X 13 X
"Excuse me," Morgana says, as everyone blinks in surprise at the sight of Merlin reappearing from his and Gwaine's gloomy corner and sprinting towards the door; there's no way at all for her to make this dignified, she knows that, but that doesn't mean she can't try. "I believe that was my husband Gwaine just scared off. I shall be back shortly."
They're all too startled to laugh at her words, or even to say anything in response, so Morgana manages to make it over to Gwaine before he escapes from his and Merlin's unnecessarily intimate corner (not that she's jealous, not that there's anything to be jealous of; not there, anyway).
"Ah," Gwaine says as she approaches, then says it a second time when she sits beside him in the booth, trapping him between her and the wall. "Ah."
"A little louder," she says. "Maybe a tad higher, too, and then we'll be closer to the sound I'm looking for."
Gwaine laughs, the fucker, leaning backwards in a sprawling sort of way, draping his left arm along the back of the seat behind her. "Morgana, darling," he drawls. "If you want me to scream for you, you only have to ask, sweetheart."
"What the fuck," she says, and right now she's deeply regretting the fact that she's let Merlin persuade her into wearing flat, boring shoes since the start of her pregnancy, because she has more than one pair of heels at home that would probably make their way through Gwaine's shoes and hopefully his feet, too. "I'll let you keep your skin after that remark, if you tell me concisely, politely and precisely what you told my husband."
Gwaine flinches most gratifyingly at that, even the shadowy darkness not enough to hide the sudden pallor of his face, but then he's smart enough to know she's never in her life made an idle threat. Still, his jaw is set, stubborn, decided.
"I told him what you and Arthur wouldn't," he says, and there's not a tremor to it. "I told him the truth."
"What truth?" Morgana asks; even though it's a little unexpected that Gwaine actually comprehends the concept of truth, let alone the fact that he is apparently capable of telling it, there are still a great number of things that Gwaine could have said to Merlin.
Gwaine isn't smiling anymore, but then Morgana is pretty sure his smiles were never all that amused to begin with, at least not this evening. "I told him not to follow Arthur," he says, calm and rational. "Told him to give him space, told him he'd done enough damage already, and when I realised just how utterly clueless he is, I told him that Arthur's in love with him."
Those words hit her as hard as steel and twice as cold, leaving bruises made so many times worse by the fact that they're in her heart rather than on her skin. "You wouldn't," she breathes, boneless and limp, and she knows instantly that it's about the dumbest thing she could say; Gwaine would, and there's no real doubt in her mind that he did.
"You bastard," she says, trying not to be shrill. "You have no right!"
"Guess not," Gwaine agrees, slow and sly, relaxing again, or at least doing a good job of faking it. "But there're two people who do, and you've both had years to say something."
"Maybe there's a reason we didn't." Morgana stands up, placing a hand on his shoulder and sinking in what Arthur has always described as her claws. "Maybe you should have bloody well thought before you opened your mouth."
"Someone had to tell him," Gwaine answers, batting her hand away. "He deserves to know."
I know, Morgana thinks, but just because Merlin deserves the truth it doesn't mean she was ever actually going to be ready to give it to him, and after Arthur's refusal to stop their wedding, Morgana is fairly sure he wouldn't have been, either. "Go fuck yourself, Gwaine."
"If I could do that, sweetheart..." Gwaine says, getting up from the booth as soon as Morgana gives him enough space to do so. "As it is, someone has to make sure your brother doesn't drink himself to death after that little stunt you just pulled. Have fun with your guests."
X
Merlin doesn't go home, even though he thinks he probably ought to. No one will be there – Morgana is far too well-raised a hostess to leave their friends alone with their meal and the bill after their announcement – and he will, at least in theory, be able to lock himself in somewhere until he works this out.
At the same time, though, the idea of sitting in his and Morgana's house whilst thinking about Arthur, about having slept with Arthur, makes him feel so incredibly guilty he thinks he might be sick from it. He can't go home: he lost any right to even call it that the night he slept with his wife's brother.
Merlin doesn't go home; Merlin cannot go home, not until he knows what he's going to do.
Instead, he just walks, and for once looking up at the stars just makes him feel horrendously, horribly alone.
X
Arthur doesn't bother locking the door behind him when he gets home, since he'll only have to drag himself from the sofa to the front door when Gwaine shows up. And, he's pretty much certain, Gwaine is going to show up; lately, that is what Gwaine does when Arthur is feeling crappy.
He'll probably be pissed with Arthur for getting started without him, but that's not enough to stop him from grabbing the bottle of rotgut whiskey he bought on his way home last night.
