Archive of Our Own

He was told to take the long way to get to the Abbey, to drive around the mountain, the road a long curve snug around its base, and take the exit that said Chemin des Pères. It was a detour, they said, of maybe half an hour, maybe a bit more, but well worth it at this time of the year.

His coworkers had seriously overestimated his ability to enjoy the spectacular scenery and to focus on not driving on the left side of the road. Not that he would ever admit to it. The farther away Montreal was behind him, the more his attention was captured by the landscape around him. The vastness, the colours, even the air was enough to make his mind reel with giddiness and elation.

This -- this place, this country -- was all he had hoped for, all he needed. It was the pleasure-pain, the lightheadedness of having a long-denied, taut, barely acknowledged desire finally loosened, realised.

He tried to see as much as he could through the blurry flashes of things going by, fast and bright. He lowered the car window, let the wind in, biting and brisk against his skin. It smelled clean and sharp, cold too, but the sun was shining, golden with a hint of summer to it, of early autumn days.

A wave of happiness rose through his chest, from somewhere deep in his stomach, irrepressible. It became a laugh, somewhere in his throat, that escaped his lips, and was swallowed by the rushing sound of the wind in his ears.

But Arthur felt it. Felt it as it filled his mouth, tasting of the scones Morgana used to make when they lived in their uni flat, and the salty-buttery taste of late-night popcorn eaten during Doctor Who marathons, with their legs crossed over each other, and the scratching wool of blankets around their shoulders. He wished he could have kept it tucked in his cheek, to suck on it on darker days.

As he got closer to his destination, fields gave way to forests and rocky outcroppings painted and splattered in rich reds and bright yellows, shining gold under the sun, outlined by deep browns and the dark shades of the evergreens, stretching tall, poking at the sky.

He followed the highway around Mount Orford -- good for skiing, Leon had said. The mountain rose above him, rounded and old, proud in its display of colours, and Arthur smiled at it, like it was an old friend that he hadn’t seen in years, but remembered somehow, behind the cobwebs of time.

He only almost crossed the dividing line into the left side of the road three times, involuntarily. Which wasn’t so bad really, especially since this was a major highway, and it being what it was, the left lane was not oncoming traffic (no matter what Leon said, Arthur could actually figure this whole stay on the right side of things thank you very much). Following his GPS directions, he took the exit for the 112 road toward Magog, and then turned right on the Chemin des Pères.

On his left, he could see the glittering of a lake down below, with a town nestled around its tip, the waters reflecting the blue of the sky and the reds of the trees, a poor excuse for a mirror when dappled with so many glittering lights.

Arthur saw an observatory point further ahead. He parked his car in the gravel, got out, and leaned against the wood railing, letting everything fill his eyes until they were too full and it was hard to keep looking. He wanted to absorb it all, like a sponge, but it was too big and too wild, and it just overflowed around him. The vastness, the sheer space of it was unbelievable, as if despite the mountains, the hills, the tall trees obscuring the horizon, it would just go on forever.

Arthur raised his eyes as he heard the cries of birds overhead. A flight of wild geese, spread wide like it wanted to wrap itself over the land, crossed the sky, above the lake and the town, and the trees burning red. It made him feel small and soft, with crude edges.

It was lovely.

He took a picture of the lake with his mobile and sent it to Morgana. He knew she would understand. She always did.

He stood awkwardly in front of the orchard. People were milling around him chattering in fast French that he couldn’t quite understand. Not only was his French absolutely abysmal, but French Canadians had their own way of speaking, and Arthur really wasn’t used to their accent yet. Plus, they spoke fast, really fast. The first time Arthur tried to follow a discussion, he had hoped to be able to deduce most of what was being said by understanding a word here and there, but had been completely lost. Leon said that Quebecers tended to chop up syllables and contract words together, things his very low level French didn’t prepare him for. At all.

Most spoke passable to decent to really good English, though. Thank God.

Arthur walked in front of the lined trees, looking down the rows, the satisfying sound of dead leaves cracking under his steps, filling the space around him. There was still that giddy feeling in his chest, that bloom of happiness at doing something new. The colours were gorgeous, the air mesmerizing, the sky so blue it seemed painted on.

There were couples and families laughing and smiling, stretching their arms to grab the reddest apples they could see, calling to  each other over branches and ripe fruits, rubbing them on their jumpers before strongly biting into them. He felt a twinge of envy, had a brief moment of regret, of panic, but pushed it all down.

A hand on his arm startled him.

“Ça va?” a man said, a small grin on his lips. “Est-ce que j’peux t’aider? T’as l’air perdu.[1]”

Arthur blinked, not quite sure he understood properly. “Sorry?”

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t know. Just wanted to know if you needed help. You look a bit lost.”

Arthur blushed a little, heat spreading on his neck. He rubbed at it, embarrassed. The man smiled a bit wider, white teeth gleaming in the light, dimples in his cheeks. He was slightly taller than Arthur, had messy dark hair, large blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and very pale skin wrapped in an oversized woolen jumper, blue and grey, a red scarf at his neck. His cheeks were red from the cold autumn wind and his gaze clear and honest.

“Um, I’ve never actually... done this before,” he said slowly with a sweeping gesture toward the trees.

“What?” the man said. “Picking apples?” He looked a bit surprised. Then he cocked his head slightly to the side, frowning a little. “You’re not from here, are you? You sound... British? Maybe?”

Arthur smiled. “That’s because I am. British, I mean. From London,” he said, and added, extending his hand, “Arthur.”

“Merlin,” the man said, shaking Arthur’s hand, long, cold fingers wrapping around his own. “Is it your first time here? In Québec?”

“First time in Canada, actually. I just moved to Montreal.”

This forwardness with a perfect stranger was new and surprising. Granted, he wasn’t confessing all of his secrets or giving his credit card number to the guy, but Arthur had never been really good at giving any pieces of himself away easily, no matter how insignificant and trivial. But, he reminded himself not for the first time, that this was a new beginning. Time for changes. Besides, it was a glorious day, and the man--Merlin--seemed nice, had a warm smile, and spoke really good English.

“Great!” Merlin said. “Do you want me to show you around?”

“That would be very nice of you, thank you.” Arthur winced at his own politeness, hoping it didn’t make him appear cold, or distant.

Merlin just smiled some more and pointed further down the path. “I need to pick some Cortlands, for pies. They’re over there, at the end...” as he talked he started walking and Arthur fell in pace beside him.

