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The bus hums through the city with a soothing buzz, one that mixes so well with the fuss in his head. Arthur is sitting next to him, not half as undone by the alcohol as Merlin, though he is certain the other had more to drink. Behind them, their friends occupy the back bench. Their conversation is loud and hard to follow; the intoxicated laughter covers most of the speech. It makes Merlin smile, their childlike joy.
Besides him, Arthur smiles as well, eyes somewhere in the distance. Merlin lets his head rest on his neighbour’s shoulder, the fabric of his winter coat prickling his face. The finely tailored coat probably cost more than Merlin ears in a month at his shitty retail job, so he makes an effort not to throw up over him like he’d done once last summer. Not that Arthur would make him repay the clothes he’d ruined. His friend is far too chivalrous for such a thing. He hadn’t even been mad, really. Just thrown the shirt – it had been the red one, his favourite, Merlin remembers with a pang – into a sink, and proceeded to help Merlin recover. Of course, Arthur had teased him about it a couple of times, but never when he thought his victim couldn’t handle it. For all he pretended to be tough, Arthur was actually quite soft. Not that Merlin would ever say that to his face; that was just asking for a smack on the head, and that’s the last thing Merlin needs in his current state. So he just leans against Arthur’s side, and watches the city lights go by.
At his stop, Arthur shakes him awake. Nodding, Merlin stands up, a little too soon perhaps, because the bus’s sudden halt almost makes him lose footing. He can feel Arthur’s hand on his back, steadying him as Merlin clings to the handrail, and he swears he can hear the other man chuckle before he rises, too.
“I’m going to walk you home, ‘kay?” Arthur asks, though it isn’t really a question. In the back of the bus, their friends are whistling, making bawdy jokes and crude gestures. Arthur flips them off with one hand, the other still on Merlin’s back, right between his shoulder blades, ushering him gently into the cold night air. Merlin manages to shout a word of thanks to the driver, and then waves as his friends pass by and disappear into the lamp-lit street.
Arthur drops his hand, and Merlin misses the warmth despite his coat, despite the liquor still running through his veins. He stumbles home, Arthur walking miraculously straight, close enough to lean on when needed. The street lamps wash the world in a yellowy golden hue, and their shadows on the street weave into each other each time they near a new source of light. Enchanted by the shadow play, he nearly forgets to look at the boy on his side. When he does, the wave of fondness that washes over him almost makes it hard to breathe. Maybe it is the light, or the lack of it. Face half obscured by darkness, half bathed in gold, Arthur almost looks like something from a fairy tale, and Merlin can hear himself sigh. Arthur looks at him, eyes twinkling like the moon, and ruffles through Merlin’s sweaty hair. He gives a little wink, and he manages to make it look soothing and kind.
“Almost there,” he promises, and Merlin nods.
He grabs Arthur’s arm for support as he rummages through his pockets, searching for the key to the door that is swiftly coming closer. He is almost disappointed when he finds it, and fumbles with the lock for a while before managing to actually make it open. Switching on the hallway’s light, he eyes the three flights of steep stairs he will have to climb to reach his apartment. Maybe he can manage it if he goes on hands and knees. But then Arthur steps inside too, and smiles encouragingly, though the lights in the hallway are less flattering to him, and he looks as if he might keel over.
“Y’don’t have to,” Merlin slurs, “I can manage.”
Arthur smiles, he smiles so much tonight, but none of them really reach his eyes, and it shocks Merlin to see how sad he looks, a golden boy pale and greenish in the harsh fluorescent lights.
“I’m not really trusting you to manage anything right now,” Arthur says, though there’s no sting in the words. Merlin nods, because that’s fair enough.
All through his tentative ascent, Arthur stands a few steps behind him, arms spread to the banister on one side, the cement wall on the other. They don’t talk, and Arthur doesn’t make fun of him for how long this is taking, and how winded Merlin gets. They just go up, step by step, until they reach the green door that marks Merlin’s salvation. Merlin doesn’t mention it, but he wonders what Arthur would have done if Merlin had fallen back into his arms. There’s no need to try it out, and even the thought makes Merlin feel a little guilty, because he knows Arthur would just carry him all the way up.