He collapses on the sofa before opening the bottle, the little click-click-click of the lid coming off for the first time oddly satisfying, then takes a large, spluttering gulp. It's disgusting, but when his goal is to get as drunk as he's ever been in the shortest possible time, there's really no point in wasting his money on the good stuff; he drinks again, then a third time.
By the time there's a hammering on the door, Arthur is well past the point of slurring, and almost feeling a little better about the fact that he's shagged his unborn nephew's father.
"Door's open," he calls, distinctly uneasy with the concept of moving, and it's only as someone is halfway into his flat that it occurs to him that shouting that isn't really all that smart.
Fortunately, it's only Gwaine (not something Arthur's ever thought before, those four words), which means Arthur doesn't have to worry about having to fend off some unknown madman intent on murder or robbing him blind.
Instead, the very definitely known madman just leaves his muddy boots by the door and flings himself down on the sofa beside Arthur, holding his hand out for the bottle.
"Not pathetic enough to be drinking alone, are we, princess?" he adds, when Arthur takes what seems to be a little too long in handing it over.
"It's shit," Arthur warns; judging by Gwaine's grimace, his words are a tad too late.
"So's life, princess," Gwaine answers, and even if Arthur would think he's too sober to be quite so philosophical, the second swig he takes straight from the bottle is probably a good start at changing that. "Doesn't mean we quit trying."
X
Eventually, Merlin's legs decide that enough walking is enough, and it's either sit down in the middle of the street and enjoy the wonderful British weather or find a Travelodge, since he's still not ready to go back to his wife.
X
"What if I want to?" Arthur asks, and he doesn't know if it's minutes or hours since Gwaine's words, but he suspects the conversation, largely one-sided though it may be, has moved on since then. "When do I get to decide that enough is enough, and I don't have to keep trying anymore?"
Gwaine moves beside him, a sudden lurch that seems to have no purpose at all, and Arthur squints at him through the bleary haze of what he's pissed enough to admit probably ought to be called a drinking problem.
"You don't," he says, and it's equal parts concerned and impossibly firm. "It sucks, this thing with Merlin and Morgana, but I swear to God, Pendragon, if you even think about topping yourself over it, I'll kill you."
"If I..." Arthur says slowly, the words dragged from him at the same speed as his thoughts, then followed rather suddenly by a very solid realisation. "Whoa," he says, way quicker and more than a little horrified, because however terrible this thing between he and Merlin and Morgana is, he's never once considered suicide a viable solution. "Not what I meant."
Gwaine doesn't relax at all, but he does pick up the bottle again, wiping the neck on his sleeve before taking a swig so large it makes Arthur's drinking feel pitiful in comparison. "Better not be."
"It's not," Arthur says again, taking his whiskey back. "I'm just tired, Gwaine."
"So're we all, princess. It's going to get better, though."
"You don't know that," Arthur argues, or it would be an argument, if his tone was even close to anything other than defeated.
"Yeah," Gwaine says, laughing but very decided, putting his arm around Arthur's neck in a messy, uncoordinated hug. "Yeah, Arthur, I do."
X
Arthur hasn't kissed anyone in the months since Merlin, hasn't kissed anyone without being over the limit for even longer than that, and he's kind of surprised to realise he still knows how to do it.
It helps that it's Gwaine, of course, and that he's spent his adult life perfecting the art of kissing people. He's good at it, confident to a degree that borders on arrogance, and even if Arthur isn't entirely sure how they got from companionable and very definitely vertical drunkenness to horizontal snogging, he doesn't know how to stop it, or even if he wants to.
It's warm, comfortable, not excessively exciting but definitely not unpleasant, and for the first time in forever, he doesn't feel quite so lonely.
"Please," he says, into the mouth that slides against his own, intimate and the closest thing to comforting Arthur can imagine anything being right now. "Please," he echoes, spreading his legs for Gwaine to settle between them, his weight pinning him down, but not so much that Arthur can't pull himself up enough to tug his shirt over his head.
Gwaine copies him, rising briefly up on to his knees then pressing back down again, somehow finding time in their few seconds of separation to unbutton not only his own jeans but Arthur's as well.
It's as much of an invitation as Arthur is going to get, and certainly as much of one as is required (it's Gwaine, after all, which means a smile is usually enough to count as an invitation); as Gwaine's mouth drags along Arthur's jaw, stubble prickling his skin, Arthur slides a hand down, fully unfastening Gwaine's fly before tugging aside the waistband of his underwear enough to get inside.
