PART TWO – THRESHOLD
Threshold, what is it for two lovers
that they wear away a little of their own older doorsill
October comes to an end, crisp and clear, and darkness falls early. Arthur barely notices. More often than not he spends his evenings sprawling on the rug in front of the fire in Emrys' rooms, and Emrys becomes Merlin.
Arthur learns three things about Merlin.
The first, that makes him feel guilty about his own rather half-hearted studies, is this: Merlin loves his subject. He reads like a thirsty man tips water into his mouth. It also makes Arthur worry that his own constant presence is keeping Merlin from studying, and that their friendship is still so new and fragile that politeness stops Merlin kicking Arthur out. But he doesn't leave. He can't.
The second is that he likes Merlin's rooms better than his own, despite their lack of luxury. The spartan look of them calms him, the strange paintings on the walls intrigue him and it's soothing to be surrounded by books and artist's materials. He walks around the room and pokes at things, touching them, stopping at the mantelpiece to pick up a small dragon carved from a piece of wood.
"What's this?"
Merlin gives him that quick, dark, sidelong glance. "My father made it."
His voice is low and it's all he volunteers. Arthur stands holding the dragon for a minute longer, his fingertip following the whittle marks.
The third thing is something of an epiphany, and Arthur is embarrassed that it's taken him so long to discover this: the secret of Merlin's perpetually unlit cigarettes. He doesn't light them for the simple reason that he can't afford to buy them very often. He lets them hang from the corner of his distractingly pretty mouth because he likes the feel of them, and only occasionally lights one.
Arthur begins to provide Merlin with cigarettes in as unobtrusive a manner as he can muster. The helpless banality of it amuses and depresses him in turns: of all the things he wants to give Merlin, he ends up giving him tobacco.
xxx
Merlin is standing by the window with the bright yellow canopy of a chestnut tree behind him, talking about Wilkie Collins. Arthur hasn't read Wilkie Collins and doesn't intend to; he listens to Merlin's voice rather than his words. The window is open and the sounds of everyday life come floating in; shouts and laughs, dry leaves rustling in the wind, the clatter of bicycle wheels on cobblestones. When Merlin turns his profile against the light his likeness to a Renaissance angel is undeniable: the straight nose, the shape of the downcast eye, the curve of the lip.
Merlin puts a cigarette in his mouth, looks up and smiles, and Arthur forgets about angels and saints and sees a long-limbed undergrad pushing a tumble of dark hair off his forehead, a smile made lopsided by the cigarette. Merlin is so real, so touchable, and so very unreachable.
Arthur strikes a match and holds it out to Merlin, who leans forward and cups his hand around Arthur's to protect the flame.
Arthur closes his eyes.
xxx
Arthur's rooms are like himself, Merlin thinks – warm, handsome, flooded with light. The enormous rug that covers almost the entire floor has an intricate pattern of blue and gold that sets off Arthur's own colouring to perfection. The whisky tumbler in Merlin's hand is heavy and cool, the liquid an amber swirl in its clear shell of glass. He tilts the tumbler slowly from side to side and watches the surface stay level, watches firelight glow at the bottom of the glass like a jewel.
"Leon's lending me his motor tomorrow," Arthur says, leaning forward in his chair. "Feel like going for a drive? There's something I'd like to show you, if you have the time."
Merlin can tell from his carefully casual tone that the answer is important, and the prospect of a whole day with Arthur away from university, just the two of them, sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine.
"It would be heaven to get out of here for a day," he replies softly.
Blue and gold, amber and fire. He is honestly not sure what intoxicates him more, the whisky or Arthur's smile. It's dangerous. Sometimes it feels like he would agree to anything, tell Arthur anything. Everything.
xxx
The world glitters with frost, made of silver, pale gold, pale copper. They travel among rolling hills and bare brown fields under a mother-of-pearl sky.
Arthur is a good driver, less reckless than Merlin would have thought, far more considerate. Merlin is a little moved that Arthur has noticed how Merlin is always cold. Only his nose is cold now, where he's tucked into a nest of blankets and wearing motoring goggles, gloves and a muffler, all provided by Arthur who keeps giving him quick, delighted smiles.
They come to a halt halfway up a hill where a lone oak tree resides at the top; Arthur jumps out of the car and Merlin extricates himself from the blankets and follows him up to the tree. The colours of the landscape are muted and the view is gentle rather than overwhelming.
"Is this what you wanted to show me?" Merlin asks, watching the winter light play over Arthur's hair and making it pale as straw.
"No, this is just a detour. I like this place."
Merlin nods and leans against the oak tree. The tweed of his upturned collar is rough and warm against his cheek. Arthur is looking at him, looking until Merlin trembles.
"Merlin and Arthur," he says slowly. "Merlin."
