#beautiful fool

Six weeks. Ruth had known she was pregnant for six weeks. Both James and Ruth knew very well who the biological father was but neither of them was willing to contact him. This child, or parasite as Ruth considered it, would stay between them.

"Of course I will, Ruth," James said, "We can work out any paperwork right now." Ruth sighed relief and smiled grimly.

"I know you're only doing this because it'll make you look good," she was right, "but know that once this thing is born I'm done. We'll go back to how things were and you'll never see me again." Ever so blunt of a woman but who could blame her? James knew he had wronged her in the past and if taking care of the baby she didn't want would help, he was willing to do it. Of course, he expected to gain something out of it, Ruth knew that very well, but it wasn't her business what he planned to achieve.

"As long as you're not killing it." Ruth scoffed.

"Of course you'd bring that up," James prepared to hear a lecture from his sister on bodily autonomy and how health will always triumph over religion but the lecture never came. She sighed, interlaced her fingers together, propped her arms on the table, and rested her head against her fists. "The thought never crossed my mind, James, no matter how much I don't want this I've never thought about ending it." James was slightly shocked by how much Ruth was revealing to him. Before their relationship turned sour, she had always been a dam. All her opinions came out slowly and with control, her feelings were kept safely behind her walls, but dams do crack over time. An unplanned pregnancy seemed to be hers.

Merlin, on the porch of his new-to-him, two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, drank in the character of his little abode through a lens of intentional whimsy. It had windchimes nailed to the wood frame of the awning, bits of Cola bottles and seaglass turned in the lake and hung up with cord. The step into the living room and kitchen area was high and gnarled, and in his rounds about, Merlin had tripped on it no less than three times; his bedroom, the aforementioned second room of the two-room-with-a-bathroom-and-a-patio house, was a splotched lavender color, unevenly applied rose wallpaper fading and peeling away at cracks in the corners of the walls. His favorite part of the bedroom was probably the curtains, orange and visible, with their thick plumes of dust and heavy shadow. They were hideous. They were his.

Between his house and his neighbor's stood a dock leading out to a pier, at the end of which was a signalling bell. It was here that Merlin’s attention was drawn when with a peal of joy, the bell, chimed with the wind, his permanent glass fixtures tinkling with it and all the leaves sounding applause through the boughs of the canopy. A chill cut through him, and Merlin retreated inside to weather the surely impending storm. Awaiting him was a house of his own, just as cramped as his mother’s and far less comfortable, made sweeter and more welcoming by the name on the lease.

Merlin was a third of the way through chipping the grime from his stovetop when the first cracks of thunder rent the air. He jolted in surprise, butter knife clattering to the tile, and, shakily, took up his task again. The sound of pouring rain had deafened him to all other stimuli, and the sense of exposure rattled his bones. With the panes trembling in their frames and shutters fluttering, clamoring against the sides of the house along with the waving branches and pelting rain, wind whistling through the waterspout with the gush of overflow, he felt swallowed inside a void. The house was empty, save for himself. A new always, he supposed, being safe, unscathed, while simultaneously so utterly immersed in what his mother lovingly referred to as trouble. It filled him to the brim with the kind of excitement that makes boys leap from cliff faces to the sea, the kind of adrenaline that demands to know whether or not he could make the jump. The chaos scraped at his safehouse as the wall of his own skin, itching. It called to him like a siren song and, oddly, his heart ached. Merlin had longed to be alone, but the magic had followed him anyway.

Forlorn, he closed again the beaten shudders.

--Merlin opened them again.

There, in the earth driveway leading up to his neighbor's abode, was a car, the likes of which Merlin had only ever seen on magazine covers in stores. Yellow, canary yellow like rain slickers, yellow like bananas and technicolor and his mother's good dress stared back at him, obscured by black mud and torrents of water coursing along the body of metal. Outside the vehicle was a man of equally astounding quality, although less from the fact that he was soaked through to his designer shoes with water-dark hair in his eyes, and more so that he stood outside apparently his car, mixing himself in what was about to be ankle-deep mud. The moment Merlin had registered that the man was trying to push it out of its rut to no avail happened to be the same moment that the man had given up, throwing up his hands and kicking at the white-faced wheels with petulant abandon. The car wasn't hooded, rather open, actually, and the man looked away, paced, fumed as it rapidly took up water. Much longer in the road, which was flooding quickly, and the vehicle may not be operable at all.

Merlin, despite his brain telling him quite avidly that this would somehow change the course of his day, if not his life, in a way that would render him devoid of control, took it upon himself to don his raincoat, nevermind the boots, there was little time, and help the remarkable stranger.