It takes a fair amount of fidgeting before Gwaine is able to return the favour, his palm dry and rough against Arthur's cock, as rough as the sharp edge of teeth on his throat, as rough as Merlin was soft.
Merlin.
Gwaine seems to reach the same heat-killing realisation within seconds of Arthur finding it; he stops, freezing as Arthur does, the pair of them extracting their hands and sitting up, as far from each other as the confines of the sofa allow for.
"Not really a good solution, is it, princess," Gwaine says, still breathing as unevenly as Arthur is.
Arthur slumps, his head in his hands. "Not even a little bit," he agrees, then stands, tugging his clothes back into place before screwing the top back onto the almost empty (so close to it that it's probably a miracle they got as far as they did) bottle sitting on the end table beside him.
"You ever get over Merlin, though," Gwaine says, like he's trying to soften the blow or possibly just shatter the uncomfortable tension between them, "You'll give me a call, yeah?"
Arthur laughs, defeated and dismal. "It's not happened yet," he mutters, then decides the best solution is to pretend that nothing ever happened. "Water?"
"Please," Gwaine says. "And if we're really lucky, we'll have forgotten all about this by the morning."
"One can only hope."
Gwaine trails him to the kitchen, draining the pint glass of tap water Arthur hands him as quickly as they necked the bottle, then bumps Arthur aside to refill it, emptying the second a little more sedately. "This'd be a bad time to ask if I can crash here, wouldn't it?"
It is, Arthur thinks, but then that's no excuse to boot Gwaine out; he's way too far over the limit to get behind the wheel of a car, and even though he probably doesn't have the cash to spare for a taxi home tonight and another one back to collect his car tomorrow morning when he's sobered up, he wouldn't accept if Arthur offered him it. "Tonight is pretty much a bad time for everything," he answers. "You can take my room; I've been not-sleeping in the spare."
Gwaine gives him an odd look but doesn't pass comment on that, which Arthur can only consider a relief. "Thanks, mate," he says, taking his glass with him from the kitchen. "Not-sleep well."
X
By morning, Merlin has slept for maybe two or three hours, but he has at least come to some sort of (terrible, life-altering, non-refundable) decision about his marriage.
First, though, he has to talk to Arthur.
X
Arthur doesn't open the door when someone knocks on it at half eight in the morning, partly because he feels like he's dead, partly because he wishes he was, and mostly just because the only visitor he's cared to have in months is still asleep in his bed.
"Arthur," Merlin calls, soft enough not to piss off the neighbours, loud enough that Arthur can't ignore it. "Let me in, please."
Needless to say, Arthur doesn't, because he's too far from happy to pretend to be that for Merlin. His ignoring him should be enough for Merlin to go away – it always has in the past, or at least it has since the second time Arthur did nothing when the old bag next door followed through on her threat to call the police if Merlin didn't leave – but then today clearly plans to be just as shitty as yesterday.
"We need to talk," Merlin says, this time accompanied by a hand pushing the letterbox open and an eye peering through it; it's a tactic Arthur is familiar with him employing from the last few times he's tried to get Arthur to talk to him, and Arthur is fairly sure he's not in Merlin's line of sight. It hardly matters, since Merlin either has a sixth sense for when Arthur is at home or he's been having similarly one-sided conversations with an empty house in Arthur's absence, but that doesn't mean Arthur plans to confirm his presence.
Merlin sighs, far louder than he's been speaking. "Fine," he says, and that's increased in volume, too. "Fine, you prat. I wasn't going to play it like this, but maybe you'll actually acknowledge me if I do. I remember, Arthur, and if you don't open the door and get me a strong coffee so we can talk about this massively messed up situation, I'm going to start telling everyone in hearing range exactly what it is that we got up to after my stag night."
His words leave Arthur feeling lost, stranded on a beach without a rescuer in sight, and he's motionless just a moment too long.
"Right," Merlin says, with the kind of long, exaggerated inhale that suggests this is going to be both loud and extended. "So, Arthur, after I told you that you're my world, you reminded me of the fact that I was a week away from marrying your twin sister, then we kissed. I took my shirt off, then you took off yours, and then everything's a little bit hazy but I'm fairly sure you had your mouth on my-"
"Enough!" Arthur says, because he's relived it a thousand times, breathless and desperate and hating himself but completely unable to stop. He doesn't need to hear it aloud, particularly not at this volume. "You can come in," he adds, unlocking the door and holding it open to let Merlin in, then closing it again before he can make eye contact with any of his neighbours who might be looking for the source of the noise.