“You’ve chosen a really good day to come here,” Merlin said after a few seconds of silence. “Which way did you take?”

“I was told to take a small detour through the Chemin des Pères from the highway.” Merlin bit his lip at his words, sucking in his cheek, his eyes full of mirth. Arthur frowned. “What?”

“It’s just... I just like the way you said Chemin des Pères.”

Arthur’s frown deepened, his self-consciousness was back. He rubbed his palms on his trousers. “Didn’t I... didn’t I say it properly?” he asked, unsure.

“Oh no no no!” Merlin stopped Arthur, grabbing his forearm lightly. “It was fine! I did understand you, didn’t I? Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I know how embarrassing accents can be, I mean, listen to me! I just meant that I like the way it sounded. It’s cute.”

Arthur relaxed almost instantly. He really was trying to not be so uptight about everything. Really! Leon and Morgana kept telling him to not feel so bad and guilty about it, that a lifetime spent with his father would make any man second-guess himself all the time, assuming every comment or remark was never truly meant as praise. His father was a champion of the backhanded compliment.

Still, he didn’t want to be that man anymore. He wanted casualness and ease, and conversations that flowed without awkwardness, where he wouldn’t have to rehash every single word that had been said afterwards to make sure he hadn’t said something wrong, done something wrong, or misunderstood something. That would keep him awake at night. He wished that he could be more like Gwaine, both self-assured and self-deprecating in the way only people who were truly confident in themselves could be.

“I’m really sorry,” Merlin said, softer, trying to catch Arthur’s gaze.

Arthur shook himself, and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Sorry.” He smiled at Merlin, meaning it, and started walking again.

They strolled slowly along the edge of the trees, peacefully looking around. A little girl with red pigtails and a green jumper was trying to climb a tree, an elderly couple walked by, hand in hand. There was a young woman in a navy dress taking photographs with a truly impressive camera, and three little boys running around laughing and screaming, while their father chased them. The dry leaves were cracking, and Arthur enjoyed the contact between his sun-warmed skin and the cool air that made slight goosebumps travel along his spine.

Merlin reached out to pick an apple from a nearby tree, and then tossed it at Arthur. “Here,” he said. “Try this. You’ll love it.”

Arthur rubbed the apple on his jumper before taking a large bite. The crunching sound of it filled the air, loud and cutting. His mouth was immediately filled with the slightly sour taste of the apple’s skin, then with the sweetness of its juices. It tasted of earth and growth, sunshine, bright clear days, and cool rains all at once.

“Hmmm,” he moaned around the mouthful, his eyelids fluttering.

“Told you.” Merlin grinned before taking a bite out of his own apple. Arthur saw a shiver pass through him as well at the deliciousness. It spoke of happiness and memories, of reunion.

Merlin walked down between two rows and Arthur followed him.

“Just pick whichever apple you want. This is the same kind as you’re eating, so if you like it, you can have more. We can taste other kinds after, if you want,” Merlin said, holding his bag in one hand, starting to pluck apples from their branches with the other, his half-eaten apple between his teeth.

Arthur just watched him for a moment, only averting his eyes when a bit of juice started dribbling on Merlin’s chin. Merlin caught the apple as he let it fall, and swiped his chin with the back of his hand, giving Arthur a sheepish look. The world tilted a little bit more under Arthur's feet. He finished his apple, threw the core away, and started picking as well.

“You have to twist them until the stem breaks,” Merlin said, looking at him. “If you pull them, you risk taking the whole thing off the branch, and there won’t be an apple there next year.”

Arthur snorted. “I had no idea there was such a fine art to picking apples. Do they give you classes about these things?” He raised his eyebrow mockingly.

“Actually,” Merlin replied, mimicking Arthur’s gesture, “I remember it being mentioned in school, yes. In first or second grade, maybe.”

“Really.”

Merlin nodded. “Really. We were probably doing those activities around the seasons or something, and I remember the teacher telling us about it. It’s possible it was even in the book we were using, I’m not sure. We take the apple-picking business very seriously here. Mockery shall not be tolerated.”

Arthur threw his head back and laughed. “Obviously. I apologise for ever doubting the fine art of apple picking,” he said. “It shall be mocked no more.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said, with a perfectly affected and posh look on his face.

Arthur chuckled, refraining from ruffling Merlin’s hair. He started picking again, making sure to twist the apples properly, glad Merlin had made a joke out of it. It made him feel less ridiculous for actually not knowing about it first.

They worked in silence. The sun burned at the back of Arthur’s neck. He let it overheat his body slightly, let his skin prickle under the wool. The giddiness he had felt on his way to the orchard fluttered back in his chest, soft, calming. The faintly sweet decaying smell of fallen apples filled his nose, mixing with the smells of the dead leaves, of the drying grass, of the wool they were wearing, and the overturned ground around the trunks of the trees. It was earthy and wild and comforting.

“I love this,” he said, and immediately bit his lip.

Merlin peered at him between two branches of the tree and smiled, his eyes incredibly blue as sunlight hit the side of his face and shadows from the leaves danced across his cheekbones. For a moment he looked like a tree spirit, an apple-tree man, coming out of its home to talk to Arthur, otherworldly and beautiful.

“I’m glad,” Merlin said, happy and not at all mocking.

Arthur had to smile back, this newfound and strange happiness invading his skin and demanding to be shown and seen. There seemed to be a lot of smiling happening. A warm, pleased feeling filled his chest. He cleared his throat. “What did you say you needed these for?”

“Pies.” Merlin put his bag down and sat on the ground, while Arthur kept on heaping apples in his own bag.

“You make pies?”

Merlin laughed. “Me? God, no. I’m terrible at baking. Mom would never let me do it anyway, she’d be too scared I’d burn down the house or something.”

“You live with your mom?” Arthur asked, a bit surprised. “Sorry, I didn’t mean… I mean...you don’t have to tell me. It’s okay if you are, I just...”

Merlin just looked at him, his smile getting bigger and bigger as Arthur floundered with his apology, crinkles at the corner of half-closed eyes. Thankfully, he seemed to take pity on Arthur after a few seconds.

“Technically, I do,” he said. “Uh, it makes me sound a bit pathetic, at my age I know. But I just finished my MA in writing, and I came back here to help her and work on my novel. She owns a B&B, you see. We live at the back of the house. I work the front desk and help around and I have plenty of time to write.”

“That sounds... really nice, actually,” Arthur said, sitting close to Merlin.