When Merlin dashed out his front door, the look of surprise and relief he expected left much to be desired. Instead, he saw bewilderment and agitation, characteristic of a man who has had a very, very long morning. The man was shouting at him. Merlin was shouting back, but both voices were carried away in the storm, leading to a mutual agreement to shut up and push the car. He was struck with regret at his choice in priorities; his raincoat did him little good, as the exertion and laboured movement lead to water penetrating and eventually inundating his upper half, while he suspected galoshes would have done him much good indeed, in place of the cold mud oozing beneath his heels and riding up his socks. In several short pushes of combined effort, plus one big push, the buggy was out of the worst of the puddle, and arguably fit to go again. Still too loud to speak much, Merlin offered a thumbs up, and the man blinked at him, surprised again, although it may have been to chase away water clinging to his lashes still blindingly. Merlin gave that close-lipped, polite smile that offered immediate exit to limited acquaintances to urge him forward and out, but when the strange man, a drowned cat in a suit, continued to look at him as though transfixed, Merlin decided to make an executive decision on part of the universe.

He turned, and went inside.

The man watched him go, Merlin could feel it like the prickle of lightning in the sky, but he dared not look back, not even out his ugly curtains until he was certain his guest was gone. When he opened the shudder for the third time that rainy first day, it was to a flooded, murky street made to a mud pond in front of his house, and a long trail of tire tracks he could trace like a piece of string to the gates of the beautiful Pendragon House.

-

The first of the letters arrived the following morning. Merlin had only barely begun updating his address, most of his mail sure to be forwarded by his mother in the coming months, but this first letter, addressed to him, was from someone he was vaguely surprised but not astounded to hear from. Arthur Pendragon, his landlord. He could assume it was just like the last few he had received, informative snippets about his tenancy or more fluffy introduction to the place he was so privileged to live in, and so he paid it little mind. Merlin set it aside. The man with the yellow car crossed his mind once or twice, but only in passing. He hoped he had made it wherever he was going without much more trouble, even if it was his own fault for leaving such a valuable possession vulnerable to the elements like that.

He spent the day cleaning and tidying, much as he had the day before. The sunny sky and renewing smell of rain set him in a mood of rebirth, of new beginnings, and everything in his cozy fixer-upper was an opportunity to make something lovelier than before. He had a day or two yet for his holiday before he would have to call into work, and until then, he intended use his time wisely.

The wallpaper was the first thing to go.

With the night came the smell of drying paint and the sound of cars passing his house one after another, the chatter of excitement and the glare of filtered, colored light. Merlin would have shut it out if he could, but to close the window would be to suffocate in paint fumes, his beauty rest be damned. He wanted a good night's sleep, not a hangover. In the earlier hours of the evening, he had thought this would be an eight to ten kind of affair. Then the music started, a whole brass band, it sounded like, and he knew he was in for something interminable.

Merlin rolled around his cluttered living room, everything from the bedroom shoved into it whilst his paint aired out. He perched on his loveseat, did a lazy summersault out of his pillowfort, baked cookies to warm the house, even put on his own record as though to spite Pendragon House for its inconsiderate racket. The latter was to no avail, and he turned it off after a few minutes; the clash of melody was giving him a headache. He checked his watch- almost three in the morning. He was agitated enough to round up; at most, he had dozed a little under two hours between nine and now, fifteen minute increments interrupted by raucous laughter and what he assumed to be drunkards skinny dipping in the lake. He wished he didn’t know, but again, his windows were all wide open, and if anything killed him, it would be curiosity, followed swiftly by this miserable Arthur Pendragon.

Just then, Merlin remembered the letter he had received this morning. Was it a notice? He could find it in himself to be less put off if he had been warned- at least then it would be his own fault. Eyes shot, he fumbled with the heavy envelope until the seal popped- who wax-sealed their letters? -and squinted to make sense of the elaborate script.

Hereby invited...party...courtesy of Arthur Pendragon…

That was about all he got out of it, and all he really needed to read. Merlin tossed it aside with a huff and, exhausted, covered his ears with  throw pillows.

-

The letters kept coming. The parties kept happening. The house was coming together.

Merlin had painted the outside a soft blue and rigorously cleaned the white trim, although he left the knobbed stair and wind chime as they were. The living room and bedroom were a brisk white, the curtains had been washed- Merlin didn't have the heart to throw them out -and he had livened up the space with a new dining table, a novelty painting of a farmhouse, and a little potted plant. The teakettle was operable, and life was good.

Still, the invitations came. Invitations to day trips into the city, rendezvous on the yacht, tours of the estate, and at the end of each was a reminder of the inevitable nightly house party.

Merlin had received seven now, and other trinkets had started to accompany them in little red boxes. A birdhouse. A teacozy. A brass watch, at least he hoped it was brass. All in all, it was unsettling, but Merlin had managed to put it out of his mind. It was thoughtful, and probably born of guilt, although, if Arthur knew he was a terrible neighbor, Merlin wished he would just start being a good one instead of perpetuating this compensation nonsense. It was the ninth night, and the eighth letter that finally convinced him. It had come in a box that was shaped frighteningly like a necklace from Tiffany’s, or some other such bizarre place, and Merlin had opened it with pallor and trepidation. The letter was on top, he could only guess its contents, but beneath that, in the box itself, was a simple, soft, blue...scarf. There was no price tag, no note, for when he did open the envelope, it was only his name in that elegant script he had come to be so familiar with. Somehow, that was enough.

Merlin made yet another executive decision.