Merlin shrugs; Arthur doesn't let go.
"With a name like that," he says, eyes intense, "you ought to be able to do magic." A pause. "Are you?"
Fear rushes through Merlin's veins like heat. The metallic taste of it clings to the back of his throat but he swallows it, hoping his reaction isn't visible. Arthur's question can't possibly be serious, because who in their right mind would admit their magical abilities to a Pendragon? But there's a devil on Merlin's shoulder whispering in his ear, and just to see what will happen, Merlin replies through the thunder of his heart: "Of course I am," adopting as light and impertinent a tone as he can and curling his hands into fists in his pockets.
He listens to his pulse hammering, watches as the look in Arthur's eyes turns strangely soft. Then Arthur says, very quietly: "I'm not my father, you know." And before Merlin has a reaction to that, Arthur peers up at the sky through the bare, gnarled oak branches and says in a very different tone, conversationally: "Well, Merlin, if you can do magic, then you should change the seasons. Make the leaves burst open. Make everything green. I hate this time of year."
And Merlin breathes again, bewildered and relieved. "Oh, I could do that," he says smoothly, "if I wanted to. I just choose not to."
Arthur laughs and walks back down the hill but Merlin lingers, shaking now that the danger is past, leaning against the trunk of the oak. He presses his palms against it, sensing its ancient, sleeping soul. If he calls it, if he wakes it up and makes the dormant buds open out of season, if he makes the sap rise on this frosty day, the tree will die. It would be a great pity to kill something so old and beautiful on a whim. Merlin runs his hand down the trunk, reassuringly. No, he wouldn't do that, not even for Arthur.
Before he follows Arthur back to the car, he breaks off a small twig and hides it in his coat pocket.
xxx
The airfield is like another world, a world where Arthur can breathe, where he is free.
There are shouted greetings from mechanics and aeroplane owners and Arthur returns them, grinning. The look on Merlin's face is astonished – whatever he had expected, it clearly wasn't this. At the far end of the field a Deperdussin is coming in for landing. By the sound of it, something is not quite right with the engine.
"Over here," Arthur says, striding towards the hangar.
His heart is hammering. He can tell Merlin knows less than nothing about aeroplanes and flying, but it's still wildly, ridiculously important that he approves of the Dragonfly.
When Arthur opens the heavy door and light washes in to glint on her wooden nose and polished propeller, Merlin makes a sound like a gasp, his eyes fixed on the machine.
"Is it yours?" he asks a little breathlessly.
"Yes," Arthur says, unable to keep the pride out of his voice or the smile off his lips, "she's mine."
Merlin walks around her slowly, trailing a finger along her side in reverent curiosity. "It seems so... frail. Like it would fall apart up there, in the air. Shattered by the wind."
It sounds faintly like a question and Arthur shakes his head. "No, no, she's tougher than that. Too bad she's a single-seater, or I'd have taken you up."
The look on Merlin's face is indescribable. "I... I'm not... I don't..."
Arthur begins to laugh, but before he can say anything, someone calls his name.
"Arthur?" It's Jack in blue overalls, a streak of oil down his cheek. "I picked up the gasket for you on the way."
"Oh, brilliant! Thanks."
Arthur takes the cold, flat metal ring like a treasure; Jack gives him a grin and a nod and leaves.
"That was Jack, my mechanic. The gasket blew and we had to have a new one made specially."
"He calls you by your first name?"
"Well," Arthur says, glad that they've arrived at this important point, "that's one of the best things about this place – that there's no hierarchy. All social differences, everything like that, is left outside the gates. There are no servants or masters. If you like aeroplanes and flying, then you belong here, no matter what you can or can't do, and no matter if you own the machine or repair it."
Something falls across Merlin's face like a shutter. He looks down at his scuffed boots and rubs a finger over the tip of the Dragonfly's wing. "There are always hierarchies," he mutters.
Arthur frowns. "What?"
"There are always hierarchies," Merlin says, louder, looking up to meet Arthur's eyes. "There always will be. You can pretend all you like, but ask Jack whether it matters if you own the machine or not. Ask Jack what he thinks about masters and servants."
His voice grows steadier and stronger as he speaks and he tilts his chin up, making Arthur clench his hands at his sides.
"Look," Arthur says hotly, "you don't know the first thing about the airfield, or about flying, or how things work here. You've only just arrived, you can't go making assumptions – "
Merlin is still looking at him. His eyes are dark and hard. "Only people like you," he says in a low voice, "will claim there are no differences. The ones at the bottom of the hierarchy – the hierarchy you say doesn't exist – the ones like me... We know it's there. No matter what you say, Arthur, however much you pretend it's not there... for us it will always be. For us it doesn't go away. We'll never have your kind of freedom."
