Disappointment felled Merlin like a sucker punch. There wasn't a speck of green on the plates laid before him. He surveyed the burnt hash browns, the gravy, scrambled eggs, and three varieties of meat (Who really eats bacon, sausage and ham in one sitting?), but there wasn't so much as a parsley garnish topper.
Breakfast at the Pendragon household was served promptly at 7:00am and Merlin had known better then to oversleep. The combination of time difference, sex and airplane food had him famished by morning anyway, his stomach waking him with grumbling complaints. He'd ignored its gnawing. Sprawled across the Egyptian cotton sheets and found expansive emptiness at both sides of him.
It had been lonely—waking up solo for the first time in weeks.
He'd straightened up the linens (what should have been a two-person job for a bed this big), wishing for the help of a second set of hands. Preferably firm calloused ones—skilled with a paintbrush. Once he was fully groomed, he knocked on Arthur's door, the tension slipping from his shoulders as it opened.
Arthur did a double take when he saw Merlin. He gawked at his dark denim jeans, and the plain logo hoodie covering the hickey clusters at his pale neck. The heavy layers of winter clothing made him appear a few pounds heavier then he was, but Merlin supposed this a good thing. Today he'd planned to look like a challenge for Uther to snap in half.
Before they'd reached the ground floor, Arthur had tugged back the hoodie, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You look so…normal," he'd said. "It's weird."
"So much for blending in. You know how long it took me to find something to cover these bruises, Arthur? Was afraid I'd have to borrow your sister's makeup—"
"It's a good look on you."
"Makeup? You joking? You'd better not be getting any ideas-"
Arthur shook the smug from his face, tracing a purple blotch with his thumb and Merlin stifled a yawn. "Oh. You mean looking like a junior high kid after seven minutes in heaven?"
"No," Arthur mumbled, hiding his handiwork back under the folds of fabric. "Looking like you're mine."
His—
The memory tickled Merlin; though he was deathly aware now was not the time to be thinking about Arthur in that way. He rubbed the bridge of is nose, giving Uther a sidelong glace to make sure the silver lion was still busy dissecting his newspaper.
A leg hooked Merlin from underneath the dining table, jolting him in surprise.
"You've got to eat something," Arthur said under his breath. "How about the hash browns? That's vegan, right?"
"Not when they've been cooked in bacon fat…" Merlin sighed.
"Eggs then? Pretend its tofu or quinoa, or that muesli crap you like—"
He did his best to ignore how Arthur's calf nuzzled comfortably against his. The physical contact was as jarring as an electric pulse, yet wholly unsatisfying. "You mean embryos…" Merlin whispered, stirring the eggs with his fork. "Drippy embryos…."
Arthur gave a no-nonsense my father is watching you grunt, and Merlin stuffed a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth before Uther turned, chewing them like broken glass.
It was the first time he'd eaten animal protein in ten years and the disgust must have shown, Arthur stifling a laugh into his napkin.
How the hell was this funny? Just because Arthur had spent weeks at Merlin's parent's house eating vegetables he'd had to teach Arthur to pronounce (Jicama) didn't mean he had the right to put Merlin through torture.
Uther flipped to another page of the financial section, the crisp sound of the newsprint rustling through the fancy dining room. A room with a heavy mahogany table, high ceilings and rows of leather cushioned chairs that looked made to serve twenty, not the meager three it held. Arthur's father had said a low good morning as they'd sat for breakfast. Made them close their eyes to say Grace before eating. But after the one-minute ritual he'd outright ignored them; which was just fine in Merlin's book.
Arthur didn't flinch at his father's behavior; he'd taken his seat beside Uther, and, as soon as he was permitted, tucked into his breakfast with the starved ferocity of a competitive eater. Merlin watched Arthur's languid chewing. How his face changed from pleased, to positively orgasmic as he devoured his sausages and double portion of scrambled eggs. At least something at the table was giving Arthur pleasure—
That was, until Uther's voice rose through the scraping of cutlery.
"Arthur. How are your classes going?" he asked pleasantly.
Arthur grabbed a piece of crispy bacon from a platter. "Great. Straight A's this semester," he smiled.
"Have you given any thought to an Internship?"
"No, not yet."
"I'm surprised you haven't secured one already," Uther said sharply. "It's your junior year."
