Work Text:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
(Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken)
The spine has been broken.
Arthur furtively looks towards the end of the aisle, making sure he’s still all alone. There aren’t many people around in a public library at two in the afternoon, but still. There’s the odd teenage kid and he thinks he spotted an elderly lady browsing some gardening books.
A History of Queerness, the book title reads when he turns it around. Well-loved, well-read; the cover on the front depicts a picture from the ‘90s, with two men kissing each other. A rainbow flag flutters in the wind behind them.
Arthur’s throat constricts.
“Can I help you?”
He’d accounted for the other patrons. Now Arthur turns around, his cheeks dusting pink, and hides the book behind his back out of instinct more than anything else. The librarian stands there, looking at him a little oddly.
“No, you can’t,” Arthur says, perhaps a bit more aggressive than the situation calls for. “I’m just—in the wrong section. Yes. You’ve organised this library in the least logical way you possibly could have.”
The librarian raises an eyebrow. “If you say so,” he says slowly, and meaningfully looks at the LGBT+ section—it’s very hard to miss, so bright coloured it could be spotted from ten miles away. “If you’re in the wrong section, would you like me to point you to the right one?”
“And what’s that?” Arthur bites out.
The librarian smiles widely for a moment—it morphs his face into something that’s beyond a simple worker that Arthur is harassing, and makes his ears stand out and his eyes shine a bit brighter. Arthur feels a momentary flash of shame churning in his stomach.
Momentary, because then the librarian points towards the door and says, entirely too cheerfully, “Outside. We actually don’t have self-help books about how not to be a prat—or maybe they’re in the children’s section!”
“Oh, piss off,” Arthur snaps, but the librarian is still staring at him, and Arthur’s skin is prickling. Fortunately, aisles have two endings, so he stalks towards the other one and out the door.
It’s only when he’s outside that he sees he’s still holding tightly onto the book, his thumb resting on the face of one of the gay men. Well, Arthur supposes he’s gay—doesn’t know if there’s any other term he should use. Queer, the book says. Perhaps that’s safe. Arthur lets out a shuddering breath and looks up to the sky.
He’ll return the book another day. When the librarian isn’t working.
~*~
“I didn’t think you were the type to steal library books,” the librarian says, three weeks later, when Arthur finally works up the courage to go back to the library. It’s Saturday morning, because he figured that the librarian might only work on weekdays.
He was wrong.
“I was,” Arthur says, his mind whirring, “simply borrowing it.”
“We have a system for that, you know,” the librarian says. Merlin, his name tag reads. There’s a little smiley face behind his name, and Merlin leans over the counter to take the book out of Arthur’s hands. Arthur stares back, stone-faced, as Merlin looks at the cover. “I hope you enjoyed it, at least, if you went to all the trouble of stealing it.”
“I don’t—” Arthur says, and presses his lips together. “It was fine, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing.”
Merlin snorts. “What’s that, gay people?”
“Yes,” Arthur says, and stares back when Merlin meets his gaze. It’s an odd sort of look, intent and unwavering.
“You know,” Merlin says eventually, and waves towards the interior of the library. “We have some book clubs that have reserved the back room for meeting up every so often. There’s a queer club that comes here every other Sunday. They’re meeting up tomorrow, and I think they still have room for some more people.”
Arthur starts. “I don’t… I don’t do that sort of thing. Generally. Ever.”
“Perhaps it’s time to start,” Merlin tells him, and smiles tightly. “You don’t have to be queer to join, you know? No one’s going to ask you what you are if you don’t want to tell them.”
“I don’t know what I am,” falls out of Arthur’s mouth, before he’s thought about it, and he wants to hit himself in the face. That’s his first time coming out to someone who isn’t in his immediate family, and he’s bungling it up.
Merlin shrugs. “That’s alright, too.”
“Oh, and I suppose you’re the authority on things that are alright,” Arthur snaps at him. “You’ve no idea what’s alright and what isn’t, and books aren’t as helpful as everyone claims them to be, and—”
“So, you’re a bit of an arse, aren’t you?” Merlin interrupts.
“It’s miles better than being a moron,” Arthur says, and turns on his heels and leaves. Again.
~*~
Except that he finds himself back on Sunday, staring at the entrance of the library. He doesn’t need to go in, he tells himself. He can stay here, and stare at the doors for an hour. He isn’t even sure what time the book club is meeting.
He isn’t even sure he wants to join.
“Hi,” a woman says, cautiously approaching him. “Are you okay?”
She has a kind face, with dark brown eyes and an expression that seems to be perpetually friendly. There’s a purple scarf wrapped around her neck despite the fact it’s not particularly cold out.
“I’m fine,” he says, more out of habit than anything.
“It’s just,” she ventures carefully, “you’ve been staring at the door for fifteen minutes, and I’m a bit worried that you’re lost. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Make me go back two months in time,” Arthur says, and smiles wryly at her. “If that’s something you can do.”
She tilts her head. “Sorry, no. But I can take you inside of the library and get you a cup of tea? I’m friends with the librarian, so he’ll let me access the boiler. And I’ve book club in half an hour or so.”
Book club. Of course she does. Arthur looks at her more intently—she doesn’t look queer. But then, he thinks to himself, neither does he. If only he had, things might have been a bit less complicated from the start. He slowly nods at her, and she beams.
“I’m Gwen,” she says, and shakes his hand more firmly than he’d expected.
“Arthur,” he answers slowly, and lets her drag him in.
~*~
Surely, he thought, surely Merlin won’t work on both Saturday and Sunday. Not if he also works during the week—that’s not a schedule that a normal Englishman would accept. Never mind that Arthur’s own hectic work week had been seventy hours only a couple of months ago; that’s not the norm.
But Merlin is there, leaning his head back against the wall, until Gwen calls out his name.
“Oh,” Merlin says, and looks at Arthur. “Did you steal another book?”
Gwen looks between the two of them. “You’ve met?”
Arthur’s skin prickles as he imagines Merlin launching into detail about how Arthur had taken A History of Queerness and hadn’t brought it back for three weeks, only to insult him when he’d finally returned it to its proper place.
But Merlin doesn’t. He just shrugs. “One or two times,” he says knowingly. “I invited him to book club.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” Gwen says excitedly. “I didn’t know you were going to join!”
“I wasn’t,” Arthur says, and winces. “I mean, I wasn’t sure. I suppose I have time.”
It’s very subtle, coming from a man who’d been standing outside for fifteen minutes, just working up the courage to go inside. Morgana had always called him uselessly brave, but it doesn’t feel true anymore these days. Arthur thinks he used up all his courage walking out of his father’s home.
“Well, you should,” Gwen says, nodding at him. “Lance is ill, and I’m fairly sure Gwaine didn’t read the book, so we’ve more than enough snacks for you, and you can’t feel bad for not knowing the plot! We’ve read Tiny Little Diamonds, have you heard of it?”
Arthur’s mind whirls. “Erm. No.”
“Don’t mind Gwen,” Merlin says and hands him a cup of tea. It warms Arthur’s palms, and he blinks. It smells like strawberry, of all things. It’s certainly not proper English tea. “She’s the one who made the booklist for the last four sessions, mostly because the rest of us were too busy picking anything to read.”
“You work in a library, Merlin,” Gwen protests. “You’re surrounded by books all day!”
“And I read it, didn’t I?” Merlin says sensibly.
“I don’t want to infringe,” Arthur says.
Gwen immediately swoops in. “Oh, you wouldn’t! A friend of Merlin’s is a friend of ours. Well, unless—”
“Don’t bring him up, Gwen, please—”
“—your name is Cornelius, and besides, we’re still looking for new members to join! We’ve only been doing a book club for five months, you see, and not everyone had time, so we’ve already lost some people. It’s just Merlin and me, and then there’s Lance, but he’s ill, and we have Gwaine and Mithian and my brother, Elyan.”
“Sounds like a proper book club,” Arthur says. Six people should be more than enough to talk about a single book, shouldn’t they?
