Arthur starts to find a routine. He's not happy, per se, but he also doesn't want to throw himself off a cliff, so he supposes he's making progress. He's enjoying work and hasn't missed a day as per his father's request – or demand, actually.

He goes to work and answers phones and makes revisions and works on side projects and everything is fine and dandy until he hears it.

The cubicle next to him is occupied by Susan Cartwright, a forty-something divorcee with a bad perm and even worse clothes. But she's nice enough, it seems, and she stays out of Arthur's way, which is even nicer.

But despite the cubicles' usual sense of quiet, there is someone yammering in the cubicle next to him.

"It's cucumber eye cream," says the voice. "For night time. Will perk you right up. But I think you should really try this lipstick – there you go – oh, look at that." There's a pause, and the next words are spoken in a gentle tone that sends shivers down Arthur's spine. "You look beautiful, Susan, you really do."

And despite the fact Arthur recognized the voice the second he heard it, it's this admonition – you look beautiful – that makes Arthur drop his pencil.

When he bends to pick it up, he bangs his head and lets out a stream of profanity.

"Arthur, darling, is that you?" Susan asks from the cubicle next to him. "Darling, come over here, I want you to meet someone."

No, no no no no no nononono

"Arthur? Darling?"

Arthur's heart is in his throat, it's pushing its way into his mouth and he's going to die, that's all there is to it he's spent so many weeks trying to get his life back together and now fucking Susan is going to ruin it for him, ruin everything fuck fuck fuck

Mechanically, Arthur rises and – he's not sure how – he makes it over to the cubicle next to him.

And there he is.

Merlin. He's with his fucking suitcase and cosmetics and Susan is beaming at them both.

"Arthur, sweetheart, this is Merlin. I know we're not supposed to have solicitors inside the office and all, but he was such a sweet boy I just had to let him in." Smiling at Merlin kindly, she says, "Merlin, this is Arthur. He works in the cubicle next door."

Merlin meets Arthur's gaze and Arthur wants to cry or throw up or both.

"Nice to meet you," says Merlin, and Arthur can feel his legs shaking beneath him. He's not sure he's going to be able to stand for much longer.

"And you," says Arthur in as even voice a possible and he can't believe it's come to this, can't believe the man he was in love with is now pretending not to know him, he thought maybe Merlin would just give a casual, "we've met" and get the fuck out of there but no, he's pretending Arthur isn't even an acquaintance and Arthur wants to be sick.

"I should be going," says Merlin, his voice somewhat abrupt, and Susan can tell she's done something wrong. She looks bewilderedly between the two of them.

"Oh, don't go –" she says pathetically, and Arthur wants to hug her for some reason.

"No, Merlin, stay," says Arthur mechanically. "I'm going out. I'm just – I'm going out."

He walks away from the person who means more than anything in the world to him standing with his suitcase just the way they met.

He's gone, and now Arthur knows for sure. Whatever they had is now just a blip in someone else's memory, and the Merlin that was there is just a stranger, just a solicitor, just a nobody hipster with a stupid scarf, exactly as Arthur had met him.

The months in between are nothing.

Arthur barely makes it into the private bathroom on the fifth floor before he loses it.

His face is still red and blotchy when he reemerges half an hour later, but it's better than he was. He can't stay here. Calling upstairs, he lets his supervisor know that he isn't feeling well and that he'd be leaving a bit early. He figures it isn't really breaking his father's rule.

He makes it to the lobby of the building before becoming paralyzed because Merlin's walking toward him.

"I thought you'd never come downstairs," he says by way of greeting.

Arthur has stopped moving and so has Merlin, and they're an uncomfortable distance apart, limbs stuck to their sides.

"I thought –" begins Arthur, but he doesn't have the words.

"We should probably talk," says Merlin, even though the idea sounds repelling to them both. But Arthur knows it's probably for the better even though he'd rather die and

"We could go to my flat," says Arthur, and Merlin winces when he says 'my' because it used to be his, after all. Everything Arthur owns used to be part Merlin's.

"Yes," says Merlin flatly, and finds himself in the passenger seat of Arthur's car, the same car they used to drive up to the Cotswolds sometimes just to drive past Merlin's village even if they didn't go in, the same car Merlin used to pull over just so they could snog, the same car they fucked in that one time they couldn't wait the four hours it would take to get home.

But it's Arthur's car now, not "the" car, not "their" car. Just Arthur's.

