.
.
Morning is a tad hellish.
He rudely awakens from a content, dreamless sleep to Gaius meowing loudly in his ear, breaks several eggs from the carton by accident, burns his arm on the cooker (also by accident, but that doesn't stop Arthur from making pointless, snippy comments about Merlin's oafishness), and they never leave on time.
And now, dealing with an irritated Arthur tagging alongside him on crowded pavements, asking ludicrously obvious questions about the current age (that aren't so obvious to Arthur, so, Merlin can't be completely brassed off). The solid, red brick wall—a few feet away from the entrance of the shoppe—looks awfully tempting to knock his head against. Several times.
But for Arthur himself, he questions the necessity of this. Going into town in the early hours proves just as chaotic as the eve, if not more-so. There's even more of those blasted cars, more oddly-attired people littering the road, and a continuous string of things that Arthur doesn't understand.
Including having to go to what Merlin calls 'a costume shoppe' for their damned garments.
"Are you telling me there are no armories either?" he asks, frowning with scrutiny. "This looks like a joke, Merlin. I understand they think our time is pretend, but really."
Merlin's lips tightening up, forming a sarcastic smile.
"Yes, Arthur," he says, dryly. "There are no more armories. There are no Places of Arms. No minstrel's galleries, no solars, no blacksmiths getting paid in lumps of gold. Gold isn't even a currency anymore. Look."
Merlin reaches into a threadbare hem of a jean pocket, presenting a handful of change and some crumbled notes. "See, there's a 50 p here. Two of these coins make a pound." Merlin's fingers curl to his palm, tapping on the pence coins. "The highest note in pounds is a 50 pound note. But I have five tenners so it's basically the same thing…"
Deep blue eyes met Arthur's own, and he sighs, energy draining away. He knows Arthur's 'I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about' expression too well.
"Well… you don't need to remember this… exactly." Merlin quickly pockets the money away, ignoring an eye-roll, and he glances down at their intertwined hands. As they passed through the woods, starting to enter civilization, Arthur wordlessly snatched onto Merlin's hand, determined, with that little crinkle of skin in the middle of Arthur's forehead. No wonder anyone passing them gave a mix of curious and disapproving stares.
"Arthur, you can… let go of my hand."
Arthur's sweaty palm releases, and even though Merlin had been the one to suggest it, something akin to disappointment bubbles in him.
The other man takes the liberty of opening the door, and Arthur's frown remains set in place as he gazes at the rack at the immediate entrance.
Before Merlin can open his mouth, he yells out, "What is this nonsense? My god, no, I'm not some bloody court jester—I'm NOT wearing that ridiculous outfit."
Merlin has only been in the town's costume shoppe once or twice, truthfully; he never witnessed someone so appealed by a row of colourful, felt-cut hats before.
How could he resist?
His mouth presses together, as if he is considering a serious thought, examining them up close.
"Are you sure?" Merlin asks, innocently, plucking up a scarlet-coloured one with a giant metal bell dangling at the spiraled end of the hat. And he drops it promptly on Arthur's head, knocking the bell against him. "I don't see much of a difference personally. The colour does suit you."
Arthur grimaces, turning red.
"You little imp—"
Merlin's low laugh breaks off as the offending item goes sailing at his face, and Merlin anticipates its path, ducking smoothly. "Oi, watch it. We're in public," he scolds Arthur halfheartedly, gazing momentarily at a staring, disgruntled employee.
"I need to go ask where the clothing section is. Don't go gallivanting off to the sword rack just because it's there, got it?"
Arthur's sure he's testing Merlin's thinning patience, but at the moment, it's difficult to care.
It's bad enough Merlin's embarrassed him. He only regrets not landing the hit, and then getting the narrowed eyes of the shoppe's owner. Arthur can respect a man's reign in his own domain, but Merlin had it coming. A huff comes out of Arthur's mouth as Merlin walks away, and does he honestly think Arthur would listen to him?
Swords are far more interesting.
His feet immediately take him over to the mounted rack in the opposite direction, and Arthur surveys what's hanging up with curiosity, secretly pleased by the amount of detail. When he reaches out to run his hand over the blade, Arthur's eyebrows shoot up and his lips curl in revulsion.
Like everything, they aren't real.
A grainy, smooth texture, instead of the sleek metal of a true blade.
