thalialunacy2 | Always the Last Place You Look: Seven (Reply)

previous chapter | masterpost | next chapter

7

' . . . my storms of emotion have a trick of exhausting themselves.' ~H.G. Wells

"I think I might be gay."

Freya drops the whole stack of plastic cups she'd been carrying. They scatter everywhere, but the sound is nothing compared to the chaos in Merlin's head.

"Merlin," she hisses at him, not unkindly, "you couldn't've warned a girl?"

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not."

"And it's not as though I'm surprised."

"You…" Merlin stops, staring. "Hang on, what do you mean, you're not surprised?"

Her face softens. "Merlin. Dear, sweet Merlin."

"Don't patronize me."

She shakes her head solemnly. "Never."

"I'm no raging poof!"

Freya presses her lips together. "Merlin. What's the fifth track on Lady Gaga's second album?"

Merlin throws his hands up in the air. "Oh for fuck's sake, not you too!"

"Not me too, what?"

Merlin chews on the inside of his cheek for a bit. "Arthur," he finally mumbles.

"Arthur the brother?" Freya says. "Arthur the—" Her mouth opens in a little moue of understanding. "Arthur the gay, attractive, funny brother."

"You forgot stuck up as hell."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, it's true. He is. He's a tosser. He's a snotty English git who doesn't know anything about coffee."

"Merlin, you hardly know anything about coffee."

"Not the point."

"The point being your latent homosexuality, yes, I remember."

Merlin pulls a face. "So you're not surprised. Arthur thought I was gay. The whole lot of them did, actually. I practically had to stage an intervention to dissuade them."

"And how'd that work out?"

Merlin sighs. He can admit it now. "Not a one of them believed me."

She snorts. "This calls for a drink."

"Celebration or mourning?"

She shrugs. "Either. Do you really need to differentiate?"

Merlin throws his hands up. "Not really. 'End, begin, all the same.'"

"And you nag me about Friends references?"

"Hey, at least The Dark Crystal is mildly British."

"Mildly."

"Oh, piss off."

She makes a kissy face at him. "So where are we going tonight?"

"I dunno. Just somewhere quiet? Where I can drink myself stupid in peace?"

She reaches up and slings an arm around his shoulder; he has to slouch a little but he doesn't care. "Sure. There's a place near my flat that'll do just fine."

"You're my favourite."

"Yeah, I know."

Hour Number One finds Merlin stood in Freya's tiny kitchen, leaning against the counter with a salt-shaker in his hand.

"Are you sure we need to drink before we go?" he says, grimacing at the now-empty shot glass in front of him before shoving a lime wedge in his mouth. "And why tequila?"

"Why not tequila?" Freya says with a grin, her lips shiny from alcohol and citrus. "And it's loads cheaper."

"Fair enough. One more, then?"

"Naturally."

"For our health."

"Of course."

It burns going down.

Two citrus wedges later, they kick back on her sofa and watch about a quarter of a Doctor Who episode, drinking sloppy cocktails and gossiping about David Tennant. Merlin feels pleasant all over, warm and safe and ignoring all the things that could possibly stress him out.

Which is, well, pretty much everything outside those four walls.

He knows it can't last. But he holds it tightly in his fist for as long as possible.

Hour Number Two finds Merlin standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a very, very gay nightclub.

Freya bats her eyelashes at him. "You know how you said I was your favourite?"

"I take it back."

"Well, it is close to my flat."

Merlin stamps his foot, honest to God. "And you are a harlot."

Said harlot is tugging on his arm, propelling him inexorably towards the door, and he's using the tequila as his excuse for not resisting very hard. "If only that were true," she muses as he's pulled closer and closer to the entrance. "What d'you think a harlot makes, these days?"

"Distraction won't work," Merlin warns.

She stops. She looks up at him and puts her hands on his face. They're warm and gentle. "Merlin. It's a fun place for everyone, and a safe place for you."

Merlin is indignant. "Safe?! What if somebody—" He glances over at the people milling about by the entrance, and lowers his voice to a hiss. "What if somebody hits on me?"

She sighs a little, then speaks very patiently. "If they're fit, you decide if you want to say yes. If they're not, you continue on with me and we have a grand night out dancing and getting wankered."

He tilts his head. He can hear the thump of the bass and the laughter of the patrons, and it's tempting, oh so tempting. He won't know anyone. He can just have a night of free fun. See if it fits. See what happens. And he has Freya there as backup, just in case.

His heart is still doing a polka in his chest, but— He curls one of his hands around one of hers. "All right, then."

"All right?" Her smile is radiant.

"Yeah," he says, smiling back. His skin is tingling with something. "Let's go."

Their clasped hands swing as they walk towards the door, and Merlin is suddenly feeling like this could be the first good night he's had in a long, long time.

