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calligladTitle: The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None whatsoever
Summary: AU. The Merlin cast in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Very little actual Shakespeare, more a comedy of errors.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
callista_mythol's prompt challenge, so long ago that even I can't remember the specifics. I'm being honest, here. This has taken, like, six months *is ashamed*
-
Lance chooses to tell Merlin he's been sacked less than a month from opening night at a really, very nice restaurant and Merlin had more been entertaining nebulous ideas of it being a date, rather than a world-ending, career-ruining bombshell.
"What?!" Merlin says, maybe a little too loudly, and a waiter looks pointedly at them and sniffs. "But--"
"Yes," says Lance. "Sacked."
"But can't we--"
"No."
"Why--"
"Uther."
"Oh," says Merlin. "Shit."
"I know."
Lance is quiet then, but Merlin doesn't say anything because he can feel the truth bubbling beneath the silence and he knows that, if he waits a while, Lance will tell him everything anyway.
"It's my fault," says Lance, eventually, when Merlin has eaten nearly all of his pasta in nonchalance. "I lied on my references. I've never even been to drama school."
Merlin feels like the meal he can't afford has just dropped through the bottom of his stomach. Lance is one of the best actors Merlin has ever seen, no joke, and there isn't anyone else in perhaps the entire world that could play Demetrius like Lance could.
"But the play starts in three weeks!" Merlin says, hoping that his voice hasn't gone past shrill and into something only dogs can hear. "You're the Demetrius to my Lysander. It's A Midsummer Night's Dream, for god's sake, this could be the most important play of your life. Why did you have to go and lie on your fucking references, you twat?"
Merlin knows that his ears are going red in that way they always do when he's upset, but at least he knows he's got a reason to be, because this is quite possibly the worst thing Lance could have pulled right now. Merlin can't even imagine playing Lysander without Lance as Demetrius, it's just wrong in his head, and that has nothing to do with the fact that Lance is a great actor and everything to do with the fact that he's a great friend, kind and loyal, and Merlin would never have dreamed that Lance had hidden this from him and picked now, of all times, to reveal it and get himself kicked out of the company.
"I'm sorry," Lance says, as if he knows it's not enough.
"It's okay," Merlin replies. It's not. They both know that there aren't any understudies up to filling his place, that, with less than a month to go, it's a miracle that the play hasn't been cancelled entirely. "What's going to happen now?"
"I think I'll go abroad. America, perhaps. Uther said he's getting someone in to fill my part. Don't know who, it was sort of lost in amongst him telling me I'd never work in theatre again."
"When are you leaving?" Merlin doesn't even bother asking if he's going to leave. Lance has never really been that grounded anyway. Always restless, always wanting something more, something different.
"Tomorrow. Time is money, and all that."
Merlin helps him pack, before going out and getting ridiculously drunk. They remember all the best bits of their friendship, all the funny moments, all the facebook disasters, and when Lance says goodbye in the morning, a cab waiting to take him to the airport, they both cry.
(but only a little)
When Merlin finally gets into the rehearsal studio, hungover and upset, he finds half the cast milling around, clutching coffee and looking generally as haggard as he feels. Gwen looks on the verge of tears, Morgana keeps patting her arm, and Merlin joins in, asks what's wrong.
"Have you seen Lance at all?" she says, hiccupping a little on the name.
"Well, yeah, actually. We-- erm...He..." he realises, too late, that Lance has left for America, spent his last hours with Merlin, and not told Gwen any of this. "Uh, no. Never mind."
Morgana glares at him, but mercifully stays silent, and offers Gwen another tissue. Merlin feels that he should email Lance and tell him that, should he ever come back, getting with Gwen might never be an option, seeing as she probably won't ever forgive him for this. Morgana certainly won't.
Morgana is sarky with him all day, pulling off Hermia's indignance with far too much credibility.
"Oh, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd," Gwen is meant to sneer, but today it is half-hearted at best. "She was a vixen when she went to school, and though she be but little, she is fierce."
"Little again?" says Morgana, turning to Merlin more in anger than appropriate desperation. "Nothing but 'low' and 'little'? Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her."
Merlin grabs her arm before she launches herself at Gwen and she grips him just as hard, fingernails digging into his tendons. "Get you gone, you dwarf," Merlin snarls at Morgana. "You minimus of hind'ring knot-grass made, you bead, you acorn."
There is a beat, and then everyone freezes as they realise that no one is there to read Demetrius' line.
Uther, still in-scene as Oberon, clears his throat and begins to speak the missing lines, but Morgana interrupts him.
"When are we getting a new Demetrius?" she demands, and the rest of the cast is thankful because Morgana, despite being a woman, is the only one with the balls to stand up to him.
"Soon," is all Uther says, ignoring her continuing objections.
One of the fairies stands in for Demetrius for the rest of the day's rehearsals, but Merlin keeps forgetting his lines and his cues because he's so used to Lance's voice prompting him, and it's not the same at all.
-
Merlin consoles himself by going out on the lash with Will and the girls and doing inadvisable things involving jaegermeister, fishnet stockings and a digital camera, so when he crawls into rehearsals the next morning, hungover for the second day in a row, he is in an entirely disagreeable mood and therefore unable to cope with anything other than reading the right lines (if in the wrong order) and drinking coffee.
Unfortunately, this is the morning that Lance's replacement arrives, who demands more of Merlin than the above two activities.
"Hullo," says the replacement, and a more sober Merlin would judge him to be arrogant, disgustingly charming and generally a twat just from that greeting, but it is half past eight in the morning and Merlin has only consumed half the caffeine he needs to shake his hangover, so he foolishly reserves judgement.
"Hi," says Merlin, still not tired enough to miss how ridiculously gorgeous this bloke is. Like, prince-charming-perfect and it's not, not fair. "Who are you?"
"Arthur," he says, holding out his hand. Merlin doesn't shake it, and so it is withdrawn not with disappointment, but with condescension, as if Arthur isn't the kind of person to expect handshakes from those who are barely classed as human.
"And why are you here?" Merlin knows he's coming off a bit rude, but none of the rest of the cast is here yet to ask the important questions and also, rather selfishly, Merlin wants to flirt with this gorgeous bloke and that will never happen if Morgana appears with her spectacular cleavage and distracts him.
"I'm the emergency replacement for Demetrius," says Arthur. "My father called me as soon as it all blew up. I took a train down from Edinburgh, I finished a different performance of Demetrius there a fortnight ago."
"What?" Merlin asks, sure there was something in that sentence he should pay attention to. "What was that last bit?"
"I did the same role two weeks--"
"No, not that. The other thing--your dad."
"My father? I came down here as soon as I could, because he sounded bad-tempered on the phone and that means he'll be utterly unbearable in person."
"Yeah," Merlin says, noncommittally, because he's getting a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach and it's not the ill-advised bacon sandwich he scarfed down twenty minutes ago. "What did you say your surname was, again?"
"I didn't," says Arthur, sneering slightly, "It's Pendragon."
Merlin doesn't want to flirt with this gorgeous bloke anymore. Morgana and her magnificent breasts can have him. It is too much for Uther to replace the brilliant Lance with an equally stunning young actor, as well as garnishing it with an unrivalled display of nepotism by bringing in his son.
He just stares at Arthur for a moment and wonders if it will be too offensive to ignore him and go in search of a vending machine, but then the rest of the cast appear en masse, banishing any vague hope of a further injection of caffeine. The others don't appear to really notice Arthur because Uther is commanding all the attention, pointing and shouting, and Merlin barely hears, "Lovers to studio three!" before he's shoved into studio three with Arthur, the girls and Gaius, the assistant director.
Morgana and her chest take a liking to Arthur in the beginning, while Gwen seems alternately charmed and anxious, but that all flies out the window when Arthur halts their rehearsal of a scene and says,
"You know, this would be better, I think, if Lysander were a bit angrier."
"That's not beyond the realms of possibility," says Merlin, through gritted teeth. He tries to catch Gaius' eye, but the wizened git is purposefully looking at his script too intently to notice.
While Arthur turns on Gwen and starts 'suggesting improvements', Merlin and Morgana have a short conference in which they decide that although Arthur is undoubtedly a very good actor and possibly the only person in the country that can save their play, he is also a dick and has no right to change things a month before opening night just because he's the director's son.
Things get worse later, when Will is brought in to do the end of act three, scene two and Arthur criticises his placement on the stage, for Christ's sake, and unwittingly condemns himself to universal hatred for the rest of his natural life.
-
Will bitches to Merlin during lunch.
"What is this shit?" he says. "Who the fuck does this clown think he is, the Queen of Sheba?"
"I think he thinks he's Uther's son," replies Merlin. "Which is true, so perhaps we can forgive him."
"Not bloody likely. Being the son of a ruthless dictator does not excuse you from being a dick. It should have acted like reverse-psychology, you know--'Oh, god, I must never grow old and become that man."
"It does, unfortunately, mean that Uther will notice if we try and get rid of him."
"Crucify him, more like."
The cast last another twenty-four hours before cornering Merlin at lunch the next day while Arthur is having a meeting with the directors.
"You have to do something, Merlin," commands Morgana. The cast all nod fervently behind her. Merlin clutches his Boots' Meal Deal to his chest and tries to back away.
"What?" he protests, though weakly. "Why me?"
"Because," she says, "You're his closest co-star," --entirely untrue and by which Merlin takes to mean that he is the biggest pushover-- "And you're a boy, so you can go and do manly things together."
"Like?"
"Take him out for a drink. Break it to him gently," says Gwen. Some of the fairies behind her shift in a way that indicates they would rather the news were broken to him less than gently.
"You can't do this to me," Merlin says. "I thought you were my friends-- You can't make me tell the director's son where to stick it."
"Lets have a vote," suggests Will. "All those in favour of Merlin taking the princeling for a drink?"
The cast all raise their hands.
"And all those against?"
Merlin tries to raise his hand, but they glare him into submission.
"Oh, all right," he says. "But I'll take this moment to inform you that this is highly unfair and undemocratic and you are all fascist pigs."
He steels himself for the extension of the olive branch closer to the end of the day, anticipating a great deal of embarrassing cajoling, but the whole ordeal suddenly becomes much easier than he thought when they have their first scene together with Hippolyta and he has to nearly drag Arthur from the scene.
"I had no idea you and Sophia had ever met before."
"Met?" says Arthur, after drinking half of his pint in one go, ensconced in the darkest corner of the nearest pub. "That doesn't even begin to cover it."
Merlin thinks that should have come out as arrogant and boastful (Sophia is the kind of beautiful only previously seen in pre-Raphealite paintings), but Arthur says it with a kind of almost shudder and he'd said his lines to Hippolyta with barely veiled distrust. Sophia had been shaking so hard in anger she'd dropped a prop, a ceramic vase, and rehearsal had been halted while the shards were swept up.
"That bad?" he offers, because there's not much more he can ask without seeming rude or nosey.
Arthur just snorts ungracefully before finishing his beer and changing the subject to football, which is something Merlin can identify with and is probably one of those 'manly things' Morgana was talking about.
"It's so refreshing to be back in London where there's team diversity," Arthur says. "I've been in Scotland for the past year. There, they don't even ask what team you support. They just say: Rangers or Celtic?"
"I'm more of a rugby person, myself," says Merlin, then drowns the next sentence in his beer because he'd been about to say something inappropriately homo about muscled sportsmen in tight shorts.
