The Light Of Hidden Things

[casualtheatrics2]

This is the sequel to Between The Shadow and The Soul which is over HERE. This picks up right where the first part left off.

--

The Light of Hidden Things

“Er, yes. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m sure.” Merlin’s mouth twists wryly.

“Are the others in?” Arthur asks.

“No, Will took Lance out to lunch.”

Arthur squints at the clock and starts when he realises it’s nearly 11.45am. “I slept late.”

“Yeah. Lance said you hit the wine pretty hard last night.”

“Well, it was a weird evening. Will rushed off, all freaked out and upset, and I sort of realised that my sister was marrying my ex-girlfriend.”

“That would be weird.”

“Tell me about it.” Arthur blows on his coffee and takes a fortifying gulp.

“Will rushed off to pick me up,” Merlin says, feigning calmness, and flipping the newspaper pages casually.

“Oh, yeah? From where? Are you OK?”

Merlin face crumples slightly, then smoothes out with effort. “Fine. I think I’ll finish the paper in my room,” he says, hurriedly standing and slinking out of the room.

Arthur is confused, and as he tries to shrug it off, he drops hot coffee down his chest. It burns.

--

Arthur’s still reeling from the shock of finding Merlin, Merlin!, sat at his kitchen table, when he arrives at the church the next day for Morgana and Gwen’s wedding.

After their – frankly disappointing – first meeting, Merlin had taken himself off to the guest room and stayed there ever since, mostly sleeping. Despite having the time off, Arthur had gone into the office the previous afternoon, forcing himself to spend time away from the house, because the temptation to inch open the guest room door and see if Merlin still sleeps the way he was in Lance’s picture is extremely, alarmingly strong.

Arthur’s not a creep, so he knows this would be wrong, but it’s best to remove temptation completely, rather than flirt with the Devil, as his Aunt Nimueh likes to tell him.

The moment he enters the church, Morgana pounces on him like he’s her own personal rescue army. “Arthur! They’ve got pink serviettes instead of peach ones at the reception! What am I going to do?! It’ll ruin everything!!”

Up until that point, Arthur had been convinced all the Bridezilla stuff was going on in Gwen’s head. Morgana’s wild eyes and frantic speech manage to change that opinion.

“Morgana! Calm down,” he soothes. “I’ll ring Gordon and have him buy peach serviettes and take them down to the reception. The caterers can replace the napkins.”

“There isn’t time!!”

“There’s plenty of time, don’t be silly. We’ve got,” Arthur checks his watch, “forty minutes until Gwen gets here, an hour of service, and an hour or so for the photographs afterwards. That’s nearly three hours. Gordon is completely capable of sorting that out. Let me make a call.”

“OK.” Morgana sniffles slightly and begins to walk back up the aisle. She spins on her heel as Arthur pulls out his phone. “Arthur”?

“Yes?”

“I also can’t do my tie.”

“I’ll be right there.” Arthur smiles kindly at Morgana, and speed-dials Gordon, who answers the phone with an irritated, “It’s my day off, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Arthur hushes down the phone. “But we’ve got a crisis and I think Morgana might explode or something if it isn’t fixed.”

Gordon sighs. Arthur’s sure the eyebrow is arching high up into the air. “What’s the crisis?”

“Will you go to the wholesaler’s, pick up three hundred peach napkins, take them to the Avalon, and supervise the caterer’s replacement of all the incorrect pink napkins?” Arthur delivers this in a rush, with a slight wheedle in his tone.

Gordon sighs again. “I want double time pay for the whole day, and an extra day of holiday. Paid holiday. And a guaranteed pay rise at Christmas.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you want,” Arthur hisses, and the moment Gordon sighs and agrees to do it, he switches off the phone.

Arthur finds Morgana pacing in the church vestry. “Is it sorted?” she begs.

“Yes, all taken care of,” Arthur smiles reassuringly, and takes the tie from Morgana’s twisting, working hands. He flattens it out on the table, before draping it round her neck.