Gwen looks at him. “Oh, come on, Arthur. It’s fun, I promise!”
“Unless you disagree with Gwen’s opinions,” Merlin says and smiles as he leans on the counter. It makes him look far more relaxed than yesterday, and he stills for a moment. He has been floundering for two months, looking for anything that might make him feel as though he’s not as lost as he thinks he is.
They’re friends, aren’t they? And Arthur hasn’t really spoken to any of his friends in months, and he misses that easy banter, that effortless connection. Merlin catches his eye, and he raises his eyebrow—as if it’s a challenge, or an invitation, or maybe a little bit of both.
“I’ll join,” Arthur says, his bravery catching up before his mind protests.
~*~
Tiny Little Diamonds is about a lesbian Englishwoman at the turn of the twentieth century. Arthur thinks he gets the gist of the plot as he watches Mithian debate Merlin about the meaning of certain allegories—something about a diamond mine, but Arthur isn’t entirely sure how that connects to the main plot of the main character’s secret crush on her married neighbour.
It’s a fun debate, though, with Merlin grinning through his points, his hands waving meaningfully in the air.
“I’m so glad I’m not the only one who didn’t read it,” the messy-haired man next to him whispers conspiratorially. His name is Gwaine, Arthur remembers, as he’d introduced himself with an impressed whistle towards Arthur and a playful wink. Arthur isn’t entirely sure what to think of him.
“I didn’t know I was going to be here,” Arthur says dryly.
Gwaine shrugs. “The more, the merrier, my friend,” he says. “Look, most of these sessions are the same. Gwen, Merlin and Mithian are the ones with strong opinions, and the rest of us watch them talk and nod along. Merlin’s going to make a point about how you can’t tell if someone’s queer—yes, there he goes. Good stuff. He’s very passionate, isn’t he?”
He is, but not in the way that Arthur knows. Arthur knows passion as long hours and a conviction that’s hard to shake; a job that never stops and business emails from six in the morning to nine at night. He’s been taught that passion is to scrawl his signature on a business deal and do something to change the world.
Merlin isn’t changing the world, but his voice has risen, and his eyes are bright.
“Why’re you here, then?” Arthur asks. “If you don’t read the books, and you don’t care?”
“They’re my friends.” Gwaine looks oddly fond when Arthur eyes him. “And it’s something they care about. And the books are good, don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with a gay sex scene.” Arthur colours darkly, and Gwaine continues. “But I’ve never cared all that much about being represented, and I’m not a big reader. It’s a good way to spend a Sunday morning, though.”
“I suppose,” Arthur says slowly, and watches Merlin flap his hands around uselessly, smiling at Mithian as she makes her own point. He’s never known heated debates to feel so comfortable, but they resolve it quickly, and Mithian teases Merlin about his stance throughout the rest of the session.
Arthur doesn’t say a word, but maybe Gwaine is right. Maybe it is more about the company. When they finally wrap up their discussion, Merlin offers them another cup of tea.
“Oh, you got the strawberry,” Mithian says, coming over to him. “I always think it smells delicious, but the taste is so disappointing. Merlin loves his odd tea flavours, though.”
“As fruity as him,” Gwaine says, grabbing a cookie from the jar on the table. “Except I like to think our Merlin isn’t as bland as that water actually tastes.”
Arthur stares down at his steaming cup. Merlin has made tea for everyone, using the water boiler he has access to as an employee. Elyan had to leave early, but everyone else is just talking amongst each other.
“You should feel honoured,” Mithian tells him, and winks. “Merlin only gives strawberry tea to people he really likes. Oh, no, not that he doesn’t like us—he’s very friendly. But his fruity teas are special.”
Arthur doesn’t feel particularly special, and he watches Mithian as she walks off towards Gwen. He doesn’t feel deserving of strawberry tea, or any special sort of consideration, or maybe even their time. But he’d enjoyed it, hadn’t he?
He’d enjoyed it.
“So,” Merlin says, and comes to lean on the counter. He’s loosely holding a paperback, a little frayed around the edges. “You’ll have to tell me if you enjoyed that or not. I know we get a little heated sometimes—but it’s all friendly, and Mithian and I agree during discussions as often as we don’t. It might not be your thing—”
“It was fun,” Arthur says, and is surprised to find he means that.
Merlin raises his eyebrows at him. “You think so?”
“Your arguments were horrid,” Arthur says, just because Merlin is smiling and something in Arthur wants him to stop, “and you really don’t need to flap your hands all about when you’re saying something. But. Yes. I suppose it was fine.”
“Fine,” Merlin echoes, and he’s still smiling. “Here’s the next book we’re reading. We’re meeting in two weeks again, same time—it’s Daylight Secrets this time. It’s about a gay man who’s coming out of the closet.”
Arthur swallows hard and takes the paperback Merlin is offering him. The cover is mostly pink and orange, with some abstract art of what’s supposed to be a man turning his back to them.
“I didn’t even tell you if I’m coming again,” Arthur says, and it sounds as if his voice comes from far away. He can’t tear his gaze away from the cover, and the silhouette of the man. The gay man.
“No, you didn’t,” Merlin says easily, and shrugs as he leans away again. “I’ll see you then if you do. And if you don’t—this book’s on me.” He smiles at Arthur. “I won’t tell my boss that you’re in the habit of stealing from us.”
At that, he turns away, mostly because Gwen calls for him. Arthur isn’t sure if he’s supposed to stay or go, but he finishes his cup of tea and puts it down. They aren’t really talking to him, and he eyes the tea stains on the white bottom of his ceramic mug. Slowly, he puts it down, and walks away, book in hand, his heart beating fast.
He hasn’t made up his mind yet, and he stares down at the cover. In broad daylight, far brighter than the dull lamps of the library could ever manage, the orange and pink are an even more horrid combination. It feels like the kind of book he’s not allowed to pick up.
Arthur closes his eyes, and wonders when being different will start feeling normal.
~*~
He doesn’t wait two weeks to go back to the library.
“Are you ever anywhere else?” he asks incredulously, peering at where Merlin’s sitting against the back wall, reading something—Arthur can’t make out what, with Merlin’s long, nimble fingers covering the title.
Merlin lowers his book and stares at him. “I live here. How about you?”
“What about me?” Arthur asks, floundering. “You live here?”
“I don’t have a home, so my boss lets me sleep in the children’s corner,” Merlin says, and waves at the bean bags somewhere around the corner. “I eat in the staff’s lounge—all stuff that I can microwave, naturally, or that’s been donated to me. And it’s England, so the rain is nature’s shower. It all works out quite well, you see.”
Arthur stares at him. “You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I don’t mean that, you moron,” Merlin says, and rubs a hand across his nose. “I live two streets down, and my neighbours are working on their apartment. Quite loudly, I might add, and the library is open to anyone. Even employees, you see?”
“Is that why you didn’t send me away last time?” Arthur asks without thinking about it.
Merlin laughs. “Oh, we have people banned,” he says cheerfully. “I just didn’t think stealing A History of Queerness was worth it. It could’ve been worse, you know. I was fifteen and reading these gay little romances in the back of my hometown’s bookstore, pretending that the boss—Kilgharrah, he was a mean old bastard—didn’t know what I was doing. Hell of a way to come out when my mum found out I’d been stealing them, you know.”
“So you…” Arthur tries, feeling a bit as if he ought to address the elephant in the room. “You’re gay. Everyone in the book club is?”
“I mean, I’m not entirely sure,” Merlin says. “Elyan doesn’t like to talk about it, and I don’t know if Gwen just dragged Lancelot along because she’s madly in love with him or if he’s anything other than straight. It doesn’t really matter, but yeah, most of us are. Gwen is bisexual, and Mithian’s lesbian. Gwaine is—well, he doesn’t like to label it, but he doesn’t really show any preferences.”
“You don’t have to have a name for it?” Arthur asks.
Merlin shrugs. “It’s your identity, Arthur. If you want to give it a name—that’s your right. And if you don’t, that’s your right, too. But that’s why I like queer. It’s more a sign of something I’m not than something I should be.”