They have a short argument regarding the merits of each sport, and Merlin manfully manages to hold his tongue concerning rugby players and their uniforms, and by the end of the evening, four beers and an hour and a half later, he thinks he might have come to the very worrying conclusion that Arthur is, in fact, quite a nice guy.
With moments of imbecilic foolhardiness, but nevertheless a nice guy.
Understandably, Merlin does the sensible thing--invites Arthur out at the weekend and does not broach the subject of his inappropriate stage decorum at all.
-
Equally understandably, none of the cast believe him.
After another fraught day of rehearsal in the same studio as Arthur's boundless enthusiasm, they pull Merlin into the same pub, into roughly the same seat, and interrogate him under the guise of 'a quiet drink'.
"There's only one reasonable explanation for this," says Will. "Merlin has been tainted by the dark side. We can't take anything he says for truth--whatever comes out of his mouth is just enemy propaganda."
"You're being stupid," Merlin tries to say, but Morgana overrides him.
"We'll just have to put up with him," she says, and all the other occupants of the table except Merlin look morose. "And Merlin, too, now that he's all traitorous."
Merlin spends the rest of the week trying to persuade deaf ears that Arthur isn't as bad as they think he is, but by the weekend, everyone's sick of it, even himself. So it's a change to spend another evening with Arthur, to consciously talk about anything but the play and convince himself that all these funny ideas he's been having about Arthur aren't just beer-induced fairytales.
Arthur prefers Thai to Chinese, and Merlin has no objections, so they eat yellow curry in front of the rugby in Merlin's little flat, which is another new manly activity Merlin's not really familiar with because his best friends are two women and a gay man, but it's strangely comfortable. The banter between them is a bit wittier than Merlin's used to and Arthur's smile is beginning to make him go weak at the knees, but that's all right because Lance used to do that to him too--used to do that to everyone, a little.
-
Merlin comes up with The Plan on Wednesday, when out with Arthur.
(again)
In the back of his mind, he knows that he's been spending perhaps too much time with Arthur than is considered healthy, and probably the reason why Morgana has been looking at him with increasing concern across the studio, but he's not really sure what Arthur does with his evenings when he's not with Merlin. He's not with Uther, Merlin is sure, because, as far as the cast know, Uther never sleeps because he's always out pimping his plays and Merlin has watched their peculiar father-son dance long enough to know that theirs is a relationship that needs time, money and counselling.
And the likelihood of Arthur having other friends to hang out with is quite small, because of his recent year-long exile to Scotland. At least, Arthur seems to know a lot of people, or they know him, but none of them seem the sort close enough to sit around with in pyjamas, eating cheese and watching Life on Mars re-runs.
Which, inexplicably embarrassingly, Merlin has already done with Arthur. Arthur, who seems to have filled a hole in his life that he wasn't aware he had, somewhere between Morgana's intelligence, Will's camaraderie and Gwen's kindness. It seems a great injustice for everyone else to see him as rude and heartless, which is why Merlin comes up with The Plan.
The Plan, brilliant in its simplicity, is to herd the rest of the cast (excepting, perhaps, Sophia) out for a drink and to bring Arthur along. After all, Merlin realised Arthur's true potential in The Marquess' Arms over five pints of bitter, it must hold true for others, especially young actors.
-
His resolve is reinforced on Thursday, after rehearsal, when Gwen takes him aside.
"We've all noticed that you've spending a lot of time with Arthur recently," she says, and Merlin tries to interrupt, but she carries on over him. "I'm not going to say anything negative about that--it's your choice, and it's great that you've getting on so well. It's just that-- well, it's one thing to do this for yourself. It's quite another to do it to Will."
Merlin instantly feels like the shittiest friend in the world. Like he should be applauded as he walks up to the stage and accepts his award for Worst Friend In The History Of The Universe.
"Just think about it," she continues. "It's alright for me and Morgana--we have each other, but now that Lance is gone and you've been spending so much time with Arthur, I think he's getting a little lonely."
Guilt settles in the pit of Merlin's stomach and he feels a bit ill as he remembers why Will is such a sensitive issue at the moment. Weeks ago, before Arthur arrived, hazy memories of fumbles in the dark, clearer ones of steadfastly Not Talking About It. Merlin, having made the tragic mistake of accidentally sleeping with his best friend, realises with a sinking feeling that he has now, for lack of a better word, dumped him.
Of course, Merlin's life is a great subscriber to Murphy's Law, so it's at that moment that Arthur appears and says, "Hey, Merlin. You ready to go?"
"Yeah," says Merlin, smiling at him in order to avoid looking at Gwen. "Just coming."
Gwen looks at him with The Sad Eyes until he's out of the door and her line of vision.
-
He and Arthur slope down to the pub a little later than Merlin had told everyone else, partly because of some lingering memory of Morgana and the phrase 'fashionably late', but also because Arthur had had something of a tantrum involving his favourite red jacket and the baked beans Merlin had heated up for their dinner.
"I can't wear this! There is--orange all along the bottom of the sleeve!"
"Honestly, Arthur, it's fine."
"This is clearly all your fault. If we had eaten pasta like I had suggested, this would never have happened."
"It doesn't matter--it's dark out there, it'll be dark in the pub and you'll take it off when we get inside anyway!" Merlin had said, before forcibly ejecting Arthur out of his flat.
When they finally reach the pub, however, he realises that this could turn into the fiasco of the century. Far from arriving inconspicuously and inserting Arthur into the group as casually as a thief picks a pocket, the cast all turn to look at them and Merlin feels confronted and intrusive. He can only guess what Arthur is feeling, although Arthur is the good sort that can take a little uncomfortable staring and is smiling broadly and charmingly.
Not at the others, though. Merlin can only meet Arthur's eye for a moment before the confusing jumble of guilt and something else in his stomach makes him look away. Instead, he pulls out a chair for Arthur, next to Morgana, makes a show of it, bowing deeply.
"Hey, guys," he says, sitting down and ignoring the somewhat mutinous glances thrown his way. ”Sorry we’re late. Arthur had a jacket-related crisis."
"Do not shift the blame to me," replies Arthur in his most imperious tone. "When we leave, you will experience a far larger crisis when you realise you have locked your keys inside your flat."
That makes everybody laugh as Merlin pats down all his pockets and realises that, yes, he has indeed locked himself out of his flat. The laughter seems to unhinge the awkwardness in the atmosphere and Gwen--bless her, may she never change--smiles and starts up a conversation about the G20 which draws everybody, even Arthur, into a lively debate on the world economy.
Merlin takes the oppurtunity to go and get himself and Arthur a drink, feeling pleased with himself. When he returns and sets Arthur's pint in front of him, Arthur breaks off his animated discussion with Morgana and smiles at him, that really nice little one that makes his insides feel like shaken lemonade. It's so distracting that Merlin nearly fumbles his own glass and narrowly avoids dumping it into Will's lap, who is looking unhappy enough already.
"--a pointless exercise. They will just continue to make promises they can't possibly keep. Nothing good will come of this," argues Arthur.
"Your apathy is astounding," Morgana replies, swirling a glass of wine in a fashion that says she feels this argument should have been won minutes ago. By her. "If any good is to happen, how do you suppose it will occur? By politicians hiding in their respective countries, not communicating?"
"Certainly not by holding a conference which tears up London's streets with protesters that will never be listened to."
Morgana purses her lips and Merlin thinks she may finally have met her match. She and Arthur glare at each other before grinning good-naturedly and Merlin breathes an inward sigh of relief. Morgana is the biggest hurdle in any sense and if Arthur's got her stamp of approval, he can get anyone's.
Except Will, maybe. He's still looking sulkily between Arthur and Merlin, but it's a well established fact that once Will decides to be in a bad mood, it's very difficult to shake him from it, so Merlin resigns himself to at least an evening, if not an entire week, of enduring scathing looks and sullen silences.
Merlin watches Arthur all evening, he hopes unobtrusively. His plan has gone better than could possibly have been expected, Will's truculence notwithstanding. Still, something doesn't sit right, so Merlin tries drowning the feeling but, eight beers later, it just seems to harden and settle in his stomach, hollow and sickening.
He only figures out what it is after they finally crowd out of the pub and, as they part ways, Arthur slings an arm around his shoulder and says,
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Home?" replies Merlin, bewildered.
"This is that key-related crisis I was referring to earlier," says Arthur. "Come on, you'll never get your landlord out at this time of night. You can crash at mine."
Arthur keeps an arm around him all the way there and Merlin feels that hollow feeling in his belly flip-flop in a manner completely dissimilar to the usual wobbly feelings experienced after too much to drink.
"You alright?" Arthur asks, when he's got Merlin propped up on his sofa with a pillow, a blanket and a bucket. "You've gone all unusual. Remember to aim for the bucket."
"No, it's not that," says Merlin, even though it is, a bit, really. "I'll be fine."
"You better be," says Arthur, ruffling his hair. "Honestly, Merlin, you aren't half strange. Whatever possessed you to drink that much? We've got a dress rehearsal tomorrow, you plonker."
"I know. It's just--" Merlin says and thinks about saying, I might love you, but manages not to. Just.
"Yeah, I know," says Arthur, unaware. "No rest for the wicked."
Merlin expects to spend the night awake, tossing and turning, unable to sleep because of these feelings bottled up inside and Arthur sleeping just feet away, but it seems that falling in love with Arthur can't be that surprising after all, because he drifts off into blissful dreamless sleep and is heartily sick in the morning. Arthur makes him a sandwich with crispy, streaky bacon just the way he likes it, and Merlin wonders how he ever thought this could be a bad idea.
-
"Lysander," says Arthur, dressed in Demetrius' clothes, looking tall and noble. "Keep thy Hermia. I will none. If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guestwise sojourned and now to Helen is it home returned, there to remain."
Merlin turns to Gwen in entreatment, cries desperately, "Helen, it is not so."
"Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes," says Arthur, as Morgana sweeps out from backstage, but Merlin has to force himself to look at her instead of at Arthur, whose hair has been caught in a halo of light and the sight is rapidly erasing the script from Merlin's head. "Yonder is thy love."
Morgana settles into a lengthy passionate speech and Merlin can't stop his gaze from sliding surreptitiously back to Arthur, jolting back to reality only at Morgana's prompting, "But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?"
There's a palpable second of hesitation before the line tumbles out of him, "Why should he stay whom love dost press to go?"
The rest of the day is similarly shambolic. Merlin's having trouble remembering who he's supposed to be in love with, Hermia, Helena or Arthur; Uther and Gaius keep exchanging worried looks; and Morgana keeps glancing at him all through the Mechanicals' performance like she can read the situation right off Merlin's forehead.
He's very relieved when rehearsal ends and he can look forward to watching the Eurovision with Arthur and something microwavable.
"Arthur," he says, slinging his bag over a shoulder. "You coming?"
"Er," says Arthur. "Actually, I'm busy tonight. I meant to tell you earlier--Morgana and I are going out to dinner to get to know each other."
"Oh. Well--that's okay. I didn't--"
"I forgot--I'm sorry," says Arthur, suddenly looking guilty. "We went to the same drama school," he says, like that'll make things better.
"No, that's okay," Merlin says again. "Really, Arthur. Don't worry about it."