Merlin wants to throw up when Arthur opens the door to the flat.

It's empty. He'd had this illusion that Arthur would have preserved everything in his absence. Of course, it wasn't an absence. It was permanent. It wasn't as if he had ever planned to come back. To be honest, Merlin isn't sure why he'd suggested talking in the first place other than that it seemed like it should be done.

But it's almost too much to take, sitting in the flat that was their home. Domestic bliss. It was only a few months ago that Merlin was in that bed next to Arthur, trying to learn how to cook pancakes even though he never could master flipping them, all his stuff scattered around the flat.

But Arthur has cleaned up and moved on. All Merlin's stuff is gone. He wonders if he threw it out.

Knowing Arthur, it's probably in a storage unit somewhere. Not that Merlin really wants it. He never wants to see it again, actually. All of his things bear too much emotion, too many memories.

Arthur makes them both tea, not saying anything. They sit at opposite ends of the kitchen table, staring at each other.

"So," says Arthur like he did all those months ago, and it makes Merlin want to cry.

"So," echoes Merlin, fiddling with his teabag. "This is us…talking."

Arthur would laugh if he weren't so stunned by all this – Merlin's sudden appearance, desire to "talk."

"Yes."

And then the words leap to Merlin's tongue before he can think about stopping them. "Why did you break up with me? I thought things were going well. We had moved into our new flat and things were fucking great, Arthur. I thought you felt what I did."

Arthur bows his head. Merlin wonders if he's crying.

"I did," he says. "I felt what you did."

"So why then?" persists Merlin. "Why did you break up with me?"

"Because I made a mistake," says Arthur, voice still muffled by his bowed head. Merlin has to strain to hear him. "A big fucking mistake. I ruined everything."

Merlin waits for the blow. He still isn't ready for it.

Arthur looks up finally. "I slept with Sophie."

Merlin wants to punch him. He wants to throw his tea at him, overturn the table, shout at the top of his lungs. The combination of angry desire turns into a wounded cat sound.

Arthur is crying a little, and it makes Merlin angrier.

"What do you have to cry about?" he shouts at Arthur, wanting only to hurt him, to ruin his life. "You fucked your ex-girlfriend and then broke up with me! This is all your fault!"

"I know, I know I know," hiccoughs Arthur. "I know it's all my fault. I wanted to tell you I loved you. That I was in love with you. That I loved you more than anyone or anything."

"And what happened," asks Merlin flatly, and the flatness is even worse than the anger.

"I went upstairs all ready to say it, but Sophie was there and you weren't. And I – I was scared, Merlin. I didn't know who I was or if I wanted to be gay or – "

"So you fucked Sophie."

Arthur shakes his head, trying to clear it. "Yes."

"I was always clear, Arthur," says Merlin in an angrily calm voice, "that I didn't care what you did so long as you were with me. That I loved you and I would wait for you."

"I know," murmurs Arthur, arms shaking, rattling the whole table. "You were so good to me."

Merlin studies Arthur's face for a long moment.

"I don't understand you, Arthur."

Arthur buries his face in a broad hand. "I didn't either, until just recently." He looks up at Merlin again. "After you left, I went crazy."

Merlin does not blink. He is listening.

"I – I wanted to die, to be honest. I stopped sleeping or eating or talking to people. I didn't do anything. I stopped going to work. I was, I mean, this sounds dramatic, fuck, killing myself slowly." He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't want your sympathy, and I don't expect it. I'm just trying to make you understand. I had to get Morgana to clear out your stuff because every time I went to do it, I kept breaking down. And eventually, my father slapped me out of it. He told me that if I truly, really loved you, I'd stop wallowing in self-pity." Arthur swallows. "So I did. And that's when I went back to work and - ended things with Sophie. For good. For real." He turns and points to the Post-It attached to Merlin's old desk. "See that? That's what I discovered. That to love you, I had to love myself. It's petty shit, I know. But it's true. And that's what I found out I was missing. That I was so torn up about our relationship because I wasn't comfortable with myself."

Merlin watches him and he wants to believe him. He wants so badly to kiss him, to say that everything would be back the way it was.

But it wouldn't.

It could never be.

So instead of trying to get all his thoughts out, Merlin takes the route Arthur took all those months ago and bolts.

"This was a mistake," says Merlin, and leaves Arthur sitting at the kitchen table, lingering after Merlin's tea.