“But,” Arthur tries again, “you like… men.”
“I’ve dated women,” Merlin says.
“But—”
“Unless you’re thinking about asking me on a date, it’s not very relevant,” Merlin says, and softens. “Yes, I do like men. I’ve called myself a lot of things. Is that enough information for you?”
Arthur presses his lips together. It is, and it’s not nearly enough at the same time. “I’m not asking anyone out on a date,” he says. “I’m not—I suppose I am figuring things out. It wouldn’t be fair—I’m not looking for—”
“Good for you,” Merlin says. “I’m not, either. Did you finish the book?”
The subject change is so abrupt that Arthur lifts his eyebrows. “I did, yes. Did you?”
“I did.” Merlin smiles. “You’ll hear all my thoughts about it in—a week and a half. Sorry, why are you here? Not that you’re not welcome, it’s just… to be honest, I didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Arthur says.
Merlin tilts his head. “Well, the library’s always a good place to start,” he says after a beat. “Would you like another book? I have recommendations, and I have many.”
Arthur doesn’t think that, before having Daylight Secrets pressed into his hands by Merlin, he’s read a fiction book in at least three years. He wasn’t an avaricious reader as a child, and by the time he’d grown up, he didn’t have the time for it. Morgana loves reading, though. He’s read several books just to appease her—and maybe to make sure she didn’t tease him for never even having laid eyes on a single book by Jane Austen.
He tries not to think about Morgana.
“I’d love one,” he says.
“Come on, then,” Merlin tells him, gesturing towards the LGBT+ section. “You don’t have a library card yet, do you? We’ll get you sorted after we find you a nice pile of books to read.”
“Merlin,” Arthur says. Merlin turns around, his face open and his dark hair shining nearly blue in the oddly-coloured UV lamps of the library. “Erm—I should say thank you, I suppose.”
“From one book thief to another,” Merlin says, and smiles, “Don’t mention it.”
~*~
Lancelot joins them next time, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure, but he feels…
Intimidated, is the right word. Arthur had hoped something like annoyed might fit better, but it really does not. Arthur hasn’t really felt overawed by anyone since he was eleven, and it’s quite clear that Lancelot doesn’t even intend to, or is aware of the effect he has on Arthur.
But it’s hard not to be. Lancelot is effortlessly gorgeous, his dark hair tousled and his brown eyes utterly kind. Gwen can’t take her eyes off him, clearly, and Arthur understands how that feels. When he meets Arthur, he greets him in a low voice and with a warm handshake, and he sounds genuinely interested in him.
Lancelot offers some thoughtful comments during the book club’s discussion about Daylight Secrets. Arthur thinks about saying something, but his throat closes up every time he wants to open his mouth, so he’s just as quiet as he was last time. This time, having read the book—having read the main character’s fears and feeling his heart beat fast as he did so—it feels oddly more out of place.
Like he wants to speak, but can’t. It’s an oddly familiar feeling, and it’s only when he sits there that Arthur realises that he might have always felt this way.
“So,” Lancelot asks, when the book club has ended and Gwen is harassing Merlin about the next session’s book, “how are you settling into the book club? I heard from Gwen that she found you standing outside.”
Arthur looks away. Merlin’s disappeared into the kitchen to make tea, and Arthur wishes he would come back. Merlin doesn’t ask about these things.
“It’s fine,” he says.
“I know they’re not the easiest people to interrupt,” Lance says quietly, “but they’re very welcoming. We don’t always have to talk about books, you know. If there’s anything you need… Most of us have been there.”
Arthur would like to pretend not to know where there is, but instead, he presses his lips together and gives Lancelot a curt nod. “I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome,” Lance says, and takes hold of Arthur’s shoulder and squeezes. “Are you in the group chat?”
“Lance, let the man breathe.” Merlin appears out of nowhere, and hands Arthur a steaming cup of tea. Strawberry again, Arthur notices. “He’s just been here two times, and I’m sure he has other things to do. There’s no obligation, Arthur.”
Arthur brings the mug to his lips, letting it warm his lips. “I don’t—I could join.”
“He can join, Merlin,” Lancelot says meaningfully to Merlin with an undertone Arthur doesn’t quite understand. Lancelot leans into Merlin’s space, grinning, and it brightens his entire presence. Merlin rolls his eyes and pushes his shoulder back.
“You don’t need to be in the group chat to join,” Merlin says, but he’s taking his phone out of his back pocket and unlocking it even as he says it. “Are you sure, Arthur? If anyone’s pushing you too hard—”
“It’s a book club, Merlin,” Arthur says, and takes Merlin’s phone from his hands to open the address book. “I hardly think it’s worth all this dithering, unless you don’t want me here.”
But he has the strawberry tea, Arthur thinks, even as he boldly makes the claim and types his own name in Merlin’s phone with fingers that are only trembling slightly. Merlin gave him the strawberry tea, and it has to mean something.
“A prat like you?” Merlin says dryly when Arthur hands him back his phone. “I can’t see why.”
“Well,” Arthur says, and finds the courage to smile—because the steam smells like a fruit, and that apparently meant that Merlin approved of his presence. “I suppose you’ll have to learn to live with it, then.”
Merlin’s lips twist with sincere amusement, and he can’t even mind Lancelot’s knowing look.
~*~
This is the sad thing as well as the bright thing about Arthur’s life, as it is—
The library is the only place he feels at home, but at least there is a place that he has embedded into his soul like that; a place he can properly breathe without feeling his lungs constrict. A world that goes untainted by all the thoughts racing through his head at the worst of times.
He doesn’t want to think about the past, nor about the future. But the library has a thousand stories that aren’t his, and coincidentally, it also has Merlin.
“Three hours early,” Merlin says, although Arthur can only see the bridge of his nose and the delicate rise of his dark eyebrows from where he’s hidden behind the stack of books. “Are you sure you own a clock, or have you never bothered to learn to read it?”
“Shut up,” Arthur says easily. “You’re open, and I’m your customer. Where’s the tea?”
“The tea is for book club,” Merlin tells him, but dutifully trods away for a few minutes until he’s back with a single mug of tea. Arthur takes it, careful of the heat emitting from the ceramic white cup, and peers up at Merlin.
Merlin is not paying him notice any more, already back to his stack of books and frowning. He must be doing some sort of inventory, and Arthur sits on the chair. Merlin absentmindedly licks his thumb to go to the next page on his list, and puts his pen behind his ear.
He’s really the epitome of a librarian, Arthur decides, and pokes Merlin in the thigh with his shoe. “Merlin. Merlin.”
“In a minute, Your Highness,” Merlin mutters, and without missing a beat and without looking in Arthur’s direction, swaps at him with a book. Arthur grins, and pokes again.
“You can’t be working the entire day,” Arthur tells him. “When are your days off?”
That causes Merlin to look at him. There’s a black smudge of pen ink on his nostril that Arthur hadn’t yet noticed, but can’t stop looking at once he does. Merlin shrugs. “Depends on when the library needs me. I’m off on Thursdays and Fridays, usually, but I get Mondays sometimes, too. Gaius needs someone to keep the place going.”
It’s not the first time Merlin has mentioned Gaius. “And Gaius…”
“Oh,” Merlin says dumbly, and peers down at Arthur more intently. “My great uncle. Not really an uncle, actually—but my mum knew him when she was a girl, and I’m not entirely sure how, but he’s been in my life since I was a baby. Gaius is in charge of the library, but he’s over seventy now, so I’m doing most of it for him.”
“So this is basically what you do?” Arthur says.
Merlin huffs out a breath of laughter. “You could stand to sound more impressed.”
“Sorry,” Arthur tells him unapologetically and leans back. “Running a library—wow.”
“Big words, for someone who’s coming in most days without even a hint of having a job,” Merlin says. “Don’t tell me—you’ve started your own company, and you were Britain’s youngest self-made millionaire. No, you look like you’re born from money. Maybe—”
“Hang on,” Arthur protests. “You can’t tell just like that!”