It's like being punched and Arthur staggers a little. He hates this side of Merlin that surfaces occasionally, the bitterness in him. He can't stand the thought of Merlin having reason to be bitter, but he can't think of a reply that wouldn't be insensitive, defensive or patronising. They've never seriously discussed the subject of their social and financial differences, even if the differences are obvious to them both and always there between them. Arthur knows the day will come when they have to talk about it, but he doesn't want it to be today. The hangar feels dark and cold, and all the enlightenment and equality and freedom that Arthur normally relishes on a day at the airfield are gone.
Arthur looks down at his feet, unsure what to say. He had meant for this to be a perfect day, happy, and instead he has made Merlin angry and uncomfortable, made them both uncomfortable. These things don't matter, he wants to say. Don't you see? All this is only trappings. The only thing that matters is who you truly are. But perhaps this is part of his blue-eyed idealism that Merlin seems to despise.
He feels chastened. He believed himself to be so enlightened and progressive, felt himself to be a true radical here at the airfield, calling everyone by first name and treating everyone the same. But perhaps Merlin is right and he's been pompous and self-congratulating, and missed something obvious and fundamental. Now he can't help but seeing it through Merlin's eyes in all its depressing bleakness, realising he has indulged in a fantasy at other people's expense. It's as if Merlin held up a mirror in front of him, catching him unawares, and he can see that he's behaved just like the boys he despised at school, the kind of people he still despises – the Kays and the Valiants of this world, who think it all belongs to them.
Arthur draws a shaky breath and looks up helplessly, looks at Merlin and wonders what he can possibly say, how he can explain, what he can do to show that he understands.
"Merlin, I..." he tries, but his voice trails off into uneasy silence.
"I'm sorry," Merlin says at last, grabbing up his abandoned politeness like a shield. "Your aeroplane is beautiful." He seems determined to change the subject. "Will you be flying today?"
The hangar is cold and their breath is faintly visible. Arthur shudders. He has lost his taste for the aerodrome.
"No." He shakes his head. "Not today. I just wanted you to see her because she is... she's important to me." There's an awkward silence. "What do you want to do – should we find a pub and have lunch, and then go back to Cambridge?"
Merlin just nods, trailing his finger along the side of the Dragonfly again as he walks back to Arthur, and Arthur reaches out to touch the polished wood of her propeller, like he is touching her for good luck. When he closes the door behind them he is surprised to see that the sky is still blue.
xxx
In the motorcar on the way back to town, Merlin shivers despite the blankets and burrows deeper into them, casting his thoughts back to the strange, magnificent craft in the hangar. When he walked around it and felt the wood and metal and oiled silk under his fingers he could sense the entire structure, every single part of it, how they were put together, how they related to each other, worked with each other.
It leaves him shaken, that Arthur knows how to control this machine, how to ride the wind, how to fly. When Arthur had asked if Merlin wanted to learn, Merlin had suddenly thought that perhaps he already knew how to fly – not in a machine, but by his own strength, free and soaring in the air. It never occurred to him before, that maybe his magic can do this for him.
One day he will try.
Something still feels a little off between them when they part, a caution that isn't normally there, like they're skimming over the surface tension like water insects and ignoring the depths underneath their feet.
Back in his rooms, Merlin fishes the oak twig out of his pocket and holds it up before him, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. He takes a breath and makes the leaves open, fresh and green, feeling the burst of pain and joy as the buds break.
Perhaps one day he'll be able to tell Arthur about this, to show him. Perhaps there will be a time when magic can be allowed to pour forth in all its powerful beauty and no longer needs to be kept in the darkest corners of the soul.
xxx
Arthur sleeps uneasily that night, dreaming endlessly about Merlin with his back turned, refusing to let Arthur catch up with him or see his face. He wakes up into the darkness of his room, clammy with sweat, heart racing. The rain is pattering on the window and the alarm clock shows twenty-five past six. There's no point trying to go back to sleep. Arthur yawns and starts the new day; makes tea, eats an apple and reads an article in preparation for class.
When he's finished it's light outside, a grey December light that barely deserves the name. He rubs his eyes and thinks of Merlin, how important he's become in three short months, how central to Arthur's life, and whether what happened at the airfield yesterday has changed anything between them.
I should have thought things through, he thinks with his face in his hands, shutting out what little daylight there is. He had wanted to show Merlin the Dragonfly like a confidence, a way of saying this is who I am, this is where my heart is, do you accept me?, and what Merlin had seen was bragging and boasting, a rich boy play-acting in a pretend world that he could enter and exit at will.
They had both been wrong. Arthur ought to have explained the reason for the visit; Merlin ought to have recognised Arthur's sincerity.
And the situation must be rectified, or Arthur won't be able to focus on anything.