Hour Number Three finds that to be absolutely, blindingly true. Because it also finds him having been offered many drinks by many happily tipsy people, boys and girls alike, so he's a right fine mood.

And although Merlin can't really dance, despite his newly admitted homosexual longings, he can most definitely let himself get squished into the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. He just clutches onto Freya like a lifebelt, closes his eyes, and moves against her body and the other bodies around them.

This doesn't lend any credibility to his heterosexuality, he's pretty certain; by any rights he should be stonkingly aroused by the sort of movement going on. But he's drunk and sweaty and can feel the bass reverberate in his chest with his heartbeat and he feels part of something.

And that's a feeling that overcomes all the rest.

After a few songs, Freya lifts her chin to indicate over Merlin's shoulder. "Fit bloke checking you out," she says into his ear. "Ten o'clock."

"That's nowhere near ten o'clock," Merlin says reflexively. "And how fit?"

She looks a little more. "Incredibly, I'd say, but I dunno how your taste runs."

Blonde & prattish, Merlin thinks, then shakes his head and presses into her a little more tightly.

"I don't know either, and I'm not exactly looking to find out tonight."

"But I need the loo, Merlin."

"Oh, well, in that case," Merlin replies wryly, "I'll just go give him a handy in the alley and you can ring when you're ready for me."

Her laugh gets swallowed up by the music but he loves the way her sweaty hair falls back around her shoulders.

"Hang on," she says, her eyes alight, "I can do a little manoeuvre, here…" And she shimmies around until she's in front of him, then turns, her hands on his hips, until they're both facing the same direction, and facing this Mystery Fit Man.

And Merlin sees him.

And sees that, of course, fucking of course, it's Arthur.

Fuck.

Hour Number Four starts off with a bang. Or, rather, with an Arthur closing a hand tightly around Merlin's arm and attempting to haul him off the dance floor.

Merlin isn't having it, though. His brain may be full of colourful fuzz but he knows, knows he's done nothing wrong. "No!" he shouts, loudly enough to be heard amongst the thumping soundtrack. "You have no right or reason to—"

"Yes, I fucking do," Arthur shouts into his ear. "And her name is Morgana."

Merlin's stomach twists in his gut. But dealing with it is postponed because suddenly he's got 110 pounds of fierce standing between him and Arthur. "Let go of him, you Neanderthal!"

And Merlin swears she bears her teeth. But maybe he's just drunk.

Arthur looks down at her, his face an amazing combination of angry and amused. "I beg your pardon?"

"You can beg but you'll get none of it. Not one pardon. I don't care if you're Prince bloody—"

And suddenly she stops, and Merlin realizes his hand has tightened around her upper arm in warning.

"—Arthur."

"Yeah, quite."

"You're Arthur, and I'm—"

"Getting hot and bothered with my sister's fiancé, well spotted."

"Oi," Merlin has to protest, because it's just not fair to lump Freya in with this. "I'm not—we're just dancing—and she's—" But he has no idea how to describe what Freya is to him, none at all, and isn't certain this douche deserves to know, anyway.

"She's a lesbian," Freya says suddenly, slinging her arm up and around Merlin's shoulder. Merlin feels like his head swivels on a pin as he turns to her. But all he gets for his trouble is a yank on his ear so he's facing Arthur again.

"Oi! Yes! She is! Jesus Christ!"

Arthur raises an angry eyebrow. "You can't possibly think I'm that much of an idiot."

"I can possibly," Merlin mumbles, and his ear smarts, and he's angry at everything. "You don't know anything about me, or my friends."

"What?" Arthur shouts through the loud music, leaning towards him, and Merlin rolls his eyes.

"Outside," Merlin shouts back, very much not leaning in, and after a moment of angry face-making, Arthur acquiesces with a nod. Merlin watches him turn and leave and doesn't think about Brutus and Caesar.

Freya catches his arm in the doorway, and pulls him in for a hug. "I'll be inside," she says gently into his neck.

Merlin flips his top. "You're supposed to be my backup!" he says, probably too loudly, because some people turn to them curiously. "Bodie to my Doyle!"

"And that's why I'll be inside," she says firmly. "Now go."

And the little minx bloody pushes him. "The nerve of some people," he says to himself.

"Yes, quite," Arthur agrees from next to him, and Merlin jumps a little, then rolls his eyes again.

"The nerve of you," he says, punctuating it with a poke at Arthur's chest.

Arthur looks disgusted. "I'm not the one who was dry-humping a woman in public."

"No," Merlin says childishly, "you only do that to men."

Arthur's jaw tightens. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, you wanker!" Merlin says loudly.

Arthur purses his lips. "Fine," he says, pointing towards the back entrance. "If we're going to do this, let's do it."

