Real and proper this time, loves! Thanks to all who reviewed and told me I wasn't a failure for having an entire chapter as flashback. 65! 65 reviews now! I have so much love for you guys.

Sooo, I've written you a deliciously fluffy and entirely difficult-to-write chapter that is full of strange, Merliny goodness. Also, I'm typing this in the dark at 4:17 AM and I have a chem test that I didn't study for in 5 hours and an Art History test that I didn't study for in about 28, and I'm dead tired from getting in from Canada about three hours ago. But enough about me. ONWARD!


5 June 2010, 9:37

Arthur stretches against Merlin—not Merlin. A pillow?

The bastard.

Merlin's put the long runner pillow in Arthur's arms in place of himself, and Arthur pushes it away, stumbling out of his bed and tottering to the door on sleep-stiff legs. Merlin's coat and shoes are gone but his scarf is wrapped through the wooden slats of one of the white breakfast chairs like a promise, so Arthur knows he'll be back.

In the kitchen there is a cup of cold coffee slowly turning to sludge in the cheery morning sunlight and Arthur hoists himself onto the counter, leaning his back against the window and drinking in the calmness of the moment. The coffee is strong how Merlin likes it, but Arthur doesn't bother to add milk to make it sweeter even though he drinks his white. It burns a bit going down and he wonders if strong drinks put hair on chests why Merlin's is so bare, and then blushes because he's thinking of Merlin's chest.

The music comes easily now, and he slots the bow against the strings with familiar grace, falling into the Dvorak he knows he can play with Merlin back. When he hears the door open quietly he doesn't stop, even as tentative hands come to rest lightly on his shoulders and a bag holding Costa pastries and Christ, a package from Morgana (God knows what's in that) thumps against the endpin of his cello.

"Hello, Dvorak," Merlin's soft voice whispers against his ear, and Arthur snorts, leaning into the touch and his music, bringing Merlin into the concerto and the now and smiling as he does it.


19 June 2010, 02:16

"Why did you go, when you ran away?"

Arthur's voice is soft but it still hurts Merlin somewhere deep in his chest. They're sprawled in one of Gwen's squashy armchairs, and rain washes down the cute little cottage-style windows of her semidetached house. She's asleep on the argyle-patterned couch, and Morgana is curled on the floor in front of the television with the remote cradled against her chest and static ants flickering softly across the screen behind her. Arthur's hands touch Merlin's jaw softly, thumbs running over his pulse with delicate brushes, and Merlin shivers at the thought of answering his gentle question.

"I went to visit my... a friend," he mumbles into Arthur's stupid pink polo with the golfer embroidered on the pocket.

"Someone I know?"

He shakes his head and Arthur lets it go.

Merlin thinks guiltily of how he crawled back to his ramshackle past, and the dusty, silent house with the sad memories and the little marks in the floor. He bites his lip and remembers sleeping under the skeleton of a bed with his chest pressed to the message that still hurts him a bit to read.

"His name was Will," Merlin offers, so quietly that the white noise of the television almost cancels his words out. Arthur nods and holds him tighter.


2 July 2010, 13:28

"I love you."

It's whispered into a gale that bruises Waterloo Bridge, so that the words fly back at Arthur and are nearly lost in the backfiring of a lorry, but he hears them all the same. He glances through the curtain of his hair and pulls his eyes over the strange shape of Merlin, all angles and degrees of uncertainty in his nondescript jumper and faded jeans as he twists away from Arthur.

Arthur's not meant to hear it. He smiles and reaches for Merlin's dry hand, curling their fingers together and pulling them into the pocket of his raincoat. Merlin jumps and looks sheepishly to see if his words have been noticed.

They're well-matched, because Merlin has an uncanny ability to read emotion into a single laugh-line, and Arthur is good at hiding things until the time is right. He smiles brightly, holding the soft feeling deep within his chest, and points Merlin's attention to a rainbow of oil on the dark canvas of the Thames.


28 July 2010, 18:16

The words bubble out of him and he's embarrassed, dropping his head back until he can only the flat gray sky above them. Merlin doesn't say anything at all, and when Arthur hazards a look his eyes are wide and staring and his lips are moving so fast they're just a blur.