He would attend one of these parties, only one, and put an end to this strange outreach of companionship. He was willing to make passing friends, would allow teatime some afternoon or another, but this gift business would stop, and by the stars and stripes, they would be on a mutual last name basis. No more of this dear Merlin business, no signed Arthur. It would be Mr. Emrys, Mr. Pendragon, chatter about the water pressure, the Sox game, and no more.

-

Merlin was unfit to be there. He didn't only feel that way, but was, surrounded by people he saw glimpses of in movie pictures and heard on the radio, talking about their careers and mixing brandy in their sequined dresses and tight suits. Even amongst those closer to his own economic class, college students wasted out of their minds, he didn't feel at ease. There was no theme, no center, no purpose to their frivolity- only music, loud and frenzied, and glittering champagne, dancers, fireworks above the tower raining stars into the lake. Whoever he spoke to told him something different; Mr. Pendragon was a prince, an actor, a war hero, a famous doctor, a mob boss. Not once did he hear Arthur. No one seemed to know him, or where he was, if he even lived in the house bearing his name, if he intended for there to be a shindig tonight. Apparently, the gates opened and people came, from everywhere, and no one was ever turned away.

No one was ever invited.

That put a knot in his stomach like nothing else, and he kept a white-knuckle grip on his little box of unsolicited gifts. He would find Arthur, if he could, and return them, explain himself if there was air left in the atmosphere. He would apologize. He would leave. The stars fallen into the lake would stay there, extinguished, and Merlin would soundproof his bedroom. The next letter he got, he would pack his things. The overwhelming sense of impending change, so much like doom, made his heart beat heavy and his teeth ache.

He had meandered for two hours, and like Persephone in the underworld, dared not partake. Unlike her, he could leave whenever he pleased, even if it didn't feel like it just then. The pull of destiny made him stay put, and with every passing moment, he was tempted to throw caution to the wind and join the fray.

Four hours in. Midnight. Merlin felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, the band meeting crescendo to the coo of a love song and the stars bright overhead, a moment of stillness and light, he stared, caught in the blue eyes of Apollo himself. He wished he had had something to drink. Heart fluttering in his chest, he half listened to the man welcoming him with a smile, leading him by the shoulder to somewhere more private where they could talk, and yes, he did have a lot on his mind, and indeed, the decorations were splendid. The click of a door brought him to his senses.

“What’ve you got there?”

They were in a study lined with chestnut bookshelves, each full of old, decorative books and ships trapped in bottles. The man who Merlin recognized as Mud Man With the Yellow Car had seated him on a plush lounge, black leather that squeaked faintly when he moved and smelled particular, but good. Its arms were too wide for his comfort, and he felt small. The man, much neater than when Merlin had last seen him, placed a cold glass in his hand.

“Just water,” he assured amiably.

Mindlessly, Merlin broke his vow and sipped.

Arthur Pendragon was a tall, broad man, who knew his way around a suit. In private now, he had shucked his coat to a hanger and loosed his ascot, red, to leave it hanging about his neck. He had never seen a man in suspenders any color but black or brown before, but for the sake of fashion, Merlin compelled himself to understand one's need for scarlet, if only to pair with a white suit. A white suit that looked fantastic, mind.

His host was watching him bemused, as if he knew what Merlin was here for. Merlin certainly didn't. He swallowed.

“Is that for me?” Arthur probed again. All eyes went to the repurposed gift box in Merlin’s hands, suddenly thrust into Arthur’s, who took it with mild surprise. Opening it, the look of someone enjoying a marvelous and delightful game was lost to one crestfallen. In the box, was a birdhouse, a teacozy, and a brass watch. Arthur closed the box. Had he continued to paw through it, he would have found the stack of letters, each written in this very study. Merlin, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment, was relieved that he had stopped there.

“Would you like a drink? I'd like a drink,” Arthur hummed, and he was gone again, opening wine.

“So you're not a gift person,” he said cheerily. A new glass found its way into Merlin’s hand. “Or a, how do you say, luxury adventure person,” he was starting to feel guilty, “or a party person--”

“You don't even know me,” Merlin heard himself say. The half empty wine glass he didn't remember drinking set itself on the table. Everything about this night was shiny and ethereal, his whole body abuzz with newness and golden warmth. He didn't know he had passed four hours wandering this house, drunk on art and a myriad of mismatched strangers, didn't realize he had spent almost half an hour drinking with the mysterious Arthur Pendragon in his private study, didn't know how he had gotten to the point where he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't understand who on earth had put them there, but here he was, and, “You don't know a thing about me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and stared into his glass, the box far from forgotten on the coffee table. “I know you like the color blue,” he said quietly. “I know you like to watch birds. I know you like to work with your hands when you could call someone instead.”

Merlin, at once feeling too big for his skin and yet very small under the pressure of Arthur’s attention, watched him carefully. He watched his body language, stiff even in as casual a position as he was, legs crossed and leaning. He watched his lips, red from the worry of teeth and wine, round themselves about his words, saw his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

“I know you don't mind helping strangers,” Arthur was saying. Merlin’s mouth was dry and his water was gone. Arthur was watching him now, too. His eyes were blue, bluer than anything, his jaw was sharp, his shave was close and he could smell his cologne and Arthur was saying, softly, “I know your name,” and then, “Merlin,” and then.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“We know each other plenty well,” returned the easy smile. The moment was gone just like that, leaving him breathless, as though he'd been kissed. Arthur hadn't kissed him, though. He hadn't touched him aside from the occasional brush of fingers exchanging a glass, hadn't tried to breach the distance. He was still talking. Merlin wondered how his a smile didn't reach his blue, blue eyes. “But you've avoided me quite avidly, I would say. I was starting to get ideas when-”

“--When?”