But Arthur looks like he may spend his evening with Morgana worrying about it in that closed off way of his, and no matter how many times Merlin tells himself the exact same thing, he still winds up sitting on his sofa in his pyjamas, feeling lonely and eating such a large quantity of ice-cream it is conceivably possible that he will die of over-excess.
Or European Poisoning, if there is such a thing. Bosnia and Herzegovina's entry makes him want to choke himself with his ice-cream spoon. And since when is Azerbaijan in Europe?
He's still trying to decide who he wants to win (definitely not Norway) when there's a knock at the door. It's Will, carrying a pizza box and four pints of milk.
"Hi."
"Hi," replies Merlin. "You want to come in?"
"No, Merlin, I want to stand on your doorstep all night," says Will. "Of course I want to come in. And what are you wearing?"
Merlin checks. It's a purple chlamydia awareness t-shirt. "Informative pyjamas? One in ten young people between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five have it, you know. And why have you brought milk?"
"You always forget to buy milk," says Will, with a long-suffering look as he puts it in the fridge.
Merlin doesn't contest this and flops back on the sofa. Will settles next to him, gives the screen and Merlin a commiserating glance, and then says, "Since when is Azerbaijan in Europe?"
"I know," says Merlin, and starts on the pizza.
-
They're indifferently watching the scoring when Will finally gets around to saying, "Surprised you're not watching this with Arthur."
"Nah," says Merlin, trying to keep things cool. "This isn't really his kind of thing."
(A blatant lie. Arthur would secretly love this whilst simultaneously taking the mick out of it. Would probably be a closet Norway supporter, too)
Will just grins bitterly. "You know, Merlin, I really don't get it."
"Huh?" says Merlin, trying to direct the conversation anywhere else less serious. "Er-- Oh my god, look, we're fifth on the leaderboard!"
"Merlin," says Will. "I'm trying to say something. Can you listen to me?"
Merlin really doesn't want to. This conversation should not be taking place without being considerably lubricated with alcohol. Maybe not even then.
"Look," says Will. "I get it. You and Arthur are, like, bum chums. Whatever. But don't you ever think it's a bit sudden?"
Merlin just blinks because it appears that Will is channelling Gwen, who has said exactly that about every single one of Merlin's past relationships.
"I mean," Will carries on. "--God, what am I saying? This is probably all my fault."
"What? Don't be--"
"--Jealous?" finishes Will. "Well, tough luck, Merlin. 'Cause I am jealous. I don't know if this is you, reacting to what we did before, or whether you're trying to spite me, or--"
"Will!" cries Merlin, shocked. "How can you even think that? You're my friend--why would I do something like that?"
"You tell me! All I know is that you've been ignoring me and throwing yourself at Arthur, and-- And--I really love you, Merlin," Will says, earnest and desperate. "And sometimes I think you can't even see that."
"Will, of course I can--"
"No, Merlin, I don't want to hear it," Will sighs, suddenly looking worn out. "I don't even know why I came over tonight."
Merlin stops him from getting up with a hand on his chest and a kiss on his mouth.
There's a moment where Will begins to pull away, but Merlin tries harder, gets a hand in his hair and holds on, and feels a sense of immense satisfaction when Will sags against him. It's easy, kissing Will, which surprises Merlin. He'd always held off this in the past because he'd been afraid it would be weird, like kissing a brother, but it's not. Will is warm and comforting and smells slightly of curry and cigar smoke.
He must have eaten at that funny Indian down the road, Merlin thinks, sliding a hand into Will's jeans. The one that does them onion bhajiis that Arthur loves--
Will pulls away. "No," he says.
"What?"
"No," he repeats, and Merlin can see that it takes an effort to say it again. "I don't want to do this."
Merlin tries not to sound too smug. "I think you do."
"No, Merlin. I don't. And you don't either."
"Of course I do," says Merlin, leaning to kiss him again. "Why else would I--"
"I don't know. I don't care. I just--don't want to do this. Not now."
"Will? What's this about? I'm here," Merlin says. "For you."
"No," Will says again and he looks so tired. "You don't get it. I don't want to do this with you when I know you'll only be thinking of Arthur."
Merlin stops, filled with guilt because Will's dead right. He's sitting on his sofa with the Eurovision on, his hand down Will's trousers, having just thought of Arthur and his stupid deep-fried vegetable preferences.
"Oh," he says, not even trying to deny it. He removes his hand and Will goes to leave. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Will sighs, pausing in the doorway. "I've got a little more self-respect than that."
He leaves and Merlin feels even worse than he did before, when he only felt bad because Arthur had blown him off for Morgana. On the television, a perky Russian presenter informs him Norway has won the Eurovision.
-
"You all right, Merlin?" says Arthur, the next day, waving a BLT sandwich in front of his nose. "Hello? Earth to Merlin?"
"Hmm?" replies Merlin absently. "Oh. Yeah. I'm fine."
"I don't think so," says Arthur, before looking uncharacteristically shrewd and drawing close to murmur, "Look, is this about that thing last night with Morgana? I told you, we were just getting to know each other. It wasn't a date or anything. We're just friends."
Merlin makes a non-committal noise.
"Seriously," says Arthur earnestly. "Just friends. Trust you to be the protective kind, Merlin. You don't need to worry. She's really not my type."
Merlin makes another non-committal noise and reaches for the sandwich, but Arthur pulls it out of his reach and raises an eyebrow.
"I'm going to ask you again. Are you-- Are we all right?"
Merlin wallows in his pit of despair for another token moment, before smiling. "Yeah, we're all right."
"Good." Arthur hands him the sandwich. "And to make it up to you for blowing you off yesterday, we should do something tonight. You know, just the two of us."
"I dunno. Might be too late. The Eurovision was yesterday, after all."
"I can't believe I missed it. Saw the highlights on the news though. Norway was awesome."
"I'll make dinner," Merlin says, deciding to skate over Arthur's unnatural magnetism to terrible euro pop. "After rehearsal, we'll go down the market and splash out."
Arthur's smile is broad and sunny. "Exciting. Remember, Merlin, food poisoning is forbidden before the show."
"I'll have you know I am fluent in exactly four dishes," replies Merlin, indignant. "My mother taught me them, and she is an excellent cook."
"I'm not sure cheese on toast counts as a dish, Merlin."
Merlin throws his crusts at him. A little bit of tomato hits Arthur's cheek and he wipes it off, laughing.
Arthur smiles at him all rehearsal and Merlin can't help smiling back.
-
Arthur sits and watches him make dinner, something his mother taught him that involves crabmeat, breadcrumbs and a lot of butter. Arthur looks sceptical, but that's only because he has a natural aversion to things that don't come with either teriyaki or brown sauce.
"It's not natural," he says, as Merlin piles his creation onto two slices of toast. "You shouldn't have fish on toast. Toast is for cheese. And beans!"
"You cannot subsist on beans and cheese. And crab is not a fish. Now eat that and there'll be chocolate mousse for pudding."
At the mention of pudding (even one whose sell-by-date Merlin is a little dubious of), Arthur attacks his meal with gusto. It's a bit funny, eating his mum's food on the floor in front of his sofa, watching How Clean Is Your House? with a faintly guilty air. Their knees keep knocking together and Merlin glances at Arthur, trying to gauge a reaction, but Arthur gets the wrong idea and scrubs a hand across his mouth.
"What, I haven't got chocolate on my face, do I?"
"No," says Merlin truthfully, because Arthur only ever gets food on his face when eating spaghetti.
"Oh," says Arthur, who looks a little disappointed, before perking up. "You do, though."
Merlin says, "What, where?" and they do that funny little pointing-at-your-face dance before Arthur laughs and gives up.
"Come here," he says, and scrubs a thumb over Merlin's cheekbone. Merlin's thinking something along the lines of, "How did I get chocolate there?" when he realises the scrubbing has become a little more lingering.
"Arthur?"
There's a very blatant glance down at his lips before Arthur says, "Yes?"
"Is there actually chocolate on my face or was it all just a clever ploy to compare flavours of lip balm?"
"You can talk! You, all smooth criminal. This was such a date, Merlin, don't go denying it."
"I did not intend--"
"You cooked crab."
"On toast!"
"Whatever," says Arthur. "You invited me to dinner and then kept eye-flirting with me across the studio. Definitely a date." A pause. "And I do not wear lip balm."
Merlin laughs embarrassingly loud at that, is seized by an inexplicable fit of nerves, and chokes halfway through.
"Merlin?" says Arthur.
It takes too long for Merlin to get up the balls to look him in the eye again and they stare at each other for too short a time before Arthur looks away. Merlin has this horrible, trembling feeling that he may have just ruined everything, thinks fuck it, tries to kiss him anyway and they sort of meet in the middle.
There's a moment where it doesn't look like it's going to work. There seem to be too many noses and knees and not enough hands. Merlin loses his balance a bit, puts a hand out to steady himself, and ends up in a plate of leftover crab.
"Takeaway," mutters Arthur. "Only takeaway from now on."
Merlin retaliates by groping Arthur's arse and smearing it all over his jeans.
So Arthur takes them off. And everything else.
Merlin scrambles to do the same, "Just so's we're in the same boat," he says.
Arthur tumbles them both onto the sofa, wearing nothing but a wide and wicked grin.
-
Merlin wakes up alone the next morning and the bed is freezing, partly because the boiler's on the blink but mostly because Arthur's not in it.
He drags himself out of bed, even though it's his day off, because the idea of addressing Arthur in his head as a love-them-then-leave-them sort of guy without the ingestion of caffeine is too much to handle for a Sunday morning.
He's given up looking for his dressing gown--bloody thing is never around when it's wanted--and is just scuffing down the hall to the kitchen when he bumps into Arthur, who's carrying two cups of something steaming and wearing something very familiar.
"'Lo," says Merlin, dumbfounded.
"Did I wake you?" says Arthur. "You were meant to stay in bed--I was just getting you some coffee."
Merlin's heart falters with affection and he can't do anything but grab him by the belt of his mauve dressing gown and kiss him. Arthur seems a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm, stumbles, spills one mug and drops the other. It smashes on the floor, Arthur gives a shout of pain and suddenly there's blood everywhere.
"Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--"
"Oaf," grunts Arthur, gingerly moving away from the remains of the mug.
Merlin runs to the kitchen and finds a clean tea towel, ties a scarf around Arthur's ankle to stop the bleeding--
"Ow! That's too tight, Merlin."
"That's the point, prat."
--and gets him to lie down with his foot above his head long enough to call Morgana. She seems quite angry at being woken up before midday on her day off, but once he's explained the situation to her, she complies as well as can be expected.
"Cut his foot open?" she says incredulously. "What on earth were you doing?"
"Er," says Merlin.
"Never mind-- I don't want to know," she says. "You two were probably juggling knives or something equally hilarious. Gwen says to put pressure on it and keep it elevated. Try not to let him bleed out--I'll be over in twenty minutes."
She arrives in thirteen without her face on and, uncharitably, does not help him support Arthur down the stairs. They bundle him into the back of her aged Corsa with his foot propped up between the front seats where Merlin can press his entire bodyweight onto the bloodstained tea towel.
"Honestly, Merlin, he's not going to die," scoffs Morgana, tuning the radio to Capital.
At the first bars of 'Sex on Fire' Arthur groans, "I might now. Please put on something good."
"Morgana," relays Merlin. "The invalid wants Abba."