He washes and shaves, puts on a clean shirt and new collar and goes to knock on Merlin's door. It's silent and solid and doesn't yield. Arthur glares at it and gives it a vicious kick. He hates to leave things unresolved, and now he'll have to rely on someone else's lecture notes.
xxx
"You seem out of it today, Emrys," says DuLac as they file out from translation class carrying their books.
Merlin gives him half a smile and a one-shouldered shrug. Nothing feels right today, everything is half-hearted and unfinished. He must find Arthur, and the realisation that he needs Arthur worries him. Merlin is used to being self-sufficient; he can't be this dependent on someone he's known for three months, can't be this invested in anyone. Definitely not someone who can't know about his magic.
DuLac is asking about an ablative construction and Merlin replies absent-mindedly. His thoughts are occupied with the hurt look on Arthur's face at the airfield yesterday, but while he is truly sorry, he can't wish his words unsaid. They were true and he just couldn't play along with Arthur's illusions, noble or stupid, idealistic or naive.
"Someone has a grudge...?" DuLac asks mildly as they reach Merlin's rooms.
The dark wood of the door sports a distinct, dusty bootprint perfectly in the middle. Merlin's heart speeds up and he needs to clear his throat.
"Seems they do."
"Must have had some force, to leave a print like that." DuLac is grinning. "Better go and face the enemy, Emrys."
Merlin manages a smile.
Enemy? No, it's not as bad as that, but he's still nervous as he approaches Arthur's rooms.
Arthur. He loves the name, loves the way he has to slide the tip of his tongue between his teeth to say it. He calls it now, hating the pleading note in his voice as he knocks.
"Arthur?"
The door opens and Arthur lets him in without a word. He looks tense, nowhere near the laughing image that is permanently imprinted on Merlin's mind. It occurs to Merlin that Arthur is nervous too, not angry.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," he says simply. Arthur's eyes meet his, and the look in them makes Merlin catch his breath. There's... hope, yes, and something else. Merlin is usually good at reading people and sensing their thoughts, but not Arthur, never Arthur. "I think I misunderstood you," he continues, "and I was too blunt." He pauses to watch Arthur swallow, watch the tense throat. "I liked your aeroplane," he adds quietly. "No, wait. That sounds... condescending. And insincere. Sorry. I was impressed." He fidgets, brushes lint from his sleeve, doesn't even know what he's saying, shuffles his feet and probably looks just as awkward as he feels. Arthur is beginning to smile. "It's a beautiful machine," Merlin says, braver now that he realises Arthur isn't going to throw him out. "But you didn't tell me anything about it. Why do you own an aeroplane?"
Arthur is truly smiling now, lit up, surrounded by those hazy flames Merlin has seen around him from the beginning, enough to make Merlin blink at the light.
"Don't hover in the doorway," Arthur says. "You're making me nervous. And cold. Come in and shut the door. Tea?" And while he makes the tea and Merlin sinks into one of the armchairs by the fire, shaky with relief, Arthur adds: "I've always been fascinated with things flying. I used to watch bees and dragonflies, wondering about their aerodynamics. When I was twelve I found a book in the library at home, about Leonardo da Vinci, with that picture of the aerodynamic screw, and I began to read everything I could find about flying machines. My father used to scoff at me, but I persisted. The very idea of it, the idea of man conquering the skies as well as earth and water... it still thrills me." He throws a glance at Merlin, who shudders in his chair and wants to get up, cross the floor and kiss Arthur on the mouth. The look in his eyes, the tone of his voice... there is something so irresistible about people talking about their passions.
"People used to laugh at flying machines," Arthur continues, getting animated, "but look what happened. Blériot crossed the Channel, Garros crossed the Mediterranean, and no one's laughing now. When the Titanic sank last year, it was like a symbol of our time. Ships are on their way out; aeroplanes are taking over. It won't be long before someone crosses the Atlantic."
He hands Merlin a cup of tea and sprawls into the other armchair. "When I was sixteen," he says, "I persuaded Father to let me have flying lessons, and when he asked if I wanted a motorcar as a graduation present when I left school, I said I'd much rather have an aeroplane." He throws Merlin a quick, self-deprecating smile. "I know; you don't need to tell me what a fortunate, privileged bastard I am. The airfield taught me that much, at least."
Merlin begins to protest or apologise but Arthur stops him. His colours are set off perfectly by the blue-and-gold carpet, firelight moves over his face, and Merlin needs to swallow a thickness in his throat.
"I'm sorry, too," Arthur says so quietly that Merlin has to lean forward to hear him. "We misunderstood each other yesterday. I was being stupid, you were offended and all I really wanted was to show you the Dragonfly, because she's important to me - flying is - and..." He stops and looks at Merlin. "... and I wanted you to know about that part of my life."