Arthur pulls his hand back, grumbling. If they had been real swords, they might have been excellently crafted. Enough to fool him at any rate. He picks up the one that pricks a dull memory, the sword Elyan favoured because of the even balance, and Arthur grasps the hilt.
It's light, much lighter than expected, and feels nothing like any sword. He rolls his eyes.
The swords are less enticing the longer Arthur inspects them. They are disastrous, cheap copies. Fakes in all senses of the word. Even Merlin couldn't hurt himself on these.
Arthur jabs the air, blond eyebrows pinching together until he finally gives up. The instinctive tense of his shoulders and brace of his arms are useless with such a featherweight object. He spins the fake sword in his whole hand before placing it on the rack's hooks, eyes scanning the others with disinterest.
He assumes the peeved griping of Merlin's voice would soon enough appear behind him, the tell-tale sound of hurried footsteps rushing, and when none do, Arthur blinks. He turns round, looking around in circles, and going back the way he came. Now Merlin's lost, probably. Of course.
.
.
Merlin doesn't fail to detect the irritated, quiet exhale from Arthur's lips when the warlock turns his back, smiling to himself.
He digs his hands into the front pocket of his wisteria-purple hoodie, striding away with a little cheerful bounce in his step. Ha, ha! Serves him right, the grump.
As if sensing Merlin's approach, the glaring, frowning employee at the front had disappeared by the time Merlin is at the checkout.
He glances around in confusion. Wait…
"Looking for something?" A woman in her early forties, with dark, bluish-black ringlets and a nose piercing, stops bending down to stare at the armoury gear. She asks him, inquisitively, "Or someone, I take it?"
"I was… just wondering where I could find the tunics."
"Towards the back, if you head that way." She points a finger down another aisle, flashing a pleasant smile. "Go left, near the toliets."
Merlin returns the smile, nodding. "Cheers."
He gazes towards the jester outfits, where he left Arthur, and sees he's vanished on the spot. Blue eyes trace over a path towards the impressively-sized sword rack and… (god, he really shouldn't be surprised)… the top of a golden head.
Agitation contorts Merlin's features, as he rubs his face.
"Why do I even bother?" he mutters.
"That's what I ask my husband when he goes off by himself." The woman speaks up again, this time laughing slightly awkward when Merlin glances back, nonplussed. "Oh, don't mind me. I saw you both at the door. Couldn't resist thinking back when my Billy had been that fit. Feels like it's been ages since we had been so young and in love."
Merlin's heart jams up in his throat.
"We're not—" (Not what exactly? What were they at all?)
He gulps, forcing the next smile until it feels like it threatens to crack apart the corners of his mouth. "We're mates, is all… ehm, good mates. I've known him forever."
(You have, Merlin's subconscious reminds him. And you snogged him, you idiot.)
"Oh." The woman's cheeks go patchy red. A new person walks up to her right, scrutinizing the bracer armour. "Goodness, you must think I'm barmy. I didn't mean to assume—"
"No, no," Merlin says, touching the nape of his neck, thankfully smiling more faintly. "Not at all."
"She really is," chimes in another voice, knowingly.
A man with rather large, horned glasses takes a well-aimed and seemingly hard punch to the arm from the woman with unimpressed dignity. Merlin decides at that moment, whoever they are, they are definitely friends and both very likeable.
"Sally Shipton." The woman introduces herself, jerking her thumb to her companion. "This dolt over here is Larry. So, are you part of crowd coming to the faire tomorrow?"
"Yes," Merlin says. "We haven't been before. It looks exciting."
"It's brilliant. I'm bringing my mate's brother, since Billy finds the Renaissance a bit old-hat."
Sally raises her hand, fingertips brushing over her small, silver nose-ring as she scratches there. She beams over her shoulder at the bespectacled man concentrating on experimentally strapping one of the bracers to his wrist. "Larry is bonkers over Arthurian legend," Sally explains, grinning as if it's hilarious. A flash-flare of tingling warmth spikes in Merlin's chest.
"He wrote his dissertation on, what was it?… Oh, right, the scientific and historical theory of Camelot's location and how they ran their society. Y'know… what their military was like, how King Arthur got on with the other kings, how Merlin was the greatest sorcerer that ever lived… duff like that."
Merlin's senses zoom right into this moment, blocking outside forces and he somehow misses Arthur joining their small group. The air knocks from his lungs. He's dazed, one of his hands covering his neck, loosely grasping, hoping the suffocating reaction passes.