Merlin nodded. “It is. It’s better than having to work a crappy job I would surely hate, full-time, just so I can pay rent and food, and have no time to do anything else.”

“Makes sense. Your mother doesn’t mind, then?”

“Ah! No. No, she was ecstatic actually. Missed me terribly.” Arthur shot him a questioning look. “I did all my studies in Ontario, then travelled for a bit. I hadn’t been home for a while, beside the occasional holiday,” Merlin explained.

“Does that mean you did your studies in English? Is that why your English is so good?”

Merlin beamed at him. “First, thank you for that, I worked really hard at it, even if I can’t get rid of that stupid accent. And second, yes, that’s why. Well, we do learn English in school here, but it’s not the best. Going to an English university and living in Ontario for a while definitely helped.”

“Do you write in English, too?”

“I do. Or at least I try to write, and when I do it, it’s in English.”

“Impressive,” Arthur said. “I wish I could do that. Speak another language, I mean. And write too, I’m rubbish at writing.” It came out a bit more somber than he intended, a bit too guilty. He never liked feeling like he wasn’t good enough. He had spent most of his life believing he wasn’t.

Merlin must have heard something in his voice, because he looked at Arthur with a serious and pensive look for a moment before pointing at a tree.

“Arbre,[2]” he said, and looked at Arthur pointedly.

“Merlin, what…?”

“Arbre,” Merlin repeated.

“I have no idea what you want me…”

“Just repeat the fucking word, Arthur.”

“Arbre.” Arthur rolled his eyes faintly, but grinned at Merlin. Merlin bit his lip, trying to stay serious.

It went on like this for at least an hour. Merlin started by pointing at things and having Arthur repeat the words. Then he taught him idioms, some so ludicrous, Arthur was certain he was making them up. He was also pretty sure Merlin just liked hearing him mispronounce things, since he kept biting his lip and giggling, having him repeat difficult words over and over again with increasing hilarity.

Surprisingly, it didn’t wake his self-consciousness or his guilt, even though Merlin was clearly laughing at his piss poor language skills. Arthur was laughing too, and it was good. It was really good. Only Leon and Morgana could make him feel relaxed like this--like he wasn’t about to say or do the wrong thing, like he didn’t have to turn a thought a dozen times in his head before saying it. Maybe he was finally changing. He liked it. He liked what he was becoming, wanted to grab this possible-Arthur. It was strange and wonderful, and freeing, and terrifying in all the best ways.

Merlin then treated Arthur to a lesson in swearing, which was truly colourful. Merlin had a dirty mouth, to say the least. He loved swearing, and proceeded to do it a lot, in both languages. He argued how important it was that Arthur understood how les Québécois swore, because they all did it a lot.

(“It’s culture, Arthur, you have to know this.”

“Merlin, I’m not about to start swearing at people in a language I can barely speak or understand.”

“Well, at least you’ll be able to understand when other people swear at you.”

“Well, hopefully that’s not going to happen.”

Merlin gave him a looked that probably meant oh you poor naive thing how adorable and patted him on the arm. Arthur couldn’t muster the appropriate scowl and just laughed.)

Arthur took the time to appreciate how the slowly drying grass felt against the palms of his hands, and then got up. There were small grass stains on Arthur’s trousers, but he didn’t care. They could be washed. Besides, they were a small price to pay for the pleasure of sitting on the ground in a beautiful orchard, bathed in sunlight and blinding fall colours, being given French lessons in swearing by a cute French Canadian boy.

They put their apple bags in their respective cars, and went to take a look at the Abbey. The building was not very old, nowhere near as old as some of the churches and abbeys you could see in England, but the pale stone and green roof of the structure rose from the ground, solid and strong, bathed in all the glorious colours of the day, and it was still beautiful.

Once inside, they kept quiet, listening to their steps echo in the corridors.

Merlin asked Arthur if he wanted to pray.

“It’s alright you know, I don’t mind,” he said in a whisper. Arthur shook his head, sparing a look to the high ceiling and somber light. Not wanting to break the silence, the peacefulness of the place, he leaned closer to Merlin, almost whispering in his ear.

“Do you want to stay? I’ll wait. I don’t mind either.”

Merlin just smiled at him, and shook his head. He took Arthur’s wrist in his hand  and tugged lightly. They walked back outside.

On their way back, Arthur wondered about whether or not it would be appropriate to ask Merlin if he was free for the rest of the day, if they could do something else, anything else. He was gathering his courage, when Merlin walked in front of him and turned around to face him.

“Hey, got anything planned for the rest of the day?” he asked.

And there it was. So easy after all.

“No, nothing in particular.”

“Do you want to go somewhere? I could show you around a bit, if you want. If you have the time.” There was a hint of apprehension in Merlin’s eyes, though his shoulders were loose, and he was casually walking backwards, meeting Arthur’s gaze. Arthur smiled at him, all of him. At his lanky, wiry body, pale skin, and sharp cheekbones, made sharper by the way the afternoon light hit his face. At his dark hair, his stupidly adorable accent, his grin, and how easy Merlin was. How easily he filled the space around him, carried his limbs, and smiled at strangers in orchards, inviting himself to be their tour guide with an ease and a casualness that Arthur had only ever been able to observe in others, but had no idea how to emulate, let alone embrace.

“That’d be brilliant, yes. Thank you.”

“Great!”

He looked so pleased by the prospect. Arthur wasn’t sure what to do with the wave of emotions that bloomed fiercely in him, somewhere between happiness and panic, excitement and disbelief. Beside Leon and Morgana, and maybe Gwaine, nobody was ever just pleased to spend time with him. He knew why that was, of course. He appeared cold and formal, and didn’t know how to have fun. At least that’s what he had been told. Several times.

Arthur took a deep fortifying breath against whatever was crawling up his throat.

“So. What are we doing next?”

They took Arthur’s car and Merlin gave him quick directions through small roads. The landscape was all small mountains and forests, fiery in the sunshine.

They drove to a village named Knowlton, following the curve of a lake which had houses and summer chalets nestled on its side. Small boats on the sparkling water were enjoying the last of the sunshine and the wind, before it got too cold. People were raking leaves in their gardens, pumpkins on doorsteps, Halloween decorations going up in windows and in trees.

He parked the car in a small lot in the middle of downtown. It wasn’t big, but it was nice, full of antique stores and little restaurants, trinket shops, and an art gallery or two. Looking around, Arthur liked it already. After a lifetime of big cities, it was nice to be in cozier, smaller places. It was different, and right now, different was all Arthur wanted.