“What if Gwen doesn’t turn up?”

“Of course she will.”

Morgana suddenly remembers something, and her eyes light up. “So, I hear Merlin’s turned up.”

Arthur’s hands instinctively tighten, nearly throttling Morgana, who yelps. “Careful!”

With conscious effort, Arthur relaxes his hands, and finishes the tie. He nods in response to Morgana’s statement and adds, “He’s in the guest room.”

“He’s coming this afternoon, right?”

Arthur nods, and Morgana says, “I’ve put him next to you on your table. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice!”

“OK, then, play nice.”

Arthur lets out a snort of laughter, and finishes straightening Morgana’s tie.

“Sister, dear,” he proclaims, “you are gorgeous.”

Morgana giggles, “So, brother dearest, are you.”

Arthur looks into her face and smiles, fond and caring. “I’m glad she makes you happy.”

Morgana’s face fills with curious vulnerability. “Are you? Really? Because I’ve always felt a little bit guilty, you know?” She bites her lip.

Arthur hugs his sister. “You two are made for each other. I’m happy for you, really, truly, I am. Promise!” His gaze is earnest and Morgana relaxes against him.

They walk out to the front of the church, and Arthur can see Will and Lance walking through the church doors. Merlin’s with them, half a step, behind, wearing a suit of Arthur’s. Will had been silent on the topic of Merlin’s reappearance, only asking if Merlin could borrow said suit, as all he had was jeans.

Arthur had agreed, and as he looks across the church at the skinny man, he feels a strange thrill at the thought and sight of Merlin wearing Arthur’s own clothes.

Something fiery and possessive clutches Arthur’s gut. Lance catches Arthur’s eye and waves in greeting. Will is already tugging at the collar of his shirt, so he’s also probably muttering things about “damn monkey suits” as well. Arthur watches Lance bat Will’s hand away from his collar and usher him into the pew.

Arthur chuckles at Will’s discomfort, and moves to stand next to Morgana at the front of the church. After a few minutes, the officiant says, “Please stand,” and as one, the congregation rises to their feet.

Gwen appears in the doorway. Arthur hears Morgana’s breath catch.

---

“Well, Mrs Pendragon, how does it feel?” Arthur asks Gwen. She’s giggly and luminescent with joy – Arthur feels painfully pleased for her. He’s glad that everyone seems to be so settled and happy, even if he did spend the whole of dinner sat next to a taciturn Merlin, his insides writhing with barely suppressed lust.

Gwen giggles again and Arthur’s attention is drawn back to her. As he opens his mouth to ask the next vapid, inane question, Uther and Vivian waltz past them and Uther taps Arthur on the shoulder.

“Dance with your step-mother,” he commands, “I want to dance with my new, and beautiful, daughter-in-law.”

Arthur obediently gathers Vivian (and her turquoise suit!) up into his arms and spins her around the dance floor; she coos at everything and waves at people she barely knows.

“Your father’s worried about you, you know,” Vivian says after several minutes of silence.

Arthur looks down at her. “Sorry?”

“Your father? He’s worried about you?”

“Why?”

“You don’t date anymore, Arthur.”

“That’s not true! What about Eloise?”

“That was two years ago!”

Arthur shrugs. “So what?”

“So, it’s not healthy, a fine young man like yourself.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Viv, need I remind you that I am the same age as you?”

Vivian laughs, and says, innocently, “Yes, but I’ve found a man who loves me and makes me happy.”

Arthur looks down at her face. It’s peaceful, unguarded, totally happy as she thinks of his father. He’s always thought of her as a bit silly, a bit shallow, but he’s been wrong about people before.

“You know, Arthur,” she says gently, “you father would be happy whoever you date. He’s delighted about Gwen. He just wants you to be happy.”

Arthur feels a lump grow in his throat. He swallows, and quips, “Well, if my family members would stop stealing my girlfriends, I’d be a lot happier.”