"It's hardly duff," Larry replies, sternly. "Stop it already, will you?"
"I'd love to hear it," the words breathless, escaping Merlin. Blue eyes still too-wide, despite settling down. "You believe they were real people…?"
.
.
Arthur does locate Merlin, and with two others, locked in a discussion. It's less gone missing, and more distracted, he sees.
He recognises the sheepish stance of Merlin's, how involuntarily tense he seems, and Arthur goes forward. Now he has to be responsible for dragging the other man out of uncomfortable situations once again. Arthur considers letting Merlin find his own way out of it, but not this time.
Arthur trails over, weaving around a display, but his pace halts when the actual conversation reaches his ears.
They were speaking about Camelot.
Of Arthurian legend.
The name slips past his notice, that the history of his kingdom went down under his name. Not his father's, not Guinevere's or the kings before him—but, Arthur himself. He doesn't know what a 'dissertation' is, nor does he truly care, but it's unimportant.
He remains behind Merlin when the woman spots him, but tips his head in a polite, silent greeting.
While Arthur looks passive, his eyes are determined, and trained on the man talking. Arthur hears Merlin's breathless prompt, and silently gladdened he doesn't have to do it himself. Arthur wants to know, to test the knowledge of a so-called dissertation.
"You would? Uh, well, there's…" Larry clears his throat importantly, now realising Merlin doesn't think his theories are daft. He pushes up his horned glasses with his pinky.
"You must understand that all evidence, even the tiniest scrap of it, reveals the astonishing impact they've made on modern culture. We tell bedtime stories to children about the tales and the destinies of these men, of King Arthur and Merlin. They were so different from each other; one of royal lineage, and the other of magic. But, somehow, they created a kingdom together established on the purest morals: to guide the people based on the ideas of peace, not fear."
It's almost worth basking over—he and Merlin are fables, stories spoken lovingly to the young. His own father told him legends of kings of old as a boy, so it's hardly different.
Arthur's gaze flicks to Merlin, as he comes in closer, able to see his profile. They had been working together for Camelot, always. Arthur knew then Merlin was important to him, and accepted that even as a servant, Merlin impacted major decisions that ordinarily he shouldn't have been able to.
Now, it seems everyone else comprehended Merlin's true worth, and the gravity of him, and Arthur feels off-put by it how easily it comes to them.
"And do you think they succeeded?" Arthur says aloud, and aims a more cordial look to disarm the skepticism rolling off. "I overheard you studied their military. I've studied it myself."
The last word laces with emphasis, but the undertone, the 'please, do tell me about my men and my kingdom' he's sure only Merlin can detect.
.
.
Merlin resists a start, his body seizing up, at the clear sound of Arthur speaking up behind him.
It yanks him right out of his emotion-blurred haze. He throws him an unreadable stare, for a moment or so, lips pushing to flatten. There's the faintest hints of a critical gleam to Arthur's eyes and even a fainter manner in how he expresses his suspicion on Larry's information, and Merlin understands it.
He can't blame Arthur for being doubtful of everything he hears. While the scholar's enthusiasm is genuine, and maybe his research and findings, Merlin can't say for certain that he knows all.
No-one could know all of it. At this point in time, only Merlin and Arthur carried those memories of Camelot's darkened and then shining, golden ages.
Larry seems to chew over Arthur's question, squinting his eyes, before answering, "Nobility had been an important factor in choosing the Knights of the Round Table, but ultimately not the deciding factor. It was more being noble of heart and of their intentions."
The corner of Merlin's mouth quirks, briefly amused, as he side-eyes Arthur for his non-verbal and subdued response. "They may have been one of the strongest armies history ever saw. Nothing short of extensive training and honing of the body and mind could have assembled.
"The success of Camelot, while in the hands of men and its King, had been heavily influenced by the great sorcerer Merlin."
Merlin's stomach jerks swimmy at the mention of his own name.
A bright, cocky grin overtakes Larry's mouth, as he wags his finger in the air.
"Now there was someone you wanted on your side!" he proclaims. "The mighty power Merlin wielded! A power so severe it could sink a thousand fleets, stop the beating hearts of a thousand men without so much as uttering a word. He could open up the ground beneath your feet and have it swallow you to the pit of the earth."