Merlin looks unimpressed. “I think I just did. I’m right, then? Wealthy family?”
“It’s a family company,” Arthur confesses. He hasn’t talked about this in months—hasn’t thought about this in months. He wonders if his work email is overflowing, or if his father has already deleted every part of his existence that might be deleted. “It’s—something with IT.”
“You sound interested in it,” Merlin says teasingly, and leans over his stack of books. He is so familiar like this; surrounded by books, genuinely thrilled, always running a finger over any old spine. Arthur doesn’t know what Merlin intended for his life, but he doesn’t need to ask to know that Merlin doesn’t mind being here.
Perhaps that’s why he blurts out, “I wasn’t. I never was—but it was the expected thing.”
“The expected thing,” Merlin echoes quietly.
“Not just that bit of it, no,” Arthur murmurs, and cranes his neck up just to look at the awful lighting. He’s grown used to it, along with the slightly cracked ceiling and the wallpaper that has yellowed in some sections. “There were many expectations. I could’ve followed my father into the family company, but…”
“You can’t follow him everywhere,” Merlin says, and it sounds as if he shuffles on his feet. “And now? Making your own path?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur says quietly, and doesn’t look down. He isn’t sure he could bear whatever’s on Merlin’s face, and he doesn’t want to take the risk. He ran once, and he’d rather not do it again. “Maybe just wandering around until I find a path. Any path.”
Merlin tugs at his arm, suddenly, and then he’s far closer than he was before—and it’s not any sort of sympathy on his face, but sheer determination. Arthur blinks.
“You know what the nice thing is about being surrounded by books?” Merlin says, and ungraciously dumps A History of Queerness on Arthur’s lap. He hasn’t seen it since he brought it back, and his eyes linger on the cover again—the two men that caught his eye the very first time he saw it. “You’re not actually the first one who’s run away before, and you might find yourself wandering down a path that’s actually well-trodden.”
“Never become a poet,” Arthur says, but his fingers tighten around the book.
Merlin snorts. “You clearly know nothing about poetry,” he says, and tilts his head. “It’s your path, Arthur, no matter if it’s been walked before or not. You get to decide where to put your feet next, and not anyone else.”
“No, really, that’s an awful metaphor,” Arthur tries.
“Two roads diverged into a wood,” Merlin says, with a tone that insinuates he’s actually quoting something, “and I—I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.”
“That doesn’t even rhyme,” Arthur protests, but he stares down at A History of Queerness on his lap and back up at where Merlin is laughing, already back to his books and his path and the surefooted way on which he walks it.
And Arthur has just bumped into his road—and might be walking towards something, for the first time, instead of away.
~*~
Joining the book club isn’t necessarily so odd anymore. What is odd is to see them outside of the setting of the yellow-y fluorescent lighting, and the way that shadows play across their face when the light is entirely different. There is a movie—a movie based on a book that the club had once read before Arthur joined them, and they are filling an entire row of some indie movie theatre that Arthur had never even heard of before Lancelot invited him.
“I didn’t actually read this one either,” Gwaine, who’s sitting next to Arthur and eating most of their shared popcorn, tells him gleefully. “But I know there’s a sex scene in the book—Mithian was complaining about the wording.”
There is a sex scene indeed, and Arthur colours darkly as he watches the two men dance around each other. It’s not explicit, of course it isn’t; but there is a heated first meeting, and then one of them crashes into the other, meeting with mouths and nose and body, as if they are aching to touch.
Arthur bites his lower lip raw, and he has crescent-shaped indents in the middle of his palm after the movie has ended. They’ve planned a dinner at Elyan’s favourite pizza parlour afterwards, but Arthur can hardly pay attention to the conversation.
He can’t stop thinking about it, and he can’t think about it, and it shouldn’t affect him like this. He had done his research—he hadn’t rolled into this without knowing what it’s about.
But he hadn’t watched a movie. Not one like this.
“Hi,” Gwen says, shuffling in the seat next to him when Lancelot has gone to the bathroom. “I’m going to catch some air. Do you want to come, maybe?”
Arthur stares at her. He is warm, and he doesn’t doubt that his cheeks have been anything but pink since he walked out of the movie theatre, and he supposes he hasn’t said a lot—but that isn’t that out of the ordinary. Gwen’s eyes are dark and intent, and he finds himself nodding.
The cool air outside is welcoming, even though it’s by no means warm outside, and Arthur huddles into himself, his hands in his pockets. Inside, he can hear the laughter, and even the streets are full of noise. Then Gwen tucks her arm inside his, and smiles up at him.
“It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” she says casually. “Or it can be, I suppose, if you’re not used to that. You’re doing okay?”
“I’m fine,” Arthur says.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Gwen says, her tone going a bit quieter, and her fingers digging into his jacket. “I just hope you know that you can. Or Merlin—he’ll listen to you, you do know that.”
“I don’t know what Merlin has to do with this.”
Gwen smiles tentatively. “Nothing, really. It’s nothing, Arthur.”
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, taking a deep breath, and the sharpness of it cuts his lungs—or that might be something else entirely, “what all of you want me to say. There’s nothing to tell.”
“First time I saw a woman kiss another woman,” Gwen starts, frowning as she stares towards the other side of the street, “I was eighteen. Well, I must’ve seen something before I was eighteen, but that’s the first time it really stuck with me. Sometimes, you can know, but you don’t know. And knowing isn’t understanding. Not entirely.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” Arthur says. “I can’t still be making up my mind.”
Gwen tugs at him. “Of course you can. You aren’t always in the same place, Arthur, and you don’t have to be. We all change. So. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“I thought—” Arthur says, and sticks on a breath. “I thought I was gay, but then I thought I wasn’t, and then I didn’t know what else there was. And I told myself it wasn’t real, because I did like women, but I didn’t really—not like that. Not until Vivian, and that was possibly the worst decision I ever made, but then we broke up, and I didn’t… There was just nothing.”
“Nothing?” Gwen asks, and rubs his shoulder. “In what way?”
“I didn’t want anyone, or anything,” Arthur says, and lets go of her. “But it’s not nearly as clear-cut as I always thought things to be. And I want to say it, but I can’t. I can’t, because then it will mean another step that brings me further from home, and I’m not sure I can come back.”
“And is that what you want?” Her voice is gentle, even if Arthur can’t even manage to look at her. “To go back?”
“No,” Arthur murmurs, and rubs his face.
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because—” Arthur struggles, “that wasn’t supposed to be me. But now I am, and it’s—” Gwen waits for a moment, and Arthur turns around. The street lights paint her hair even darker, paradoxically, and she just looks back at him. She is content to wait, he realises. They all are.
They aren’t pushing him; he is the only one who’s been doing that.
“Arthur?”
“I know I’m not the only one on this path,” Arthur says slowly. “But it’s been hard to find what path it even was—no street lights, no…” He gestures towards the street, and the cars racing past, “No guidance. No red lights. I don’t feel like those men do in that movie—I’m not like them.”
“You don’t have to be,” Gwen says simply, and takes his hand.
Arthur doesn’t have that desire, that intrinsic longing to pull someone’s mouth against his own—not like that, not right away. It is something that builds steadily in him, like a fire that is slowly catching after the wood has dried. He can’t imagine that kind of longing for someone who he doesn’t know, heart and soul.
But he knows it eventually; has known it, even if he didn’t recognise it. It makes things complicated, and it also doesn’t, in some ways. He’s always had this—this time, he can learn what to do with it.
“I think I’m ready to go back inside,” he says, and squeezes her fingers. “Or I think Lancelot may start looking for you.”
She blushes dark, and bumps her shoulder against him. “Not you, too.”
“Oh, you can blame Merlin for that,” he says cheerfully.
~*~
It doesn’t settle all at once, but there’s a change in the air, and Arthur feels more like himself than he thinks he has in a long time. It might have taken an embarrassing conversation with Gwen, and a romantic movie he can’t relate to—
But there’s something he knows now, and his father always used to say that knowledge was the best weapon. Arthur carries this advice with him, even now. There’s something he knows, and something he doesn’t have to apologise for.
