I Was Here

Suddenly, an arm clamped hard around his ribs, pressing him against something solid, moving and warm. A body. Merlin clutched at someone’s forearms as though they were his last chance of survival, not noticing his nails scratching the skin.

The arm around him hauled him upwards, and another pair of hands seized him beneath the arms and dragged him out of the water. To Merlin’s horror, the arm he had been holding on to remained behind.

As soon as he felt the solid poolside beneath him, he scrambled backwards, his wet jeans sliding over the tiles, until he collided painfully with the back of a seat in the stands.

Gwaine—it was Gwaine beside him—helped him to his feet and into a seat. Someone draped a towel around his shoulders.

Everyone around him was saying something. Asking him things, shouting things. But Merlin wanted to know where Arthur was.

Arthur was in the water, looking at him with his arms braced against the side of the pool. Soaked, worried, and saying something too. Merlin could not hear him, but he could not tear his eyes away. Just behind Arthur, drifting slowly past and gradually sinking beneath the surface, was a notebook. His sketchbook, with all the drawings for his assessment.

– No. I’m sorry if I made you think that. It’s not you. You’re wonderful.

– Then what is it?

– Nothing. I just want you to fit in.

– Arthur. (sighs) We both know I’m not likely to fit in. Ever. I only agreed because it matters to you, and because I’m curious. It’s like stepping into a TV series. Or a game.

– Damn it, could you be serious for once? This isn’t a bloody game.

– Oh. Are you that tense? (puts his arms round his shoulders) What’s really going on?

– Nothing.

– Arthur? (looks into his eyes)

– It’s me. All right? (pulls away) I’m the black sheep of the family.

– What rubbish is that?

– No. That’s what they all think. Do you understand? All of them.

– Why would they?

– Because not only did I fail to carry on the family business and marry some heiress from an old family with a dowry and connections, I went to work for... the other side, and I very obviously make no secret of my preferences. On top of that, I choose friends and partners who are completely unsuitable from my father’s point of view. I am the greatest disappointment of his life.

– Arthur…

– In his eyes, I’m a failed project. An asset he invested a hell of a lot in, only for it to turn out loss-making.

– Arthur.

– The prodigal son my father tolerates to preserve the image of a family man.

– Arthur! Stop it! Stop tearing yourself to shreds. You don’t actually think that about yourself, do you?

– ...No, but... everyone there does. Everyone, from my father down to some random guest invited at the last minute as a replacement.

– Well, sod them. Who cares what they think? Would you rather be living the life they planned out for you instead of the one you have? Do you regret your choices?

– No. I’d rather work as a pro bono lawyer for some NGO than defend those tycoons from justice, cover up their shady dealings, and tell them how to get away with it.

– Exactly. You’re a man of honour. You’re the man who drags villains into the light and pins them down. You’re not some conformist corporate rat. You’re a noble hero.

– Yes. Of course I am.

– I’m serious. To me, you’re like a knight.

– Stop mocking me.

– I’m not. Who saved my deposit from the claws of a greedy landlord? Who helped me avoid a burst appendix? And rescued my favourite cap from the merciless talons of a flock of pigeons? Who found the perfect Christmas present for my grumpy old uncle, so that, for the first time in history, he shut up and didn’t ruin everyone’s holiday with his complaining? Who gets up at an ungodly hour every morning to run his ten kilometres? Even in rain and snow! That’s worthy of a heroic ballad.

– Yes, an enviable list…

– Shove the sarcasm. That’s what it is to me! Not to mention my mum, who clearly thinks you’re the better version of a son!

– I know that in your eyes I probably look pathetic…

– Did you hear a single thing I just said? You are not pathetic! You’re strong, and you’re worthy of respect and love.

– I know I should have grown up ages ago and stopped looking for my father’s approval. But I don’t... I don’t always manage it.

– God, Arthur. Relationships with parents are hardly smooth sailing for anyone. Besides, I think you’re making it all sound much worse than it is, and it won’t be that dreadful. But if it does become unbearable, just say the word and we’ll leave straight away.

– We can’t. It’s a public event. There’s protocol. If you intend to leave early, you have to give notice in advance.

– Now that is proper bollocks, in my opinion. We’ve got the perfect excuse. I’m an outsider in this whole set-up. I can look all innocent and say I didn’t know the rules.

– And make me look like an irresponsible idiot who couldn’t even be bothered to warn you.