The swimmy feeling in Merlin's stomach dies, his veins icing over. How simply this is acknowledged… as if Merlin's self-control in his magical practices were… the equivalent of nothing.
Merlin's jaw tenses, as Larry adds on, having to push up his glasses sliding once more, "But he used it to watch over kingdom, instead of using his power to destroy. Merlin used his sorcery to devoutly watch over King Arthur. Protected his interests, sacrificed his own life, defeated his foes. Did everything King Arthur could not do."
Flashes of Morgana's pleading face as she crumpled to the ground in agony; Agravaine's mouth opening in astonishment before a grim Merlin hurled him against a cave wall, snapping his neck.
They flicker behind his eyelids… as a few of the cruel reminders of needing atonement.
"Their relationship was unrivaled—"
"Larry, oh my god, don't even think of going on about their 'tender affections' or 'Merlin was King Arthur's better half' bit." Sally's face twists up in outright disgust, as she protests adamantly, "Merlin was a crotchety old man! Haven't you seen the telly programme?"
"No," he insists, scowling. "Those blinkered farts have no idea what they're talking about. He was thirty or forty when Arthur was seventeen—"
"Oh, that's rubbish—"
Merlin holds up a hand, interrupting with the barest edge of stoniness in his voice, "Thank you. I think I've heard enough."
.
.
At least the man 'Larry' appeared to know what he was talking about.
He didn't strike Arthur as the type of person to address something he didn't understand, but Arthur learned long ago not to entirely trust that sense.
At first, Arthur believes he catches a falsity already, but when Larry deters it from the initial point, he's impressed. Nobility had never been a quality in his Round Table he avidly searched for. While Uther Pendragon's knights, and Sir Leon, came from the higher rankings, the rest in Arthur's choosing selected purely on their dedication and merit, along with the intentions of their hearts.
Arthur's lips twist, evaluating this scholar with a nod of thoughtful approval. But when Merlin is brought into it, the smile fades.
He knows his versions of the truth, and now knows Merlin's, but hearing about them from a completely separate source? One that had no personal attachment to either one of them (or at least, to him), but hearing this stranger bragging to the sorcerer himself? Arthur possibly may have smirked, and elbowed Merlin, if the topic hadn't changed to one of power.
Without looking, he notices Merlin stiffen, but Arthur isn't sure he's faring any better. He tries to keep himself neutral, as if listening to another discussion, but inwardly Arthur's painfully aware of Merlin's presence, several inches away.
"Could he now?" Arthur finds the words slipping out before he stops them, more mockery than encouragement. Yet, his mind hollers, and Arthur pushes off the ever-burning questions. Pleading in himself to not go seeking those answers. Not now, not here. Only one person could give him this.
Even so, Arthur doesn't feel dread or a surge of fear. Not like his encounters with Morgana, where his whole body vibrated with danger.
Merlin isn't dangerous—not to anyone but himself.
The lightness returns to the conversation, debates about their years, and Arthur's familiar with how many times Merlin had been stupid enough to risk his own life for him, how he used his magic for the good of others. Arthur's eyes fall back towards Merlin, and he reaches out with fingertips, grazing to Merlin's elbow in a hushed 'Calm yourself'.
What exactly is upsetting Merlin is a mystery, but Arthur can only guess. For his sanity's sake, he supposes the 'crotchety' comment. Arthur takes the initiative, placing a firm hand on Merlin's right shoulder.
"I believe you were going to look for clothes," Arthur tells him, not meaning to give it as a command.
Arthur's eyes meet Larry's, and this time he shows intrigue.
"Forgive him. He can be a bit of an idiot when his stories are crossed." He squeezes Merlin's shoulder then releases, moving away and crossing his arms. "I happen to know quite a lot about the military strategies of their era. We could compare."
.
.
Throughout Merlin's epoch, walking every corner of this planet, waiting for an event he had at the time assumed improbable… he listened for each dulcet, meaningful syllable of chance and fate weaving the tapestry of life… Merlin can easily say meetings between strangers and himself like this are not uncommon. This should be no different.
He heard these wildly entertaining conversations before in the past, just other places and time periods.
During the years in and out of Cambridge and Oxford (graduating with a Masters in Civil Law, the next fifty years doing the same with a new face with Pharmacology, and the next fifty with Medieval Languages and Surgical Sciences and Practices). Merlin hunched down in the back rows, casual conversation with his fellow schoolmates at the bare minimum—too young, much too young and ignorant to understand what the ideas of 'self-sacrifice' and 'allegiance' held. They were all too happy to grant him his request of isolation.