Vivian laughs and bats his arm. “Stop choosing girls, then,” she says wickedly, and before Arthur can respond, Uther’s swung back into their orbit and swept his wife out of Arthur’s arms.

--

Finally, finally, Arthur’s finished doing the duty rounds, Gwen and Morgana have been sent off on their honeymoon, so he glanced round to find his friends.

Will and Lance are entwined on the dance floor, slow-dancing smoochily to Boyz II Men. Arthur knows where that will end up, and has never been more grateful for the three floors between his room and his friends’. He catches sight of Merlin, sat alone at their table. Merlin looks lost, and weary still.

Arthur makes his way over to the dark-haired man. “Merlin?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you OK?”

“Just tired, thanks, Arthur.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Merlin looks up at Arthur and shakes his head. “No-one’s ready to leave.”

Arthur smiles kindly. “I am. Will and Lance will make their own way home.”

Merlin blinks, unsure. “I haven’t any money for a taxi,” he eventually blurts out.

“That’s OK,” Arthur claps him on his shoulder. “I do.”

--

Back at home, Merlin sheds his blazer and drapes it over the back of a kitchen chair. Arthur potters about, making tea and selecting the nicest biscuits.

“Thanks,” Merlin says at last, into the silence.

“What?” Arthur looks up from stirring the tea in the pot.

“Thanks.”

“That’s OK,” Arthur replies automatically, before shaking his head free of fuzzy thoughts and asking, “Thanks for what?”

“For bringing me home. For letting me stay here. For the loan of your suit. It smelt like you. It was nice, comforting…” Merlin breaks off, and blushes a furious, vivid red, ashamed of the inner thought he’d inadvertently let out.

Arthur shrugs and adds sugar to Merlin’s tea. He passes it over, saying, “Hey, no trouble. I’m glad it fit. Sort of.”

He smiles at Merlin, and Merlin cautiously smiles back.

They sit in silence at the kitchen table, sipping tea and munching chocolate HobNobs, when Will and Lance stumble through the front door.

The two men are stuck together at the lips, kissing, kissing, kissing, whilst Will’s hands cup Lance’s buttocks and their hips grind together.

“Alright, lads, take it upstairs,” Arthur intones, averting his eyes from the amateur porn show, and only glances back when the sucking, kissing noises and the slight groaning stop.

Will grins at Arthur. “Oh, we will. Thanks for bringing Merlin home.” Lance waves at the seated men, before Will’s lips reattach themselves to his own lips, and they back carefully up the stairs.

“I don’t know why I live with them,” Arthur pretends to grumble, as he stirs his tea.

Merlin laughs, then looks slightly puzzled.

“What?” says Arthur. “What’s so funny?”

“You are,” Merlin smiles softly, fondly. Caught out being vulnerable, Merlin’s smile abruptly vanishes and he stands hastily. “Thanks,” he mutters again, and he scurries upstairs.

Arthur, previously surrounded by a warm haze of tea, comfort and companionship, is suddenly cold in the kitchen, alone. He stares at Merlin’s discarded mug, and swallows back the tears that spring to his eyes. He’s only feeling weepy, because of the alcohol. Yeah. The alcohol. That’s all.

--

Life for Arthur goes on much the same way it always has.

He gets up in the mornings, he runs six miles, he goes to work, he deals with crap, he goes home, makes dinner, drinks a whiskey, wanks furiously to thoughts of his newly acquired housemate…no. Wait. That’s new.

Arthur’s self-loathing grows by the day. Since the wedding, Arthur’s seen Merlin twice, once in the early morning (Arthur was leaving the bathroom – Merlin sort of squeaked at the sight of Arthur in nothing but a towel) and once in the evening. Those two glimpses of sleepy Merlin have summoned the memory of that photo in Lance’s binder.

And Arthur finds himself ridiculously desperate to put his fantasies into practice.