"Fine," Merlin spits out, then leads the way.

The minute they hit fresh air, his brain starts to unfog. It's just so cold. He reflexively wraps an arm around belly, trying to hold in the warmth of the alcohol and the dancing and the freedom. But he can feel it bleeding out anyway.

He can also feel Arthur watching him, and he bites down on a shiver. He waits for the harangue, but when Arthur finally speaks, he just sounds tired. "What on earth are you doing here, Merlin?"

Merlin is comforted by something still simmering in his veins, something indignant. "What did it look like? And what the hell are you doing here? I mean, I know you're gay and all, but this doesn't really seem like the sort of place you'd frequent."

"Clearly you were too busy making a spectacle of yourself to notice," Arthur snaps, "but Gwaine happens to work here. At the bar."

Merlin is taken aback at that. "Really?"

"Really. So I came here to visit him, and he pointed out your presence. He said people have been more than generous with you tonight, as well."

Merlin puffs up his chest. "Well, I can't help it if I have natural charm, unlike some people." God, he knows he drunk, and pretty soon he's going to say something he shouldn't, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment.

Arthur snorts. "Yes, very charming. Charming enough to—"

"No!" Merlin protests angrily, hand coming up to cover Arthur's mouth recklessly. "I am not going to listen to you tell me I'm an awful person for being out here having fun. It's been a rotten week, she's my only friend in the whole world, just about, and I don't need you here making me feel any worse than I ready do."

Arthur's fingers wrap strongly around his wrist. Merlin begrudgingly lowers his hand. But Arthur doesn't let go. His face— Merlin would say he looked gutted, if he knew Arthur at all, but it's probably no more than how it reads, which is weary disappointment. "You basically just admitted guilt, Merlin."

Merlin feels his face heat up, despite the cold. "No, I didn't!" Fuck, yes, he did, but not about what Arthur thinks it's about. "You are a twat, and a meddlesome one at that, and I can't believe I ever—"

The cold has sobered him up enough to stop before he finishes that sentence, thank God. But Arthur doesn't let it sit, of course.

"Ever what?"

"Nothing."

"Ever what, Merlin?"

"Ever thought we could be friends!" Merlin fabricates quickly. Half-fabricates. He hates that his life has become a packet of lies. "Clearly Morgana had it right when she cut you out of her life!"

It's really just a shot in the dark, an educated guess from putting pieces together, but Merlin knows the instant he's said it that it cut deeply. Arthur's whole face shuts down. “Oh, so we’re going to play that game, are we?" Arthur says tightly. "Fine, then I get to have a go.”

“Fine,” Merlin says blithely. His fingers are clutching at the air and he hates pretty much everything.

“Fine. How do you think your mother would feel, knowing you have a brilliant head full of stories you aren’t telling?”

Merlin feels it burn through him, the simmering becoming anger. "You have no idea what it's like to have to worry about where next month's rent is coming from, you spoilt git. But if we're throwing stones," he says harshly, "have you had that conversation with your father yet?”

Arthur's face hardens further, if that's even possible. “You have no idea what it’s like to deal with my father.”

Nothing pisses Merlin off more quickly than entitlement syndrome. “You’re right," he counters pointedly. "I just know that I’d give my right arm to have one.”

Arthur's eyes widen, and Merlin's gut flips. "I didn't—I didn't know," Arthur says, the anger gone from his voice. "I apologise."

And Merlin stops. Stops only thinking of himself, and looks at Arthur's face, really looks at it. It's so carefully constructed over a person who is clearly worn down, clearly not at peace with anything, despite outward appearances, that he feels a spring of pity well up.

He suddenly, and very honestly, feels quite sick to his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Arthur looks up, surprised. "Merlin…"

"I really shouldn't've said those things. It's just that you're so—you're so—" He throws his hands up in the air. "So Arthur."

A corner of Arthur's mouth twitches, Merlin swears it does. "Well, yes. Unfortunately, it's not something I can help."

"No, I hear you're just born that way."

"Oh, a Lady Gaga reference, classy."

Merlin tries to smile. He wraps his arms around himself again, feels his numb toes squish against the fronts of his shoes. "I really didn't come here tonight for anything but a bit of fun with a mate."

He feels more than sees Arthur step closer to him. "And then I dragged you outside and said rude things to you." Merlin is startled to feel a hand on his arm, chafing it lightly. "And now you're freezing, you stubborn idiot."

Merlin can smell him, damn it. "Don't be a dick. Oh, wait, it's in your DNA, my apologies."

He'd continue in that vein, but Arthur is so near him, and so warm— Merlin's eyes flick down to his lips, which part just the littlest bit—

And all he has to do is lean in. The connection is instant, the spark strong, and for a moment the world is suspended, as if on a string.