“Beg your pardon?” Arthur flushed red, not expecting the question. He was used to Merlin’s silence, had no way of knowing how unusual it really was. Perhaps he had rehearsed parts of this conversation. Regardless, he disliked being thrown off guard.

“Ideas. I've been here a week, when could you have possibly found time to get ideas?”

Arthur was incredulous.

“You'd be surprised to find I do have a brain, you know,” he seemed about to continue, but Merlin glowered. Arthur began again.  “...Ideas about you?”

“The Queen,” Merlin answered dryly.

“Victoria or Elizabeth?”

“Mary.”

Arthur winced, and poured more wine.

“You pushed my car,” he murmured. “No one asked you, there was no proposed reward, you just came out in your loafers and helped me.”

Merlin thought back to that night, the sniffles he'd had the remainder of the evening, the mud he had to mop up the following day. “I help people who need it,” he corrected. “The ‘who’ makes no difference to me.”

Arthur toasted him halfheartedly. “‘Sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?” His host glanced back to the box of rejected gifts, rejected friendship, and again, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. The distant sound of the party made its way to them, a bass beat that had always been there but had still managed to be forgotten. The clock read two.

Merlin took a drink.

“What do you want from me?” His glass clinked against the wood of the table.

“Are you flattered?” He frowned in confusion. Arthur repeated himself, clearer and more distinctly. “Are you flattered, Merlin?”

“I…”

Merlin didn't know. Why was he here, he thought, what brought him into this situation? Why had he set out tonight, bent to break his promise to his mother? Why did he insist on following that drag of purpose clutching his heart, leading him into danger such as this?

“...I am.”

There was a breath, Arthur waiting for a ‘but’ that didn't come. Again, Merlin was caught in the gaze of an Adonis.

“Would you come back?” Arthur’s tone was low, wistful, concealing. His look didn't waver, daring Merlin to lie, staring into his heart or perhaps just enjoying what he saw- both concepts he couldn't understand. “If I let you go tonight, home,” he sighed, every word sounded like a sigh now and the world was a void, “would you come back?”

The implication that his landlord might not permit him to leave should have been disturbing. Much of this should have been, in fact, he ought to have reported it or left or something--

“Yes.”

What.

“Yes?” Arthur smiled.

What are you doing?

More than smile, he beamed. He tried to hide it but couldn't, the relief overwhelming his composure and Merlin was damned if he saw anyone more beautiful than Arthur Pendragon was in that moment.

“...That's all I wanted,” he said simply.

Merlin was damned.

He knew then that if he took even the smallest amount of momentum towards Arthur, he would do something they would both regret. He would lose a potential friend, although an odd one, of his an admittedly lousy, endearing neighbor. He could always say he had been drunk, which he was, a little- he wasn't -and bank on Arthur being the same- sober, that is -and maybe, maybe then he could get away with it. Dangerous thought, danger, danger--

“Will you stay tonight?”

His heart leapt to his throat to choke him, treacherous thing.

“...Until the party is over?”

The clock read two fifteen, Merlin unabashedly eyeing those red, red lips.

He made an executive decision.

It was rare Merlin was compelled by guilt, but when he was, he liked to think he was quick to humble himself and apologize. How true that was, he couldn't say. He was stubborn and proud and he knew it, hated to say sorry, hated to be wrong. However, when the lights went up and the music blared and Merlin looked out his window to see fireworks illuminate the face of the lake, every night, he could see in a high room a man doing the same. Sometimes, he even fancied that the man was looking at him, sharing something quiet in all the noise, but he knew better. The stars would die on the water and Merlin would close his curtains, bitter, and more alone than ever.

Work was tedious, but gave him something to think about. He had always been good at arithmetic, always found comfort in the consistency accounting offered. If something was wrong, it was wrong. If it was right, then the numbers remained as such; everything was plain and visible and there was nowhere to hide. How ironic, then, that he cowered in his cottage instead of answering that nagging at the back of his head. How hypocritical, then, for his eyes to skip avidly over the little red box with its silky blue scarf, the only present he'd been too intrigued by to return and too paranoid to wear. Its use would be final, somehow. Made to go about his neck, like a collar, a mark of conquering, the scarf would stay in its box. In it or out of it, however, it felt to Merlin a profound loss; and so he ignored it.

He was getting worse and worse at that as time dragged forward. It was less that things piled up for him to overlook, and more so that what he had already pledged to bury persisted to press him exponentially. The gift box on his coffee table seemed to enlarge, take up all the air in the front room, and then only amplified when he moved it to a shelf, to a drawer, to another box in the closet. It never really went away. Out of sight, out of mind was a myth.