He sat throughout university lectures about Historia Regum Britanniae, about the French writer Chretien de Troyes who began the romantic genre of medieval literature, about legends and fairytales and myths of his very own life and Arthur's argued passionately between various ages and ethnic groups and walks-of-life.
Merlin doesn't understand why he suddenly needs to get out of this room, to back away for a gulp of fresh air (or several, considering how lightheaded he's becoming). Because it feels like Merlin's entire head is screwed on too tightly where it's situated above his shoulders, his templse pounding with a small headache and his rapid-thread of a heartbeat timing it.
Something like a movement of cool air touches Merlin's elbow. He twitches away from it on instinct, chin lowered and wrinkling as the pillowy curve of Merlin's bottom lip catches over his teeth, scraping red to the surface.
He can't look at Arthur. No, not until he gets a grip on himself in front of everyone.
How is this so hard? (Well, silly question, really, he replies to himself.) The illusion of Merlin's stoic, hardened bearing had been just that, in the end—a weak structure of illusion.
That would have only held until Arthur rose from the depths of Avalon, sharp-witted and vociferous as he had been before Death's hand, bleeding honour from his pores, thinking so little of himself in the grand scheme of things when a substantial amount of 'research' and 'history' said otherwise.
He had been the only importance to Merlin's existence for near two thousand years, not because destiny wanted it.
It's because Merlin wanted it.
He needed him.
And the very realisation of this had been… terrifying.
The warm, confident weight of a hand grasps Merlin's shoulder, this time his muscles relaxing from their previous rigidness when the light stroke of a thumb-pad registers along with Arthur's voice. It makes it all the more effortless to drop the heaviness of Merlin's thoughts and obey someone else, trust in Arthur, trust blindly in this command.
Something old-Merlin would have done.
At the mention of 'idiot', Merlin swivels his head to narrow his eyes slightly at Arthur, but without any real heat in it.
"Oh sorry! We were keeping you from shopping, weren't we?" Sally apologises, concerned. "Do you have a mobile? Perhaps we could meet at the faire tomorrow."
Merlin's brilliantly-formed smile indicates no memory of animosity.
"I don't, but I'll be happy to see some familiar faces in the crowd." He outstretches his hand for her to take, announcing cheerfully, "I'm Leon. This is Arthur."
"It was a pleasure, Leon."
Merlin nods wordlessly to Larry, who also shakes his head, but with eyes forward and on Arthur as he blathers on about further studies done about 'blood curses' and 'siege towers'.
He departs, catching Arthur's summery-blue eyes in a cursory message of 'see you in a minute' before heading down the aisle to the toliets.
As advised earlier, Merlin discovers the men's tunics and other varieties of costumes on the far end of the shoppe. It's a fantastic selection. Most of the clothing had been stitched neatly with linen and either brighter colours or muted ones. Minus the breeches and overcoats.
He focuses on draping an armful for the changing curtain: several-sized tunics, belts, breeches, and a second-hand, brown jacket.
To his immediate left, a turning, cylindered rack of embroidered bandannas and plain-looking, colour-saturated neckerchiefs call his attention. If it had been any other time, Merlin may have hesitated. But the thick, clean fabric fists in Merlin's hand decisively. He adds the grayish-blue one to his pile.
Of the three changing curtained-off areas, all are empty. Merlin occupies the middle, yanking it shut.
.
.
Despite the glare, Arthur's reassured to get anything from Merlin. There's an instant where Merlin's shoulder clenches, and when he offers one more squeeze, the strain leaves Merlin.
He isn't acquainted with this side of Merlin often.
Typically, it seemed like Merlin could flash a grin, laugh, and deescalate anything he found potentially unnerving with a wry joke. The woman 'Sally' uses a name, and Arthur's caught off-guard. No, Merlin would not be using his true name anytime soon. And, Arthur couldn't address him as 'Merlin' either.
It's a reminder he needed. But thank goodness, because Arthur's not changing his name.
Arthur's gaze follows Merlin's retreating back as Larry continues on. Merlin can handle fetching clothes, hopefully. God help him if Arthur is dragged into that mess all over again.