Arthur reaches with tentative fingers and lays them over Merlin's mouth, closing his eyes and listening to the silence.

Do you mean it do you mean it do you mean it do you mean it do you—

He replaces his fingers with his lips.

Yes.


30 July 2010, 01:55

Arthur walks (rides the bus with) Merlin home from a night of drinking at Gaius' for some stupid chivalrous reason, and Merlin's too far gone to care. They're both a bit more inebriated than they'd like to admit and their mouths fit together again and again and then somehow they're in Merlin's trashed bedroom and Arthur is digging a random stapler from beneath his hip while Merlin pushes him into the pillows and—

Well.


12:31

When Arthur wakes up Merlin is carding his hand through the tousled hair at Arthur's brow. He's curled a way that Arthur now recognizes is a defense against his anxieties.

"Hey," Arthur cracks, his voice husky and rough and full of heavy memories. Merlin touches his side, pressing his fingers to his hip bone, anchoring himself there. Arthur sighs and rolls closer, but Merlin suddenly stands, unfolds himself from the bed, and crawls under it.

"What—" Arthur begins, but Merlin is already ducking under his arm and pressing up against his side again, holding an armful of thick albums.

"I need to tell you some things about me," he says, quiet in Arthur's ear.

If Arthur is going to stay, there can't be any secrets.


28 August 2010, 16:47

Arthur likes to watch Merlin sign his photographs. He uses a variety of pens depending on the contrast he wants to produce with his writing. Sometimes the curling letters fade into the color of the photograph, and sometimes they shine in opposite ends of the spectrum.

There are lots of 'Merlin Emrys' originals floating around Arthur's apartment. The black-and-white photographs do little to help the overall whiteness, but they bring some emotion and character into an otherwise empty place.

The signatures don't stop with the photographs, though. Sometimes Arthur will be puttering around his flat making coffee or doing laundry and he'll come across places where something has been written and rubbed away, and if he tips his head just right he can read the faint outline of the words. There's a Merlin on his counter, spelled from little nicks made with the knife Arthur uses to pare apples. Another Merlin lives in the butter dish, etched into jam-stained lumps where many knives have been scraped and no one's bothered to wipe it off later. When Arthur cleans his bathroom he avoids the corner of the mirror where Merlin Emrys has been traced over so many times that the words stand out whenever the glass fogs over.

There are other signatures, in the early morning when Merlin is awake and Arthur is tenaciously holding onto sleep. Merlin clings to Arthur, and Arthur really doesn't mind because he's wrapped just as possessively around Merlin. Usually, Arthur wakes to thin arms tangled around him and long fingers tracing six letters to his shoulder, his chest, his neck.

Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.

Merlin marks his territory with his signature, and Arthur definitely belongs to him.


4 October 2010, 21:54

The camera flashes and Arthur glances over his reading glasses with an enduring expression. "Merlin."

Merlin lowers his camera shamelessly and peers over his knees from the other end of his much worn couch. "I like your new spectacles."

Arthur grits his teeth to keep from making soft eyes and pushes Merlin's face into the couch back with his socked foot. "Shut up."

"Okay," Merlin mumbles against the leather, and hugs Arthur's leg gently. Arthur's heart does a little dance in his chest and he swallows, pretends to turn pages for a few more minutes until he absolutely cannot focus and chucks the Harry Potter book Merlin's making him read over his shoulder, opening his arms.

"Give me the camera," he orders, whispery soft in Merlin's ear as he settles into Arthur's collar bone. Merlin doesn't hesitate, hands it over, and smiles contently as Arthur reaches around him to take a picture of them both.

"If it's not blurry, I want it in a frame," Arthur yawns, tucking the camera into its case and sliding it as far across the room as he can. He gathers Merlin against his chest and buries his face in the soft hair that he has now determined is a very rich brown that is so dark it's almost but not quite black. Merlin makes a noise that is equivalent to a purr and flops against him, curling between the back of the couch and Arthur's side and already falling asleep there.