They sat in a small café for lunch, and the waitress who brought them their menus was small and cheery, and spoke perfect English. They served tea and pie and delicious-looking scones with homemade jam.

“Do you want some tea, first?” Merlin asked

“Sure, that would be really nice.” Arthur scanned the menu with his eyes.

The tea arrived promptly.

“I don’t know what to order,” Arthur said more to himself than to Merlin.

“What would you usually eat?”

That was the problem. He knew what he would usually order in a place like this, but he was tired of the usual.

The night before he left, curled on his bed with Morgana, the two of them facing each other, he'd almost cried. He'd felt silly, and childish for not wanting to leave her behind. She had been his support and closest friend, his only confident for so long. Always there, for all of their, albeit tumultuous, teenage years, and early adulthood. For all his heartbreaks, and loneliness and stubbornness, his obstination at going down a path--which was clearly making him unhappy--for all the wrong reasons. She had raged at him, and held him, and spoke late in the night with him. They had fought and yelled, but she had never left him. No matter what he did, or said, however reckless, or stupid, or unflinchingly stubborn, he knew she would be there, always, with him. The thought of doing this whole new, absolutely terrifying thing without her had been a little bit unbearable.

That night, she had stretched her fingers and pushed his hair off his forehead with a roll of her eyes, and she had whispered: Arthur, you know that not even crossing a whole ocean will help you if you aren't willing to change your patterns. If you just keep repeating the same things over and over again, you’ll just find yourself in the same place anyway. Take some chances, seize the day and all that crap. Have a leap of faith or two. And don’t make me take the plane just to come yell at you, you berk, you know I hate flying.

“I’ll take the same thing as you,” Arthur said finally, closing his menu.

“But, don’t you want to make sure you have something you like?” Merlin asked, confused.

“I’m not that picky, Merlin, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Arthur took a deep breath, bit the inside of his cheek, forced his fingers to relax against the table.

“Look. Back home, in England I mean, I always did the same things. Even when it came to food, I always ordered the same things. Number 20 and 35 from Mr. Wong, with extra sauce. Number 12 and 19 from the Indian takeout. Coffee, black, two sugars at nine in the morning. Tea, milk, no sugar at one. Tea again at four. A number 3 sandwich from the sandwich place, but no tomatoes. Get up at 7, home by 6, in bed by 10.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I... don’t want that. Anymore. I want new things. Like picking apples, and driving on the right side of the road, and speaking French. But sometimes I still just...”

He groaned in frustration, not knowing how to explain how sometimes he just couldn’t do it. Didn’t know how to do it. It was ridiculous and embarrassing. He had been able to uproot himself to another country, for fuck’s sake, but suddenly couldn’t even choose something new in a bloody restaurant?

He dropped his gaze on the table, his eyes involuntarily settling on Merlin’s hand. Merlin’s fingers twitched and he closed his hand, his body leaning forward a bit, and Arthur had the sudden impression that, had they known each other longer, Merlin would have probably reached out and squeezed his hand.


“Oh I know!” Merlin said suddenly, startling Arthur. He looked up and Merlin grinned at him from over the edge of his menu, with absolutely no trace of pity in his eyes.

“Have you ever had pumpkin soup?” he asked.

Arthur shook his head, more than a bit surprised, but pleased as his nerves settled once more.

“Ah, well you don’t know what you’re missing, mate!” Merlin said in a terrible attempt at an English accent.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. “God, don’t do that again.”

He still couldn’t stop himself from laughing when Merlin giggled and shot him a triumphant look.

The soup had been amazing, homemade, sweet and rich, crisp salad on the side, and thick, fresh bread to dip into it. They were now slowly eating an enormous slice of raspberry pie each, the taste sweet on Arthur’s tongue, sour against the roof of his mouth.

“This is really good,” said Merlin around a mouthful. “I have to ask Percy to make some as well.”

“Who’s Percy?”

“He’s a friend. He’s also a baker. The apples are for him actually. He makes the most delicious, to-die-for apple pies you’ve ever tasted. He comes to the B&B to make them, because apple pie is contentment.”

“I see,” Arthur said. “I... would love to have a taste one day.” He took a huge bite out of his pie in an effort to hide his nervousness.

Merlin only smiled at him. “That would be great! You don’t live too far, so you could come any weekend you like. Actually, are you around here tomorrow? Because they’ll be fresh and ready then.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh well, think about it!”

Arthur was both incredulous and charmed by Merlin’s casualness, his kindness and openness. He wanted that. Wanted to meet strangers and let them in just like that, invite them to spend the day with him and to please come back and visit, we’ll eat apple pies, it’ll be grand!

“Are you always like that?” he blurted out, winced.

“Like what?” Merlin looked confused

“So... nice. To strangers.” Arthur grinned, not wanting Merlin to interpret his unease the wrong way. It was his own envy that made him this way.

“Oh, well, you’re not a stranger anymore, now are you?” Merlin said, leaning back in his chair. “I know too many things about you for you to be a stranger.”

“Do you, now?”

Merlin nodded. “You’re Arthur Pendragon. You were born and raised in London, England. You’re 28 years old and you moved to Montreal three weeks ago. You work for a branch of your dad’s company. You don’t seem to get along well with him, by the way, because you skirted around the subject a lot. I’d say you have lots of money, judging by the fact that you’re an heir to a company that has offices overseas, that you’re wearing expensive looking pants, and you didn’t even blink when you saw the grass stains on them. You don’t act like a posh asshole, though.” Merlin grinned at him.

“You have a sister, or girlfriend, I haven’t figured that one out yet, named Morgana, who you seem to miss a lot. Either way you are very close. You keep sending her pictures of things you see, but you don’t text her anything, which means, I assume, that she will understand whatever you mean, or feel, just by looking at them. You have a best friend, or boyfriend, or both, named Leon, who lives in Montreal and works for your dad’s company as well. You’re a bit shy and you seem worried about saying the wrong things, though you shouldn’t worry at all. You’re nice, and funny and you seem to have lots of interesting things to say. You’re easy to be with. I think you moved here to get away from something, and now you want to start fresh and new and you’re so excited by everything that is different, and I think that’s the bravest thing I have ever seen anyone do. How can I not be nice, in the face of that?”