The next book they’re reading is Baby Club. It is one of Mithian’s; it’s about an asexual woman who wants a child, and it’s heartwarming as well as funny. And for the first time, Arthur doesn’t read it at home, because the sun is out and there’s a park near his apartment block, and he hasn’t been out unless it was to visit the library in—well, it must have been three weeks.
So he goes outside, and he reads his book, and no one comments on him at all; almost as if they are simply content to let Arthur lead his life and trod his own path.
There’s a change in the air, and Arthur thinks he does understand, finally.
~*~
“—and it just insinuates that her mother might’ve taught her that—” Mithian is saying right before they are interrupted by loud knocking on the door.
She isn’t debating Merlin this time, who is solidly on her side, but Elyan, which causes an entirely different debate than it usually does. Arthur even managed to pitch in to support Elyan, which had led to a dark raise of the eyebrows from Merlin.
Arthur had smiled back, gleeful.
“Am I stupid, or are we all here?” Gwaine says, looking around him. They are all present, in the library’s small backroom.
“Let me get that,” Merlin says. He’d been sitting by Gwen’s feet, cross-legged, and he gets up in one smooth motion. “Maybe it’s someone looking for help. George should be covering…”
It’s not a customer. It’s not anyone in need of any assistance, and Arthur’s heart grows utterly, icily cold. Uther pushes in past a surprised Merlin, looking utterly out of place in his business suit and combed hair. Arthur hasn’t talked to him in months, not since he last stormed out of his house.
“Arthur,” Uther says, and turns up his nose and the book that lies on Arthur’s lap. Arthur wants to cradle it and throw it away at the same time, whichever will protect him most from Uther’s disappointment.
Arthur always wanted to be the perfect son, and even now the ache of his failure is hard to swallow. “Father.”
“I think this is enough of this,” Uther declares, and his eyes pass over the members of the book club, with no shortness of disdain. “I’ve given you four months to change your mind and return home, Arthur. This is madness.”
“How did you know I was here?” Arthur asks, and stands up, still holding Baby Club. “Why are you here?”
“I am your father, despite whatever nonsense you’ve filled your head with,” Uther says, and something in his expression breaks. “I want you to come home, Arthur. This isn’t you.”
“It is,” Arthur says, even though his mouth feels numb. “You’ve got to go.”
“Arthur—”
“You’ve got to go,” Arthur stresses. “You can’t be here.”
Uther scoffs. He looks like he’s aged, Arthur realises suddenly. There are lines around his eyes that Arthur doesn’t know. “And leave you with these people? Arthur, you’ve always been a sensible and reasonable young man, even if you were—”
“You’ve always been a liar,” Arthur snarls suddenly, and then the argument is right back where it was four months ago. “About Mother, and about Morgana, and you’ve always lied about anything you didn’t like—you hypocrite! You don’t do things for the good of the family—you do them because you are so certain you are right about everything, even when you spew this sort of hate—”
“I have been protecting you—”
“You have been forcing me to be something I’m not,” Arthur says, and breathes heavily as Uther falls silent. “You’ve torn your family apart, and all because the reality is that not everyone is out to get you—or me.”
“If you leave now,” Uther says slowly, “there will not be a home for you to return to. Is that what you want, Arthur? I’ll leave you homeless—”
“That’s enough,” Merlin says suddenly, and grabs Uther by the arm. “I don’t often ban people from the library, but I think that’s it.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“No, don’t you dare,” Merlin snaps. “Your son’s a greater man than you’ll ever be, and I hope you’ll one day learn enough to come grovelling at his feet to apologise, but until then—you go out. Arthur asked you politely, but I won’t.”
Merlin is only half an inch taller than Arthur at best, and not nearly so broad in the shoulders—he’s wiry and lissom, and Arthur likes him best when he’s smiling so broadly that it takes up his entire face. Merlin has never been imposing, but now—now there’s something dark in his eyes, something unforgiving, and Arthur reels with the dizzying difference between the two versions of Merlin he now knows lurk under the surface.
Uther exhales, and casts one last glance at Arthur. It speaks of disappointment, and Arthur holds his ground. Then Uther whirls around and disappears, and the silence echoes loudly after the door has fallen shut behind him.
“What a douchebag,” Gwaine says.
“Arthur—” Gwen starts, and Lancelot is already standing up, but Arthur can’t turn around and face them. They are part of one world, of a road he walked until he found something worth finding—and then it turns out that Uther followed him, and that it’s something he can never be rid of.
“No,” he says quietly, and walks out of the door.
He doesn’t follow his father. Uther is already gone by the time Arthur’s feet lead him to entrance, but he doesn’t go out. He stands in the hall, with its old, carpeted floor and its general mustiness, and he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t cry; he doesn’t think he can. He had walked out of his father’s home, and he had known what it would entail.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t steal the breath from his lungs, and all the comfort he’d found has been stripped. Just because Arthur leaves—it doesn’t mean that it’s not there, all behind him, trying to catch up.
“Sorry,” Merlin says, appearing from nowhere. His touch on Arthur’s bare arm is gentle, as if he isn’t entirely sure it’s wanted. “I didn’t want to let you go like that.”
“I can’t be here,” Arthur tells him.
Merlin looks back over his shoulder. There’s a few patrons, but no one else has followed them. Merlin bites his lower lip for a moment, and then sighs. “Alright. Come on. I told you my home is two blocks away.”
“Merlin…”
“If you think I’m leaving you alone like this,” Merlin says lightly, “You better think again, you prat. You didn’t bring a coat, did you? Come on.”
Merlin’s hand on his arm is insistent, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure. He wants to leave, but there’s nowhere to go. Merlin leads him, though, and he wasn’t lying; he stops in front of an old apartment block that is just two streets down, and pushes open the door.
They have to take two stairs to get to Merlin’s apartment. Merlin takes two times to twist the key in the right way, and then Arthur is being forced on a lousy couch in a living room that is one-third the size of his own, most of which is taken up by scattered books and the odd plant. Merlin disappears right away, and Arthur just takes the moment to get to know a part of Merlin he hasn’t seen before.
And then Merlin comes back with two steaming cups of tea, and Arthur takes one. It smells like strawberry, and he closes his eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Arthur says when Merlin sits down opposite him, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“I’ve never made you talk about anything,” Merlin says wryly.
Arthur opens his eyes again. “Won’t the others be mad that you left them?”
“George can close up behind me.” Merlin shrugs as if there’s no problem. “And the club—well, they don’t mind. I’m sure they’re more worried about you. Maybe don’t check your phone for a bit—they can be a bit overwhelming, but they mean well.”
“I don’t…” Arthur starts, and frowns. “I suppose I’ve never really known what it’s like. Friends like that.”
“Oh, come on,” Merlin says in exasperation. “You’re a bit of an arse, but surely you’ve had friends before. You’ve been in school, or playmates where you lived—anyone who liked you, and that you liked back.”
Arthur smiles blankly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever known who I was. Not truly.”
“Kind,” Merlin says, and when Arthur looks up at him, Merlin just presses his lips together helplessly. “I mean—you’re kind, at heart, I think, when you’re not being grumpy.”
“You know how to cheer a man up,” Arthur mutters.
“You’re brave,” Merlin continues. “Braver than most, to leave as you did—to talk to your father like that, when I can see how much he must mean to you. And still brave, every day. You’re worth more than you think, Arthur. And if Uther can’t see that… Well, that’s on him. But we see it. I see it.”
“Leaving isn’t brave,” Arthur says, and presses a hand over his forehead.
Merlin tilts his head. “Of course it is,” he says. “Of course that’s brave. I’ve done it too, you know. Leaving—when it’d be so much easier to just… be what someone else wants you to be. To hide what you are, to be so unseen for a long time. To tuck yourself away in a shadow. But it’s not running away. It’s…”
“Finding your own path,” Arthur echoes.