After three weeks, Arthur’s self-loathing needs an outlet, and he goes out one Friday evening and comes home bleary-eyed, hung-over and with a large hickey on the side of his neck.

Will just shakes his head. “Arthur Pendragon, will you ever learn?”

In response, Arthur shrugs and searches through his whiskey bottles for one that’s not mostly empty. When he finally locates one (OK, he poured three mostly empty bottles into a fourth – so sue him), he turns around and finds himself alone with Lance.

“Arthur,” Lance walks over and takes the bottle out of Arthur’s hands, “Arthur, stop. We’re worried about you. Will and I. You’re out of control.”

Arthur lets out a shuddery, sobbing breath. “I just…I feel…”

Lance enfolds Arthur in his arms. “I know. You’re upset. It’s hard. I didn’t realise you still had feelings for Gwen. I mean, you’ve never said…”

Arthur pulls back, aghast. “GWEN? You think this is about Gwen?”

Lance’s face should be comical. It’s twisting between confusion, relief and irritation. “Well, why the hell are you so upset then?”

“Can’t I just be upset?”

Lance rolls his eyes – he’s doing a lot of that lately, especially at Arthur, and Arthur’s had enough.

“Sorry, mate,” Arthur snaps. “I didn’t realise that having a few off days was FORBIDDEN in this house. I’ll make sure I’m always cheerful from now on.” He slams out of the room, and closeted in his room thirty seconds later, feels the guilt set in.

--

Arthur stares at the documents in front of him. The words swim before his eyes, and he runs a hand through his hair and rubs at the back of his neck. Everything in him aches today; everything in him is tense and anxious.

A knock on the door makes him jump.

“Geez, brother dearest! You’re a bit tense, aren’t you?” Morgana swans into the room, smile plastered to her face. “Come on,” she commands, “we’re going for lunch.”

They can’t get into their usual restaurant, so they wander down the street until they find a small café in a side street. Arthur makes polite, inane conversation about Morgana’s honeymoon and the wedding as they saunter along. He hasn’t seen her since she got back, and Arthur actually realises that he’s missed her.

Morgana’s answers are similarly polite and inane, and once they finally reach a small restaurant-bar, and are seated, she fixes Arthur with one of her shrewd, assessing looks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I got into work yesterday, and Leon said you’d been a right misery-guts.”

“Leon said?! I haven’t even seen him!”

“Well, Will told him and he told me. The details aren’t important.”

“Yes, they are! You’re all gossiping about me!”

“Arthur, let it go,” Morgana tries to wave away his concerns with a flick of her bangled wrist. “The important thing is that you’re miserable.” Her face contorts with concern and guilt. “Is it Gwen?”

“No! Christ, it’s not about her! OK?”

“But you are upset.”

Arthur curses his nagging, caring, loving sister. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Morgana holds up her hands in supplication. “Look, Arthur. I love you. But you’re driving your housemates potty. Just tell me what’s wrong. Are you sick? Is everything alright at work?”

Arthur looks at the worried lines between Morgana’s (perfectly plucked) eyebrows, and the unease dripping from her eyes, and wants to crack. The weight is pressing on his chest every day, his secret…affection…for Merlin choking him up. Instead, his iron self-control won’t let it out, and he just shakes his head.

Morgana lets it go, for now, and changes the subject to Vivian’s outfit from the wedding.

--

Arthur begins spending long hours slumped over his desk in his office. It’s not really a conscious decision to spend time out of the house, to avoid Merlin and his enticing eyes, but Arthur did jump at the chance to oversee a minor acquisition, which requires him to spend nineteen hour days in the office, seven days a week.

One evening, he arrives home, too tired to even make dinner and wanders into the kitchen to find some food. He’s been out of the house for so long, he’s forgotten to go food shopping, and all that’s left is some mouldy bread and half a jar of wholegrain mustard. He’s honestly, seriously contemplating a mould and mustard sandwich, staring into his empty fridge, when Merlin walks into the kitchen.

“Hi,” he says softly.