He stays put, listening to the other man. For the most part, Larry isn't misinformed. The knights and their back-stories are correct, even if details are missing about Sir Geraint and some. Apparently, some names are more pronounced. Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot, they are mentioned, to Arthur's pride and dismay—further on, so are Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival.
Arthur's arms do not uncross from his chest, and his mouth tightens. He doesn't want to argue, but Arthur may start. He's injected his opinion, the truth. When the relationships between the knights are brought up, they're fair, but Arthur's nerve wavers at the rumours of 'Guinevere's betrayal' with Lancelot, and a stranger's telling is disgusting.
Finally, after a long, placating debate on the warfare (Arthur had only truly gone to war once; the other times were of necessity and always ended up averted), he realises perhaps this is a good opportunity to end the conversation before a wedge is driven between them or Arthur grew too frustrated about some (but large) inaccuracies about himself.
"I'm starting to think Leon's gotten lost back there. Certainly couldn't find his way out if that's the case," Arthur says, earning a few, quiet laughs. "It's been a pleasure, both of you."
He shakes his hand and departs. Arthur's so preoccupied in navigating his way that it's a little slower for him to grasp he had an intelligent discussion, and mostly accurate, about Camelot and his men. In this modern age.
To know someone paid attention, had done their best to understand… it's bewildering. And humbling.
"Merlin," he calls, standing by the tunics. It's not a bad selection, though not up to his tastes. Arthur leans over, inspecting the quality. Definitely better than the swords.
.
.
He doesn't know if there's a full-length mirror outside the curtain, but Merlin hopes so.
There's none to be seen in the changing curtain he entered.
In fact, there's little of anything in the tiny, concealed space. Besides the three, velvety, plum-coloured curtains surrounding him for privacy and a white, plastic outdoor chair that Merlin absently lays his armful of costume garments over.
Merlin unzips his wisteria-purple hoodie, throwing it off onto the floor, his navy-blue t-shirt joining it in a lump. Briefly thankful for the shoppe's working heating system while half-exposed, he strips off his jeans.
The first two sets of breeches are too tight on his bum and along the groin area, and undoubtedly would be less than beneficial while walking long distances at the faire. The last pair (unremarkable brown, nearly identical to the second-hand coat) is baggy enough for stretching in and crouching as he does experimental squats.
Between the tunics on the chair, there's a black, a red, and a green one Merlin hadn't noticed with a snaggled hole dead-centre on it.
He's paying good money for these, so Merlin tosses that one aside.
He tugs the black tunic over his head, burrowing his arms through long sleeves and finding the tunic's hem reached above his hips. A good portion of his chest shows through the unlaced, V-neck collar. An unflattering triangle of pale skin and a dusting of curly black hairs trailing up his sternum.
Merlin's fingers brush over the collar's metal eyelets.
Why did… he feel as if he knew this before…?
But he does. Merlin shuts his eyes, mind clouding with regret.
Lancelot's perspiring brow under Merlin's attentive hand. His dark eyes sorrowful and worried as Merlin's own filled with tears. Eyelids falling peacefully as the rowboat floated out to water—
No.
The word silences the image.
The warlock quickly wretches off the black tunic, casting it with the green. He can't go back to that.
Once the red tunic is on, it exposes less, without additional lacing, and fits loosely over his hips. Merlin mentally decides on this one, and encircles a thin and wide belt over his waist. He hopes, for a moment, Arthur's getting on with the others. He seems at least preoccupied with the deep conversation Merlin left behind, and that is fine. Completely fine.
The more Arthur got insight to the real world he's been shoved into, the faster he could adjust, the more comfortable this would be.
Merlin doesn't want him stuck in permanent confusion by his own reality.
It hadn't registered a few minutes ago, but the scholar Larry spoken of his and Arthur's friendship as… something more complex in the days of Camelot.
Merlin's blue eyes dart. It's complex now to be sure. Kissing your best mate and your country's king did that. Kissing him twice. On your kitchen's worktop. With him between your opened legs—
—christ.
Merlin groans aggravated, scrunching up his face and lowering it, grinding the back of his hand between the space of his eyebrows. His cheeks flaming.
Somewhere outside the vicinity of the curtains, Arthur yells. A great puff of air blows out from Merlin's lips, vibrating them audibly.
"Give me a minute," he calls back, thrusting on the coat and knotting the grey-blue neckerchief to his throat. Merlin frowns down pensively at it.