But only for a moment.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur whispers, and Merlin feels it against his lips, a puff of warm air. He starts to smile, because he likes the feeling, and he's finally getting warm—

But Arthur's pushing back, back and away, a stricken look on his face. "Fuck, I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't've done that."

Merlin comes up short. He's fairly certain he's the one that had done that. "Arthur, I—"

"No, it's inexcusable. You're just here having fun, you're straight, and you're bloody engaged to my sodding sister."

"…I am," Merlin says, the words tasting like ash. He'd give nearly anything to be able to tell the truth, he thinks recklessly for a moment—but the one thing he would have to give up is the one thing he now can't imagine living without.

His chest aches. He crosses his arms in front of it, rubs his arms. His mind is a rush of sound, of noise, but no words.

"And I'm an idiot," Arthur says on a sigh, and Merlin's not sure he heard correctly. "Let's just go back inside. I'll have Gwaine make you something warm and you can go back to dancing with—What was her name? I'm afraid we never got properly introduced—"

"Her name is Freya," says a voice from the doorway, and they both turn to see said Freya hugging herself. "It's colder'n a witch's tit out here and you don't look about to kill each other, so I'd say we're ready to go back in, yeah?"

Merlin glances at Arthur, who looks back at him. "Alright?"

Merlin feels his fingernails cutting into the palm of his left hand. "All right."

Top of the Fifth Hour finds Merlin rather wishing he had never ventured out of bed that morning. He's got dried sweat all over him, making him itchy, he's tired, making him whiny, and he doesn't know what the fuck to do. With any of it.

The drink Gwaine has concocted for him is almost worth the rest, though. It's minty and warm, almost too warm considering the heat of the club, but Merlin relishes the burn.

"That's my night, then," Arthur says, now that Merlin and Freya are settled in near the very back of the club, the back part of Gwaine's section of the bar.

Gwaine raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah? I thought you said you had nothing—"

"I'm all in," Arthur says firmly. He turns to Freya and gives a little bow, no joke. "Lovely to meet you. Next time I promise I will be in a better mood."

"Not likely," Merlin mutters.

Arthur rounds on him. "I already apologised, but I'll do it again if that's what you—"

"No, please, God no," Merlin cuts him off. He can't seem to look up from his drink. His ears are on fire. "It's fine. It's really—" He finally meets Arthur's gaze, and his heart jumps like it's been tased. "It's fine."

Arthur regards him for a moment, and Merlin… wants to see a lot of things that aren't there, surely. Then Arthur nods, his jaw tight, and leaves.

Merlin doesn't realize he's watching him go until Freya pokes at him. "You didn't tell me he was that good looking."

Merlin glares at her. "He's not."

She gives him a rather pointed look.

"Alright, alright, he is, but he's not… my type," he finishes lamely.

"Oh, psht. You don't even know what your type is."

"How about tall, dark, and handsome?" Gwaine cuts in, a huge leering grin on his face, and Merlin has got to laugh. And once he starts, he can't stop. It rushes out of him in a wave until he's hiccoughing and wiping at his eyes.

"No?" Gwaine says, feigning disappointment. "Shame."

Merlin eyes him, then takes the chance. "I heard you were already taken, anyway."

Genuine surprises flashes across Gwaine's face. "How—"

Merlin throws him a bone, which has the added bonus of throwing Arthur under the bus. "Arthur."

"Fucking arsehole."

"That's what I keep saying."

"Then he also told you that it's very unrequited."

"Well…"

"So you don't have to worry."

"I don't have to…" Merlin blinks, confused. His brain takes a moment to muddle through it all, and then finally, like a flash— "Oh! You're in love with Morgana!"

Gwaine groans. "Oh Jesus Christ, he didn't tell you who it was?"

"No. I think he actually values your friendship quite a lot."

"And I value yours, Merlin, honestly. I'm so sorry, I'm not—I'd never—" And he's reaching out to Merlin's arm, and Merlin thinks offhand that it's a shame he's not really attracted to Gwaine, because he's possibly the best person Merlin's ever met.

"Gwaine," he interrupts, his voice threaded with affection. "Gwaine, it's all right."

Gwaine stops, his hand on Merlin's wrist. "It is?"

"It so totally is." He hesitates, tempted to just spill the whole thing out, but that wouldn't be fair to Gwaine, really, Merlin reasons. Instead, he turns his palm upward and clasps Gwaine's wrist. "I understand, you know?"

Relief flashes palpably across Gwaine's face. "Thank Christ. Future Christmases are going to be awkward enough." And he grins. Merlin can still see the shadows under his eyes, but he understands them now.

Being in love is no walk in the bloody park.