Merlin smiles, tight and uncertain, then walks past Arthur into the kitchen, putting on the kettle like it's only yesterday that he was last there. It might as well be, of course, because nothing has changed; he goes straight to the correct cupboard to get mugs, then grabs the jar containing coffee without bothering to turn it around to check the writing on it.
"You having one, prat?"
"Black," Arthur answers, though if Merlin still remembers which drawer to find teaspoons in, he's not going to have forgotten how Arthur takes his coffee.
Merlin puts their drinks on the table, then sits in the same chair as he always did in the past, back when they'd eat breakfast together after a night out. He sits, waits for Arthur to sit opposite him, and stares, saying nothing. Funnily enough, the silence isn't as easy as Arthur thought it would be.
"You wanted to talk," he says. "Talk."
Merlin puts his mug down roughly, a thunk of pottery on wood and a splash of coffee that makes Arthur want to snap at him for not using a coaster. "Fine," he says, and never before has Arthur thought dangerous an accurate description of Merlin, but right now that's how he sounds. "Do you want me to start with the part where you sucked my brains out through my cock, the bit where my hands wouldn't cooperate enough to jerk you off however much I wanted to, or shall we just skip to you dressing me again afterwards, Arthur?"
Arthur swallows, thinking in hindsight that the silence was probably better. "That was a mistake," he says, and guilt makes the words come out far gruffer than he intends.
"Yeah?" Merlin challenges. "Which bit?"
"All of it," Arthur says, and the gruffness is accompanied by defeat now, defeat and a thunderous sense of loss. It was a mistake when he ignored his feelings long enough to let Morgana get there first, and it was a mistake when he let all the opportunities he had to say something slip by. The whole fucking thing is a mistake, and Arthur would do anything to go back to before that summer when Morgana moved home again and he lost his chance to make a move without it being a betrayal of himself and his sister and Merlin. "It was all a mistake."
Merlin stills at that, suddenly far less forgiving than he was a second ago. "All of it," he echoes, and Arthur has the distinct impression that it's not what he was hoping to hear. He doesn't understand how or why that might be the case, because Merlin married Morgana, Merlin impregnated Morgana, and those aren't exactly the actions of a man who wants to hear proclamations of undying affection from someone not Morgana.
"I'm sorry," Arthur says, because even if Merlin doesn't look likely to forgive him, it doesn't mean he doesn't deserve an apology, and it doesn't mean Arthur isn't entirely sincere when he gives it. "You were drunk, I took advantage of you, and you have no idea how awful I feel about it all. I am sorry."
Merlin shakes his head, his hands clenched tight around his mug, knuckles whitening, but his expression seems pretty much unfazed. "I don't care about that, Arthur."
"You don't care about the fact that I waited until you were drunk and a week away from marrying my twin sister to make a move on you," Arthur says, enough scepticism to it to make up for the lack of question. "Why do I find that so hard to believe?"
Merlin looks calm, almost rational, as he answers. "You didn't take anything I wasn't offering, and when you thought I wanted to stop, you did. It was wrong for us to do it, but it was us and we were together. We wronged Morgana, but you didn't wrong me, so you can stop flogging yourself for that much and explain why the possibility of me remembering was so terrible."
"How can you ask me that, Merlin?" Arthur says, and regret is all that he has, all that he is. "You chose Morgana."
"I didn't know I was making a choice," Merlin tells him, and he almost sounds like he regrets it as much as Arthur does. "I didn't even know there was a choice to make."
"You wouldn't have chosen any differently."
Merlin stands up, looking at him with wide eyes, as blue and fathomless as the ocean. "We'll never know, will we, Arthur?"
"So, you think you'd have left her?" Arthur says, and he cannot stay sitting while Merlin stares down at him like he is, like Arthur is unknown to him. He cannot stay sitting, and he cannot stay silent, because Merlin must know how ridiculous what he's saying is, and even if he thinks the argument they're having is totally rational, he has to realise that there's no point in it, not until one or the other of them invents time travel or happens across the Doctor. They can't go back. They can't go back, and Arthur doesn't know how to move on. "Is that what you're saying, Merlin? You think that if we'd woken up in bed together, you'd have gone home and broken my sister's heart a week before you were going to marry her? You think anything would have been different if you'd known?"
"I think ev- Gwaine?"
X
I think everything would have been different, Merlin starts to say, before the movement he glimpses over Arthur's shoulder catches his attention; it wouldn't normally, not in a conversation this complicated and this important, the conversation that will end his marriage and change everything for all of them, but since he was pretty sure they were alone, learning that they're not seems worthy of note.