The fabric edges are so crisp and straight; nothing like the ratty rag he wore during his younger days. It doesn't feel right.
Disregarding the fact he would get into a mighty bit of trouble at the till, but already planning on paying for the item, Merlin begins unraveling the neckerchief, until he deems its appearance suits his heightened memory.
Merlin's face lifts to a soft grin as he pushes open his curtain, excited, loudly enough to get Arthur's attention from where he is.
He steps out with that ridiculous proud look, twirling in place and holding out his skinny arms from his sides.
"What do you think?" Merlin asks. "Not bad, eh?"
.
.
When Merlin's voice sounds in his ears, Arthur doesn't bother looking over, but his mind pinpoints it beyond the billowing curtains close-by. He assumes it's akin to a changing-screen, like the one in his bedchambers, and there's no urge to go past it.
He merely grunts in response, ruffling through more of the things on display.
But these are just costumes, aren't they? Some of quality, others aren't, and some garments Arthur doesn't believe fit the era they attempt to sell.
He wouldn't have been caught wearing them. His fingers trail over a deep red, and painfully fake, necklace when the rustling of the curtain jerks Arthur's head up.
What he sees almost dizzies him on the spot.
The man in front of him, for the first time in the past few days, truly looks like Merlin. The toothy grin, and Merlin's ever bright eyes. But especially, his clothes.
It's so close to the mental image Arthur finds himself holding of him constantly—of their past, and so, so close his heart pounds quick. Merlin's brown coat had always been a bit too short, the red and blue combination with the dusty breeches. Even the damned neckerchief, frayed as if it spent days hanging snugly around his neck.
He faces Merlin, stunned, lips parting wordlessly. Arthur has been slowly growing accustomed to seeing Merlin in bizarre clothes, outlandish colours, but this…
Right now, right as he lives and breathes, Arthur wants nothing more than to push Merlin back through the curtain and kiss him senseless. Kiss and stumble and memorise the sensation of Merlin's neckerchief wrinkling against Arthur's fingers when he tears his hand into it, pulling them together, needing no surrender.
"It's," Arthur murmurs, eyes big, and he clears his throat.
He can't do that.
.
.
Merlin's nervous about the big reaction.
His arms lower after a second, tapping against his hips as Merlin's hands bunch the cloth at the sleeve-ends. Merlin's smile fixes on the other man who does a very poor job of hiding his stupefaction. And his approval in the manner of Arthur's eyes sweeping over him. The jacket's a tad big, but handy in colder autumn weather.
Blue eyes lock on his, colour so infinite and wide, and Merlin feels a shudder of intensity wash over him. How Arthur stares at him like Merlin's the only one deserving of it.
He hasn't the faintest on what bend of thought passes through Arthur, but it's not discouraging. The eye-blinks and flustered swallows and stumbled words. Arthur's backtracking, acting cool-headed and snobbish, but it's as if Arthur's forgotten how shrewd and perceptive Merlin has become in their years together, about Arthur's moods alone.
"It's not terrible," Arthur says, dismissively.
At the tug and flip of his neckerchief, courtesy of a smirking Arthur, Merlin's nose wrinkles. His head inclines back when the material smacks him on the nose.
He smooths it down, chuckling.
"Say what you like, but I saw your face. I know you fancy it."
"Don't let that go to your head." Arthur ignores the fact he unwittingly directly confirmed Merlin's observation.
A milder, warmer grin steals over Merlin's lips.
"No promises," he chirps, adjusting the fit of the brown coat on his shoulders, and going for the full-length mirror several feet away from the curtains.
It's truly like reflecting into past, in a manner of speaking. If Merlin's hair hadn't grown out, if the clothes had been a bit more worn, if he couldn't witness the obscured, inure changes to his own pale face.
Merlin whispers, looking away from the mirror, "I miss it, too. It's stupid… thinking about it, I know that. Camelot's been gone for a long time. We can't return to where you left off and to everyone else." He peeks up, offering to Arthur's reflection now, "Least we have each other, right?"
He could recall a time where Arthur's very existence turned up his lip into an irritated sneer, where Merlin wouldn't have cared if he vanished. Find someone else to become king after Uther. Someone who wasn't a great, condescending toad. Or treated their servants, wait, treated Merlin like a wall ornament, or their own personal, squeaking punching bag.