The day he decided to finally do something about it was a dismal one indeed. The sky was overcast, partly cloudy, and there was a storm on the lake. The city was bustling on the opposing shore, unbothered, more than a week since he had made his promise. More than a week- it had been more than two. In fact, Merlin let that boxed scarf nag at him for a month before he finally gave in to that churning upset in the pit of his stomach, and if he thought inaction made him queasy, then this was suicide. He rewrote the note six times before he typed it out. He signed it, after, to make it a touch more personal, but the awkwardness of the situation dangled over him more precarious than Damocles' sword. The threat of rejection weighed on him just as distressing.

Mr. Pendragon. Arthur Pendragon. Dear Mr. Pendragon. A. Pendragon. Dear Arthur. Arthur,

I regret I'm very busy. My thoughts have been scattered as of late As of late, I feel If I've offended you in some way I know I was wrong meant no ill will.

You are welcome to join me for tea tomorrow afternoon post three o'clock.

Merlin Emrys

Merlin signed it, dated it, and put it in the post. He knew it was awkward, and poorly constructed, and in worse taste, but looking at it more would make him sick.

There was no party that night.

Merlin listened as cars drove in, circled, then turned away from the closed gate. Their headlights spotted through his windows, light striping his walls. The only noise beyond his frantic heart was of rolling gravel under rubber and the occasional curse of a disappointed visitor. For the first time in a long while, he would sleep with no music. The nerves that had wracked him all day, mounting, in fact, all month, reached a peak when one of dozens of cars came and went, leaving his driveway dark again and his little house and that gargantuan palace alone together on their island, leaving Merlin and Arthur Pendragon alone, again, on their island. The walls seemed to suffocate him. This was wrong, tonight was wrong, everything had been off for so long and this, this quiet--

The door closed behind him with finality, and Merlin breathed in the chilled air of the night. His arms folded about himself, he cast off the thought that bade him fetch a coat- the air was good, enlivening. The moon was bright unlike its counterpart hours earlier. All the day was unprofitable; all clouds and no rain. All worry and no result.

Merlin stood on the edge of his rickety porch, uneven boards creaking softly, and overlooked the tire-haggard path with its moon-brushed pebbles, past the silvery grasses and gilded, swaying trees to the dock. It was the only kind of fence between he and his mysterious neighbor, the only barrier that served at a meeting point more than all else, and this thought possessed his feet with frightening poignancy. A man sat on the pier. Merlin could make out his fair hair in the starlight, shoulders hunched under the weight of the sky as Arthur swung his feet idly over the water. It had to be him. There was no one else.

Merlin stopped his anxious feet halfway there, just on the opposite side of the driveway. He dare not go further, not after all the energy he had put forth today in requesting an audience- an audience, as though Pendragon were some kind of king, or prince -but that tugging pronounced itself at the base of his neck, so much like a noose.

That's all I wanted.

Merlin chided himself to breathe; stop being silly.

You're all I want.

The truth of the matter was that he had neglected to phone his poor mother and had instead fantasized for a month about what may have happened if he had stayed on the night that magic entered his life. He had been beside himself, behaving like a lovesick teenager and more notably, a prat, and he was sorry and not accustomed to saying so, and now the object of his affection (?), fascination, perhaps even purpose, was before him on this most quiet, singular of nights, just waiting. Waiting for him, maybe, Merlin would like to think so, but he had always been a little self-important, and the heart of it he couldn't guess. All Merlin really knew was that he had been waiting for Arthur, and hoping for the chance to choose differently than he had when this kind of opportunity had first arrived.

He stepped onto the pier.

His limbs had been lead as he'd crossed the grass, and every second, he had been agonizingly aware of. He could turn back any moment, probably should, this could wait for tomorrow, he was being precocious, but then the boards creaked with his weight and Arthur jumped to see him and time had a funny way of stopping for them. It did so now, or it should have. At first, Arthur seemed dumbstruck with surprise. Then, his expression leveled into careful indifference, a neutral smile that still managed to be charming.

"Evening, Merlin," and that was all wrong, there was no fondness in it, "Scared me a moment there."

"--Sorry."

Arthur was stretching from how quickly he had leapt to his feet, his trousers rolled up to his knees and wet from the calves down. Merlin didn't see any shoes on the dry land. He was avoiding his face, shoulders tense, waiting for him to leave, and that dread that had plagued Merlin day in and day out solidified into heavy hurt.

"Not a problem," Arthur was saying, but Merlin was shaking his head. The blonde paused, a hand on his hip. Incredulous, he asked, "What? Are we playing charades now?"

Merlin shoved his hands down to keep them from rolling over themselves, trying to express the words he couldn't think to. Arthur smiled. He felt a little bit better.

"I wanted to apologize-"

"Then apologize."

Merlin pursed his lips, a spark of agitation souring his mouth. Arthur lead with his hand as if to say, I'm waiting, and all semblance of sorry vanished from his mind.

"A real life Prince Charming," he hummed.

Arthur shrugged. "I tried being nice."

"When?"

The sorry returned.