"Gwaine?" he asks, and in the moment it takes for him to realise which door it is Gwaine is sticking his head out of, everything is very, very still.
That's Arthur's bedroom, he realises, and as he looks from Gwaine to Arthur, to the stubble rash on his face and the bruise on his neck that Merlin hadn't noticed until this moment, the tempest hits.
"Hey, Merls," Gwaine says, and he looks so fucking casual, standing there shirtless in Arthur's bedroom doorway, his jeans unfastened like he's only pulled them on over his underwear because there's someone other than Arthur in the flat. He sounds so casual, too, nothing at all like the man who dragged Merlin into a dark corner and turned everything he believed upside down only a matter of hours ago. "Sorry to interrupt. Arthur, you mind if I take a shower?"
"Go ahead," Arthur answers, so dismissively that Merlin has to wonder how many times Gwaine has asked that of him, how often Gwaine has slept in his bed, and he knows he has no right to feel jealous, not when he's married to someone else, but he does. God, he does.
No one says anything as Gwaine walks into the bathroom, as he locks the door, even for the first minute of the shower running. Merlin is speechless, or at least as far as productive sentences go (unfortunately, the only words in his head right now are he told me you love me, and that is not at all a helpful thing to say), but Arthur's silence leaves him a little mystified.
"Merlin," Arthur says eventually, sounding tired, wary, and almost scared of the words he's letting free. "It wouldn't have changed anything."
It would have changed everything, Merlin thinks again, but that conversation is over and done with. "You're right," he says, allowing himself one last moment of memorising Arthur's face even as he wishes it wasn't this face, this expression, that he's memorising. It's stupid, but then believing for a second that Arthur could actually love him was stupid too, as was letting that preposterous belief unearth everything he'd buried so well.
It's stupid, and it's a damn good thing he came here first, because otherwise he'd have thrown away his whole life for nothing, for feelings that he's ignored all these years and could have continued ignoring for so many years more, if it weren't for Gwaine's stupid delusions last night.
"You're right," he says again, shaking it off, shoving it all back in the box even if the lock is gone and the hinges broken, even if it can't ever be buried again, not really. "I need to go home. My wife will be worrying."
X
"God, Merlin," Morgana says, throwing herself at him as soon as he walks through the front door; she's sworn to herself that she isn't going to yell at him, that she'll take whatever is coming like a mature, sensible adult, like the heart-of-stone bitch she pretends to be whenever things get rough, but that doesn't mean she hasn't been borderline frantic in his absence. "I was so fucking worried about you. Don't ever do that to me again."
Merlin doesn't hug her back, but, when she's fairly sure she knows what's going to happen next, that's not a surprise. She steps back, letting him into the house, forcing herself to meet his eyes as he passes her, and then again as she joins him in the living room. He's sitting on the smallest armchair, the uncomfortable one they always offer to unwelcome guests, and Morgana doesn't know that she's ever known anyone other than her father actively choose to sit there.
"I cheated on you," he says, when she's settled on the sofa, his gaze still locked with hers, like he has to be looking at her for this to be worth saying, and even though she's expecting it, it still hurts. "It was once, a week before our wedding, and I'd managed to block it out until yesterday. I know it was a heinous thing to do, and I don't expect you to forgive me for it, but-"
"I know," Morgana interrupts, and maybe that's the result of her pride, what little she has left of it. She may have married the man her brother is in love with, a man who loves her brother in return, but she is not a fool, and she will not have Merlin think it of her. "He told me what happened."
"Oh," Merlin answers, the wind gone from his sails, the momentum from his words. "It was once," he says again, like repetition will make it easier for her instead of harder. "It was once, and it was a mistake, and I understand if you can never forgive me for it, but I love you, I love our child, and I will spend every single day of my life trying to make it up to you, if only you'll let me."
"Oh, Merlin," she says, and part of her wants to yell at him to leave, get the hell out of her life, run away and never return. A second part wants to forgive him unconditionally, the way she forgave him months ago, when Arthur first told her and she made the decision to stay with Merlin anyway. "Oh, Merlin," she says again, as a third part of her wants to curl up in a corner and cry until someone comes along to make all of this better, wants to cry and curl herself protectively around the tiny, fluttering life in her belly.
The life that is half hers, half his, and entirely unique, entirely perfect, entirely deserving of two parents who love each other and love him, their baby. "It's okay," she says, and even if it's not true right now it will be, one day in the future.
"I love you, Merlin," she says. "We can survive this."