And he doesn’t even have to invite Arthur in, because he doesn’t dawdle on the doorstep like he usually does. His friend walks inside and flicks on the lights, not the bright ones that would make Merlin cringe but the ones he knows are gentle on the eyes. And though he is shrouded in gold again, Merlin cannot un-see the lines on his face, the way his shoulders sag just the smallest bit despite his valiant efforts to seem composed. And it occurs to Merlin that there is something different about Arthur tonight, something different about his silence and the way he holds himself. His friend is closed off from the world a little, turned into himself even as he cares for Merlin, brings him water to ease tomorrow’s pain.
Merlin knows him, knows Arthur will sometimes turn quiet after drunken nights, a little melancholy haze over him. But even though he is distant, closed, he is not as guarded as he usually is, and it makes Merlin wonder if this is maybe not the most open Arthur has ever been with him. Because maybe Arthur is hiding things, pains that Merlin can’t even imagine, but at least he’s showing Merlin that he is, hiding. It’s a kind of vulnerability that Merlin doesn’t really know how to handle, because his head is still swimming and he wants nothing more than to sleep, but when he wakes up tomorrow Arthur will have gone and build his broken walls up again.
Merlin wants to speak, even though Arthur won’t take him seriously, but it seems suddenly pivotal that it is said.
“I care for you, you know that?” Merlin asks, and he clings to the lapels of Arthur’s coat, blue eyes boring urgently into blue eyes.
He wants Arthur to know he means it, that even though he’s drunk and can hardly find his own bathroom, he knows how deep this devotion runs. At times like this, it isn’t the fluttering that sometimes invades his stomach that matters, it isn’t the way sunlight caresses Arthur’s hair. It’s deeper, truer, more pressing than any misguided crush he’s felt. It’s in the way his whole body sighs in relief at the sight of that broad frame. It’s in the way they don’t need words to speak, most of the time. It’s in the way he cannot imagine a life without Arthur beside him. It is the frightfully honest realisation that it doesn’t matter if they are friends or classmates or lovers, not really, as long as they are together in a way. It’s the fact that Merlin needs Arthur, down to his core, down to the very heartstrings of his soul, and he knows that Arthur needs him too.
“You know I love you, right?” Merlin asks, because he suspects Arthur might not, not really, although Merlin has told him many times before. It is true, after all, and Merlin is not one to hold such truths before him. He’s meant it every time, but he worries Arthur might forget it sometimes, might think that because it is said as friends it doesn’t really mean what it should. But it does, and it always has, even before Merlin fell in love with Arthur. It’s part of him like the love for his mother is, like his love for the stars and the city of London. He lives in that love when things get rough, when he cannot bring himself to leave his bed, or to lay inside it.
He wonders if Arthur realises, that out of everyone in the world he might be the one that matters most to Merlin, more than any other friend or family member. He wonders if Arthur feels that way about him too, and finds it doesn’t matter. His love isn’t impatient tonight, not full of the pain of longing and fear. Merlin loves, and that is enough, that is the most wonderful thing he could ever do.
And Arthur gives him this half smile, the corner of his mouth quivering a little before he turns away. He pushes up one of the cushions on the sofa and lays down on it, eyes almost falling close as he stares at the ceiling, hands together on his chest, which is slowly rising and falling.
Merlin searches for a blanket and finds it, wrapping it round his shoulders like a cape. Arthur shakes his head at the sight, a crooked smile of resignation fondly on his lips.
“You should go to bed, you know,” Arthur says when Merlin joins him on the couch, but Merlin shakes his head, laying it on Arthur’s chest, temple resting above his heart. He tries to spread the blanket evenly over them, but cannot bring himself to rise enough to do it properly. Rubbing cold feet together, he closes his eyes. The soft humming of his intoxication takes over, and he slips away while Arthur tucks in the blanket around him, letting his arm stay lightly slung around Merlin’s neck, thumb fitting perfectly against his collarbone.