She refuses, "On mere principle." Arthur sulks for the better part of the next hour and doesn't cheer up until after his foot's been anaesthetised.
While the nurse does the stitches (nine), Merlin sits outside the cubicle, because the idea of Arthur cutting his foot open is suddenly horrifyingly squeamish, and has a quiet guilty breakdown.
Morgana comes back from her fag break a few minutes later, looks at him without sympathy, disappears into the cubicle, declares loudly, "God, Arthur, that is repulsive!", reappears again and sits down next to Merlin.
"I hate hospitals," she says. "And I hate having to smoke in those little booths outside in the carpark. Makes me feel like a fucking pariah."
Merlin watches her warily. He doesn't think he's had the pleasure of a sleep-deprived Morgana before and, by all accounts, it's something to be avoided.
"Sorry," she says after a moment. "Just pissed off. Probably that time of the month or something."
He makes a noncommittal noise. Forget that time of the month--with Morgana, it's more like that time of day.
"So. You going to tell me what you were really doing?"
Merlin splutters for a moment, but she doesn't seem to notice anything and continues,
"You know, this morning. Why Arthur cut his foot open. " She smiles at him indulgently. "I know you wouldn't be stupid enough to actually juggle knives. At least, not when you're not on a bender."
"Thanks," he says. "It's nice to know you have some faith in me."
"Well? What were you doing? It's either tell me, or read last year's Good Housekeeping."
"I dropped a mug," says Merlin, then cringes as he corrects, "I made him drop a mug. It broke and one of the pieces cut him."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. There was coffee everywhere."
"Merlin," she says, waving last year's Good Housekeeping in a threatening manner. "You utter clot."
"I know, I know. I should come with flashing hazard lights for the good of everyone around me."
"It’s not just that," she says. "Arthur had better be able to walk after this, or Uther will have a fit. He's not meant to get so angry these days, you know what his blood pressure's like, and the play can't go under. We've been saved once--it won't happen again."
"He'll be all right," replies Merlin, sounding more confident than he feels. "Arthur, I mean. Especially if you insult his manliness. Then he'll just suck it up. Might not even limp."
Arthur, to his credit, does not limp on the trip back to the car, but that's probably more to do with the painkillers. Morgana drops them off at Arthur's flat and Merlin puts Dirty Dancing on the telly and tells Arthur that he is forbidden to move from the sofa.
(not much persuasion is needed)
After a cursory glance in the fridge, Merlin is reminded of why Arthur tries to eat at other people's houses as often as possible. The only occupants of the fridge are some goat's cheese, half a pint of milk and a solitary sausage. Arthur, it seems, has not retained even the most basic of hunter-gatherer skills.
"I'm just popping down the shops," he says, nicking Arthur's coat. "Don't accidentally kill yourself or anything."
Arthur is engrossed in Patrick Swayze and does not answer.
-
Tesco Express is packed, it being a Sunday, with harassed career-orientated mothers and unwashed teenagers. Merlin fights his way towards the fruit, but gives up and settles for microwavable rice. Arthur's fridge lacks even the most basic of necessities, so he manages to snag half a dozen eggs before a tall lady in a burkha steps aside, like a curtain being pulled back, and from behind her emerges Will.
"Merlin," says Will.
"Will," says Merlin.
"Fancy seeing you here."
"Yeah. Weird."
"Small world."
There's an awkward silence and then an even more awkward shuffling when they're elbowed aside by a Widow Twanky look-alike.
"So," says Merlin. His breath mists this close to the chilled aisle and he pulls his jacket more firmly around himself. Will goes very still.
"That's Arthur's jacket, isn't it?"
"Er, yeah?" It's Arthur's favourite jacket and it looks terrible on Merlin, but it smells comfortingly of aftershave and Ariel washing powder.
"You slept with him," says Will, a little too loudly. Most of the other occupants of the aisle turn to look and Merlin wishes the ground would swallow him up.
It comes out before he's quite got his head around the words. "No, I didn't."
There's a pause, then Will says, "Don't lie to me, Merlin."
"I wasn't--"
"Yes, you were! You keep doing it and, every time you do, you get this look on your face. It's plain as day--you're a crap liar."
The spectators are beginning to shuffle away and Merlin is so choked by shame that he can't think of anything to say.
"You never used to lie," Will continues. "You used to be the most truthful person I know. Then this Arthur bloke swans up, catches you, hook, line and sinker--"
"Don't talk about him like that!"
"Don't get all righteous and protective on me, Merlin. I'm not the one who just flat-out denied sleeping with the guy I supposedly care about."
Merlin's stomach drops into his shoes. Will looks grimly triumphant and disappears into the crowd, leaving uncomfortable silence.
He's only dimly aware of putting down his basket, and then he's standing at the bus stop, staring at the timetables. There's a moment where things could go either way, when he could easily brush all this off and ignore it, but then the wrong bus for that decision pulls up and Merlin doesn't think he can see Arthur again today.
He can't find his oyster card--must have left it at Arthur's--and has to pay for the bus. With money. He hasn't done that in so long that, when he finally realises cash is needed, he nearly slaps his two-pound coin against the card reader. He crawls into the seat with the least legroom, sits with his knees curled uncomfortably, his hands stuffed in Arthur's pockets and feels wretched.
-
The next week is paralysing in its discomfort. Arthur spends most of the first day in this anxious state of confusion, that would be adorable if only it didn't set a millstone in Merlin's throat, but by the second, he finally takes his cue from Merlin's averted eyes and guilty evasions and puts on a stony face. It makes him look funereal or tormented, intermittently.
At least Merlin knows his lines finally by heart, because he's trying so desperately to concentrate on anything but Arthur.
-
Gwen corners him, softly-softly, on Thursday and quietly demands to know what happened.
"No, it doesn't matter, Gwen--"
"It matters to me."
Merlin feels immediately guilty. "It doesn't have to. It's not important."
"It's important to you, so it's important to me."
"Gwen, I--"
"Why are you being so evasive? You can tell me anything, you know that."
"That's not the point--" Merlin starts to say, but he spies Arthur over her shoulder. He's not coming over, not even looking their way, but Merlin is seized by the urge to scarper, just in case he does.
"Merlin!"
"Okay, okay!" he finally caves. "I slept with him, all right?"
Gwen looks stunned, then joyful. "That's wonderful!"
"No, it's really not."
"What? Why not?"
"It just isn't, okay?"
"Merlin--"
"Look, I can't even begin to describe how not-okay it is."
"You're being stupid," she says, and the forcefulness of her tone takes him aback. "There's nothing wrong with you and Arthur. He's nice, you're lovely, you get on like a house on fire--"
"That's just--" Merlin tries to interrupt, but she just carries on over him.
"--and if you 'can't even begin to describe' why you two shouldn't be together, then I have difficulty believing you have a valid reason at all."
Gwen glares at him and Merlin can't think of a thing to say. After a moment, she purses her lips, says,
"I thought so,"
and leaves him alone in the studio, feeling like he's been sent to sit on the naughty step.
-
It's opening night before anyone, especially Merlin, is at all ready. The lighting isn't finalised, one of the fairies still can’t pronounce 'Titania' properly and Uther is a wrathful, tyrannical, nervous wreck.
Merlin spends most of the first half of their last dress rehearsal in a sort of miasma because he found Arthur's jacket that morning, half hidden behind his sofa, and he has to give it back, but it's still in his bag because he hasn't managed to muster up the balls yet.
The balls in question only arrive five minutes before the performance starts for real, when the theatre is nearly filled with people, Gaius is muttering the opening lines under his breath and Merlin is so stricken with nerves that even confronting Arthur seems easier than going out there.
"Here," says Merlin, holding the jacket out at arm's length. "I took it, accidentally. Thought I should give it back."
Arthur looks at the jacket, then at him. "Merlin--"
"Just--Take it, Arthur," he says, shaking it slightly. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to nick it. Just take it, and then I'll go."
"I don’t want you to go," says Arthur, not making any sort of move for the jacket.
"What--"
"I'm not taking it. I want to talk to you."
"Arthur--"
"What's wrong with you?" says Arthur, softly. "I don't understand."
"I don't either, really."
There's a pause, and then Arthur says, "Why are we doing this? Did-- Did I do something? Is that what's wrong?"
"No! No, that's not it at all."
"Well, then why aren't we talking? Because I thought--" Arthur looks down at his boots. "Doesn't matter what I thought."
"I liked you," Merlin blurts out, then goes the whole hog. "Still do, actually. A lot. More than a lot."
Arthur opens his mouth and Merlin can tell he's going to say something big, something important, but a runner bursts in and calls them to the stage. Merlin has to stand next to Morgana in the wings, totally silent, and pray that Arthur holds that thought.
-
The entire cast watch from the wings as Will speaks the final lines and, when the curtains close, Merlin is deafened by the applause. The cast assemble on the stage and he stands between Morgana and Arthur, only dimly aware that he has a ridiculously large grin on his face. The curtains open again and he bows jerkily, dumbstruck with relief and exhilaration. He makes the mistake of glancing at Arthur as the curtains close and, suddenly, can't look anywhere else. Arthur's grinning right back, toothy and beautiful, and it takes a colossal effort to hug him instead of kiss.
"I'm sorry," Merlin murmurs. "I'm sorry, I've been a complete tit and--"
"I'm sorry too," says Arthur. "It's okay."
"Is it?" says Merlin.
"Of course it is," says Arthur, looking him in the eye. "Of course it's okay, I love you."
"Really?" says Merlin.
"Really," says Arthur, and kisses him.
Merlin thinks it should be surprising, Arthur loving him, but it's not. Not really. More like something slotting into it's rightful place. He slides a hand into Arthur's hair and nearly forgets to say it back, but when he pulls away to say things that Arthur probably already knows, he realises everyone is looking at them.
"Er, hi."
"Hi," says Morgana, sarcastically. She's looking amused, Will's looking stormy and Uther looks like he'd like to never see such a spectacle ever again. "Sorted yourselves out, then?"
"Yep," says Arthur.
"Probably not coming out for post-opening drinks, then?"
"Nope," says Arthur.
Merlin grins and ignores the rolling eyes, grabbing their things and leaving without changing out of costume. Outside the stage door, he pulls Arthur close and says,
"I love you too, you know."
"I did guess," smirks Arthur.
Merlin has to drag him home quick before he loses his mind and jumps Arthur in the middle of the street.
-
Lance calls the next morning at the crack of fucking dawn to ask how the play went. He protests time zone differences, which Merlin thinks is bollocks. He tells Lance this in short, rude words.
"Good lord, you are not a morning person," says Lance.
"You are depriving me of morning sex," replies Merlin. Arthur has left the bed to go make coffee, which is a deplorable substitute. "I'm entitled to be grumpy."
"Oh, yeah? Since when?"
"Since just recently. Your replacement is far superior."
Arthur reappears on cue and puts the coffee down and his tongue on Merlin's neck.
"Mm, yes. Much more fun."
"Thanks, Merlin, that's nice to know," says Lance and Merlin can almost hear him roll his eyes. "It went well, then?"
"I'm not telling you that!"
"The play, Merlin."
"Oh. Yeah, it went great. Couldn't have been better. What about you? You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm great," says Lance. "I've landed a role in this American sci-fi drama. My character's really cool--get this--I get to paint the future..."