Merlin put up his hands in surrender and Arthur quirked an eyebrow. He wondered why it felt like this was a fight they'd had a hundred times before, a roller-coaster of feeling he'd experienced a million times over in some other life.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm not good at this."

It seemed as if his lovely neighbor was about to snark something along the lines of clearly, but thought better of it. Merlin was immensely grateful. He continued.

"I apologize for my...rash behavior last we met. All of this is very new to me and I'm not," Merlin winced at himself. He was beginning to feel sick, "versed in these affairs, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings--"

Arthur’s demeanor had changed from one of petulance to patience, albeit reluctant. He was nodding, worrying his lip, and the air was burning in his lungs as he waited for Arthur’s reply. Merlin chided himself, again, to breathe.

"No, I understand." His heart dropped. Oh. "You're not," Arthur cleared his throat, concealing a blush, "--The other night, you thought I- that I was, uh...dropping pins. Letting my hair down, you know, that," Oh. "I was a nance? That I made a...you know, a pass."

He smiled; it was brittle and Merlin was going to faint. The air crackled between them, stretched thin and screaming.

Arthur went on.

"A misunderstanding, that's all it was, I- ...A miscommunication. I made you uncomfortable, I can understand that."

Merlin was pale. He wasn't listening anymore.

"It wasn't,"

Don't say it.

"Intended,"

Will you stay tonight? Will you stay? Will you? That's all I-

"To be taken in the, um," he chuckled nervously, avoided his eyes, mussed his fair hair and smiled that pained smile again. "I'm sorry, Merlin, it, uh, makes sense why you'd- well, you know."

A miscommunication.

"I don't."

It sounded wrong now, too, but for different reasons. His tone was warm if not shaky, rose lips formed the curve, Merlin, with fondness, but it was rejection, it was apology, what, what was happening--

"What?" Arthur was frowning at him, taken off guard.

Merlin shifted his weight to a more defensive stance, less open, less vulnerable, less danger. "...I don't know. You said it made sense why I would, 'you know', and I…" he swallowed. "Don't."

Arthur blanched. "--Why you'd avoid me, I mean- you thought I had- that I was-"

He was trapped in a nightmare. All of this had been some strange perception of his own, some gooey, fantastical lens he'd conjured. He felt so incredibly stupid. Stupid, stupid-

"...We can be friends now. --Now that that's cleared up, and I won't do it again, we'll humor one another."

Merlin furrowed his brow. Arthur sounded hopeful, was looking at him with bright eyes as he babbled.

"This confusion kept you away, but now you'll come back, like you said." He couldn't piece together why Arthur would push like this, probe so desperately for a friend. He was wealthy and charming and handsome, had plenty of admirers. Nevertheless, he was worse than a puppy at table. "Right?"

Beyond himself and his floundering self-respect, Merlin found himself nodding.

"...Right," he murmured. "I'd like nothing more," and that was a lie.

Arthur smiled that smile, the one that could end wars, and Merlin reminded himself that he was damned. Fall for a normal man, someone not like him, that was the worst possible thing he could think to do. He had thought this time was different, had thought he'd heard destiny knocking, but he was wrong. He was wrong.

I won't do it again, he had said.

Arthur would never kiss him.

Merlin was reminded that he didn't have to, that he was lost to the ether, that his heartstrings were wound tight about Arthur’s little finger and that he was hopeless to the red box, a space he shared with the closet for what would certainly, now, be forever.

He seemed so happy that Merlin could almost forget his heartbreak. The ghost of his touches a month ago came to haunt him. What had they meant, if not attraction? What were those shared moments, if not ones of intrigue? What was he curing if not loneliness, not longing?

Merlin was more confused than ever.

"Then- goodnight," Arthur grinned, grabbing him by the shoulder in a cordial manner, brotherly. He found himself smiling warily, Arthur’s earlier words echoing in his brain with venom. He was so caught up that he didn't notice the ache behind Arthur’s eyes, but instead picked up the spring in his step as he wandered toward his mansion, free as a bird. Merlin stood on the pier, feeling vacant. Whatever anxious, merry creature had flitted about possessing him these past weeks had taken leave for the time being, and he didn't know what was happening in his mind. A profound emptiness, he supposed mutely. It was a sensation that should have been profound, at least, should have been distressing and life-altering as he had fancied Arthur Pendragon would be, but instead it was lackluster, and quiet, and sad. His companion disappeared down the road, into the trees, and was gone.

This confusion kept you away.

Merlin, his mind clearer than it had been in a long time, took the red box in hand and unceremoniously threw it out.

But now you'll come back.

In the morning, he phoned mother.

You'll come back, like you said.

-

Merlin had all but forgotten the note. Dramatically, he had slept in, and dramatically, he had stared at the ceiling for hours afterward and mapped the constellations in the pocked plaster. Mindlessly, he'd eventually roused himself, mechanically, he had dressed. The toast was dry and the tea, weak, and sometime around ten, he determined he would be angry instead of sad. He could use this to motivate himself. He could make this positive. He had been foolish to spiral into such an idolic crush, especially with so little knowledge of the man's true character. He could be anyone, could have done anything. Any number of those rumors could have been true. Besides, all Arthur had done was warm him with wine and pretty words, flatter him with a distant adoration, and Merlin had been so starved for affection that he'd lapped it up like honey. From this point forward, Merlin would do better. He deserved better.