“G’night Arthur,” Merlin mumbles, although he isn’t sure if he’s actually said it out loud. He can feel Arthur’s muscles strain beneath him as he cranes his neck and places a kiss on the top of Merlin’s head.
“G’night Merlin,” he answers, and lets his head fall back against the hard armrest of the settee.
Merlin wakes with Arthur’s arms still around him, chest steadily rising and falling under him. It’s early in the morning, barely past five, and it will be hours before the watery winter sun will show her face. But sleep has left him and won’t come back, so he lies still, so very still, and listens to Arthur’s breathing. Beneath him, he can hear Arthur’s heart beat, the slow and steady rhythm that keeps the man alive. For a moment, the thought frightens him beyond compare, that he is inches away from something that, if hurt, would make Arthur cease to exist. He imagines someone plunging a hand through skin and bones, enclosing fingers and pulling out the heart he cannot bear to see stop beating, and a cold shiver rolls over his spine. He wants to jump up and awaken his friend, tell him to hide himself, to bear armour thick enough to stop anyone from ever having to power to end so precious a life. He wants to build him a shield strong enough to deflect bullets as well as words, to enshrine this precious being into a safety net where he could never be hurt.
He doesn’t jump up, though. He lies very, very still, and presses his ear to the thin fabric separating him from warm skin, and listens to Arthur live.
It’s half six when Arthur stirs. A groan escapes his mouth when he stretches, obviously pained by sleeping in so cramped a position. Merlin lifts himself from the other’s body, and Arthur smiles sheepishly when he sees his friend is awake.
“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Arthur whispers, although they’re the only ones in the house. But some hours are not made for voices, and will have to settle for a breath.
Merlin smiles a little, and shakes his head. There is still a soft buzzing in his head, and it feels heavy on his shoulders. But his heart is still full, it’s always so full, every time he sees Arthur.
“Did you sleep?” he asks, when Arthur rolls his shoulders, wincing. His friend nods, though he is too tired to give fully into the lie.
“A little,” he concedes.
Merlin stands up, the world shifting slightly at the movement. It stabilises soon enough.
“You can take my bed, if you like,” he offers, because it really is the least he can do. It feels like far too little, especially since he knows Arthur will turn it down.
And indeed, Arthur shakes his head and rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I can sleep anyways.”
If he had said it without that small flash of ache, Merlin might have asked why. But it’s hard to have a deep conversation with Arthur. The times and circumstances have to be just right, or the man will deflect any question out of sheer habit.
Merlin knows that if he would ask now, Arthur would answer. It is the kind of night where Arthur would tell him anything. But they are both tired and still halfway drunk, and Merlin doesn’t want to take advantage of Arthur’s trust. He wouldn’t even know what to ask.
And so he moves to the cramped little kitchen to put on the kettle. As he stares at his cupboard for far too long before remembering he needs two cups, he can hear Arthur rustle through the living room behind him. Merlin loves this apartment – he was lucky to find such a large space in London, although ‘large’ is an incredibly relative word in this case. The living room and kitchen, which are separated only by a low cabinet overflowing with dishes and fruit, are together just as big as his parent’s bedroom in Ealdor. But he has a cosy bedroom and a tiny bathroom, and altogether it gives him a place that is unequivocally his own. The walls are decorated with Lance’s art and pictures of everyone Merlin loves. His plants grow much better in the foggy city than they ever did in the countryside. And if he ever feels alone, he only has to open his curtains and look down on the city he has come to love and loathe so much, his fifth-floor apartment giving a spectacular view of London.
Tonight, the lights of a city barely awake shine just as fiercely as the stars above them. Merlin hears Arthur open the door to the thin strip serving as a balcony, and knows he too has been lured by the lights. Pouring steaming water over teabags, he watches the water turn a warming brown. Carefully, he takes the handles of the hot mugs and makes his way to Arthur.