He doesn't say and you're important to me but it's implied, and Merlin has a dizzying sense of having been here before, in this situation, looking into Arthur's earnest eyes and acknowledging what's there between them, all the unsaid words.
Something moves inside him at that thought. Something stirs in the depth of his mind like a sleeping dragon at a long forgotten command, a call from beyond the ages.
xxx
After that talk in his rooms, Arthur realises he is done for, utterly and completely. With Merlin, he no longer has the sense or strength to look away like he did at school when he was attracted to another boy.
Everything Merlin does, everything he is, resonates deep within Arthur.
He loves Merlin's thick dark hair that curls softly when it needs a cut, he loves the dimples that come into evidence when Merlin is pleased or amused, the endearing way Merlin's smile is silly and asymmetric. Arthur wants to kiss Merlin's childishly overlarge ears and his eyelids, delicate and shimmering like the inside of an oyster. He loves how Merlin's eyes can shift from deepest darkness to brightest glittering sapphire blue, loves the mouth that is sinful in its fullness. He watches the curve of Merlin's neck disappear under his collar, the thin elegant bones of his wrists, the long artist's fingers that play with a pen, a cigarette, a coin like Merlin knows exactly how to drive Arthur insane. Merlin's frayed cuffs, the small shadow below his bottom lip, the sweep of his eyelashes when he's self-conscious, the dark hair on his pale forearms when his sleeves are rolled up, the way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he's tired – every detail is important; every detail shakes Arthur to the core.
There's no point trying to deny it. He wants Merlin, all of him; aches for him in the dark as he slips his hand underneath the covers and listens to the sound of his own breathing.
Whenever he sees Merlin he spends every minute wanting to touch him and he can't, he can't, he can't.
xxx
Saying goodbye shouldn't be this difficult. They're only parting for three weeks, but it feels like something is being torn out of Arthur as he wishes Merlin a Happy Christmas at the foot of the stairs. They're friends, he thinks, and not likely to be more than that; Merlin likes Arthur well enough but not in the way Arthur would like him to. In a few short months, Arthur's world has come to revolve around this tall, shy undergrad, and an irrational part of him is terrified that they won't meet again, that this is the last time they talk.
Merlin is happy to be going home and his joy leaves a dull, hollow ache in Arthur's chest, an unreasonable longing for things he can't have. Most of the time he doesn't want to be anyone else - he's a Pendragon, he knows his worth - but sometimes, just sometimes, or even just once, he'd like to have a real family to go home to, somewhere warm and welcoming where people have missed him.
They're standing in the archway just off Arthur's rooms, facing each other. Their breath is visible like clouds; the red winter sun is setting and the last, slanting rays send sparks flying off Merlin's hair.
Before they part, Merlin hands Arthur a brown paper parcel tied with string.
"For you," he says, "from my mother." A faint blush is spreading over his cheekbones. "I told her how you're never sent anything from home," he explains sheepishly, "so she wanted to..."
His voice trails off and Arthur bends his head over the parcel, surprised and a little moved and more than a little embarrassed at the thought of Merlin talking about him with his mother, making him look pathetic.
"Thank you," he says, "or, I mean, please thank your mother for me. Should I... " - he waves vaguely towards the parcel - "should I open it now...?"
"You can wait until you're back in your rooms," Merlin replies with a quick smile. "Or on the train."
"Is it embarrassing?" Arthur finds he can grin, like something has loosened its grip on him. "Will it ruin my reputation?"
"It's from my mother," Merlin points out, looking mildly scandalised, and Arthur throws his head back and laughs.
"I meant, embarrassing in a things-that-mothers-send-you way," he explains, and he loves Merlin's smile, God, he loves it. Merlin is still a bit pink and Arthur grasps at straws. "Do you..." he begins, and hesitates. "Are you a letter-writer kind of person?"
"Not particularly." Merlin looks surprised. "I mean, I write to my mother once a week..."
"Ah, the model son." Arthur shoves his shoulder against Merlin's because he can't stand having several inches of air between them. "No, I meant... to be honest, Christmas is a pretty grim affair with my family. It's glittery and shiny and story-book fancy on the surface, but underneath it's just... empty." He catches himself when he realises just how much he has revealed about his home life.
"Like a glass bauble," Merlin says gravely, "pretty and hollow," and they laugh again until Arthur finds Merlin's simile uncomfortably spot-on, and stops.
"It's torture, Merlin, torture," he says dramatically, raising his knuckles to his forehead to cover up his neediness. "Well, Morgana will be there and although I hate to admit it she keeps me sane, but, you know. If you need Morgana to keep you sane, then you know it's bad."
There's another flash of Merlin's dimples, and Arthur never told him what Morgana said after the first time she met Merlin: "What a gorgeous little puppy, Arthur. It'd be a pity if he escaped the leash." It would make Merlin hate her; he doesn't know her like Arthur does, can't read her like Arthur can. He will only hear condescension where Arthur hears adoration, loud and clear.