It wasn't too late by any means to find a nice girl, some Mary or Julia or Elizabeth, someone who made pie and would ask him to fix the roof. Nevermind that the thought made him queasy with anxiety, nevermind that she would suspect, would know, would be betrayed and hurt and hate him, nevermind, nevermind, nevermind, and Merlin was sad again. It wasn't hard.

The tea was cold, and mother was chattering with her soft, kind voice about her bridge game with the old gals at church and how she wished he would drop by to get some food in him, and oh, did he hear Gwen was getting married in the fall? She had always thought he would have stepped up to nab her first, but there were lots of fish in the sea.

There was a knock at the door at half past two. Merlin was in his bedclothes, rather, in cleaner bedclothes than those he had woken up in, but bedclothes nonetheless, and he hadn't combed his hair. His teeth felt mossy under his tongue, his feet felt hollow, his heart was drained, he answered the door. He almost closed it.

Arthur looked lovely in grey. The color brought out his eyes, made them sharper, brighter, and his red ascot was the most brilliant color Merlin had been privy to all day. He stood stiff before him, tall and strong and well-dressed in his fitted suit and fine hat and shined shoes. His hair was sure to be neat. His nails were finely manicured and teeth shined and straight- he knew from the way Pendragon licked them anxiously, looking past him into the charming but achingly modest home.

"I know you said two," he said furtively, as though to conceal his nervous energy with something passive. Merlin didn't have much control over his mouth or mind in his state, and so he observed, marvelling:

"You can read."

Arthur smiled wryly. "Admittedly, not well."

In truth, he had all but forgotten, at least had worked very hard to forget and had at last succeeded, the invitation sent the day prior. Arthur would have received it last night or this morning, must have rearranged something or other to make the trip, much less arrive a half hour early; there was no way he could burn through money the way he doubtless did without some kind of job. He had to have gone to great pains to be here, standing uncomfortable and objectively unwelcome on Merlin’s porch. Even without plans moved, he was very well done up.

He was about to think Arthur was handsome, but recalled he had sworn off men over breakfast.

Merlin turned around in his robe and slippers, retreating inside. The door he left ajar for his guest to come or go at will; he did nothing to hide the fact that he was incredibly tired and lacking the patience required for niceties. Consciously, he didn't jump at the click of the lock.

Merlin could feel Arthur watching him, scrutinizing him closely as he reheated the tea from breakfast. His hands did not shake. After too long a moment, his intruder cleared his throat, about to start a train of conversation Merlin was avidly certain he wanted no part of. He beat him to the chase.

"Sugar?"

Arthur blinked, his own words halfway to his lips. "--Yes. Say, Merlin-"

"How much?"

"What?"

Mugs hit the table with resounding thuds, and as though ignorant of the tension, Merlin went on. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to.

"Sugar, Arthur." He didn't like him saying his name like that. He thought, in his mind where most of his thoughts occurred, that if he mimicked the ridiculous sense of familiarity that his neighbor insisted on imposing on their odd, nonexistent relationship, that somehow that would make it better. Merlin, yes, the way Arthur said it made his heart skip, but the reminder of that thin, anxious, pitying smile the night before preyed on him. He thought if he said Arthur, the spell would break- say a name three times, and their jinx is broken. It didn't work.

It only served to make him pine for a reason to say it again.

Blue, blue eyes.

Arthur was looking more affronted by the second, guilt and sadness encroaching on the horizon of Merlin’s fluctuating mood. He just felt sorry again. He just felt lost.

"You've done well to fix this house," his guest said to the tune of 'are you alright?' "You did it yourself?"

Merlin nodded, and poured tea. He did not shake.

"Do you like it?"

His voice was remote, floating somewhere outside his body- the air, perhaps. "I make do."

He watched as Arthur slowly eased into the space, walking through the living room and surveying the extensive but humble changes. He appeared thoughtful. Chamomile steamed in a lonesome fashion, but Arthur paid no mind.

"May I sit?"

"--Over there?"

Merlin’s immediate thought was something along the lines of not eating on the furniture, but he swallowed his mother's teachings and gave his consent with a gesture of the hand. Arthur chose the sofa from which Merlin watched the Pendragon House every night. It creaked, and Merlin had yet to move.

"It's old," he explained, crossing the space the join him in the danger zone, in what was once a safe place. He sat down. "The furniture. I don't really know how old or where it's been, but it's...rickety."

Arthur nodded as though this were sage wisdom, and took the mug from Merlin’s hand. He had forgotten he had it.

"I've could use your expertise at the mansion," he said casually, taking a gulp of tea Merlin knew for a fact was too hot for consumption. "You've a good eye."

"Are you joking?"

Arthur shrugged. "Pendragon House is old, too. Older than these couches, certainly. Come work for me in the House and you'll be handsomely compensated."

The audacity of this man would never cease to amaze him. He was still talking, though, and Merlin had nothing to say.