Merlin nods slowly. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and smiles briefly. “Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.”
“You’re quoting things again.”
“I did a major in literature,” Merlin confesses, and gestures at the piles of books that surround them. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You find your own path, and sometimes it means that you don’t come back. But that’s not a bad thing.”
Arthur thinks about his father—shouting to him today, shouting to him three months ago. He has tried, and it had never been enough. And it had led him to this point, sitting with a cup of strawberry tea and surrounded by yellowed pages; well-loved books all read by a man on the other side of him, trying to reach out to him.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he says quietly. “But…”
“But it still stings,” Merlin agrees with what Arthur couldn’t say, and sips his tea.
~*~
He’s started counting again, Arthur realises.
The moment he had walked out of his father’s house and into the world, holding his chin upright, he had started counting the number of days he had been by himself. One day had flowed into a week, into a month, into two months, and then he’d stepped into the library, and here they are.
Summer is coming, and it’s quite sunny out. Gwen had proposed a meeting of the book club outside, and Arthur had offered up his garden. He still has plenty of money, even though he really should be starting to look into a job. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s qualified for.
For now, he is fine with wandering around.
Then Gwaine had cancelled, though, and Elyan had a work emergency, and it turns out that Lancelot had finally asked Gwen on a date, so Arthur had told them to go, because they didn’t have any other free time that week matching in their schedules. Mithian had just scoffed and told him to have a good time with Merlin.
So, there it is. Book club with two people, in Arthur’s garden, except that they aren’t talking about books. Merlin is instead on his knees in the mud, dirtying his jeans, and trying to heal Arthur’s plants.
He hadn’t known they required any healing whatsoever.
“How do you do it?” he blurts out, watching Merlin’s dark mop of hair.
“Do what?” Merlin asks, and looks up. The sun has painted his cheeks a lovely pink colour, and there is a streak of dirt over his cheekbone. Arthur itches to put his thumb to Merlin’s face and wipe it off.
“Keep walking,” Arthur says. It’s become the working metaphor between them—when Arthur doesn’t know how to say the right words, Merlin still understands.
Merlin sniffs and rubs his arm past his face. It only makes the dirt worse, but then he looks up. In the sun, his eyes are even brighter than normal, and Arthur can spot the faint freckles on his pale skin.
“I never told you about Cornelius Sigan, did I?” Merlin asks, and immediately bows forward again to pull a weed out of Arthur’s bushes.
Arthur frowns. The name rings a bell, but only distantly. “Didn’t Gwen mention him once? She said that all your friends were welcome, except for him.”
“My first boyfriend,” Merlin says, and finally leans back to sit down, looking at Arthur. “I stayed with him for two years, because I thought he’d understood. I haven’t been in London for that long, you know—I only got here three years ago, right after I’d finished my master’s degree.”
“Let me guess,” Arthur says. “He was horrible.”
Merlin shrugs. “Not at the start,” he murmurs. “He was angry at the world, I think, and it didn’t translate well. I just wanted—to be seen, to be recognised, for someone to think that my opinions mattered. And Cornelius… he kept reminding me that no one did but him, and that I wasn’t appreciated. That people didn’t care.”
Arthur looks at him. “What got you out?”
“Time, really,” Merlin says. “Just my own realisation that I could stand on my own, and that I’d rather be with someone good than someone who was fighting so hard, everything, and everyone, all the time. He wasn’t abusive, not like that. He had strong opinions, and he just wanted someone to be on his side, so I was, because I knew what that’s like.” He frowns for a second, looking back towards the plants. “I still get what that’s like. It’s why—when I started doubting who I was, and why I was the way I was… I’ve told you, I don’t like to name it. I don’t think about it too hard. I know it works for some people, but I’d rather just be.”
Arthur does get it. “I think I like the names,” he says thoughtfully.
“Of course you do,” Merlin says, and grins, throwing a handful of dirt at Arthur. “You like things neatly organised. Last time when you were helping me categorise the books, you were nearly ordering me where to put things.”
“Your methods are atrocious,” Arthur reminds him.
“What brought this on?” Merlin asks kindly, and raises his eyebrows at Arthur.
“You always say I don’t talk about it,” Arthur says, “but I’ve never met a man who’s such a bad liar and still manages to say so little in so many words.”
“We’ve all had to hide,” Merlin reminds him, and shrugs. “It’s not a secret. It’s just something…”
“Something that still stings,” Arthur says quietly, and is treated to one of Merlin’s softer smiles—one that Merlin ducks his head for, but it’s there, the soft tilt of his lips. Arthur’s heart skips a beat at the sight of him, so casually digging in Arthur’s garden.
He hopes that wherever his road leads, it’s never away from Merlin. Maybe he should stop counting the days, because he isn’t by himself anymore. Maybe he’s run into something he never knew he could have before.
“So,” Merlin says, and tilts his head. “Now you’ve heard it. What about you? Your realisations?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you one day,” Arthur says, and leans forward. It’s not so much one realisation as many of them throughout the years, all confusing and none clear to him, until he’d stepped back to watch the whole picture. A story of repression until he couldn’t hold back, and a story of walking away. So he switches the subject. “No more secret boyfriends, then? Girlfriends?”
Merlin snorts. “No,” he tells him. “How about you? You’re out and proud—well, somewhat. I don’t think anyone will be much attracted to that giant ego, but—”
“Oh, shut up,” Arthur says, and retaliates by kicking back some dirt towards Merlin. Merlin just sputters and laughs. “I’m just waiting until the right person comes by.”
“The right person,” Merlin says, and falls a bit more quiet. “I think that sounds about right. I think that’s a good idea.”
The right person—Arthur’s thought about it before, and always pictured this shadow. He always imagined he’d immediately know, but perhaps that’s naive. He knows how love can take up space in his head and his belly, and when it slowly starts. He never realises when it takes roots—perhaps that’s why his garden is such a mess.
Merlin turns away, and Arthur can’t help but watch him; the gentle curve of his nose, the way Merlin’s tongue peeks out to wet his chapped lips, the strong set of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat. Arthur takes a shuddering breath, but Merlin doesn’t hear, leaning forward so that he nearly falls into Arthur’s bushes.
It’s a thing that Arthur has never understood, not right away, such attraction stemming from deep-seated love, and it surges up so painfully and so suddenly that he didn’t realise how it wasn’t always there. But it’s there now, at the sight of knobby, dry elbows and Merlin’s long limbs, lean and uncoordinated.
The right person. Arthur wants to hide away in mortification, but manages to stammer out some excuse about using the washroom before he doubles over in front of the sink.
And just when he thought things weren’t so complicated anymore.
~*~
The sound of the bell ringing is so unexpected that Arthur nearly doesn’t recognise it. It startles him out of the book—they’re reading One Mountain Too High, which is actually a translation from a French book. Arthur had picked it, two weeks ago, feeling very proud that he actually had a book he could pick.
“Lancelot,” he says, when he opens the door, his mouth dry.
“Do you mind if I come in?” Lancelot asks politely. It’s raining out, and Lancelot is drooping in front of his door, his head nearly black from wetness. Arthur stares for a moment, and then moves aside so Lancelot can step in.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
Lancelot hangs up his coat. Even his shirt is splotched with wet spots, and Lance smiles ruefully. “Well, I wouldn’t have had to come,” Lancelot points out, “if you’d come for book club instead of cancelling half an hour in advance.”
Arthur winces. “I was busy,” he tries.
Lancelot looks at the living room. The standing lamp, aiming right for the chair that Arthur had been occupying, is still on, and the book lying upside down so that Arthur doesn’t lose his spot—although Merlin would kill him for marking his page like that. There’s a cup of tea still on the right hand side of the book.
“Busy,” Lancelot repeats flatly.
“I don’t have to explain myself,” Arthur says, crossing his arms, feeling more defensive than he ought to. “Perhaps I didn’t feel like coming.”
Lancelot’s shoulders droop. “I merely wanted to check in.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur says bitterly. He is fine, in many ways.