"I'll write to you," Merlin says. "I'll start on the train."
Warmth tingles in Arthur's fingertips and he throws an arm around Merlin's shoulders in an awkward semi-hug. "Thanks. Me too. Happy Christmas, Merlin."
"And you." The shy smile is a Christmas gift in itself. Arthur wonders if Merlin has any idea what it does to him.
Back in his rooms, Arthur unwraps the parcel. It's a box of homemade biscuits - not the hearty oats-and-currant ones that are sent to Merlin, but smaller, flatter, smooth and refined. When he puts one in his mouth it melts on his tongue, sweet with honey, zingy with lemon zest, warm with cinnamon and kindness. Arthur thinks of Christmas in the vast, chilly rooms at the Pendragon estate, of Uther's absence, of expensive, impersonal gifts that no one enjoys either giving or receiving. He wonders what Merlin's Christmases are like, what it's like to have so little and be so generous with it.
He must remember to write Merlin's mother a thank you note.
xxx
Merlin leans his head against the window and watches the wintry landscape rush past. His mind is still in Cambridge and Arthur's face is superimposed on fields and woods and villages like a laughing ghost. When Merlin tries to sleep the image is still there behind his eyelids, and he gives up. He promised to write to Arthur from the train, so he sits up and fishes out pencil and notepad. Looking around stealthily, he begins to jot down observations and make up stories about his fellow passengers that he hopes will amuse.
...The stout woman across the aisle is nervous about the new hat she bought in town. She loves it, can't stop reaching up to pat and stroke the feathers, but she's afraid her husband will find it garish. (He'll be right.) And the man over in the corner, with the four-day stubble that's almost a beard but not quite... He quarrelled with his wife and went on a beer binge that left his throat lined with sandpaper and his pockets empty. His wife...
The observations peter out as Merlin chews the pencil and toys with the idea of a second letter, a letter containing all the things he wants to say. In his mind's eye the notepad fills with his spindly, minuscule handwriting, detailing to Arthur all the things he finds so beautiful about him. Your voice that reaches inside me, your hair that I want to push off your forehead when it flops down, your throat when you throw your head back (Christ, Arthur, I want to watch you do that under me). Your profile, your hands... your mouth, your mouth, your mouth. He closes his eyes and exhales, squirms a little on the hard third-class bench as his mind blooms with the image of Arthur's throat arching, eyes falling shut and lips parting as he clutches at Merlin's hips.
Merlin shakes himself, sits up straight and arranges his coat in his lap. This is not a daydream to have in public, not to mention how disastrous it would be to have something like that in writing. Merlin cringes a little, imagining the appalled, disbelieving look in Arthur's eyes as he reads. He quickly stuffs pencil and notepad back in his coat pocket and sits back, trying hard to think of nothing.
The landscape outside is a grey-green blur and the image of Arthur is still there, taunting.
xxx
When Merlin opens the door to the tiny house, he is met by the warm, yeasty smell of fresh bread. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhales and smiles. This is home. He's missed it.
"Merlin?" Hunith calls from the kitchen.
She is kneading dough, holding up sticky hands and wiggling her fingers in apology. When Merlin hugs her anyway she gives him an awkward elbow hug back, keeping her hands away from his clothes. He's forgotten how small she is, forgotten that he can rest his chin on top of her head. He pulls back a little and smiles down at her, brushing a streak of flour from her forehead and kissing the cleaned spot.
"It's lovely to have you home, Merlin," she says, her eyes soft. "I've missed you."
"I've only been away four months, Mother." Four months, and his life has changed. Four months and the kitchen looks small and drab with its scuffed chairs and faded curtains. It's like he's seeing it for the first time, seeing it through someone else's eyes.
"Sit down and tell me everything while I finish this," Hunith says.
"But I already have," he teases. "Everything's been in my letters."
"Ha!" Hunith returns to the dough. "You're like a dog on a walk when you write, Merlin. You start out with one thing but when you smell something interesting in another direction, you run there."
"I do not!" But he is laughing, and he tells her what the turrets look like at sunset, tells her about punting on the river, about the library and the cricket matches and Professor Gaius, but he doesn't say a word about Arthur. His head and his heart need to catch up with him first. The three weeks ahead of him feel like an eternity, a sea of time keeping them apart.
Merlin watches Hunith finish her kneading. She places the ball of dough in a wooden bowl to rise, sprinkles a pinch of flour over it and covers the bowl with a tea towel. When she has washed her hands she comes over and hugs him to her so his cheek rests against her softness. He breathes in her smell of clean cotton and the lavender sachets she likes to place in her chest of drawers and among the linens; she smooths his hair and takes his face in her hands, lifting it so their eyes can meet. Her callused hands cup his chin and jaw like he is something frail and precious and endlessly loved.