Arthur had frozen somewhere around the bit about his dad. He put down his fork on his plate slowly, trying to find something to say as Merlin’s eyes went wide with shock and he covered his mouth with his hand.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled between his fingers. “Arthur, I’m so sorry!” He reached out and grabbed Arthur’s hand to squeeze it, realized what he was doing, let Arthur’s hand drop on the table, and put his own in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to... didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Sorry. My words they... get away from me sometimes. It’s a writer thing, I think. I can’t help but observe people and try to understand them. They’re mysteries and I like figuring them out. Especially when I think they’re interesting and worth knowing and mom always tells me to be careful because some people don’t like that, and I should just learn not to say anything, except here I am still talking, so I’m going to shut up now. Sorry. Really sorry.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I... you... you looked shocked”

“Oh. Um... I was shocked because I wasn’t aware I had said so much. About me, I mean. I don’t usually talk about me that much. Or at all.”

He hadn’t even realised he had done so, in fact.

“I’m still sorry. I made you uncomfortable.” Merlin twisted his hands together.

Arthur didn’t want to lose the easiness they had developed so fast between them, so he steadied himself, pushed down his instinctive reflex to close himself off, ignore the unease that wanted to creep under his skin.

“My sister,” he said.

“What?”

“Morgana is my sister, half-sister in fact, not my girlfriend. And yes, we’re very close, you were right about that. And yes, you were also right about my father, and Leon is my best friend, not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Arthur bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to let that slip. Maybe Merlin wouldn’t read anything into it, though judging by the slight quirk of his lips, and the way his eyes rounded a tiny bit, the implication hadn’t gone past him. He said nothing, and Arthur was grateful he didn’t push it.

Arthur cleared his throat again. “You really are perceptive, aren’t you?”

“I’m a good listener. I read between the lines.” Merlin shrugged.

“Whatever you say, Sherlock,” Arthur replied with a smile.

Merlin visibly sighed in relief and took another bite of his pie. “You didn’t say if I was right about the money, though.”

Arthur sighed. “Yes, Merlin. You were right about the money.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Merlin said with a smirk.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well... how about you tell me some things too, then?” he said, and Merlin quirked an eyebrow questionably at him. “Just so we’re even.”

“I could tell you about the book I’m writing. If you’re interested,” Merlin said, looking a bit shy. It was... really endearing actually.

Arthur straightened in his chair, curious. “I’d love to hear about it.”

A soft look passed over Merlin’s face, almost fond. It quickly was replaced by a spark of excitement. Arthur wanted to see it again, that brief moment where Merlin had been vulnerable, gentle, light.

“Well...,” Merlin started, clearly a bit nervous like he didn’t talk about it that much. Maybe he wasn’t as confident about it then he seemed. There was a rush of affection inside Arthur's chest at this, surprising and sudden.

“Well, it’s like this,” Merlin started again. “The setting is this small inn. Yellow, white window frames, white porch, tall trees on each sides. It’s cozy and warm, inviting. It is owned by a middle-aged woman and she runs it with the help of her son.”

Arthur smiled, instantly thinking of Merlin and his mother. Merlin’s gaze was focused on something Arthur couldn’t see, drawn into whatever world his story inhabited.

“The inn is... special,” Merlin continued. “Magical, supernatural, they don’t really know. It’s not evil though, not a haunted house, or anything scary and foreboding. It’s... safe. It’s home. They notice it in small things, in small ways. It affects them. Affects their talents, rather. Whatever your hands do, make, create, inside its walls, or around on its grounds gets enhanced, somehow. And not just the mother and the son, but whoever comes inside it.”

“How do you mean?” Arthur whispered before he could stop himself, afraid he might break Merlin’s stride. But Merlin just gave him a grin, put his fingers on the edge of the table and continued, this time looking at Arthur as he talked. His eyes were very wide, and very blue.

“The mother has always been good at gardening. Has always kept tons of plants around, has always tended to a small vegetable garden. Now, when she tends to her plants, her garden gives her the biggest and ripest vegetables in town. They are always the sweetest, and they thrive under her hands like no garden had ever done before. The plants grow faster, it seems, under her care. The flowers bloom a bit longer than usual, the leaves on the trees stay green slightly longer than the trees off the property. It’s small details, but they are noticeable. The son is... well, the son is a writer.”

At that, Merlin rolled his eyes in a self-deprecating manner and Arthur laughed low, fond.

“He has always been good at telling stories, you see. He used to talk too much. Still talks too much sometimes. Doesn’t mind his own business, lets his mouth run away with him where he should be more tactful. Anyway, when he’s home, he crafts stories in this small converted shed at the bottom of the garden. A small desk, frames on the walls, a small bed in the corner, and a heater for cold days. When he writes, his words they... they tend to become alive somehow. Not literally--characters don’t jump out of the page or anything. But somehow, his words are more convincing. They permeate the page in a more tangible manner. And at night, if the son wakes up, he can see them in the dark, the words, floating above his head. Small lights in the darkness, as if he breathed them out in his sleep, as if they wanted to go out and take a stroll into the world.”

“That’s wonderful,” Arthur said, lost in the pictures Merlin was creating, in the catches his words had around his accent, the slight mispronunciations adding to the otherworldliness of his story, his voice deep, round and comforting. He could see why Merlin was a writer.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yes. Tell me more?”

Merlin beamed at him, blinding, and he perked up. “The son has a friend. A baker. The baker makes the most wondrous pies and cakes, and any other kind of pastries you can think of. Bread too. The moistest, most delicious bread, fragrant, fresh. That’s his talent. Now, when he comes to the inn, and bakes his pies in the kitchen there, they acquire a certain quality.”

“A certain quality?”

“Depending what kind of pie it is, it ‘shares’ an emotion with the people who eat it. Like blackberry pie is longing--the sweet kind, not the sad kind. Pumpkin pie is comfort, lemon pie is joy, apple pie is--”

“Contentment.” Arthur remembered.

Merlin nodded. “Apple pie is contentment.”

“How did they figure that out, anyway?”

Merlin blushed. “Ah well, you see, there was The Pie Incident. Very awkward. Very embarrassing.”

Oh, now Arthur was interested. He leaned forward in his chair, but Merlin avoided his gaze.

“Oh, come on, Merlin! You have to tell me.” He reached out and poked at Merlin’s hand to get his attention. Merlin looked at him, chewing on his bottom lip, clearly blushing.