“You know, whenever you say that, I tend not to believe you.” Lancelot smiles, and tilts his head to look at him. Lancelot is perfect, unfortunately, or at least he keeps up the charade. Arthur doesn’t know much about Lancelot’s past, but there is something darker in his eyes, sometimes, that makes Arthur think that Lancelot learnt this kindness somewhere.
“I thought…” Arthur says, and sighs. “I thought it’d be best not to come, for once.”
“Merlin is worried,” Lancelot says, and crosses his arms.
And that might’ve been the worst thing. But Arthur can recall the image of Merlin vividly, and his heart aches. It doesn’t matter so much, the thought of staying away; Arthur has tremendous experience on not acting on his own desires, few as they might be. All he wants is some time—teaching himself to keep Merlin at an arm’s distance will be hard. Merlin has a way of digging around his roots.
“Did you remind him that I am an adult man?” Arthur asks in exasperation.
“He cares about you,” Lancelot says, and there’s a hint of a stern reprieve in his tone that immediately serves to make Arthur feel worse again. “And you’re not answering his texts.”
“So he sent you.”
But Lancelot shakes his head. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Arthur, if there is something going on—I don’t need to share it with Merlin. We’re all entitled to our own secrets. But we are all here to help you, if there’s something you do need help with.”
Arthur lets out a slow breath, and looks towards his book, still opened on the coffee table. The tea isn’t steaming anymore. It’s not strawberry, and Arthur finds himself missing the smell, if not the flavour.
“How did you know to ask out Gwen?” he asks, and only belatedly realises how much that question implies.
Lancelot doesn’t mention that, though. Instead, he smiles vaguely, and leans against the wall. “I’ve always liked her,” he says, and raises a single eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure how she felt, but I did think—there was something there, and there always was. But I was worried that I might not be enough, or that she might change her mind. That there was someone worthier for her, and I’d be left with a broken heart.”
“And?” Arthur pushes.
“And she told me that I had very little faith in her, to think like that,” Lancelot says wryly.
Arthur slowly nods. “And you believed her?”
“Gwen is persuasive, when she puts her mind to it,” Lancelot murmurs. “She knows what to say in a way I rarely do. The thing is, Arthur, that Gwen is capable of speaking her own mind. It’s part of why I love her. And if she did change her mind, she’d do me the courtesy of telling me.”
“But you’d still be left with a broken heart.”
“Some might say that the same would be true if I never took the chance,” Lancelot tells him. “You can’t think for him, Arthur. You can’t make his choices. He’s fought very hard for the freedom to choose who he wants, and I’d hope that you, as his friend, wouldn’t take that away from him.”
It’s unfair. It’s always unfair, but Arthur has been brave for—
He lost count, because he doesn’t need to keep count. But he has been brave, and he hasn’t turned back to the world he knows, and he’s found something he never knew he could have. There’s a family here; there’s people who know him, and who he can’t fool. It’s a little bit terrifying, and it’s so unfair, because—
It’s entirely worth it, too, even if it gets his heart broken.
“I’m not very subtle, am I?” he asks wryly.
Lancelot smiles. “We rarely are,” he says.
Arthur can be brave. Being brave is the easiest thing in the world—it’s what comes after that everything hinges on, and not the bravery itself. Arthur takes a breath, and closes his eyes. He once walked away from his father, and that was the most courage he’s ever mustered up.
It’s time to do it again.
~*~
“I’m not here to come back home,” Arthur says as soon as Uther opens the door, and pushes past him because he’ll never get the invitation. The house still looks exactly the same; even the picture of Arthur after his graduation is there, loosely on the wall. Arthur’s throat constricts for a moment.
“I see,” Uther says, and eyes him thoughtfully. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m here to explain something to you,” Arthur says, and turns around to look at his father. Uther’s face is utterly blank, but that gives away something by itself. His father has never been good at emotionless—it just means there is something he means to hide.
“If this is about your newfound gay tendencies,” Uther says, frowning as he says each word, “Please spare me your lecture. You won’t be changing my mind, as it seems I won’t be changing yours.”
“I’ve talked to Morgana.”
Uther’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “You’ve—but she doesn’t want to speak to us.”
“She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Arthur corrects him, a little viciously. “She didn’t want to speak to me because she thought I agreed with the lies you told her, and the secrets you kept. I just want to understand—why was it so important for you to keep up this image of a perfect family? Why are you so willing to lose both of your children to it?”
“The memory of your mother—”
“If you’d cared about the memory of my mother,” Arthur snaps, “you wouldn’t have cheated on her. And after it did happen, you would’ve come clean to her and told her you had a daughter. If you cared about the memory of my mother, you wouldn’t have forced me to be something I’m not. If you cared at all, even a little bit, about my mother, you would’ve been a better person.”
“I tried,” Uther says.
“I’ve learnt a lot, these past few months,” Arthur continues, his voice hoarse. “About family, and about love, and about bravery. I think you care, Father. I think you love me. But there’s a point where this path you’re walking—you won’t be able to turn back.”
“Morgana won’t listen to me.” Uther just sounds defeated now. “And you’ve become something I don’t even recognise, Arthur. I have tried to understand, but all these things you are telling me…”
Arthur squares his shoulder. “A good man knows how to listen,” he murmurs. “I’m not ready to cut the ties, Father. I don’t want to give up on you. But if you don’t learn, then I will.”
“And Morgana?” Uther asks carefully.
“That’s only up to her to decide,” Arthur says, and wonders if he should tell Uther that Morgana agreed to meet with him. Perhaps not—there’s no use in rubbing salt in the wound. If there’s anything he knows, it’s that he shouldn’t make someone else’s decision.
Even if he worries about what decision that may be.
“You are asking a lot, Arthur,” Uther warns.
Arthur smiles. “If you want to keep your children,” he says, “I’m asking just the right amount.”
Uther’s nostrils flare in a familiar manner, but Arthur holds his gaze and waits him out. There was a time that Arthur felt he should be the perfect son—that he should follow his father’s will. But there’s another side to that; it’s about whether Uther is willing to be the father that a son like that deserves.
There’s no such thing as perfection, of course. But there’s such a thing as trying, and Arthur has done enough of that in a lifetime.
“I suppose I can live with that,” Uther says quietly, and Arthur exhales.
~*~
“It looks good, doesn’t it?” Merlin asks sceptically. There’s a handful of flags spread around the main room in the library—it’s full of rainbow colours and more. It speaks of joy, and freedom, and Arthur smiles.
“It’s an entire room full of rainbows, Merlin,” he says. “I think it looks as good as it possibly could.”
“You think beige is the more adventurous shade of white,” Merlin says, and rubs his shoulder against Arthur’s even as he scowls at them. “I should’ve known better than to ask for your opinion.”
Someone—Gwen, probably—had bullied Merlin into letting the library host one of the local LGBT+ groups’ events. Arthur isn’t entirely sure what it’s for, but when Merlin had breathlessly asked him to stay around after book club to help with the decorations, he hadn’t really known how to say no.
He also hadn’t wanted to say no, which had helped.
“It’s fine, Merlin, and don’t worry about it so much,” Arthur says. “I’m sure they’re just glad that you’re lending them the space at all.”
Merlin eyes him. “So now you’re thinking I overdid it?”
“I’m thinking you’re being an idiot about it.”
“You call me an idiot every other day,” Merlin says, and he almost sounds pleased about it. “I’m starting to think it’s not the insult you think it is.”
“You’re only realising that now, are you?” Arthur asks him pleasantly.
Merlin sniffs and looks up at the decorations again. “You’re such a prat. You should be glad I’m putting up with it.”
“I am,” Arthur says, and the honesty of it startles Merlin into meeting his eyes. “You know, Merlin, I’ve been thinking.”
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Merlin says dubiously.
“I’m being serious,” Arthur tells him.
“So was I,” Merlin says, and grins, but it softens into something quieter, and he jostles his shoulder against Arthur’s again. “Sorry, sorry. What have you been thinking about?”