The blond stands leaning against the railing. A cloud of smoke comes from his lips, and from the cigarette in his hand, which is hanging languidly over the balustrade. Arthur doesn’t turn when Merlin approaches and puts their cups on the windowsill next to the door before joining him on the balcony. They stand in companionable silence. Merlin finds himself studying his friend’s face as Arthur stares into the distance, lips slightly parted despite making no attempt to take another drag of the cigarette, which is slowly burning to ashes, smouldering pieces of ember falling down into the night below them.
Arthur hardly ever smokes, Merlin knows. Sometimes when he’s been drinking. Sometimes when he’s fraught. There is a crease in his brow, though his posture suggests he is at ease. His breathing is slow and regular, and Merlin finds himself holding his breath for long enough for them to synchronise.
“What building is that?” Arthur asks suddenly, gesturing in the direction of a tall tower, a few rectangular windows lit up in yellow.
Merlin ponders for a moment, but in the darkness all the usual landmarks disappear.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
He waits for Arthur to laugh at him, but his friend just nods, gaze still fixed upon the city. Only then does Merlin realise that he had meant the words. Standing here, in this strange and hazy night, it feels as if the city before him is not the one he has lived in for years, but another, made entirely for them. A city full of lights that he has never seen before, and that are only here because Arthur looked upon them. The moon herself seems flattered by the attention of so radiant a man. Half her face hidden in shadow, she coyly caresses Arthur with her shine, and the pull that Merlin promised himself he would foreswear comes up again. He tries not to think about it, not because he doesn’t want to admit what it means, but because he doesn’t want to ruin so magical a night with his longing. He has never experienced love like this before, and its strength scares him sometimes.
He never even knew love could hurt this much.
It consumes him, sometimes. The yearning, the dreaming, the hoping against all hope. It’s not a feeling he likes, not at all. There is nothing beautiful about this ache, nothing admirable or romantic. It hurts, makes him jittery, makes him overthink his every move whenever Arthur looks his way. But not tonight. Tonight, love is not the kind of thing that belongs to romance alone, the kind of thing he might never get from Arthur. Tonight they love each other as souls do, and it leaves Merlin with nothing left to want.
Arthur drops his cigarette like an afterthought, fingers loosening only a little. He might not even have intended it, just let it slip. They watch it tumble and disappear.
“I know,” Arthur says, though Merlin hasn’t said anything for a while. “That you love me, I mean,” he adds, voice laced with guilt for only addressing it now, hours later after it has been uttered. His eyes still stare at the dark pavement below them, where his cigarette lies, invisible and extinguished. “I know what you want me to say, but I’ve never been good with words.” He turns to Merlin now, and his eyes glimmer softly with the myriad of lights. “But you know, don’t you? You know.”
He offers a shrug, half a smile.
And Merlin nods, because he does.
And Arthur only has to lean in a little before their lips meet.
It isn’t as exhilarating as Merlin imagined, not as wild or frenzied or passionate. They simply stand there, bodies angled towards each other, and it feels like time has slowed down, come to a stop around these two tired boys in crumpled clothes, a fixed point as centuries go by. And while his stomach does flutter, all Merlin can think about is his heart, overflowing with such love that it could light up the whole land. And there is Arthur’s hand on his cheek, tender thumb tracing the curve of an ear he has mocked so many times. He clings to Arthur like a lifeline, as if to touch him is as crucial as air. They kiss so softly, so slowly, and yet it consumes him whole. He knows his hands are clenching Arthur’s shirt, that he should probably move them to return the caresses Arthur bestows on him. But he cannot let go, not when Arthur is his anchor, and so he stays exactly as it is.
And maybe it isn’t that spectacular or relieving as he thought it would be, but that doesn’t matter.
It is perfect, and it is right. And it is all that matters.
When Arthur tears away from him, he smiles so widely it makes his eyes water.
“You’re shivering,” Arthur says, and Merlin is too dazed to respond. But he can feel Arthur guide him inside and close the door behind them. They return to the sofa, huddling together under the blanket that isn’t nearly big enough to cover them both. The mugs of tea are forgotten, and long ago grown cold. And when Arthur breaks off their kiss again, it is only to cup Merlin’s face with his hands, and to whisper from oh so close –
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”