away, and he's unusually still, his expressive hands frozen in a gesture that says nothing to Arthur.
"Come on," Mordred says, gently nudging Em. "I'll take you home and take care of you like I always do after your silly gigs, right? One day they're gonna sip it out of you, you know. And who's gonna bring your pieces back together when I'm not around?" Mordred leads a compliant Em out of the room. When they pass through the door Em shoots a sad, apologetic glance at Arthur.
They're out and Arthur's left on the couch, not believing what's just happened.
"Arthur—" Freya starts, but Arthur's seen enough.
"Don't," he says, dodging her outstretched arm, not letting her stop him as he rushes out of the place.
For the second time, he doesn't remember how he gets home from the club. He doesn't know how he gets outside, doesn't remember finding his car, or driving it, or going up the stairs to his apartment. When he enters his place, his glance lands on Em's clothes and notebooks scattered around. He starts picking them up automatically, then dumps them back on the floor, turns around, and goes out again, slamming the front door.
He feels as if he's suffocating. Waves of nausea are hitting him, interrupted by sharp pangs of a horrible awareness of betrayal. He walks the empty streets of his neighbourhood, turning round the corners, going in circles. Somehow he loses his sense of direction, doesn't recognize the surroundings anymore. He can't get rid of the image of Mordred's arm around Em, of Em kissing the boy on the lips, of Em leaning into Mordred's touch as if he were a compliant pet—the familiarity of their gestures are unbearable for Arthur.
It's dawning already—the first commuters are rushing through the streets on their way to wherever they need to be—when Arthur finally gets back to the apartment. He's dead tired, as if someone has drained all his energy from him and left him flat and lifeless like a discarded puppet. But the fatigue keeps the images of the night dulled. They're still haunting him, but not as sharp and repetitive as before.
He just wants his bed, that's all. He strips out of his clothes, leaving them crumpled on the bedroom floor, and crawls under the covers to wait for sleep to come.
xxx
There are twenty-seven missed calls and four texts from Em when Arthur wakes up and eventually turns on his phone. He only sees the last text from this morning as it displays on his screen.
Please pick up.
Arthur deletes it and gets ready for work. It's Sunday, sure, but no one will be surprised if he turns up in the office—it's not unusual for him to work on the weekends. Camelot Building never sleeps and never has holidays.
He's exhausted. He can taste the lack of sleep lingering in his mouth. His muscles are shaky and his legs hurt from all the walking. He skips lunch and drinks his too-hot coffee in long sips which burn his tongue but warm up his insides. It would be so good if the warmth could spread to his aching muscles and ease the shivers in his back. But it doesn't.
The office is full of people, and even the marketing department isn't deserted. Arthur nods to co-workers and dives into piles of reports, making notes as he prepares for next week's presentations. He holds himself quite all right until it's evening again and he almost gets sick from being so damn tired.
Food. He needs food, he decides, and drags his feet to the lift, leaning his cheek on the cold surface of the metal door. His phone beeps, and Arthur deletes yet another message from Em without looking at what it says.
xxx
After a few hours the phone calls and texts stop, and Arthur isn't sure if he's relieved or crushed that Em's given up on him so quickly. He can't bring himself to go home after dinner to face the empty flat, so he goes back to the office and sleeps on the couch in the conference room instead. He's awakened by a cleaning guy at five a.m.
"Presentation," Arthur mumbles, waving his hand toward the dimmed laptop and scattered papers.
"Sorry, sir? Didn't hear that." The guy takes out an ear bud and looks at Arthur apologetically.
"Just…" Arthur motions to the room again. Why does he feel obliged to explain himself? It's not like he's never slept in the office before or like he can't do whatever he pleases, actually. "Yeah," he murmurs, standing up to make his first coffee of the day. He changes into a clean shirt that he keeps in the office in case of stain emergencies. He can't do much about the wrinkled suit though.
It's dark when he enters his apartment. He's shivery again and kind of expecting Em to be there hiding somewhere in the darkness. But the apartment is quiet and empty. He stumbles on something lying on the floor and flicks the lights only to discover it's one of Em's hoodies. He kicks it out of the way in a burst of anger and storms into the kitchen to dig for garbage bags.
For the next twenty minutes he shoves each and every item of Em's he can find into the garbage bags. Anger is blinding him, helping him focus only on the narrow task—search and pack, find and hide. He places the bags next to the front door and takes his phone to text Em to pick up his shit. He starts typing but each time he does it he taps the wrong letters, then hits backspace, and again the wrong letters.
"Fuck," he shouts and throws the phone into the wall. He sits on the floor, pushes the heels of his palms into his eyelids and stills. Waits. Breathes. And then he waits some more.
The phone is still working when he picks it up but there's a dent and a little crack in the case. He thinks that from now on he'll be reminded of this day every time he looks at the phone. Reminded of Em and Em's betrayal. Of Arthur's own childish behaviour when he threw his phone into the wall.
He leaves the bags full of Em's things as they are, gathers some of his own stuff in a football bag, and walks out of the place. He briefly considers crashing at Leon's, but he'd hate to impose. He just needs to go someplace that doesn't remind him of Em. Someplace that hasn't been touched by Em. Because Em's invaded the whole space of Arthur's life—his body, his apartment, even his fucking sailboat.
xxx
Monday, his phone indicates, which means he's been in the hotel and out of his place for the whole week now. He's not sure how that happened. He opens the door to his flat and walks in. It's tidy. His cleaning lady, Martha, must have been in here, and there's no sign of the garbage bags. For a moment Arthur shudders in guilt and panics over Martha throwing away Em's stuff by accident, but then he spots the key and Em's silver crescent pendant on the kitchen table. There's no note, just two metal objects lying next to each other on the white surface of the marble.
Arthur takes the pendant, swings it for a moment to watch the half-moon swirl in the air, and then he shoves it in a kitchen drawer, slamming it closed with a loud crack.