Arthur turns to face him. “Hi, Merlin.” He’s proud of how his voice doesn’t crack, or waver.

Merlin looks over Arthur’s shoulder. “Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “A mould and mustard sandwich isn’t particularly nutritious.”

Arthur laughs, because their thoughts are in sync. “No, it’s not.”

Merlin shrugs. “Do you want pizza?”

Arthur shrugs back. “Why?”

“We could go to that pizza place down the road.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“Well, Will and Lance are out on some sort of double date with some friends of theirs, and I said I’d make food for myself, but you’re not the only one who hasn’t been food shopping in a while.”

“So you need feeding? And the solution is to go out for pizza, from that dodgy pizza place down the road?”

“Yep.”

Arthur tries to dredge honour up from the bottom of his rejoicing soul, but all he can think is Time with Merlin! Yippee!

“OK,” he says, trying to be cool. “Pizza it is.”

As they make their way out of the front door, Merlin slyly adds, “Oh, you’ll need to pay. I’ve got no money.”

Arthur admires the brass balls of the man, and wants to kiss him for his cheek.

--

Topics of conversation, over bad pizza, include Arthur’s childhood, Arthur’s job, Arthur’s family, Arthur’s plans for the future, Arthur’s previous relationships and Arthur’s desire to one day own an Austen Healey Sprite and drive it through the countryside, like Alex Pettyfer in ‘Wild Child’.

--

Topics of conversation, as they clutch the toilet bowl back at home, and take turns to heave their guts up, include why pizza is always bad, food poisoning is always the worst thing to have, and why next time they go out, they should go to Ping Pong, because dim sum is delicious, but let’s not mention food, because Merlin’s going to throw up again.

--

Arthur phones in sick to work the next morning, having spent the whole night on the bathroom floor with Merlin. He feels pale, and wan, and drained, and Lance and Will skirt around them as they lie pitifully on the sofas in the lounge.

“Try not to puke on the carpet, yeah?” Will says kindly, as he heads off to work.

“Here’s some lemon squash,” says Lance, rolling a bottle into the lounge from the hallway. “Try and drink some.”

The slam of the door leaves Arthur and Merlin alone together.

They watch five reruns of The Fresh Prince before Arthur decides his stomach is strong enough for tea and toast.

When Arthur throws off his blanket, and stands up, Merlin looks alarmed. “Where are you going?”

“Kitchen. Tea. Toast. Maybe,” Arthur sort of garbles, and realises the room is spinning. He sits back down hard on the sofa.

“Arthur!” Merlin tries to stand up, to rush over, to help, but he too takes one look at the spinning room and collapses back onto the sofa.

“Merlin!” Arthur cries, and with a great effort, he and his blanket make it onto Merlin’s sofa. “Are you OK?”

Arthur pats Merlin down, whilst Merlin just squirms slightly under Arthur’s ministrations and eventually says, “I’m fine. Just dizzy. And tired.”

They lean against each other, and switch the television over to Charmed re-runs. The day passes slowly, although they discover they have much in common when it comes to music, television, theatres, books, even films.

When Will and Lance get home that evening, Arthur is sprawled across the sofa, with Merlin curled up against him. Their fingers are interlinked, and Arthur’s free hand cups the back of Merlin’s head, holding him against his chest. They breathe in sync, as the minutes tick by. Lance and Will leave them sleeping.

--

The next day, Arthur and Merlin are less tired, less dizzy, but Arthur still isn’t well enough to go to work.

They spend the day this time watching old Laurel and Hardy movies, commenting on the difference between farcical comedy and slapstick.

At lunchtime, Arthur dusts off his rusty cooking skills and makes them both an omelette to eat. Merlin wolfs it down, and Arthur feels compelled to say, “Why are you so skinny?”

Merlin shrugs. “Just am. Always have been.”

“But you eat?”

“When I remember.”

After lunch (Merlin does all the washing up, and puts everything back in the wrong place), they sit back on their respective sofas and switch the TV back on.