– Fine, I’ll think of something anyway. Do you know why you take a mage into your party in video games?

– Merlin…

– No, seriously, answer me. What do you think they’re for?

– (rubs the bridge of his nose) To fight other mages? Lift curses?

– Yes, but none of that matters. A mage’s job is to cover the party’s retreat. And I am a first-rate mage and a man of my word. If I’ve promised to get you out, then I will. I’ll come up with something: set off the fire alarm, get some poor sod drunk, pretend I’m having an appendicitis attack…

– You don’t have an appendix any more. (smirks)

– They don’t know that! Anyway, I think you need to reframe it and look at this event not as a boring society evening, but as a quest: you are my knight, I am your mage. Mission objective: survive and return unharmed.

– And not scandalise me any more than I already am.

– Well... we’ll see how it goes. But if we do have to make a run for it, I’m fairly sure “badly tied tie” won’t be the headline.

– God, Merls…

– Gwen, I can’t pretend I didn’t see it, I can’t stop thinking about what it means.

– It doesn’t take a genius. He’s going to propose to you.

– What if he isn’t? Isn’t it too soon? Have we been together long enough to be bound in holy matrimony?

– Well, it clearly isn’t too soon for him, since he bought a ring. Which means he’s preparing to take that step.

– Yes, but he hasn’t taken it. What if it isn’t for me at all?

– Of course. He’s going to run away and secretly marry his mistress, which is why he’s been keeping the ring among his socks at home…

– What if it isn’t an engagement ring at all? What if it’s a present… for his sister, for instance?

– Have you got a photo?

– Sec… sent.

– Got it… No. That is definitely not for women. It’s beautiful, but too wide and sort of… plain. And the stone isn’t in the middle.

– There are lots of stones.

– I mean, if someone gave me that, I’d accept it, obviously, but I’d only wear it out of respect.

– Stop criticising it, it’s very beautiful. Have you noticed these tiny dark stones making a sort of background, and the larger sparkly ones like little stars?

– Oh, I thought the dark strip was the metal.

– No. Oh, they go all the way round the band.

– Then that is a hell of a lot of stones.

– That’s why I think it’s too fancy for an engagement ring. And the size is sort of… too small.

– Did you take it out of the box?

– Yes.

– Merlin, you’re crossing a line now. Put it back in, shut the box, and tuck it back exactly where you found it.

– These pale stones…

– Diamonds.

– Probably. But they’re arranged so carefully, as if it isn’t random. As if it really is bound up with the stars somehow…

– Stop it, put it back.

– It’s some constellation. Maybe it isn’t Arthur’s ring at all. Maybe one of his friends asked him to hold on to it, or even… Oh. Shit. No! No, no, no. GWEN!

– Merlin, don’t tell me you’ve put it on and now you can’t get it off.

– Yes. It won’t come off.

– Stop panicking, take a deep breath, relax your fingers.

– They’re not relaxing. They’ve gone stiff as sticks!

– Try soap.

– (sound of running water)… No. Gwen, the stupid soap isn’t helping!

– Congratulations.

– On what? On the fact that I’ll be single by tonight if I don’t get this bloody ring off? Arthur will be home in twenty minutes. He’ll kill me.

– On the fact that in half an hour you’ll either be engaged, or you’ll be seeing your best friend. Gwaine’s on shift today, isn’t he?

– Can I come down to you and hide, and then we can go to Gwaine together? We’ll pretend you felt ill and I’m helping?

– No, Merls, I’m in the office today. I’ll be here for another couple of hours. So you’ll have to face the fate you’re bound for.

– Gwen!

– I have to run, love. Message me later and tell me how it all ended.

***

Half an hour later, a WhatsApp message arrived.

– Are you interested? A fraudster. It’s a financial scam. There’s a paper trail a mile long, but I think I’ve already...

– Damn it, I don’t care about your fraudster. God, Arthur. I’m asking who you’re seeing.

– What makes you...

(Arthur’s smartphone receives a message. He is instantly distracted, reads it, smiles, types a reply, reads the next message, smiles, blushes a little, types another reply.)

– Ahem. Am I interrupting?

– No, of course not. (Catches himself, sets the phone aside, face down) Sorry… That was… work.

– Right. (Stares him down) On Sunday lunchtime.

– So, what? I had to answer. You said yourself you weren’t interested in hearing about the scam.

– Who is he?

– What?

– Seriously, Arthur? Are you going to keep digging yourself into this hole, or are you going to come clean at last?