But, Merlin could also recall the subtle changes in Arthur's behaviour… visiting the Court Physician's quarters unprompted to check up on a no-longer gravelly ill Merlin, and the not-so-subtle… risking his neck against mercenaries and enchanted soldiers and Cockatrice and 'poisonous' goblets, breaking Uther's law by allowing Merlin to see Gaius before the physician's death-sentence, and that's when Merlin began to finally comprehend the significance of what Kilgharrah hinted at all along.
That they weren't worlds-apart from each other, but merely two opposite sides of a single coin. One purpose, one destiny. And so Merlin started the impossible task of his double life, but with the same goal in mind: Make Arthur king.
At the soft answer of "right" from Arthur, Merlin leaps from the mirror.
"It's your turn to find you something," he says. "How about these?" Merlin gestures to less boldly-coloured, longer tunics. "Have you looked around yet?"
Arthur sneers a little, not even touching them.
"These are servant clothes, Merlin." He then corrects himself, sorting through a rack, "Peasants—I understand their perception of clothing is off, but I'm not lowering my standards."
Merlin's eyebrow tic up at the snappy nature of the complaint, quite a kingly feature about him, and he screws up his mouth, unoffended.
"Silly me."
He walks towards where Arthur stands finishing his critical examination of the higher-quality tunics, grabbing a handful, and now going through the various, folded trousers.
Merlin leans on tiptoe for balance, swiftly going for the other man's personal space with a cocked head, mouth hovering inches from Arthur's ear.
A soft, humourless whisper.
"Why ever do you keep me around, sire… ?"
Arthur goes rigid, his breath dying in his throat. Merlin's tone seeps in, burning through him in a hot flush. He turns his head, enough to let Merlin come into focus. Whether it's the clear show of playfulness in Merlin's oversized smile or in how Merlin doesn't pull back, or his gaze, it's appreciative.
"I have absolutely no idea," he murmurs in response, voice strong, but lowering an octave.
Arthur's eyes hover to the part of Merlin's lips he can see, and is seized by that urge to kiss him once more. Merlin can't do this and expect his whole body to not tremor. Perhaps, Arthur had more self-control at one point, but today is not that day.
And, Merlin… enjoys this sudden feeling without shame. Arthur's warmth in the close and public vicinity (no, he hasn't forgotten where they were standing right now, and unlike centuries-old version of Merlin, he quite honestly doesn't give a rat's arse who might be staring right at them); the giddiness twirling in the center of Merlin's chest.
"Perhaps you can make yourself useful," Arthur states, fully turning, pressing into Merlin's space as he presses a dark red tunic into Merlin's hands. "I need to try this one, I believe."
The bob to Arthur's throat visibly shifts. Oh no, no longer playing around, are they?
It's gravely tempting. The thought of sliding his hands under that ugly, puffed jacket Arthur found himself attached to wherever they went. Seeking out the hard-earned muscles on a sun-golden waist and chest, trailing down over legs and calves, all with Arthur's blessing.
Merlin's head straightens from the cocking tilt. He makes a solemn, humming noise with closed lips.
"Can you see the sign over there?" he asks, jabbing his pointer finger to the huge, laminated square above the changing curtains. A twinkle of mischief to deep blue eyes.
"One occupant per room, in case you missed it," Merlin says, consciously and exaggeratedly looking disappointed. "So, I'm afraid … you're on your own for that."
Without so much of a bat of an eyelash, he yanks at the stretchy waistband of Arthur's jeans until it gapes open, gently enough not to yank Arthur forward.
Merlin stuffs a corner of the red tunic inside with his other hand, enough so it dangles without slipping free with gravity in Arthur's trousers, and without a proper explanation.
"But take your time," Merlin says, lip quivering as he restrains a new laughing smile. "We have all day."
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TBC...
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I'M HEREEEEEE. I'VE MISSED YOU LOVELIES! THANKS FOR BEING SO PATIENT. We're back with even more chapters, and yayyy, the boys are readying for the faire! I'm turning in my 2 week notice to my job, and summer is here, and I'm so thrilled about June! More writing, Colin Morgan in "Humans" and "Testament of Youth", and my BBC Merlin Mpreg Father's Day gift exchange! AND MY BIRTHDAY ON THE 18th! Okay, I hope you guys are still excited for more, and hugggsss!