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “The first time it happened they didn’t realize anything was different. It was raspberry pie.” He pointed at their plates. “Raspberry pie is elation. But they were between friends, they were already having fun, and they had drunk large quantities of wine, so it went unnoticed. The second time it happened, the baker had come for a visit. The mother suggested they all have dinner together. She invited the couple who was staying at the inn, and a close neighbour, a friend of the son, who lived nearby. They decided they would have pie for dessert, so the baker made one in the inn’s kitchen. All went well throughout dinner. Then, they serve the pie and it got... embarrassing. It was a banana-chocolate pie.”

“What’s banana-chocolate?” Arthur asked, trying to not laugh at Merlin’s stricken expression.

“Banana-chocolate pie is carnal lust,” Merlin said, burrowing his face in his hands.

Arthur burst out laughing, throwing his head back. “Oh come on, Merlin! It’s just a story, yeah? I get it’s all inspired by you and your friends and mother, and I can see how suddenly feeling lust like that while sitting across from your mum, surrounded by your friends and strangers, would get awkward. You made it up, it can’t be that embarrassing. This is gold.”

Merlin just groaned.

“Hey,” Arthur said, softer. “I love it. I think it’s a wonderful story.”

Merlin peeked at him from between his fingers. “Thank you,” he mumbled. He took a deep breath. “It’s... very true to life in many ways.”

“I do really like it,” Arthur said, making sure that Merlin could see how sincerely he meant it. Merlin had made it all so tangible somehow, so real.

“Thanks. I’m working on it. It doesn’t have a very precise plot yet, so I’m spending lots of time fleshing out the characters and settings. It’s missing something still, I’m not sure what. We’ll see.”

“So. What’s pecan pie? It’s my favourite.”

“Oh!” Merlin smiled, happiness returning to his features. “I don’t know, we haven't tried that one yet!”

“What would happen if I went there?” Arthur asked. Merlin was browsing a display of ornaments in the town’s Christmas Store. You can’t pass a store where it’s Christmas all year round, he had said, like it was the most preposterous idea in the world. Arthur didn’t really see the point. Christmas had never really been great for him. Nothing like in the movies. Just the same quiet, cold, terribly stiff dinner with his dad and Morgana. Except with tinsel and lights hanging in the house, arranged by the servants--because it’s traditional and expected--and taken down on the 26th. He always got drunk with Morgana afterwards though, the only good thing about the whole ordeal. It hadn’t occurred to him until now, that this year he could make it different. He hoped he could convince Morgana to come visit him.

Merlin obviously approached the whole holiday thing with a completely opposite attitude if the way his eyes sparkled, and the almost manic grin on his face were anything to go by.

“Went where?”

“Your magical inn. What would happened if I went there.” Arthur looked a train that kept going round and round a miniature village, all lights and fake snow. “Can’t believe I let you drag me in here, it’s not even that close to Halloween, yet!”

“Oh shush, I’m sure you secretly love it. If not, you should learn. And it depends,” Merlin said absorbed in the contemplation of some Winnie-the-Pooh Christmas ornaments. “Can you do anything special with your hands? Do you make things? Or care for things?”

Arthur took a moment to think about that. He wasn’t the artistic type. He didn’t make anything, really. He was shite at any kind of visual arts, didn’t know any craft, was a terrible cook, had never tended a garden in his life, and hadn’t written anything not pertaining to his work since university.

“Not really.” He sighed. “And don’t shush me!” He was disappointed. There was a small part of him that wanted very much, somehow, to be a part of Merlin’s story. To be that important, if only for a paragraph, a line, a word.

“It doesn't have to be anything artistic,” Merlin said, as if he had read Arthur’s mind. “At least I don’t think so. My uncle Gaius is a doctor. He fixes people with his hands. It’s not artistic, but it counts. And I’ll shush you anytime you say stupid things, and saying it’s too early for Christmas is stupid.”

“What happens for your uncle, in the inn? And, thinking you shouldn't get ahead of yourself and just take one holiday at a time is not stupid.”

At this point, Arthur was just arguing for the fun of it, and judging by the playful smile on Merlin’s lips, he wasn't the only one.

“Not sure. Nobody has injured themselves while he was there, yet. You can never have too much holidays Arthur. Jesus, what do they teach you in England?”

“Can’t you just make it up?” Arthur asked, looking at Merlin, his long body bent as he looked closely at the display, the lights around him casting coloured spots all over his skin. “They teach us to be organised, critical, and most importantly--sensible. All good qualities you very obviously lack.”

“If by that, you mean that I am not a total bore, than yes, I’ll agree. And no, I can’t make it up. That’s not how this story works,” he said, before straightening up and turning toward him. “So, what can you do?”

“I won’t pretend to understand the way your writer’s mind works.” Arthur shrugged. “I can’t do much. I guess... I don’t need a level to hang things straight. I see if they are perfectly straight or not just by looking at them. I can do it for shelves and things like that too. Would that work?”

“Dunno,” Merlin said. “Probably.”

“But what would that--”

“Can’t make it up, but!” He raised a hand to interrupt Arthur. “But, if I had to guess, maybe... um... maybe whenever you enter a room, frames on the walls become crooked by themselves, just so you can straighten them up, just so they can feel your hand upon them. And when you do straighten them up, the sound them make is like a relieved sigh, maybe a swoon.”

Arthur liked that. Warmth spread through his body. “Swooning frames?”

“Swooning frames.” Merlin nodded. “So,” he said showing him the Winnie-the-Pooh ornaments. “Which one is your favourite?”

It was strange and a little disconcerting for Arthur to see stores selling things he could get around the corner of his flat back in London, as something foreign. It certainly drove it home that he wasn’t there anymore.

They walked for a while before sitting at a picnic table in a little park by a small river. The sun was still high and warm, though the wind had picked up a bit and made Arthur shiver. He listened to the crackle of the leaves being tossed around in the street, the falling water nearby, the faint sound of ducks quacking in the distance, and most of all, to Merlin’s voice telling him about where he grew up, and the weirdest people he had seen at the B&B.

He hadn’t laughed so much in such a long time. He was relaxed and at ease, like he was filling just the right place. Not a square peg trying to be forced into a round hole. He was trying to change, trying desperately to be the person he wanted to be, this possible-Arthur.

Merlin made faces when he talked and his hands moved everywhere. He had that way of looking at Arthur like he was mocking or teasing him, but always softened by a small smile that said he didn’t really mean it. Instead of finding that irritating, Arthur just gave back as good as he got earning him one or two Prat from Merlin that, to Arthur’s surprised, sounded almost fond.

The afternoon was slowly coming to an end when Merlin grew silent.