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None whatsoever
Summary: AU. The Merlin cast in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Very little actual Shakespeare, more a comedy of errors.
Notes: Written for
callista_mythol's prompt challenge, so long ago that even I can't remember the specifics. I'm being honest, here. This has taken, like, six months *is ashamed*-
Lance chooses to tell Merlin he's been sacked less than a month from opening night at a really, very nice restaurant and Merlin had more been entertaining nebulous ideas of it being a date, rather than a world-ending, career-ruining bombshell.
"What?!" Merlin says, maybe a little too loudly, and a waiter looks pointedly at them and sniffs. "But--"
"Yes," says Lance. "Sacked."
"But can't we--"
"No."
"Why--"
"Uther."
"Oh," says Merlin. "Shit."
"I know."
Lance is quiet then, but Merlin doesn't say anything because he can feel the truth bubbling beneath the silence and he knows that, if he waits a while, Lance will tell him everything anyway.
"It's my fault," says Lance, eventually, when Merlin has eaten nearly all of his pasta in nonchalance. "I lied on my references. I've never even been to drama school."
Merlin feels like the meal he can't afford has just dropped through the bottom of his stomach. Lance is one of the best actors Merlin has ever seen, no joke, and there isn't anyone else in perhaps the entire world that could play Demetrius like Lance could.
"But the play starts in three weeks!" Merlin says, hoping that his voice hasn't gone past shrill and into something only dogs can hear. "You're the Demetrius to my Lysander. It's A Midsummer Night's Dream, for god's sake, this could be the most important play of your life. Why did you have to go and lie on your fucking references, you twat?"
Merlin knows that his ears are going red in that way they always do when he's upset, but at least he knows he's got a reason to be, because this is quite possibly the worst thing Lance could have pulled right now. Merlin can't even imagine playing Lysander without Lance as Demetrius, it's just wrong in his head, and that has nothing to do with the fact that Lance is a great actor and everything to do with the fact that he's a great friend, kind and loyal, and Merlin would never have dreamed that Lance had hidden this from him and picked now, of all times, to reveal it and get himself kicked out of the company.
"I'm sorry," Lance says, as if he knows it's not enough.
"It's okay," Merlin replies. It's not. They both know that there aren't any understudies up to filling his place, that, with less than a month to go, it's a miracle that the play hasn't been cancelled entirely. "What's going to happen now?"
"I think I'll go abroad. America, perhaps. Uther said he's getting someone in to fill my part. Don't know who, it was sort of lost in amongst him telling me I'd never work in theatre again."
"When are you leaving?" Merlin doesn't even bother asking if he's going to leave. Lance has never really been that grounded anyway. Always restless, always wanting something more, something different.
"Tomorrow. Time is money, and all that."
Merlin helps him pack, before going out and getting ridiculously drunk. They remember all the best bits of their friendship, all the funny moments, all the facebook disasters, and when Lance says goodbye in the morning, a cab waiting to take him to the airport, they both cry.
(but only a little)
When Merlin finally gets into the rehearsal studio, hungover and upset, he finds half the cast milling around, clutching coffee and looking generally as haggard as he feels. Gwen looks on the verge of tears, Morgana keeps patting her arm, and Merlin joins in, asks what's wrong.
"Have you seen Lance at all?" she says, hiccupping a little on the name.
"Well, yeah, actually. We-- erm...He..." he realises, too late, that Lance has left for America, spent his last hours with Merlin, and not told Gwen any of this. "Uh, no. Never mind."
Morgana glares at him, but mercifully stays silent, and offers Gwen another tissue. Merlin feels that he should email Lance and tell him that, should he ever come back, getting with Gwen might never be an option, seeing as she probably won't ever forgive him for this. Morgana certainly won't.
Morgana is sarky with him all day, pulling off Hermia's indignance with far too much credibility.
"Oh, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd," Gwen is meant to sneer, but today it is half-hearted at best. "She was a vixen when she went to school, and though she be but little, she is fierce."
"Little again?" says Morgana, turning to Merlin more in anger than appropriate desperation. "Nothing but 'low' and 'little'? Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her."
Merlin grabs her arm before she launches herself at Gwen and she grips him just as hard, fingernails digging into his tendons. "Get you gone, you dwarf," Merlin snarls at Morgana. "You minimus of hind'ring knot-grass made, you bead, you acorn."
There is a beat, and then everyone freezes as they realise that no one is there to read Demetrius' line.
Uther, still in-scene as Oberon, clears his throat and begins to speak the missing lines, but Morgana interrupts him.
"When are we getting a new Demetrius?" she demands, and the rest of the cast is thankful because Morgana, despite being a woman, is the only one with the balls to stand up to him.
"Soon," is all Uther says, ignoring her continuing objections.
One of the fairies stands in for Demetrius for the rest of the day's rehearsals, but Merlin keeps forgetting his lines and his cues because he's so used to Lance's voice prompting him, and it's not the same at all.
-
Merlin consoles himself by going out on the lash with Will and the girls and doing inadvisable things involving jaegermeister, fishnet stockings and a digital camera, so when he crawls into rehearsals the next morning, hungover for the second day in a row, he is in an entirely disagreeable mood and therefore unable to cope with anything other than reading the right lines (if in the wrong order) and drinking coffee.
Unfortunately, this is the morning that Lance's replacement arrives, who demands more of Merlin than the above two activities.
"Hullo," says the replacement, and a more sober Merlin would judge him to be arrogant, disgustingly charming and generally a twat just from that greeting, but it is half past eight in the morning and Merlin has only consumed half the caffeine he needs to shake his hangover, so he foolishly reserves judgement.
"Hi," says Merlin, still not tired enough to miss how ridiculously gorgeous this bloke is. Like, prince-charming-perfect and it's not, not fair. "Who are you?"
"Arthur," he says, holding out his hand. Merlin doesn't shake it, and so it is withdrawn not with disappointment, but with condescension, as if Arthur isn't the kind of person to expect handshakes from those who are barely classed as human.
"And why are you here?" Merlin knows he's coming off a bit rude, but none of the rest of the cast is here yet to ask the important questions and also, rather selfishly, Merlin wants to flirt with this gorgeous bloke and that will never happen if Morgana appears with her spectacular cleavage and distracts him.
"I'm the emergency replacement for Demetrius," says Arthur. "My father called me as soon as it all blew up. I took a train down from Edinburgh, I finished a different performance of Demetrius there a fortnight ago."
"What?" Merlin asks, sure there was something in that sentence he should pay attention to. "What was that last bit?"
"I did the same role two weeks--"
"No, not that. The other thing--your dad."
"My father? I came down here as soon as I could, because he sounded bad-tempered on the phone and that means he'll be utterly unbearable in person."
"Yeah," Merlin says, noncommittally, because he's getting a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach and it's not the ill-advised bacon sandwich he scarfed down twenty minutes ago. "What did you say your surname was, again?"
"I didn't," says Arthur, sneering slightly, "It's Pendragon."
Merlin doesn't want to flirt with this gorgeous bloke anymore. Morgana and her magnificent breasts can have him. It is too much for Uther to replace the brilliant Lance with an equally stunning young actor, as well as garnishing it with an unrivalled display of nepotism by bringing in his son.
He just stares at Arthur for a moment and wonders if it will be too offensive to ignore him and go in search of a vending machine, but then the rest of the cast appear en masse, banishing any vague hope of a further injection of caffeine. The others don't appear to really notice Arthur because Uther is commanding all the attention, pointing and shouting, and Merlin barely hears, "Lovers to studio three!" before he's shoved into studio three with Arthur, the girls and Gaius, the assistant director.
Morgana and her chest take a liking to Arthur in the beginning, while Gwen seems alternately charmed and anxious, but that all flies out the window when Arthur halts their rehearsal of a scene and says,
"You know, this would be better, I think, if Lysander were a bit angrier."
"That's not beyond the realms of possibility," says Merlin, through gritted teeth. He tries to catch Gaius' eye, but the wizened git is purposefully looking at his script too intently to notice.
While Arthur turns on Gwen and starts 'suggesting improvements', Merlin and Morgana have a short conference in which they decide that although Arthur is undoubtedly a very good actor and possibly the only person in the country that can save their play, he is also a dick and has no right to change things a month before opening night just because he's the director's son.
Things get worse later, when Will is brought in to do the end of act three, scene two and Arthur criticises his placement on the stage, for Christ's sake, and unwittingly condemns himself to universal hatred for the rest of his natural life.
-
Will bitches to Merlin during lunch.
"What is this shit?" he says. "Who the fuck does this clown think he is, the Queen of Sheba?"
"I think he thinks he's Uther's son," replies Merlin. "Which is true, so perhaps we can forgive him."
"Not bloody likely. Being the son of a ruthless dictator does not excuse you from being a dick. It should have acted like reverse-psychology, you know--'Oh, god, I must never grow old and become that man."
"It does, unfortunately, mean that Uther will notice if we try and get rid of him."
"Crucify him, more like."
The cast last another twenty-four hours before cornering Merlin at lunch the next day while Arthur is having a meeting with the directors.
"You have to do something, Merlin," commands Morgana. The cast all nod fervently behind her. Merlin clutches his Boots' Meal Deal to his chest and tries to back away.
"What?" he protests, though weakly. "Why me?"
"Because," she says, "You're his closest co-star," --entirely untrue and by which Merlin takes to mean that he is the biggest pushover-- "And you're a boy, so you can go and do manly things together."
"Like?"
"Take him out for a drink. Break it to him gently," says Gwen. Some of the fairies behind her shift in a way that indicates they would rather the news were broken to him less than gently.
"You can't do this to me," Merlin says. "I thought you were my friends-- You can't make me tell the director's son where to stick it."
"Lets have a vote," suggests Will. "All those in favour of Merlin taking the princeling for a drink?"
The cast all raise their hands.
"And all those against?"
Merlin tries to raise his hand, but they glare him into submission.
"Oh, all right," he says. "But I'll take this moment to inform you that this is highly unfair and undemocratic and you are all fascist pigs."
He steels himself for the extension of the olive branch closer to the end of the day, anticipating a great deal of embarrassing cajoling, but the whole ordeal suddenly becomes much easier than he thought when they have their first scene together with Hippolyta and he has to nearly drag Arthur from the scene.
"I had no idea you and Sophia had ever met before."
"Met?" says Arthur, after drinking half of his pint in one go, ensconced in the darkest corner of the nearest pub. "That doesn't even begin to cover it."
Merlin thinks that should have come out as arrogant and boastful (Sophia is the kind of beautiful only previously seen in pre-Raphealite paintings), but Arthur says it with a kind of almost shudder and he'd said his lines to Hippolyta with barely veiled distrust. Sophia had been shaking so hard in anger she'd dropped a prop, a ceramic vase, and rehearsal had been halted while the shards were swept up.
"That bad?" he offers, because there's not much more he can ask without seeming rude or nosey.
Arthur just snorts ungracefully before finishing his beer and changing the subject to football, which is something Merlin can identify with and is probably one of those 'manly things' Morgana was talking about.
"It's so refreshing to be back in London where there's team diversity," Arthur says. "I've been in Scotland for the past year. There, they don't even ask what team you support. They just say: Rangers or Celtic?"
"I'm more of a rugby person, myself," says Merlin, then drowns the next sentence in his beer because he'd been about to say something inappropriately homo about muscled sportsmen in tight shorts.