– I don’t know what you’re talking about.

– Yes, you do. I haven’t seen you for almost two months. You’ve mysteriously gone to ground. (folds down a finger)

– I was busy with the renovation.

– And when I finally persuaded you to come to the exhibition, after threatening to turn up at yours and personally drag you out of your bolt-hole, you spent the whole time with your head in the clouds, staring blankly at sculptures made of plastic bottle caps and answering questions from somewhere very far away. (folds down another finger)

– I’ve already told you that...

– Suppose I could still believe you were terribly busy with your new case and indifferent to contemporary art. Then, perhaps. But now. You can barely keep up a conversation. (A third finger goes down)

– What are you imp...

– You can’t tear yourself away from your phone, like a teenager. (Another finger) And to top it all off: you blushed.

– I did not.

– So who are you seeing?

– (Sighs) Fine. Yes. There is someone. But it’s nothing serious yet. Really.

Oh, honey, you’re besotted.

– What’s his name?

– That’s not important right now. We’ve only just started. I’m not even sure anything will come of it.

– What’s wrong with his name, Arthur?

– Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s a name. It suits him.

– Arthur. You’re digging again.

– Fine. His name is Merlin.

Good Lord.

– Are you joking?

– No.

That is priceless. Arthur and Merlin. God, Elena will howl. Everyone will howl. I cannot wait to see Father’s face.

– Sorry, but that is very funny.

– Yes, absolutely hilarious. I’m not telling you anything else.

– What is your sentence, my king? – Geoffrey’s solemn, faintly obsequious voice drew him from his thoughts, forcing him back into reality. Back into the throne room, held still and anxious in expectation of the king’s word. Back to the bloodthirsty crowd of knights and courtiers surrounding him. People brimming with anticipation of swift punishment, trembling with hatred and revulsion, accustomed to turning both against anyone even suspected of possessing a magical gift.

Arthur drew a breath, but found the strength to meet the unflinching gaze of those familiar, ice-blue eyes — eyes which, as all Camelot now knew, could blaze with a gold fire that set souls astir.

Merlin stood straight and steady, his arms folded across his chest. Broad shoulders proudly squared, black hair carelessly swept back from his face. Too familiar, too powerful, too frightening for anyone to dare try to force him to his knees.

— Because we’ve been chatting regularly for nearly three weeks, and if you wanted to stop—if you didn’t want this—you’d have done it ages ago. — Maybe I’m still undecided. What if I’m not sure what I want? — Well, the way you’ve been staring at my lips for the last five minutes suggests you know exactly what you want right now. (stopping short right in front of Merlin) — Does it? (slightly leaning forward) — And for the record—I want the same. There’s just one problem…

— You passed out on the bathmat twice, actually, but I carried you back to the sofa. And then I woke up to you trying to pull my trousers off—already in our bed. — No!

— Yes. — You’re joking. You have to be. — … — No, you’re just trying to shame me. Fine, I’ve been warned that if I have one drink too many, the flirt in me wakes up—chatty, bold, and far too confident. But I refuse to believe I could’ve tried it on with you and not remember any of it. That’s— That’s too much. We didn’t…? — No. And anyway, that wasn’t what you were after. You had a different goal. — What? No—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

— Honestly, you can be persistent. Such devotion to the mission—half unconscious and still refusing to accept reality to the bitter end. Why didn’t you become a spy, Merlin? You’d have made a decent career of it. — … — Or are you an undercover agent? Living a double life as an ordinary IT nerd… It would explain a lot, actually. Boasting about your “alcohol tolerance” while you’re legless. Getting awfully familiar with strangers, going after compromising material on innocent people… Very secret-agent behaviour. — What are you on about? Compromising material? — Well, to my mind, naked photos of me are perfectly usable as blackmail material. — Oh God. — Though it’d be rather difficult to take them with a soap dish. And you nicked it without me noticing, too. But your spy instincts failed you there… Unless you’re a sleeper agent. Practising now and then so you don’t lose your edge, in case you have to “wake up” at short notice? — Stop taking the piss! I already feel awful. And my head is killing me. Could you bring me some more water, please? — Why don’t you ask your new boyfriend? — Who? — Tyler. You and he seemed to get quite friendly last night. — … — Fancy that. It took me two months of flirting, courting, and three dates to finally get you out of your clothes—and along comes this bloke and you give yours away after one meeting. Must be some stallion.