“I think we should go,” he said eyes fixed on the water beside them. “I don’t think I can leave my car at the Abbey much later than that. Not that I think the monks would have me towed but...” He shrugged.

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur whispered, not really wanting to move, silently willing the moment to stretch on forever, if only for the fact that he was, right now, exactly the person he wanted to be. He was scared that the moment he got in his car and drove away, he would be back to square one, trying to figure himself out, awkward and standoffish.

Merlin interrupted the quiet, slightly tensed moment they were having, by bumping his knee hard on the edge of the table while standing up.

“Ow, tabarnak![3]” he exclaimed through gritted teeth, rubbing his knee.

“Careful, Merlin, you shouldn’t swear so much, it’s quite uncouth,” Arthur said, teasing, trying to keep a straight face.

Merlin glared and pointed at him. “I should never have taught you how to recognise those, you... you... plonker? Arsehole? Git?”

“You watch too much British telly,” Arthur said rolling his eyes.

Merlin scoffed. “Bollocks.”

The world was on fire. The orange light of the sun as it was going down drenched everything. The tops of the trees were flames against the sky, and the deep shadows around their trunks were wet and foreboding. It smelled like dirt and lingering sunshine, the increasing coolness a reminder that night was near.

It was creepy and chilling in the best of ways, like only autumn could be.

Merlin’s car was the only one left in the parking lot.

Arthur had his hands in his pockets, unsure if he should hug Merlin or not. “Thank you,” he said, “for today. You really didn’t have to, and I realise I may have taken you away from things you had to do, so--”

“Arthur, it’s fine. I didn’t have anything planned beyond maybe do a bit of writing. And beside, I had a wonderful time.”

“Me too,” Arthur whispered.

“And it allowed me to practice my English. There’s not a lot of people here to have conversations with me. I’m afraid I’m losing it slowly.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad I could be of some help.”

Merlin hummed. “You’ll have to come back and help me practice more, otherwise I might switch back completely to French, and then where would I be with my bloody book, huh?”

Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes. “You’re going to do that British thing a lot, aren’t you?”

“Damn straight, I am!” Merlin smiled. “Mate,” he added as an afterthought, punching Arthur lightly on the shoulder.

“I guess I should come back to at least teach you how to do it properly. This is getting ridiculous, you know?”

“Nonsense! I’m not a native-speaker, I’m allowed to pick and choose from whatever slang I want.”

“If you say so, Merlin.”

“I do. I know these things, don’t argue. Here give me your cellphone.”

“If you want to go British, you should say mobile,” Arthur said, handing him his phone.

“If you want people to understand you here, you should call it a cellphone."

Merlin typed something quickly and handed it back to Arthur.

“There. That’s my cell number, the number of the B&B and its address. You can call whenever you want. I don’t go anywhere and I’ll be happy to show you around other places. That is, if you want.”

“Thanks. I will.” Arthur looked down at his phone, shyness creeping up his spine. He wanted to say more. He wanted to explain, how very much this day had meant to him. How he wished he could wrap it around himself to remind himself what he could be.

“If you come next weekend,” Merlin said, taking a step closer to Arthur, “we’re going to carve pumpkins for Halloween, and Percy will make pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie is--”

“Comfort,” they said at the same time. Arthur chuckled.

“It sounds wonderful. I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Merlin’s voice almost a whisper. “Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“If you have nothing planned tomorrow, you could stay at the B&B, you know? There’s plenty of rooms.” Merlin raised his eyes and looked at him. “I’d love it. If you stayed, I mean. I’d love that.”

That was the moment, he knew. Merlin’s eyes were blue and and gold in the fading light, his lips slightly parted and soft looking. There was a twitch in his fingers, like he was restraining himself from reaching out for Arthur, and Arthur only wanted, in that moment, to reach back and grasp his fingertips. If only to let Merlin know that he cared. He really, really did. That was the moment where possibilities lay ahead, a whole new thing to explore, and all he had to do was to grasp it, hold on tight.

He couldn’t-- too much, too soon, too fast. He took a step back.

“Too much work,” he said. “Maybe next weekend though, if everything goes well at work.”

Merlin just smiled, disappointment flashing through his eyes briefly. Arthur’s chest tightened.

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good,” Merlin said in a cheery voice.

“See you soon, Merlin,” Arthur said, walking to his car. “By the way.” He turned around to look at Merlin. “I love your accent. I don’t think it’s stupid at all. It’s very nice in fact... and cute.”

Merlin’s smile was almost as blinding as the sun going down behind him, and Arthur had to lower his eyes against its brightness.

He got in his car and waved at Merlin as he drove past him. Merlin waved back, enthusiastically, confident and still a bit too bright in the encroaching darkness.

“Idiot, idiot,” Arthur mumbled, emphasizing each word with a small banging of his forehead against the steering wheel.

He was parked by the side of the road. His hands were shaking, his legs jittery. He stayed like that trying to get his breathing and nerves under control. It was stuffy in the car and he opened the window to let the cool air of the evening drift over him. He let the wind caress his face. The rich autumn smells helped settle him. He let his skin get cold, until it was all he could feel, all he could smell, only focusing on the sound of the occasional car passing by and the caw! caw! of nearby crows, of the leaves rustling in the trees bordering the road, littering the ground.

He finally took a deep breath and dialled Morgana’s number, hoping she wouldn’t be angry at being woken up.

“Do you like him, then?” she said in a sleepy voice as soon as she answered.

“How did you...? Wha...?”

Morgana let out an exasperated sigh, and Arthur found comfort in knowing exactly the way she was rolling her eyes right now. He heard the shuffling of bed sheets, and the clunk of the bed’s headboard against the wall as she most probably leaned on it.

“He sent me a picture,” she said.

“He what? When?” Arthur was confused. When did Merlin and his sister have a little chat?

“You were probably in the loo,” she said. “He took a picture of himself smiling and wrote ‘Hello, Arthur’s sister, I’m Merlin’. He’s cute.”

Arthur couldn’t help laughing. He should be annoyed, but he really thought it was rather adorable.

“So, do you like him? Are you having one of your crises?” Her voice was teasing, but he knew her enough to know that she was concerned.

“I’m trying not to have one, actually,” Arthur whispered, pressing the phone harder against his ear, like it could bring her closer to him.

“And how’s that working for you?”

“Not very well,” he answered.

“Oh, Arthur. Tell me.” Her voice was soothing in its familiarity.

“I don’t know. Of course, I liked him. He was nice, and fun, and we... I had a great time, today. But I just met him this morning!” He let out a frustrated groan.