“I’ve—” Arthur says. He has thought about it in detail, all the words he must say, but they all stick to the roof of his tongue and make his mouth feel dry. He takes another breath, sharply inhaling the musty library air, and flexes his fingers in the pockets of his jeans. “The road, and where it leads. Bravery.”
“All the greats,” Merlin says, quietly teasing.
“That poem you keep quoting,” Arthur says. “The one about the road. You’ve—will you tell me where it’s from?”
Merlin smiles. “Robert Frost,” he says. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood; and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveller, long I stood; and looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth.”
“I still think it’s a dumb metaphor,” Arthur says.
“That’s because you don’t appreciate poetry,” Merlin tells him, and tilts his head. “It depends on how you see the two roads, I suppose. I think—you always talked about one as accepting who you were, and the other as doing what your father wanted.”
“And you?”
“Mine’s much more elegant,” Merlin says, and gives him a meaningful look. “One’s doing what doesn’t make you happy, and the other is.”
Arthur thinks about it. “That makes even less sense.”
“Who’s the one with a major in literature?” Merlin says. “Anyway, that’s the thing about great poems—it doesn’t need to apply to one thing. It’s the same as anything else in life, really. Everyone makes it their own.”
“I suppose they do,” Arthur says.
“You didn’t want to talk to me about poetry, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, and Arthur looks at him again—really looks. There’s a pan flag behind him, and the rainbow flag right on the side. The colours are so bright behind him, but Merlin is the one who steals his gaze instead; the curve of his lips, the openness of his expression.
And perhaps it’s Arthur’s words that there aren’t any words that can really say what he means to make clear to Merlin, so instead he moves forward and cradles Merlin’s head between his hands. Merlin blinks at him, his own hands coming up to cover Arthur’s, as if he isn’t sure to keep them there or tear them away.
“Tell me no,” Arthur says, and leans his forehead against Merlin’s.
“Is this what you meant by being brave?” Merlin whispers. His lips are slightly parted, and his lips are chafed from where he’s been biting them, and Arthur wants.
“I think it’s rather brave, kissing a man whose metaphors make no sense,” Arthur says, his heart beating loudly in his chest. When Merlin breathes, the air is warm against Arthur’s face. “You’re an idiot, and your strawberry tea tastes horrible, and I’ve seen you trip over your own feet, and you get upset when I don’t use bookmarks—”
Merlin kisses him, and Arthur melts into him. Merlin smells the same as the library, and as old books and as if he hasn’t showered this morning, and Arthur wants to hold onto him. He slides one hand down to Merlin’s back, pressing them together in all ways.
He thinks of that movie, for a second, the two men holding onto each other as if there’s nothing else in the world. Arthur understands that sensation, even if he could never have it for a stranger—even if he needed to know the best and the worst of Merlin before that desire even sprung up, but now it has, and he can’t imagine letting go.
Not now. Not ever.
Merlin is as hungry as him, tilting his head and brushing his nose against Arthur’s, and his own hand wanders into Arthur’s hair. It’s warm and comfortable, and Arthur keeps kissing until all his breath has been stolen and he needs to pull back.
Merlin’s eyes are dark, and his lips are red. He is beautiful; he always has been, and he always will be, because Arthur doesn’t think he will ever be able to forget this.
“I can’t believe you’re making a romantic declaration by insulting me,” Merlin says, his voice hoarse. “You’re a prat, Arthur, and you’re arrogant, and—and—”
“And you always give me strawberry tea, because it’s your favourite,” Arthur says, a little smug.
Merlin colours darkly. “That doesn’t mean anything. I’ve always given you strawberry tea, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to snog you when I first saw you.”
“It didn’t?”
“I thought you were very attractive,” Merlin says, “but then you opened your mouth, and that sort of ruined it.”
Arthur is still smiling. His cheeks are starting to hurt from it, but he doesn’t think he can stop, so instead he just kisses Merlin again, and again, and again.
“I think,” he says, in between, just in a whisper, “that you’ve always wanted me.”
“Arrogant prat,” Merlin says pointedly, but he doesn’t say that it’s not true, so Arthur takes it as a win. It’s a win, regardless, because there are pride flags all over the library, and Arthur has an armful full of a messy librarian, and there’s a clear road he has decided to walk, and it’s all his.
“Yours,” he says, and Merlin doesn’t negate that, either.
~*~
“Please be normal,” Arthur says to Morgana. “Please be normal.”
Morgana smirks, and immediately puts an arm around Gwen’s shoulders. “Your friends will absolutely love me,” she says, and winks at Gwen. To Arthur’s dread, Gwen blushes dark. “And I am positively sure I’ll love them, since they’ve had such a good influence on you.”
“Everyone of us except Gwaine,” Elyan says, and Gwaine sticks out his tongue.
“And none more so than Merlin,” Lancelot says meaningfully, and then looks at the clock. “Where is Merlin? He’s usually here first.”
“Because he never leaves the library,” Arthur says sourly. “Did you know I caught him sleeping here, one day? I thought I’d catch him at his house, so I’d gone over, and I’d cooked for him—”
“Cooked for him!” Morgana crows in delight, and Arthur ignores her.
“—and he was snoring on a bean bag in the children’s section,” Arthur finishes. He doesn’t really mind, though. Merlin loves the library, and Arthur couldn’t begrudge him his time with his books. Especially when Merlin lays down to read on Arthur’s lap, and Arthur gets to card his fingers through Merlin’s dark hair. Merlin reads to him, occasionally.
It’s the favourite part of his day, but he’ll never tell Merlin.
“So why isn’t he here now?” Mithian asks pointedly.
Right when Arthur opens his mouth, Merlin runs in, his arms encircling the pot of a plant with leaves that are covering half of Merlin’s face. “I’m here!”
“With a plant,” Arthur says dubiously.
“That’s for your sister,” Merlin defends himself, and then brightens as he sees Morgana. “Oh! You’re here. This is for you.”
“And he’s thoughtful,” Morgana muses, and takes the plant from Merlin. “Thank you. I can’t believe you are the one who has to put up with my brother.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Merlin says, and presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek that warms him to the bone.
Morgana raises an eyebrow at Arthur. It’s a relief, how easily she’s slotted into the group right away, Arthur realises. He’s only been speaking regularly to her for a month—he hadn’t been sure what to expect if he invited her along, but he shouldn’t have thought any differently, really.
It’s the same thing they did for him, is it?
“I’ll make some tea,” Merlin says, and disappears. Morgana gently puts down the plant, and hooks her arm into Arthur’s as the rest of the group disappears into the back room, taking out their books. Arthur waits for a moment.
“I did mean to thank you for inviting me,” Morgana says, staring straight ahead. “I know things haven’t always been very straightforward between us in the past, but I’ve never been mad with you, Arthur.”
Uther is still an iffy topic. Arthur just smiles. “We’re family.”
“And so are they, aren’t they?” Morgana says. “How did you meet Merlin?”
Arthur gestures to the far end of the library—right where the LGBT+ section is. “I stole a book. He wasn’t very impressed when I brought it back.”
“I’m glad for you,” Morgana says, and squeezes his arm before she lets go of him. It’s just in time for Merlin to come back with his mugs.
“It’s still warm,” he warns them, and hands the first mug to Arthur.
“Yours smells peculiar,” Morgana says, and leans over to smell Arthur’s mug. The strawberry is particularly strong today—Arthur suspects Merlin left the tea bag in for too long. The flavour is absolutely atrocious, but Merlin just smiles at him.
“I’ve got strawberry,” Arthur says, and peers at Morgana’s. “Yours is regular English tea, I think. You’re a lucky woman.”
“Is that so?” Morgana asks. “Do you want another one?”
Another one—another flavour of tea, or another path, and another life. Arthur keeps his mug to himself, even though it nearly scorches his hands. Merlin has already disappeared back into the kitchen, and Arthur stares at the door, smiling faintly.
“I don’t want to change a thing,” he says.