They have a short argument regarding the merits of each sport, and Merlin manfully manages to hold his tongue concerning rugby players and their uniforms, and by the end of the evening, four beers and an hour and a half later, he thinks he might have come to the very worrying conclusion that Arthur is, in fact, quite a nice guy.
With moments of imbecilic foolhardiness, but nevertheless a nice guy.
Understandably, Merlin does the sensible thing--invites Arthur out at the weekend and does not broach the subject of his inappropriate stage decorum at all.
-
Equally understandably, none of the cast believe him.
After another fraught day of rehearsal in the same studio as Arthur's boundless enthusiasm, they pull Merlin into the same pub, into roughly the same seat, and interrogate him under the guise of 'a quiet drink'.
"There's only one reasonable explanation for this," says Will. "Merlin has been tainted by the dark side. We can't take anything he says for truth--whatever comes out of his mouth is just enemy propaganda."
"You're being stupid," Merlin tries to say, but Morgana overrides him.
"We'll just have to put up with him," she says, and all the other occupants of the table except Merlin look morose. "And Merlin, too, now that he's all traitorous."
Merlin spends the rest of the week trying to persuade deaf ears that Arthur isn't as bad as they think he is, but by the weekend, everyone's sick of it, even himself. So it's a change to spend another evening with Arthur, to consciously talk about anything but the play and convince himself that all these funny ideas he's been having about Arthur aren't just beer-induced fairytales.
Arthur prefers Thai to Chinese, and Merlin has no objections, so they eat yellow curry in front of the rugby in Merlin's little flat, which is another new manly activity Merlin's not really familiar with because his best friends are two women and a gay man, but it's strangely comfortable. The banter between them is a bit wittier than Merlin's used to and Arthur's smile is beginning to make him go weak at the knees, but that's all right because Lance used to do that to him too--used to do that to everyone, a little.
-
Merlin comes up with The Plan on Wednesday, when out with Arthur.
(again)
In the back of his mind, he knows that he's been spending perhaps too much time with Arthur than is considered healthy, and probably the reason why Morgana has been looking at him with increasing concern across the studio, but he's not really sure what Arthur does with his evenings when he's not with Merlin. He's not with Uther, Merlin is sure, because, as far as the cast know, Uther never sleeps because he's always out pimping his plays and Merlin has watched their peculiar father-son dance long enough to know that theirs is a relationship that needs time, money and counselling.
And the likelihood of Arthur having other friends to hang out with is quite small, because of his recent year-long exile to Scotland. At least, Arthur seems to know a lot of people, or they know him, but none of them seem the sort close enough to sit around with in pyjamas, eating cheese and watching Life on Mars re-runs.
Which, inexplicably embarrassingly, Merlin has already done with Arthur. Arthur, who seems to have filled a hole in his life that he wasn't aware he had, somewhere between Morgana's intelligence, Will's camaraderie and Gwen's kindness. It seems a great injustice for everyone else to see him as rude and heartless, which is why Merlin comes up with The Plan.
The Plan, brilliant in its simplicity, is to herd the rest of the cast (excepting, perhaps, Sophia) out for a drink and to bring Arthur along. After all, Merlin realised Arthur's true potential in The Marquess' Arms over five pints of bitter, it must hold true for others, especially young actors.
-
His resolve is reinforced on Thursday, after rehearsal, when Gwen takes him aside.
"We've all noticed that you've spending a lot of time with Arthur recently," she says, and Merlin tries to interrupt, but she carries on over him. "I'm not going to say anything negative about that--it's your choice, and it's great that you've getting on so well. It's just that-- well, it's one thing to do this for yourself. It's quite another to do it to Will."
Merlin instantly feels like the shittiest friend in the world. Like he should be applauded as he walks up to the stage and accepts his award for Worst Friend In The History Of The Universe.
"Just think about it," she continues. "It's alright for me and Morgana--we have each other, but now that Lance is gone and you've been spending so much time with Arthur, I think he's getting a little lonely."
Guilt settles in the pit of Merlin's stomach and he feels a bit ill as he remembers why Will is such a sensitive issue at the moment. Weeks ago, before Arthur arrived, hazy memories of fumbles in the dark, clearer ones of steadfastly Not Talking About It. Merlin, having made the tragic mistake of accidentally sleeping with his best friend, realises with a sinking feeling that he has now, for lack of a better word, dumped him.
Of course, Merlin's life is a great subscriber to Murphy's Law, so it's at that moment that Arthur appears and says, "Hey, Merlin. You ready to go?"
"Yeah," says Merlin, smiling at him in order to avoid looking at Gwen. "Just coming."
Gwen looks at him with The Sad Eyes until he's out of the door and her line of vision.
-
He and Arthur slope down to the pub a little later than Merlin had told everyone else, partly because of some lingering memory of Morgana and the phrase 'fashionably late', but also because Arthur had had something of a tantrum involving his favourite red jacket and the baked beans Merlin had heated up for their dinner.
"I can't wear this! There is--orange all along the bottom of the sleeve!"
"Honestly, Arthur, it's fine."
"This is clearly all your fault. If we had eaten pasta like I had suggested, this would never have happened."
"It doesn't matter--it's dark out there, it'll be dark in the pub and you'll take it off when we get inside anyway!" Merlin had said, before forcibly ejecting Arthur out of his flat.
When they finally reach the pub, however, he realises that this could turn into the fiasco of the century. Far from arriving inconspicuously and inserting Arthur into the group as casually as a thief picks a pocket, the cast all turn to look at them and Merlin feels confronted and intrusive. He can only guess what Arthur is feeling, although Arthur is the good sort that can take a little uncomfortable staring and is smiling broadly and charmingly.
Not at the others, though. Merlin can only meet Arthur's eye for a moment before the confusing jumble of guilt and something else in his stomach makes him look away. Instead, he pulls out a chair for Arthur, next to Morgana, makes a show of it, bowing deeply.
"Hey, guys," he says, sitting down and ignoring the somewhat mutinous glances thrown his way. ”Sorry we’re late. Arthur had a jacket-related crisis."
"Do not shift the blame to me," replies Arthur in his most imperious tone. "When we leave, you will experience a far larger crisis when you realise you have locked your keys inside your flat."
That makes everybody laugh as Merlin pats down all his pockets and realises that, yes, he has indeed locked himself out of his flat. The laughter seems to unhinge the awkwardness in the atmosphere and Gwen--bless her, may she never change--smiles and starts up a conversation about the G20 which draws everybody, even Arthur, into a lively debate on the world economy.
Merlin takes the oppurtunity to go and get himself and Arthur a drink, feeling pleased with himself. When he returns and sets Arthur's pint in front of him, Arthur breaks off his animated discussion with Morgana and smiles at him, that really nice little one that makes his insides feel like shaken lemonade. It's so distracting that Merlin nearly fumbles his own glass and narrowly avoids dumping it into Will's lap, who is looking unhappy enough already.
"--a pointless exercise. They will just continue to make promises they can't possibly keep. Nothing good will come of this," argues Arthur.
"Your apathy is astounding," Morgana replies, swirling a glass of wine in a fashion that says she feels this argument should have been won minutes ago. By her. "If any good is to happen, how do you suppose it will occur? By politicians hiding in their respective countries, not communicating?"
"Certainly not by holding a conference which tears up London's streets with protesters that will never be listened to."
Morgana purses her lips and Merlin thinks she may finally have met her match. She and Arthur glare at each other before grinning good-naturedly and Merlin breathes an inward sigh of relief. Morgana is the biggest hurdle in any sense and if Arthur's got her stamp of approval, he can get anyone's.
Except Will, maybe. He's still looking sulkily between Arthur and Merlin, but it's a well established fact that once Will decides to be in a bad mood, it's very difficult to shake him from it, so Merlin resigns himself to at least an evening, if not an entire week, of enduring scathing looks and sullen silences.
Merlin watches Arthur all evening, he hopes unobtrusively. His plan has gone better than could possibly have been expected, Will's truculence notwithstanding. Still, something doesn't sit right, so Merlin tries drowning the feeling but, eight beers later, it just seems to harden and settle in his stomach, hollow and sickening.
He only figures out what it is after they finally crowd out of the pub and, as they part ways, Arthur slings an arm around his shoulder and says,
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Home?" replies Merlin, bewildered.
"This is that key-related crisis I was referring to earlier," says Arthur. "Come on, you'll never get your landlord out at this time of night. You can crash at mine."
Arthur keeps an arm around him all the way there and Merlin feels that hollow feeling in his belly flip-flop in a manner completely dissimilar to the usual wobbly feelings experienced after too much to drink.
"You alright?" Arthur asks, when he's got Merlin propped up on his sofa with a pillow, a blanket and a bucket. "You've gone all unusual. Remember to aim for the bucket."
"No, it's not that," says Merlin, even though it is, a bit, really. "I'll be fine."
"You better be," says Arthur, ruffling his hair. "Honestly, Merlin, you aren't half strange. Whatever possessed you to drink that much? We've got a dress rehearsal tomorrow, you plonker."
"I know. It's just--" Merlin says and thinks about saying, I might love you, but manages not to. Just.
"Yeah, I know," says Arthur, unaware. "No rest for the wicked."
Merlin expects to spend the night awake, tossing and turning, unable to sleep because of these feelings bottled up inside and Arthur sleeping just feet away, but it seems that falling in love with Arthur can't be that surprising after all, because he drifts off into blissful dreamless sleep and is heartily sick in the morning. Arthur makes him a sandwich with crispy, streaky bacon just the way he likes it, and Merlin wonders how he ever thought this could be a bad idea.
-
"Lysander," says Arthur, dressed in Demetrius' clothes, looking tall and noble. "Keep thy Hermia. I will none. If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guestwise sojourned and now to Helen is it home returned, there to remain."
Merlin turns to Gwen in entreatment, cries desperately, "Helen, it is not so."
"Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes," says Arthur, as Morgana sweeps out from backstage, but Merlin has to force himself to look at her instead of at Arthur, whose hair has been caught in a halo of light and the sight is rapidly erasing the script from Merlin's head. "Yonder is thy love."
Morgana settles into a lengthy passionate speech and Merlin can't stop his gaze from sliding surreptitiously back to Arthur, jolting back to reality only at Morgana's prompting, "But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?"
There's a palpable second of hesitation before the line tumbles out of him, "Why should he stay whom love dost press to go?"
The rest of the day is similarly shambolic. Merlin's having trouble remembering who he's supposed to be in love with, Hermia, Helena or Arthur; Uther and Gaius keep exchanging worried looks; and Morgana keeps glancing at him all through the Mechanicals' performance like she can read the situation right off Merlin's forehead.
He's very relieved when rehearsal ends and he can look forward to watching the Eurovision with Arthur and something microwavable.
"Arthur," he says, slinging his bag over a shoulder. "You coming?"
"Er," says Arthur. "Actually, I'm busy tonight. I meant to tell you earlier--Morgana and I are going out to dinner to get to know each other."
"Oh. Well--that's okay. I didn't--"
"I forgot--I'm sorry," says Arthur, suddenly looking guilty. "We went to the same drama school," he says, like that'll make things better.
"No, that's okay," Merlin says again. "Really, Arthur. Don't worry about it."