Arthur’s noticed that Merlin is very good at avoiding personal questions. Conversation over dinner consisted mainly of Arthur answering Merlin’s questions, and since then, Merlin’s skilfully avoided Arthur’s gentle probing.

“Merlin?”

“Yeah?”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Same place as Will. Cup of tea?”

“Where’s that?”

“In the kitchen?”

“No, the school.”

“Um, Ealdor. Biscuit with your tea?”

“Where’s that?”

“In the biscuit tin?”

“No, Ealdor.”

“In the south-west. Sugar?”

“I don’t know the area, darling.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and heads to the kitchen to make tea.

Arthur leans back on the sofa and shuts his eyes. He wakes abruptly, a few hours later, and the first thing to filter through his confused, half-waking state is Merlin, who has curled up against Arthur’s chest again. His dark hair is brushing against Arthur’s nose, a spicy scent filtering through his brain. Merlin’s hand is pressed against Arthur’s heart, his other arm tucked behind Arthur’s back.

Arthur’s own arms are surrounding Merlin, drawing him in, clutching him to him.

The second thing that Arthur becomes aware of, is that Merlin is awake. Curling against Arthur has been a deliberate choice by Merlin. Arthur wonders briefly what that means, before Merlin exhales loudly.

In to the still of the darkening evening, Merlin half-whispers, “I grew up in Ealdor. My father left when I was a baby, my mother died before I left school. I lived with my uncle Gaius till I was twenty, then he died too. I’ve known Will since I was two.”

Arthur senses that this might be more honesty than anyone else has from Merlin in a long time. “That sounds tough,” he whispers back, gently.

“Yeah,” Merlin stirs against Arthur’s chest, before stretching and standing up. “Still, no use crying over spilt milk, is there?” He gathers his blankets around him and wanders out of the room. “Night, Arthur,” he calls back over his shoulder.

Arthur switches off the TV, folds up his blankets, picks up the cups and takes them into the kitchen to wash them up. He dries them, and puts them away. He locks up and switches off the lights. He goes down to his bedroom, shuts the door, changes to clean pyjamas, and crawls into bed.

The ghost of Merlin’s hand over his heart never shifts. Nor does Merlin’s scent leave his nose.

--

Arthur continues to spend all of his time in the office. He knows that after Merlin’s fragile confession the other day, it might seem like Arthur’s rejecting him.

Arthur just doesn’t trust himself to be too close to Merlin.

If he stands too close to the other man, Arthur’s likely to drive his hands into Merlin’s soft, dark hair, drag him close, pressed up against Arthur, and kiss him furiously, frantically, until Merlin is keening into his mouth and weak-kneed with passion.

Arthur wants Merlin with a ferocity that sometimes frightens him. He wakes in the night, dreams rattling around his head, mocking and teasing him. The promise of Merlin is something Arthur can’t come to terms with. He dreams of touch, and taste, and smell, and sight, things to make Merlin his own.

These days, there’s a permanent ache beneath Arthur’s breastbone. He hates it, can barely live with it.

Sometimes, he wishes that he’d never seen Lance’s binder, never asked who Merlin was. He can’t shake the distressing feeling that if he hadn’t, Merlin might never have returned.

That’s a thought he cannot live with; the ache and Merlin is significantly preferable to no ache and no Merlin – unbearable thought.

So Arthur wants, and aches, quietly in his office, away from temptation, away from his friends.

--

Arthur stretches and yawns. The merger is nearly complete, and the final paperwork will be filed and registered tomorrow.

Arthur wants to sleep the weekend away, as a reward for his stressful few months, but Vivian rang at the end of the previous week and asked him to visit this weekend. He’ll be driving out to their country house on Saturday morning.

As Arthur tidies his desk, his mobile rings. A phone call at 11pm seems unlikely to be good news, so Arthur snatches it up.

“Pendragon.”