— (hides his face under the duvet) Did I come home completely naked? — Not completely. There were still a few bits left on you. — (muttering into the duvet) No. That’s it. I don’t want to know anything else. — (smirking) About yourself, or about Tyler? Or about you and Tyler?

— (throws the duvet back, tries to get out of bed—fails the first time, and the second) …I don’t know who Tyler is, or what “relationship” I’m supposed to have with him, but I’m fairly sure that under the circumstances he’d have been a sweet, caring fiancé—not a sarcastic, jealous arse—and he’d have brought his future husband some water. — Look down. There’s a bottle on the floor right by the bed.

(greedy gulps)

— Arthur? Did you put me in pyjamas? (he stretches out again and tucks himself under the duvet) — You woke me up, told me you were cold and you missed me, and you didn’t want to sleep on your own tonight… Though who knows, maybe you meant Tyler. Maybe you just mistook me for him. (an awkward attempt at a kick under the duvet) — Arthur, it’s still dark. It must be early. (shifting closer) — It’s noon. I just haven’t put the curtains up yet. I was waiting for you to wake up. — (raises his brows, presses his lips together to hide a smile) Still. It was a rough night. Can we stay in bed a bit more? — (lets out an exaggeratedly weary sigh) Fine. But first you’re brushing your teeth and taking a shower. I’m utterly fed up with the smell of booze and vomit.

The prince tried not to look his way: he studied the stone vaulting above, stared at the toes of his boots, followed the dance of the flames. Yet for some unfathomable reason his gaze kept returning to Merlin—catching, sticking, falling into a trap.

Water dripped from his overgrown dark hair onto his high forehead, curved around his finely cut cheekbones, and ran lower.

A droplet paused on the sharp edge of the clean outline of smooth, pink lips, until, with impertinent ease, it slid into the heat of his mouth.

And the next one—rather than dropping down, unable to cling to his chin—brazenly, purposefully, began to creep along the slender line of his throat, leaving a glistening trail behind it, leading somewhere beneath the drenched neckerchief, under the edge of his shirt’s worn collar.

— Right. Sober Irishman—let’s get you to the sofa. Where’s your jacket? — I had a jacket? — You did when you left. How did you manage to get this plastered? — I hardly drank. Where’s the belt on these stupid trousers of yours? — They’re joggers. Here—sit. Let’s get a cushion behind your back. Who got you this smashed—Gwaine? — No, we were just playing those stupid games, you know… where everyone drinks if they’ve also done… the thing someone said. — Not at the parties I go to. People drink politely and pretend they’re not doing it.

— Because they’re boring. Why didn’t you send me a photo of your dick when I asked? — You didn’t ask. Stop yanking the drawstrings on my trousers. — I did ask. I sent you a camera and an eggplant. Where are you going? — Kitchen. You sent me a shamrock and a bottle. I assumed you were propping up the bar in an Irish pub.

— Well, yeah… but still, we were playing that game where you have to do something stupid or admit something about yourself… and I didn’t want to do stupid things. — Sure. You’re clearly the picture of restraint. Here—drink this. — (drinking) It tastes horrible. I’m Irish. I’m used to stronger stuff. — It’s water. I’m fairly sure even the Irish drink water. Stop kicking, I’m trying to get your shoes off.

(…clothes rustle; a shoe thuds; a plastic bottle rolls across the floor)

— Why are you taking my trousers off? I’m supposed to be taking yours off. I need to photograph your penis. — Why? — They asked what I liked about you… I wanted to say you’re smart and hot, and you’ve got those… what d’you call them… muscles. You’ve got so many. They’re just… everywhere. Where did you even get that many from? — (smirking) Sport. Genetics. Healthy eating. You should drink some more. — Don’t want any more of this tasteless rubbish. I want you to take your trousers off. — Until you’ve slept it off and come back to your senses, you can only dream about me without trousers.

— I don’t want to sleep. I need a photo. You’re supposed to tell the truth, you know—that’s the whole point of the game, you can’t lie. I couldn’t just shamelessly lie to my mates over a drink, looking them in the eye… So I told them I like your big dick. It’s so pretty… and big. — (smirking) Don’t kick off the blanket. You’ll freeze in your sleep if you don’t stay covered properly. — I wanted to show them how big it is. And I haven’t got a single photo! Not one! At all! — …

— So I showed them with my hands. And Gwaine started arguing that dicks aren’t actually that big—went full bore with his science blah-blah-blah, total bore. But I know how big yours is… and pretty. So now I need… proof. — You want to send your friends a photo of my dick?