"My beautiful, beautiful boy," she says.
"Mother..."
"But you're as thin as a garden rake," she continues and straightens her back, afraid to be sentimental, as always. "Is there no decent food to be found in Cambridge, or do you just forget that everyone needs to eat, even you? I know you, Merlin," she adds and raises a finger when he begins to protest. "Well, you'll have a hearty supper tonight. Set the table, there's a good lad. And no magic," she finishes softly and kisses his hair.
When Merlin has set out cutlery and glasses and is reaching for plates on a shelf, Hunith says with her back to him: "Tell me about Arthur."
A plate slips from his fingers and breaks into three clean-edged pieces on the floor.
"Sorry," he murmurs as he crouches to pick them up.
Hunith turns to look at him. "I hope," she says, "that Arthur is not like his father...?"
Merlin frowns up at her. "Do you really think I'd enjoy his company if he was?"
Hunith smiles then and his heart goes soft. Have the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes appeared in the past four months, or did he just never notice them before? If Cambridge has taught him anything so far, he thinks, it's to observe.
Over supper Merlin tells Hunith about his one almost-discussion with Arthur about magic, on the hillside under the oak tree when Arthur said "I'm not my father".
"Well, he isn't," Hunith says matter-of-factly. "Everyone is their own person, and if he takes the trouble to emphasise the difference to you in the context of magic, then I think it must mean that he... Oh, Merlin, you must be careful. However much you like him, do be careful. Please."
"Arthur wouldn't..." Merlin says with his gaze on his empty plate, "he'd never..." His voice trails off as he reminds himself that he doesn't know that, really doesn't know Arthur all that well. "Don't worry," he adds quietly. "I'm not telling him about my magic." Not yet.
Hunith gets up and collects their plates. "Sooner or later it will have to change, Merlin," she says. "Sooner or later we'll get laws creating justice for magical and non-magical people alike. We'll have laws prohibiting people hurting others with magic, same as with other means. Laws that don't condemn people for what they are."
This is a conversation they've had so many times that Merlin is bored with it already, and he doesn't reply because there's nothing to say. He has nothing to add. He doubts very much that the day will come, at least while either of them are alive.
"They're too scared of us," he says at last. "Of what they don't understand. It will take a revolution."
Merlin has hardly ever seen Hunith frightened, but when she turns around at the sink she looks alarmed. Her eyes are wide and pleading.
"Merlin, please," she says. "You must promise me to be careful. Don't..."
"Don't what?" Merlin interrupts. "Don't get into trouble? Don't speak up for the things you believe in, for what you are?" He bites his tongue as bitterness wells up, tries to stop it getting past his lips. None of this is Hunith's fault; she isn't making the laws. "I'm sorry, Mother," he adds quietly, and Hunith turns back to the sink with tears in her eyes.
Merlin sits in silence, following the grain of the wood with a fingertip, rubbing at the weave of the tablecloth, until Hunith comes back to the table and sets two cups of coffee in front of them.
"I'm just worried," she says quietly. "But I do trust you, Merlin. I know you'll do what's right, whatever that is and wherever it will take you."
He looks up then, and their smiles meet as he reaches across the table to squeeze her hand.
xxx
Christmas Eve comes in grey and sullen. Merlin sits at the desk in his tiny room, finishing his letter to Arthur before he goes downstairs to have breakfast.
"You should go and see Freya," Hunith says over her porridge. "She asks after you."
Merlin nods, turning his teacup counterclockwise and watching the dregs swirl at the bottom of the reddish liquid. Outside the window the sky is the colour of lead, heavy with rain. Hunith is right, he should go and see Freya, but it's more awkward than she knows, more complicated than just seeing an old friend.
xxx
Freya is five years older than Merlin. At seventeen, she finds herself with child and refuses to reveal who the father is. The village is small and gossip is ripe, but this is a secret that won't let itself be uncovered. If Freya had had family somewhere, or money, she'd have gone away to have her baby, but as it is she has to stay, making the best of it because she has to, making virtue of necessity. And Hunith, who had found herself in the same situation thirteen years ago, takes her under her wing.
Merlin adores Freya, loves the baby too when it arrives. It's only as he gets older that he realises how pretty Freya is - or how lonely she is; it's only as he gets older that he notices the sadness in her eyes. Merlin knows about loneliness.
It's his final year at school and spring is covering the land with green. Daffodils dance by the walls and on the slopes, and the air is as sweet as it can only be in April when you are seventeen years old.
Merlin stands in the muddy patch behind Hunith's house, stealthily sharing a cigarette with Freya in the dark.