But Arthur looks like he may spend his evening with Morgana worrying about it in that closed off way of his, and no matter how many times Merlin tells himself the exact same thing, he still winds up sitting on his sofa in his pyjamas, feeling lonely and eating such a large quantity of ice-cream it is conceivably possible that he will die of over-excess.
Or European Poisoning, if there is such a thing. Bosnia and Herzegovina's entry makes him want to choke himself with his ice-cream spoon. And since when is Azerbaijan in Europe?
He's still trying to decide who he wants to win (definitely not Norway) when there's a knock at the door. It's Will, carrying a pizza box and four pints of milk.
"Hi."
"Hi," replies Merlin. "You want to come in?"
"No, Merlin, I want to stand on your doorstep all night," says Will. "Of course I want to come in. And what are you wearing?"
Merlin checks. It's a purple chlamydia awareness t-shirt. "Informative pyjamas? One in ten young people between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five have it, you know. And why have you brought milk?"
"You always forget to buy milk," says Will, with a long-suffering look as he puts it in the fridge.
Merlin doesn't contest this and flops back on the sofa. Will settles next to him, gives the screen and Merlin a commiserating glance, and then says, "Since when is Azerbaijan in Europe?"
"I know," says Merlin, and starts on the pizza.
-
They're indifferently watching the scoring when Will finally gets around to saying, "Surprised you're not watching this with Arthur."
"Nah," says Merlin, trying to keep things cool. "This isn't really his kind of thing."
(A blatant lie. Arthur would secretly love this whilst simultaneously taking the mick out of it. Would probably be a closet Norway supporter, too)
Will just grins bitterly. "You know, Merlin, I really don't get it."
"Huh?" says Merlin, trying to direct the conversation anywhere else less serious. "Er-- Oh my god, look, we're fifth on the leaderboard!"
"Merlin," says Will. "I'm trying to say something. Can you listen to me?"
Merlin really doesn't want to. This conversation should not be taking place without being considerably lubricated with alcohol. Maybe not even then.
"Look," says Will. "I get it. You and Arthur are, like, bum chums. Whatever. But don't you ever think it's a bit sudden?"
Merlin just blinks because it appears that Will is channelling Gwen, who has said exactly that about every single one of Merlin's past relationships.
"I mean," Will carries on. "--God, what am I saying? This is probably all my fault."
"What? Don't be--"
"--Jealous?" finishes Will. "Well, tough luck, Merlin. 'Cause I am jealous. I don't know if this is you, reacting to what we did before, or whether you're trying to spite me, or--"
"Will!" cries Merlin, shocked. "How can you even think that? You're my friend--why would I do something like that?"
"You tell me! All I know is that you've been ignoring me and throwing yourself at Arthur, and-- And--I really love you, Merlin," Will says, earnest and desperate. "And sometimes I think you can't even see that."
"Will, of course I can--"
"No, Merlin, I don't want to hear it," Will sighs, suddenly looking worn out. "I don't even know why I came over tonight."
Merlin stops him from getting up with a hand on his chest and a kiss on his mouth.
There's a moment where Will begins to pull away, but Merlin tries harder, gets a hand in his hair and holds on, and feels a sense of immense satisfaction when Will sags against him. It's easy, kissing Will, which surprises Merlin. He'd always held off this in the past because he'd been afraid it would be weird, like kissing a brother, but it's not. Will is warm and comforting and smells slightly of curry and cigar smoke.
He must have eaten at that funny Indian down the road, Merlin thinks, sliding a hand into Will's jeans. The one that does them onion bhajiis that Arthur loves--
Will pulls away. "No," he says.
"What?"
"No," he repeats, and Merlin can see that it takes an effort to say it again. "I don't want to do this."
Merlin tries not to sound too smug. "I think you do."
"No, Merlin. I don't. And you don't either."
"Of course I do," says Merlin, leaning to kiss him again. "Why else would I--"
"I don't know. I don't care. I just--don't want to do this. Not now."
"Will? What's this about? I'm here," Merlin says. "For you."
"No," Will says again and he looks so tired. "You don't get it. I don't want to do this with you when I know you'll only be thinking of Arthur."
Merlin stops, filled with guilt because Will's dead right. He's sitting on his sofa with the Eurovision on, his hand down Will's trousers, having just thought of Arthur and his stupid deep-fried vegetable preferences.
"Oh," he says, not even trying to deny it. He removes his hand and Will goes to leave. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Will sighs, pausing in the doorway. "I've got a little more self-respect than that."
He leaves and Merlin feels even worse than he did before, when he only felt bad because Arthur had blown him off for Morgana. On the television, a perky Russian presenter informs him Norway has won the Eurovision.
-
"You all right, Merlin?" says Arthur, the next day, waving a BLT sandwich in front of his nose. "Hello? Earth to Merlin?"
"Hmm?" replies Merlin absently. "Oh. Yeah. I'm fine."
"I don't think so," says Arthur, before looking uncharacteristically shrewd and drawing close to murmur, "Look, is this about that thing last night with Morgana? I told you, we were just getting to know each other. It wasn't a date or anything. We're just friends."
Merlin makes a non-committal noise.
"Seriously," says Arthur earnestly. "Just friends. Trust you to be the protective kind, Merlin. You don't need to worry. She's really not my type."
Merlin makes another non-committal noise and reaches for the sandwich, but Arthur pulls it out of his reach and raises an eyebrow.
"I'm going to ask you again. Are you-- Are we all right?"
Merlin wallows in his pit of despair for another token moment, before smiling. "Yeah, we're all right."
"Good." Arthur hands him the sandwich. "And to make it up to you for blowing you off yesterday, we should do something tonight. You know, just the two of us."
"I dunno. Might be too late. The Eurovision was yesterday, after all."
"I can't believe I missed it. Saw the highlights on the news though. Norway was awesome."
"I'll make dinner," Merlin says, deciding to skate over Arthur's unnatural magnetism to terrible euro pop. "After rehearsal, we'll go down the market and splash out."
Arthur's smile is broad and sunny. "Exciting. Remember, Merlin, food poisoning is forbidden before the show."
"I'll have you know I am fluent in exactly four dishes," replies Merlin, indignant. "My mother taught me them, and she is an excellent cook."
"I'm not sure cheese on toast counts as a dish, Merlin."
Merlin throws his crusts at him. A little bit of tomato hits Arthur's cheek and he wipes it off, laughing.
Arthur smiles at him all rehearsal and Merlin can't help smiling back.
-
Arthur sits and watches him make dinner, something his mother taught him that involves crabmeat, breadcrumbs and a lot of butter. Arthur looks sceptical, but that's only because he has a natural aversion to things that don't come with either teriyaki or brown sauce.
"It's not natural," he says, as Merlin piles his creation onto two slices of toast. "You shouldn't have fish on toast. Toast is for cheese. And beans!"
"You cannot subsist on beans and cheese. And crab is not a fish. Now eat that and there'll be chocolate mousse for pudding."
At the mention of pudding (even one whose sell-by-date Merlin is a little dubious of), Arthur attacks his meal with gusto. It's a bit funny, eating his mum's food on the floor in front of his sofa, watching How Clean Is Your House? with a faintly guilty air. Their knees keep knocking together and Merlin glances at Arthur, trying to gauge a reaction, but Arthur gets the wrong idea and scrubs a hand across his mouth.
"What, I haven't got chocolate on my face, do I?"
"No," says Merlin truthfully, because Arthur only ever gets food on his face when eating spaghetti.
"Oh," says Arthur, who looks a little disappointed, before perking up. "You do, though."
Merlin says, "What, where?" and they do that funny little pointing-at-your-face dance before Arthur laughs and gives up.
"Come here," he says, and scrubs a thumb over Merlin's cheekbone. Merlin's thinking something along the lines of, "How did I get chocolate there?" when he realises the scrubbing has become a little more lingering.
"Arthur?"
There's a very blatant glance down at his lips before Arthur says, "Yes?"
"Is there actually chocolate on my face or was it all just a clever ploy to compare flavours of lip balm?"
"You can talk! You, all smooth criminal. This was such a date, Merlin, don't go denying it."
"I did not intend--"
"You cooked crab."
"On toast!"
"Whatever," says Arthur. "You invited me to dinner and then kept eye-flirting with me across the studio. Definitely a date." A pause. "And I do not wear lip balm."
Merlin laughs embarrassingly loud at that, is seized by an inexplicable fit of nerves, and chokes halfway through.
"Merlin?" says Arthur.
It takes too long for Merlin to get up the balls to look him in the eye again and they stare at each other for too short a time before Arthur looks away. Merlin has this horrible, trembling feeling that he may have just ruined everything, thinks fuck it, tries to kiss him anyway and they sort of meet in the middle.
There's a moment where it doesn't look like it's going to work. There seem to be too many noses and knees and not enough hands. Merlin loses his balance a bit, puts a hand out to steady himself, and ends up in a plate of leftover crab.
"Takeaway," mutters Arthur. "Only takeaway from now on."
Merlin retaliates by groping Arthur's arse and smearing it all over his jeans.
So Arthur takes them off. And everything else.
Merlin scrambles to do the same, "Just so's we're in the same boat," he says.
Arthur tumbles them both onto the sofa, wearing nothing but a wide and wicked grin.
-
Merlin wakes up alone the next morning and the bed is freezing, partly because the boiler's on the blink but mostly because Arthur's not in it.
He drags himself out of bed, even though it's his day off, because the idea of addressing Arthur in his head as a love-them-then-leave-them sort of guy without the ingestion of caffeine is too much to handle for a Sunday morning.
He's given up looking for his dressing gown--bloody thing is never around when it's wanted--and is just scuffing down the hall to the kitchen when he bumps into Arthur, who's carrying two cups of something steaming and wearing something very familiar.
"'Lo," says Merlin, dumbfounded.
"Did I wake you?" says Arthur. "You were meant to stay in bed--I was just getting you some coffee."
Merlin's heart falters with affection and he can't do anything but grab him by the belt of his mauve dressing gown and kiss him. Arthur seems a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm, stumbles, spills one mug and drops the other. It smashes on the floor, Arthur gives a shout of pain and suddenly there's blood everywhere.
"Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--"
"Oaf," grunts Arthur, gingerly moving away from the remains of the mug.
Merlin runs to the kitchen and finds a clean tea towel, ties a scarf around Arthur's ankle to stop the bleeding--
"Ow! That's too tight, Merlin."
"That's the point, prat."
--and gets him to lie down with his foot above his head long enough to call Morgana. She seems quite angry at being woken up before midday on her day off, but once he's explained the situation to her, she complies as well as can be expected.
"Cut his foot open?" she says incredulously. "What on earth were you doing?"
"Er," says Merlin.
"Never mind-- I don't want to know," she says. "You two were probably juggling knives or something equally hilarious. Gwen says to put pressure on it and keep it elevated. Try not to let him bleed out--I'll be over in twenty minutes."
She arrives in thirteen without her face on and, uncharitably, does not help him support Arthur down the stairs. They bundle him into the back of her aged Corsa with his foot propped up between the front seats where Merlin can press his entire bodyweight onto the bloodstained tea towel.
"Honestly, Merlin, he's not going to die," scoffs Morgana, tuning the radio to Capital.
At the first bars of 'Sex on Fire' Arthur groans, "I might now. Please put on something good."
"Morgana," relays Merlin. "The invalid wants Abba."