"I have plenty of time to apply-"
"Most transfer students don't apply for internships until spring semester, or summer vacation," Merlin added, taking another forced bite of eggs and swallowing the revulsion that rose in his throat.
Uther took a drink from his coffee mug, leaving a dark stain on its upper lip. When he spoke again, it was with thinly veiled contempt. "My son is not most student. How many times have I told you, Arthur, if you want to win in life, you play ahead of the game; you make sure you're on top by showing initiative, putting in effort—"
"Yes, Sir," Arthur swallowed.
"I don't pay $40,000 a semester for you to slack off. You're twenty-three years old, not three. You made the choice to go to an art school on my dime instead of a real college, so you damn well better not fuck it up. I want a solid degree in your hand at the end of this farce, a real career. Am I making myself clear?"
Arthur pushed away his plate as if he'd suddenly lost his appetite. "I'll take care of it," he said, his expression drawn and tight.
Merlin looked helplessly towards him, but Arthur wouldn't meet his eyes. He absorbed himself instead with his cloth napkin, folding and refolding it in his lap. Merlin had never seen Arthur like this, so timid. His Arthur, who'd always spoken his mind, to the point of being crass; who on their very first meeting had asked Merlin who the hell he was, then turned around and accused him of bedding his girlfriend.
Sure, at the time all Merlin had wanted was to slap the cocky bastard across the face, but looking back he could laugh at the absurdity of it. Heck, it even made him a little hot under the collar to remember Arthur's smoldering blues appraising him.
Merlin's stomach churned, hand gripping his fork until his knuckles whitened. He wasn't sure what disgusted him more, that Arthur was so emotionally controlled by his father, or the pleasure that Uther seemed to derive from this power play. It hadn't escaped Merlin's notice that as soon as Arthur had stopped eating, Uther regained a healthy appetite, heaping more greasy food onto his plate.
Chewing as leisurely as a king—
This was a game to him. And one he apparently wasn't through with. He was waiting. Calculating. Once Arthur had regained his normal color, Uther asked, "So, what are your plans for the week?"
"Football hall of Fame museum," Arthur said carefully. "The Studebaker museum, and the Notre Dame campus of course…"
"Shame about the National Championships this year—"
Cool distant eyes locked on Merlin.
Merlin bit his tongue. Trying not to gag at the white spittle in the corner of Uther's mouth. He felt like he was having a surprise quiz from the strictest teacher at school, but unlike his high school math days, he was prepared. He'd studied college football basics with Arthur on the flight in preparation. Learning dull as dirt statistics, moves, and the major local team names.
He could do this.
"Yeah," Merlin smiled indulgently, making sure to greet Uther's stoney expression head on. He dabbed his lips with his napkin, positioning it back on his plate to conceal a barely touched meal. "The Fighting Irish were robbed, weren't they?"
"Robbed?" The spittle trickled down Uther's chin until he wiped it clean with the back of his palm. "That's generous. The Crimson Tide massacred them, didn't help our team played like a bunch of limp-wristed girls—"
Merlin nodded silent agreement. It was all he could do.
The pinched wrinkles between the older man's brow relaxed. He folded the corner of paper and asked, "So, Merlin, who's your team back home? Stanford or USC?"
Merlin blinked his surprise.
Damn it.
He'd gone over plenty about football with Arthur in the last 48 hours, but nothing about teams in California. Here he was utterly lost.
He paused. "Stanford?" He said, his reply sounding more like a question then an answer.
Arthur, sensing the danger, changed the subject. "Dad, I was thinking you could join us for the ND campus tour, seeing as it's your old alma matter—"
"Time is money, Arthur," Uther said, falling into a familiar scowl. "You may have a vacation, but I have a merger coming up and two college loans to pay. Do your sightseeing, we'll have dinner together tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll call in favors to find an internship. Since my adult son can't be bothered to take that burden upon himself."
Arthur looked like he'd been slapped, without a hand ever touching him. Whatever he'd professed to Merlin before their trip, the offense in his eyes didn't lie.
He cared about his father's opinion. It mattered to him.
"I'll clear the dishes," he said, getting up from the table.
"I see moving out's taught you some responsibility," Uther replied, thrusting his empty coffee mug into Arthur's hand, and a heaping pile of plates into Merlin's. "Hand wash those, boys. I don't' want to see any chips on my good china."