— Yeah. I’m not some chatty gobshite... — Stop wriggling about, you’ll get tangled in your sleeves. — It’s honestly ridiculous if you think about it. How long have we even been together? — Nearly a year and a half. — Exactly—ages! We’re getting married and all. Yeah? — That was the plan. — And I haven’t got a single dick pic from you! Not one dick pic from my boyfriend—no—my fiancé! What the hell, Arthur? — Want me to fetch a basin or a bucket? I’ll bring both—you’re clearly not going to make it to the bathroom on your own tonight. — No, answer me! Why the hell, Arthur? Why have you never, in all these million years, sent me one photo of your lovely dick? Don’t you love me?

— You idiot. Of course I love you—even when you’re drunk. — I’m not drunk. (yawns) — Here’s another bottle of water. Don’t spill it if you reach for it in the night. I’ll put a plastic cup on the coffee table as well—just in case you need a drink. If you can’t manage the bottle cap. — Arthur! Where are my du—dee—dick pics? I mean—where are your dick pics for me? — For God’s sake, Merlin. I grew up with a gorgeous older sister—that’s enough to know that only desperate idiots or complete creeps send photos like that. My father’s a peer of the realm. I’m a public figure. I don’t send pictures of my dick left, right and centre!

— But I’m not left, right and… whatever. I’m your husb—well, almost husband. I’m allowed. I’ve already signed everything… the dinosaurs and tennis balls and whatever. I can sign more things. Let it be my wedding present. Please. Please. Plea— (yawns) — We’ll talk about it in the morning, when you’ve sobered up. — (yawning, sinking into the pillow) Then I’ll have to send the lads a photo of Tyler’s penis. His is big too, just not like yours, obviously. — Who the hell is Tyler?

— Arthur? Can I borrow your jacket? — Why? — Mine’s too short, it doesn’t cover me properly. I’ll freeze. — Why do you need my jacket? Just zip the bag up and sleep. — I’m not sleeping in a bag that a disgusting frog climbed into. What if it’s sick? — You’re the one who’s sick. Here—cover up and shut up. Why did you even come on this hike if you’re this squeamish and skittish?

…(croaking outside; Merlin wriggles on his sleeping bag)

— Arthur? — …(an irritated huff) — Arthur, are you asleep? — Trying to be. You should try it too. — I can’t. — What is it this time? — The frog is croaking. — And? — I can’t fall asleep. — And you decided I shouldn’t either? Wrap yourself up tighter, count sheep, and sleep.

— Your jacket’s thinner than mine. I’m cold. And the frog is annoying. — Put your hat on. — I don’t have one. — You did earlier. — Must’ve lost it somewhere. — Are you planning on keeping me awake all night? — …

— There’s a knife in the front pocket of my rucksack. Get it out and hand it to me. — Arthur, why do you need a knife? I’m sure you can just scare the frog off, it’ll hop away. Croaking isn’t a crime. — I’m not going to kill the frog, you idiot. — Then why are you cutting open your sleeping bag? — We’ve got two options: you go and sleep outside, or we share. Your sleeping bag is too narrow for me—I won’t fit. But if we use mine, we can lie down together and tuck the edges in, one on each side. Come on, lie down next to me—what are you staring at? Give me your jacket, I’ll put it between us. There. Now we’ll shove our feet into your bag, and use my jacket over the top. That’s it. Warm. Now sleep. I’m turning the flashlight off.

— Okay. — Merlin! — What? — Stop staring at me in the dark. Turn over and don’t breathe in my face. — I thought that would make it less awkward… Do you want to be the big spoon? — We are not spooning, you idiot! Just turn over! — Why not just say that, then? Why call me names? — Why go on a bloody hike if you’re scared of frogs and can’t sleep in a tent?

— I’ve never been hiking before, you arse—how was I supposed to know I wouldn’t like it? — Next time my sis offers you something, just say “no”. — If I’d refused, you still wouldn’t have slept. Sophia would’ve crawled into your tent, wouldn’t she. — Probably, and I’d have spent the night with a pretty girl, instead of sharing my sleeping bag and jacket with a scrawny little wretch who’s afraid of harmless amphibians. — … — And Merlin—if you tell anyone about how we slept tonight, I’ll kill you. Is that clear? — Crystal.