They're standing so close their arms are touching. Merlin feels it like a tingle, a faint electric current, and when he turns to look at Freya he sees her like he's never seen her. The light from the kitchen window touches her skin and hair and he is intensely aware of the curves of her body only inches away, her lips around the cigarette, her eyelashes casting shadows down her cheeks. Freya, who he knows so well and not at all; Freya who is brave and sad and whose loneliness speaks to his.
Merlin's hand moves of its own accord, gently taking the cigarette from her and dropping it in the mud for his foot to crush before he touches her chin and lifts her face. In all his life he has never truly wanted a girl - he's kissed girls his own age, but those kisses were all giggles and blushes, closed lips and innocence. In his dreams he's kissed men with hard mouths and scratchy stubble, nothing like this - this is Freya and he wants her.
There's a tremor threatening to surface in his voice when he asks: "Can I kiss you?"
Her eyes widen and she inhales sharply, surprised. When she doesn't reply, Merlin leans in and touches his mouth to hers, dizzy with his own boldness, shocked almost when she responds for a second. Then she stiffens and pushes him away with her palms against his chest, not looking at him. Her eyes are in shadow and he can't see their expression; he doesn't let her go.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, but he isn't sorry, he wants to do it again, his mind zeroing in on that one thing. "Freya, I..."
She is standing in the circle of his arms, still with her hands on his chest, but she has stopped pushing at him.
"Oh, Merlin," she says, very quietly, and again he lifts her chin so she has to look at him.
"I want to kiss you again. Please, Freya." The words make him tremble.
Without waiting for a reply, he leans down. Her mouth is soft under his, lips parting; her fingers slide up into his hair and he clutches at her waist breathing hard through his nose. This is a woman, he thinks in a heady rush, far from those giggling adolescent girls... She is pushing at him again, pulling away from him, biting her lip and looking close to tears. Merlin has no idea what is happening, doesn't understand why she would want to cry. He is muzzy with warmth and closeness and pulls her back in to kiss her neck, panting against her skin, inhaling the scent of her. All he wants is to continue what he started, go further, so far he doesn't know where they'll end up. No, he does know where he wants them to end up. His body is pulsing with this new sensation, hard against her curves.
"Merlin," Freya says, pushing him away very firmly, "you need to stop. I can't do this. We can't."
"What?" he demands, unfocused. "Why?"
"Merlin, you are... you're Hunith's son; you're like a brother to me. And you're... so young. So very, very young."
"I'm seventeen," says Merlin breathlessly, "I'm old enough."
But Freya shakes her head, looking up at him. "Oh, Merlin, you're the sweetest boy, you really are, but I can't do this."
She arranges her blouse, smooths down her hair and hurries back inside to Hunith, leaving Merlin shaky and unsatisfied in the dark. His hands feel heavy, like they're all wrong if they can't touch her.
But he just achieved something, he thinks, lighting another cigarette and looking up at the cold stars. He just took a step into the grown-up world.
xxx
Merlin walks along the street, flooded with memories vivid enough to make his face hot with embarrassment.
Freya is behind the bar when he steps into the pub; her face lights up when he leans over and kisses her cheek, making him feel like a traitor.
"Look at you," she says. "Quite the gentleman. You look so refined."
She is teasing but her eyes still hold their old sadness. The pub is nearly empty and she sits down with him for a minute. She is very pretty, he can see that, but there is nothing left of what he felt for her. There is only Arthur; Arthur has obliterated everything else.
They sit together for a while, they talk and don't say what they mean, they talk and say nothing. Merlin looks at Freya and does not want her; she looks at him and sees it.
"I have to get back to work," she says as she rises from her seat.
Merlin drains his glass. "I made a Christmas present for Cora," he says. "Where is she? With Mrs Donnington?"
Freya nods; Merlin wishes her a Happy Christmas and flees. He stops outside for a moment, leaning against the wall to take huge gulps of the cold air before he goes to find Cora.
xxx
Hunith holds up a letter in front of Merlin. "Your Arthur has written to me!"
"He's not my Arthur," says Merlin and turns away quickly so he can blush unnoticed.
There's a stream of delighted exclamations from her as she reads. When she hugs him she still has the letter in her hand.
"What a sweet, lovely boy," she says. "To think that he took the trouble! It was only a box of biscuits, and he makes it sound like I sent him the crown jewels."
Merlin hugs her back. "He says his Christmases are like glass baubles," he murmurs. "Glittery and empty. I think he needs..."
The word "love" is about to slip off his tongue but he catches it in time. Hunith doesn't notice. She's pink with pleasure and talks about Arthur for the next two days, which Merlin doesn't neglect to mention in his next letter to Arthur. He imagines Arthur reading it, laughing and blushing, and closes his eyes at the image.
God, will this Christmas break never end?