“Hello, is that Arthur Pendragon?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Camelot General Hospital. We have a Mr Merlin Emrys here; he gave us your phone number.”

“Right.” Arthur’s confused. The hospital? Why’s Merlin at the hospital? More importantly, why has Merlin given Arthur’s phone number to the nurse instead of Will’s?

“Will you come and collect him?”

“Um..yes.”

“He’s in Priory Ward.”

Arthur murmurs some inanity into the phone, ends the call and heads to his car.

--

At Reception, Arthur asks politely for the Priory Ward. He explains that he’s here to collect a friend.

The receptionist gives him a gentle smile, a sympathetic smile, Arthur realises with a jolt, although he doesn’t know why, and points him towards the lifts and the second floor.

In the lift, Arthur presses the button for the correct floor. Stepping out onto the corridor, Arthur glances left and right, searching for the doors to Priory Ward.

The double doors are locked, and Arthur buzzes to be let in.

At the nurses’ station, Arthur introduces himself, and the senior staff nurse smiles warmly at him.

“Mr Emrys can go home tonight, but he needs to be supervised for the next seventy-two hours. Here is his medication,” she hands Arthur a paper bag that rattles alarmingly, “please make sure he takes the diazepam three times daily, at the times recorded, and the citalopram twice daily. He’s got an appointment to see Dr Stephens in a week’s time.”

Arthur’s completely lost. “I don’t understand. What is this ward? Why is Merlin here? What are the drugs for?”

The nurse looks slightly taken aback, and guilt crosses her face. “What relation to Merlin are you?”

“His best friend is my housemate. He’s living with us at the moment.”

“Ah.” The nurse looks discomfited.

Arthur is suddenly furious with her, her brisk, callous instructions and her over-zealous sharing of Merlin’s private….difficulties. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?” he snaps, snarling gaze sweeping over the assembled staff.

The nurse nods, and apologising profusely, takes Arthur to meet Dr Wilson, the on-duty psych ward doctor.

--

Dr Wilson is a harried-looking man, in his late fifties. He introduces himself to Arthur and offers him a cup of tea.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Arthur waves away the tea offer.

“Mr Emrys has been hospitalised after a mild psychotic break this afternoon.”

Arthur doesn’t understand. The man may as well be speaking Swahili for all the sense he’s making.

Dr Wilson takes a deep breath. “Mr Emrys was hospitalised two years ago for depression and anxiety attacks after the death of his wife. It wasn’t his first brush with mental ill-health, but it was certainly the worst. After nine months of intensive in-patient therapy, Mr Emrys left the hospital and continued with out-patient appointments, twice weekly therapy, that sort of thing. He had a strict drug regime, but recently, he tells me, he’s felt so good that he hasn’t been maintaining the drug regime. This has had, I’m afraid, difficult consequences, and this afternoon, he was found wandering through the local shopping centre in his pyjamas. He was brought here for assessment, and we’ve established that it’s more to do with his lack of medication than for any real underlying problem.”

Arthur feels like he’s been hit repeatedly round the head with a piece of two-by-four until he passed out and entered a parallel universe.

“Nurse Jeffrey tells me that you live with Merlin?”

Arthur nods, slowly, carefully.

“He’s very fragile, very vulnerable. If you don’t feel you can take care of him, we can keep him here until he is stronger.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, that’s OK. I can take care of Merlin.”

Dr Wilson smiles, relieved that he doesn’t have to squeeze Merlin into a bed in the already over-subscribed ward. “Excellent, I’ll fetch Merlin.”

Arthur sits in silence in the doctor’s office, whilst the harried man scurries to fetch Merlin.

Arthur, if he’s honest, doesn’t really know what to do with this information he’s acquired. That little word ‘wife’ niggles in Arthur’s brain, sticking and stabbing and cutting and unintentionally cruel.

He wants it to change how he feels about Merlin, wants it to act like a switch to turn off his feelings, wants it to be a reality check or a wake-up call. He wants it to be the end of his ridiculous longing desire to wake up next to Merlin and see what he looks like in the early morning light.