She refuses, "On mere principle." Arthur sulks for the better part of the next hour and doesn't cheer up until after his foot's been anaesthetised.
While the nurse does the stitches (nine), Merlin sits outside the cubicle, because the idea of Arthur cutting his foot open is suddenly horrifyingly squeamish, and has a quiet guilty breakdown.
Morgana comes back from her fag break a few minutes later, looks at him without sympathy, disappears into the cubicle, declares loudly, "God, Arthur, that is repulsive!", reappears again and sits down next to Merlin.
"I hate hospitals," she says. "And I hate having to smoke in those little booths outside in the carpark. Makes me feel like a fucking pariah."
Merlin watches her warily. He doesn't think he's had the pleasure of a sleep-deprived Morgana before and, by all accounts, it's something to be avoided.
"Sorry," she says after a moment. "Just pissed off. Probably that time of the month or something."
He makes a noncommittal noise. Forget that time of the month--with Morgana, it's more like that time of day.
"So. You going to tell me what you were really doing?"
Merlin splutters for a moment, but she doesn't seem to notice anything and continues,
"You know, this morning. Why Arthur cut his foot open. " She smiles at him indulgently. "I know you wouldn't be stupid enough to actually juggle knives. At least, not when you're not on a bender."
"Thanks," he says. "It's nice to know you have some faith in me."
"Well? What were you doing? It's either tell me, or read last year's Good Housekeeping."
"I dropped a mug," says Merlin, then cringes as he corrects, "I made him drop a mug. It broke and one of the pieces cut him."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. There was coffee everywhere."
"Merlin," she says, waving last year's Good Housekeeping in a threatening manner. "You utter clot."
"I know, I know. I should come with flashing hazard lights for the good of everyone around me."
"It’s not just that," she says. "Arthur had better be able to walk after this, or Uther will have a fit. He's not meant to get so angry these days, you know what his blood pressure's like, and the play can't go under. We've been saved once--it won't happen again."
"He'll be all right," replies Merlin, sounding more confident than he feels. "Arthur, I mean. Especially if you insult his manliness. Then he'll just suck it up. Might not even limp."
Arthur, to his credit, does not limp on the trip back to the car, but that's probably more to do with the painkillers. Morgana drops them off at Arthur's flat and Merlin puts Dirty Dancing on the telly and tells Arthur that he is forbidden to move from the sofa.
(not much persuasion is needed)
After a cursory glance in the fridge, Merlin is reminded of why Arthur tries to eat at other people's houses as often as possible. The only occupants of the fridge are some goat's cheese, half a pint of milk and a solitary sausage. Arthur, it seems, has not retained even the most basic of hunter-gatherer skills.
"I'm just popping down the shops," he says, nicking Arthur's coat. "Don't accidentally kill yourself or anything."
Arthur is engrossed in Patrick Swayze and does not answer.
-
Tesco Express is packed, it being a Sunday, with harassed career-orientated mothers and unwashed teenagers. Merlin fights his way towards the fruit, but gives up and settles for microwavable rice. Arthur's fridge lacks even the most basic of necessities, so he manages to snag half a dozen eggs before a tall lady in a burkha steps aside, like a curtain being pulled back, and from behind her emerges Will.
"Merlin," says Will.
"Will," says Merlin.
"Fancy seeing you here."
"Yeah. Weird."
"Small world."
There's an awkward silence and then an even more awkward shuffling when they're elbowed aside by a Widow Twanky look-alike.
"So," says Merlin. His breath mists this close to the chilled aisle and he pulls his jacket more firmly around himself. Will goes very still.
"That's Arthur's jacket, isn't it?"
"Er, yeah?" It's Arthur's favourite jacket and it looks terrible on Merlin, but it smells comfortingly of aftershave and Ariel washing powder.
"You slept with him," says Will, a little too loudly. Most of the other occupants of the aisle turn to look and Merlin wishes the ground would swallow him up.
It comes out before he's quite got his head around the words. "No, I didn't."
There's a pause, then Will says, "Don't lie to me, Merlin."
"I wasn't--"
"Yes, you were! You keep doing it and, every time you do, you get this look on your face. It's plain as day--you're a crap liar."
The spectators are beginning to shuffle away and Merlin is so choked by shame that he can't think of anything to say.
"You never used to lie," Will continues. "You used to be the most truthful person I know. Then this Arthur bloke swans up, catches you, hook, line and sinker--"
"Don't talk about him like that!"
"Don't get all righteous and protective on me, Merlin. I'm not the one who just flat-out denied sleeping with the guy I supposedly care about."
Merlin's stomach drops into his shoes. Will looks grimly triumphant and disappears into the crowd, leaving uncomfortable silence.
He's only dimly aware of putting down his basket, and then he's standing at the bus stop, staring at the timetables. There's a moment where things could go either way, when he could easily brush all this off and ignore it, but then the wrong bus for that decision pulls up and Merlin doesn't think he can see Arthur again today.
He can't find his oyster card--must have left it at Arthur's--and has to pay for the bus. With money. He hasn't done that in so long that, when he finally realises cash is needed, he nearly slaps his two-pound coin against the card reader. He crawls into the seat with the least legroom, sits with his knees curled uncomfortably, his hands stuffed in Arthur's pockets and feels wretched.
-
The next week is paralysing in its discomfort. Arthur spends most of the first day in this anxious state of confusion, that would be adorable if only it didn't set a millstone in Merlin's throat, but by the second, he finally takes his cue from Merlin's averted eyes and guilty evasions and puts on a stony face. It makes him look funereal or tormented, intermittently.
At least Merlin knows his lines finally by heart, because he's trying so desperately to concentrate on anything but Arthur.
-
Gwen corners him, softly-softly, on Thursday and quietly demands to know what happened.
"No, it doesn't matter, Gwen--"
"It matters to me."
Merlin feels immediately guilty. "It doesn't have to. It's not important."
"It's important to you, so it's important to me."
"Gwen, I--"
"Why are you being so evasive? You can tell me anything, you know that."
"That's not the point--" Merlin starts to say, but he spies Arthur over her shoulder. He's not coming over, not even looking their way, but Merlin is seized by the urge to scarper, just in case he does.
"Merlin!"
"Okay, okay!" he finally caves. "I slept with him, all right?"
Gwen looks stunned, then joyful. "That's wonderful!"
"No, it's really not."
"What? Why not?"
"It just isn't, okay?"
"Merlin--"
"Look, I can't even begin to describe how not-okay it is."
"You're being stupid," she says, and the forcefulness of her tone takes him aback. "There's nothing wrong with you and Arthur. He's nice, you're lovely, you get on like a house on fire--"
"That's just--" Merlin tries to interrupt, but she just carries on over him.
"--and if you 'can't even begin to describe' why you two shouldn't be together, then I have difficulty believing you have a valid reason at all."
Gwen glares at him and Merlin can't think of a thing to say. After a moment, she purses her lips, says,
"I thought so,"
and leaves him alone in the studio, feeling like he's been sent to sit on the naughty step.
-
It's opening night before anyone, especially Merlin, is at all ready. The lighting isn't finalised, one of the fairies still can’t pronounce 'Titania' properly and Uther is a wrathful, tyrannical, nervous wreck.
Merlin spends most of the first half of their last dress rehearsal in a sort of miasma because he found Arthur's jacket that morning, half hidden behind his sofa, and he has to give it back, but it's still in his bag because he hasn't managed to muster up the balls yet.
The balls in question only arrive five minutes before the performance starts for real, when the theatre is nearly filled with people, Gaius is muttering the opening lines under his breath and Merlin is so stricken with nerves that even confronting Arthur seems easier than going out there.
"Here," says Merlin, holding the jacket out at arm's length. "I took it, accidentally. Thought I should give it back."
Arthur looks at the jacket, then at him. "Merlin--"
"Just--Take it, Arthur," he says, shaking it slightly. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to nick it. Just take it, and then I'll go."
"I don’t want you to go," says Arthur, not making any sort of move for the jacket.
"What--"
"I'm not taking it. I want to talk to you."
"Arthur--"
"What's wrong with you?" says Arthur, softly. "I don't understand."
"I don't either, really."
There's a pause, and then Arthur says, "Why are we doing this? Did-- Did I do something? Is that what's wrong?"
"No! No, that's not it at all."
"Well, then why aren't we talking? Because I thought--" Arthur looks down at his boots. "Doesn't matter what I thought."
"I liked you," Merlin blurts out, then goes the whole hog. "Still do, actually. A lot. More than a lot."
Arthur opens his mouth and Merlin can tell he's going to say something big, something important, but a runner bursts in and calls them to the stage. Merlin has to stand next to Morgana in the wings, totally silent, and pray that Arthur holds that thought.
-
The entire cast watch from the wings as Will speaks the final lines and, when the curtains close, Merlin is deafened by the applause. The cast assemble on the stage and he stands between Morgana and Arthur, only dimly aware that he has a ridiculously large grin on his face. The curtains open again and he bows jerkily, dumbstruck with relief and exhilaration. He makes the mistake of glancing at Arthur as the curtains close and, suddenly, can't look anywhere else. Arthur's grinning right back, toothy and beautiful, and it takes a colossal effort to hug him instead of kiss.
"I'm sorry," Merlin murmurs. "I'm sorry, I've been a complete tit and--"
"I'm sorry too," says Arthur. "It's okay."
"Is it?" says Merlin.
"Of course it is," says Arthur, looking him in the eye. "Of course it's okay, I love you."
"Really?" says Merlin.
"Really," says Arthur, and kisses him.
Merlin thinks it should be surprising, Arthur loving him, but it's not. Not really. More like something slotting into it's rightful place. He slides a hand into Arthur's hair and nearly forgets to say it back, but when he pulls away to say things that Arthur probably already knows, he realises everyone is looking at them.
"Er, hi."
"Hi," says Morgana, sarcastically. She's looking amused, Will's looking stormy and Uther looks like he'd like to never see such a spectacle ever again. "Sorted yourselves out, then?"
"Yep," says Arthur.
"Probably not coming out for post-opening drinks, then?"
"Nope," says Arthur.
Merlin grins and ignores the rolling eyes, grabbing their things and leaving without changing out of costume. Outside the stage door, he pulls Arthur close and says,
"I love you too, you know."
"I did guess," smirks Arthur.
Merlin has to drag him home quick before he loses his mind and jumps Arthur in the middle of the street.
-
Lance calls the next morning at the crack of fucking dawn to ask how the play went. He protests time zone differences, which Merlin thinks is bollocks. He tells Lance this in short, rude words.
"Good lord, you are not a morning person," says Lance.
"You are depriving me of morning sex," replies Merlin. Arthur has left the bed to go make coffee, which is a deplorable substitute. "I'm entitled to be grumpy."
"Oh, yeah? Since when?"
"Since just recently. Your replacement is far superior."
Arthur reappears on cue and puts the coffee down and his tongue on Merlin's neck.
"Mm, yes. Much more fun."
"Thanks, Merlin, that's nice to know," says Lance and Merlin can almost hear him roll his eyes. "It went well, then?"
"I'm not telling you that!"
"The play, Merlin."
"Oh. Yeah, it went great. Couldn't have been better. What about you? You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm great," says Lance. "I've landed a role in this American sci-fi drama. My character's really cool--get this--I get to paint the future..."