"--Of course, the whole of it could take a number of months, but I wouldn't contract you harshly. The ballroom could do for some attention, I think, due to frequency of use, and some of the bedrooms, to start. What say you?"

Slowly, Merlin set aside his tea.

"What, exactly, do you mean by 'handsomely'?"

He couldn't help that he was his mother's son, Gaius's nephew. This was an opportunity, even if he didn't like it. It could lead somewhere, or provide more opportunity to forge a path of his own- provide the funds to get off this island, maybe.

"Merlin, fair weather friends are a dime a dozen. If I wanted one of those, I could pluck anybody off the street, but I admire your work ethic. You're smart, adaptable-"

"You don't know that." Ever so slightly, he trembled.

"I do."

"You can't possibly-"

Arthur’s tone sent Merlin’s eyes to the floor.

"I do."

Beside himself, he smiled wearily. "Bully all your friends, do you?"

The mood shifted instantly, a flash of humility knocking Arthur back to Earth. Softer now, he continued.

"If you won't let me be generous to you, be kind to me and take the offer. I've listened," not well, "and I'm letting you work for it, since you seem to prefer things that way."

"...I don't want handouts."

Arthur got that incredulous look.

"You don't accept gifts! Look, it's- it's a job to do."

"I like my job." Merlin closed his eyes, flexed his fingers, tapped his foot. "I need a moment," he said finally. He stood before Arthur could say anything sweet or stupid or invasive or considerate and disappeared into his bedroom, the door shut definitively behind him. Merlin didn't mean to run away, but the wreck of a day this had been had him by the neck.

His landlord wanted to pay him, presumably, considerable amounts of money to interior decorate because, and only because, he wouldn't accept said money any other way. Arthur was insistent on largely impacting him in one way or another. He seemed lonely, without any other friends- he almost certainly was alone, lived alone, else Merlin, a stranger, wouldn't be getting all of this unprompted attention.

He returned to the living room.

He thought back to that glittering evening, where his mind had been light and his feet lighter, and a handsome legend had swept him away to a place without time. He thought of the storm, the chill and that water cutting like knives through his clothes and across his skin as his muscles screamed, fingers slipped from the vehicle as he and a strange man trudged through mud together. He thought of the moonwashed youth on the pier the night before, for once all in quiet, of his contagious smile and confusing words. Merlin looked tiredly at the man sitting anxiously in his front room vying for any reason to see him again.

His voice was level, and sure.

"You mustn't pay me-"

"That's ridiculous!"

"--Unless you absolve my rent. I'll work for you in return for my tenancy and no further favors."

The suited man was quiet a moment, wiping his hand across his face in consideration, brow furrowed. In all seriousness, he reached out his hand. Merlin swallowed his hesitance and took it.

In all this, he had noticed only mutely that Arthur had taken off his ascot. He thought no more on it. It was a little hot, he supposed, and would be for anyone wearing as many layers as that.

On the table was the box.

This, Merlin realized hours later in the night. Music raised on the wind and floated into the ether on the lake. He drowned it out with cheap whiskey- all liquor was cheap these days. Prone to that old devil, heartache, and weakened by drink, he failed to question the gift box's resurgence, only heeding that pining of his to run his fingers over the silky material as he had in sorrow many times before. He opened the box and dropped it like fire. His glass shattered on the floor.

The scarf was red.

On anyone else, the shirt would have been ridiculous. But his boldness to wear it was intriguing, almost attractive. You were so distracted you didn’t even bother taking notes and he was already coming around passing out the papers. You couldn’t help but notice the way he smelled like Irish Spring and a staleness you couldn’t place. You took a deep breath as he walked by.

You took your time scanning over the paper, carefully answering every question. You were the last one to put your test on the rusty blue chair at the front of the room. Before you were even back in your seat his voice boomed out again as he gave instructions on how to grade the papers. He took longer than necessary going over the simple answers, so much so that you were ready to wring his neck by the time you got to the last question.

However, it was quickly over and you tallied up the points to hand the paper back to its rightful owner. You got your paper back and immediately your stomach churned at your low score.

You stuff the paper into your binder as the bell rings and scurry to the door behind the other students when a nasally voice booms out behind you.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

Your stomach drops and you turn around to face the looming man.

“You got a low score.”

The words leave his mouth as a statement and not a question as his brow raises. Your mouth goes dry.

“You’re aware this is an HONORS English class, correct?”

Your jaw tightens and you stammer, “Uh- yea- Yes, I’m aware.”

His lips press together and he nods solemnly beckoning you over to his desk. He scribbles on a sticky note and hands it to you.

Tutoring M, W, F @ 2:40

You look between the sticky note and his face.

“Tutoring?”

“Yes. Tutoring. It’s extra lessons for people who need assistance with their education.”

You roll your eyes subconsciously, your tone annoyed. “I know what tutoring is. I’m just confused why you think I need it.”

“I just figured you didn’t want all of your test scores this year to be that low.”

You’re annoyed by his attitude but you can’t deny extra help would be nice. You want to protest and explain yourself. You don’t want him to think you’re stupid. But it’s like your mind goes blank as you nod your head curtly. “I’ll see you tomorrow after school then.”