#woooooot

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.