"Idiot," Arthur says softly, brushing back Merlin's dorky fringe and pressing a kiss to the pale forehead he's uncovered. Merlin sighs again, and Arthur wonders how either of them lived before this.


11 October 2010, 20:10

"What? Merlin, calm down, I can't—here, talk to Arthur."

Morgana shoves her mobile against his ear, and Arthur scrabbles to hold it up. "Merlin. Breathe with me, alright? In. Out. In. Out. Good. Can you tell me what's—what? Yes, I—what? Alright, I'm coming over right now, don't leave without me."

He throws the phone to Gwen and drops his spare key on the table, trying to shake off the effects of the Tequila Morgana had brought to his surprise twenty-ninth birthday party. "Gwen—I'm going to Merlin's; stay as long as you like, both of you, but lock up behind you."

Gwen fumbles for the key and stares at him with wide eyes. "What—?"

Arthur lets out his breath in a huge gust, grabbing handfuls of his hair and tilting his head back. "They've found Merlin's mum."


21:38

Merlin sits in the hard plastic chair with his knees drawn up under his chin and his long fingers meticulously ripping a magazine advert into fuzzy shreds. Arthur reaches over and gently pries the abused paper from his grip, offering Merlin his hand to worry instead. Merlin latches onto it with fingers that are shaking and cold—he has poor circulation when he's worried—and Arthur rubs them with more reassurance than he can truthfully voice.

"Emrys?" a nurses says, pumps clacking across the tile of the hospital lobby until she stands a few feet from Merlin, tilting her blonde head to the side and smiling kindly. "Merlin Emrys?"

His large blue eyes are bright and fearful as they lock with Arthur's. Arthur exhales slowly, trying to breathe calmness into his boyfriend.

Sometimes Merlin's twenty-one years seem painfully young to Arthur's twenty-eight. Arthur squeezes his cold hand and pulls him to his feet. "Yes?" he answers for Merlin, who trembles like a leaf against his side.

"Ms. Emrys is stabilized and conscious. You can see her now, if you want." The nurse's gentle eyes dart to Arthur, to his hand locked in Merlin's painful grip, and they crinkle in understanding. "I'm afraid it's family only, sir," she says to him, not unkindly. Arthur sighs, and Merlin clings. The nurse blinks, and then makes amends with: "In the room."

"C'mon, Merlin," Arthur urges, pressing the toe of his hastily-donned slipper against Merlin's dirty trainer until he takes a hesitant step towards the white ward the nurse is clacking down. Merlin clutches his hand half-heartedly now, his expression struggling somewhere between fearful and excited, and Arthur gives him a good push. That's all it takes to send Merlin stumbling after the nurse as quickly as his shaking legs will take him. Arthur follows at a more leisurely pace, holding himself back when he really just wants to grab Merlin and take him away from the woman who left him so broken.

He ghosts in the doorway to the room into which Merlin disappeared and bites his lip roughly. He watches Merlin crumple to the floor at his mother's bedside, watches him fist his hands in her hospital gown and sob like a child. Watches Hunith's hand stroke through his hair, her hand that is bony and fragile and studded with wires that connect her to the frightening machines surrounding her bed. Watches her tilt Merlin's chin to look at his face, watches him clutch at her wrists tightly and desperately.

When Merlin forces his six-foot frame between his mothers' side and the metal bars of the hospital bed, curling his arms around her paper thin shoulders, Arthur has to turn away. He presses his fists to the cool plaster wall of the hallway and braces his forehead between them.

He misses his mother. He misses his father. He misses his work.

Hell, he misses his brother.


Hey, guess what? Colin Morgan is only 5 10, but I'm writing this so he can be as tall as I want. Mhmmmm.

I regret to inform you that there are only 2 chapters left. TWO! God, and then after that I'll have to write a NEW fic, aaugh. No rest for the fangirls, I swear.

Thanks for sticking this far, bbs. I love you all :)

Now, if I get to sleep in the next three minutes, I can have almost 1.25 hours of uninterrupted sleep before I go die...