He wants that little word to make a difference, to be a life-changing event, but all he can think is, Merlin needs someone, and he chose me.

Eventually, Merlin stumbles into the office. Arthur stands and instinctively holds out his arms. Merlin rushes into them and buries his face against Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur listens as the doctor gives the final instructions, absently rubbing circles against Merlin’s back.

He guides Merlin out of the ward, drapes his jacket over Merlin’s skinny shoulders and sits him in the front seat of his car.

As they turn into their road, Merlin tips his head towards Arthur. “Did he tell you?”

“About you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. He did.”

--

Arthur flips the kettle on, and pulled out two mugs. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

Merlin sits at the table, shoulders hunched against Arthur’s possible reactions. Arthur wonders how Merlin can sit there, looking like Arthur is about to murder his puppy, when Arthur has just agreed to take care of him, having collected him from a bloody psych ward.

Arthur doesn’t realise he’s spoken until Merlin looks up. “Most people aren’t OK about it.”

“I’m not OK about it, but I’m getting there,” Arthur assures Merlin, with a vague hint of sarcasm. Arthur realises with surprise that this is true.

The corner of Merlin’s mouth lifts slightly, in a mocking parody of a smile. “Well, that’s OK, then.”

A thought strikes Arthur. “Did Will pick you up that first night? From the hospital?”

Merlin shakes his head, slowly. “No. The police station.”

“Why?”

“I was ‘causing havoc’, as they put it. They recognised me from Will’s constant pestering. They called him. He came and bailed me out.”

Arthur makes the tea. It’s a soothing process, he thinks idly, making tea. Something to count on, to rely on. Always the same, and always with a good result.

He plonks the mug down in front of Merlin, and joins him at the table. Merlin’s fiddling with the edge of the paper bag of drugs. Arthur feels vaguely ill at the thought of medicating Merlin.

Arthur’s mind is already compiling a to-do list to cancel his weekend and call into work to say he couldn’t come in to the office in the morning. They’ll be fine without me, he thinks. Vivian will be annoyed, but she’ll understand that I can’t leave Merlin whilst he’s ill.

Out loud, Arthur said, “Does Will know you’ve been in hospital?”

“No.” Merlin’s head shake is definite, firm, but the unspoken question is, ‘Will you tell him?’

“I won’t say anything,” Arthur says quietly. “But you have to take your meds.”

Merlin nods.

The silence is deafening. Arthur shifts uncomfortably, before blurting out, “The doctor said something about a wife. Your wife.”

Merlin shrugs, and a tear rolls down his chest. “Freya. She died.”

“When?” Arthur can see this is hurting Merlin to think about her, but he can’t help poking. He consoles himself by the thought that he’s poking his own wound too – of course he should listen to Merlin talk about his late wife, whom he loved, still loves, whilst Arthur sits here, gripped by paroxysms of desire for the oblivious man.

“She died a little over two years ago.”

“Can I ask what she died from?”

“Leukaemia.”

“I’m sorry.”

Merlin shrugs. “At least I have those years with her.”

“How long were you married?”

“Four years. I met her when I was 21.”

“After you went missing?”

“I was never missing. I knew where I was. But, yes. After I left uni.”

Merlin lapses into silence – Arthur recognises he won’t get any more out of Merlin this evening.

“To bed, I think,” he says, forcing joviality into his voice.

“Can I…?” Merlin bites his lip.

“What?” Arthur looks at Merlin.

“Can I sleep with you? In your bed, I mean. I just…hate being alone. I can’t get used to it.”

Arthur bites his lip. It’s cruel that Arthur’s fantasy is going to come true, because Merlin’s in need of comfort, and Arthur should say no, but he still finds himself nodding his head.

“Sure, Merlin. Come on.” He holds out his hand. Merlin smiles at the gesture, and links arms with Arthur instead.

--

Part Two this way --->