“So? Does that mean you can’t see if there could be something more?”

“I’m going to see him again next weekend.”

“So why are you having a mini-breakdown at the side of the road? I can hear the cars passing by, Arthur, and... are those crows?”

“He invited me to spend the night.”

Morgana drew a quick breath.

“Not like that! He lives at the back of a B&B. Although... although I think he meant it like that too. I think he meant to let me choose.”

“So he likes you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? But, it’s. It’s too soon Morgana, no? I just moved here and...” Arthur sighed, frustrated.

“Is it really too soon? Or do you just think it should be too soon? Or did you just panic, like you always do, because you’re afraid of being inadequate?”

He winced. Trust Morgana to not mince her words. She took a deep breath.

“Arthur, we talked about this before. You always wait and wait. You want to make sure, you want to look at all possibilities, you think of the pros and cons, and you do it for so long, long enough that it’s too late so you never had to take a chance to begin with.”

“I know.” Arthur rubbed his face with his hand, passed it through his hair. “I know.”

“So, let me ask you again, and don’t think that just because I can’t see you, I don’t know when you’re lying: Do you like this Merlin?”

Arthur thought for a moment. He thought of Merlin’s easy smile, and the feel of his hand on his arm. He thought about the way he spoke, his accent, how low and round and strangely comforting his voice was. He thought of how at ease he had felt, how Merlin had seen through him, looked at him, right away. He thought of how brave he had felt beside him, how sure in his own skin.

“I think I could like him, yes. A lot. I think I could like him a whole lot if... given time.”

There was a long silence on the other side of the line.

“Morgana?” Arthur looked briefly at his mobile to make sure the connection hadn’t been cut.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “You should go back Arthur, if he invited you, you should go back.”

“I’ll see him next weekend, though,” he said weakly, but it sounded more like a question.

Morgana seemed to hear it too. “Will you? Or will you convince yourself that it’s too much, too soon, too fast?”

“What if it is?”

“Then it is. But Arthur, Arthur, what if it isn’t?”

Arthur swallowed, a lump in his throat. “He tells stories that feel real, Morg. Wonderful stories. He tells them like they’re true.”

She laughed softly. “Go then, you twat, and let me go back to sleep.”

“Miss you,” he said with a sudden pang of longing in his gut. This would be the moment where she would either hug him, or punch him hard on the shoulder for being stupid. You could never really be sure with her.

“Miss you too, idiot.” And she hung up.

Arthur took a deep breath. He scrolled down his phone to Merlin’s address, put it in his GPS, started the car once more, and drove off, turning around at the next exit, trying not to think too much. Not to think and run.

He parked his car in front of the right address, the headlights beaming against the B&B’s sign on the lawn. He looked at it a moment, dumbfounded.

Then he laughed, loud and sudden in the silence of his car, the tension in his shoulders lifting. He loosened his fingers from the steering wheel, flexing them to get the circulation flowing through them once more. When he felt steady enough, he got out and walked up the path to the house, taking another look at the sign over his shoulder, and laughing some more.

The lights were on. He thought of just walking in, since it was an inn of sort, Merlin’s inn--yellow with white window frames, a white porch and tall trees on each side--but he opted to ring the bell anyway.

His palms were sweaty. He rubbed them on his trousers.

Soon enough the door opened and a small woman smiled at him, warm, friendly, with dimples in her cheeks. He knew she was Merlin’s mother immediately.

“Bonjour!” she said. “Rentrez, rentrez, j’vous en prie.[4]”

“Um, merci,” Arthur said, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind him. “Est-ce que... est-ce que...” He fumbled, the words felt thick around his tongue. “Est-ce que Merlin est... ici? [5]”

He let out a long breath, all past tensions rising through his shoulders once more, but Merlin’s mother only smiled wider at him.

“Merlin?” she said, pronouncing his name in French. “Yes, yes he is.”

“I’m a friend. Arthur. We met today.”

“Artur? You’re Artur?” She clasped her hands. Arthur loved the way she said his name in French, with the rolled ‘r’ and the strong ‘t’ with no ‘h’ and that ‘u’ sound that he was never able to pronounce correctly. “Merlin told us about you."

“He did?”

She nodded. They crossed the foyer and walked toward the back of the house. The place was warm and welcoming, dimmed lights in the hallway, patterned wallpaper on the walls with small landscape paintings hanging on nails. Arthur glimpsed a small, but comfortable looking living room with a large sofa and chairs, a lit fireplace. It made him want to sit there with a book and a cup of tea and read, safe from the autumn wind outside the drape-covered windows.

In the bright and cheery kitchen, a very tall, very broad man was kneading dough on the counter with large, strong and sure hands, while some soft music played through small speakers on the table. He turned when he heard them coming.

“Percy,” Merlin’s mother said. “C’est Arthur. Celui dont Merlin nous a parlé.[6]”

Percy raised an eyebrow, and smirked. He wiped his hands on his apron and offered one to Arthur.

“Percy,” he said in a deep voice. Arthur shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise."

“Can I offer you some tea?” Merlin’s mother asked.

“No, thank you Mrs. Emrys.”

“Please, call me Hunith.”

It smelled delicious in the kitchen. Percy was boiling apples on the stove and the aroma filled the air. Arthur relaxed, content.

“Percy is making apple pies,” Hunith said.

Something bright and joyful unlocked inside Arthur, and he beamed at her. “Apple pie is contentment,” he said.

Hunith and Percy looked at each other, slightly surprised.

“Yes, yes it is,” Percy said with a knowing look toward Hunith, before returning to his work.

Hunith opened the back door and pointed at a small shed at the back of the garden, almost invisible in the dark if not for the light that spilled from its windows and the slightly ajar door.

“Merlin is writing, you can go and see him. I know he will be glad to see you. Have you had dinner yet, Arthur?”

“No, I haven’t.”

She nodded as if she knew that already. “You can have some with us later, if you want. Merlin will need to eat too. He gets lost sometimes, in his writing, and he forgets to eat.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him.” Arthur stepped outside. Hunith squeezed his shoulder lightly, and closed the door behind him.

Arthur followed the short path through the garden. He could see truly impressive-looking pumpkins in one corner, and most of the leaves on the maple behind the shed were still green. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked lightly on the wood before pulling the door further opened.

Merlin’s back was to him. He was sitting at his desk, typing away on his laptop, a heater right beside his chair. Arthur smiled and leaned on the doorframe.

“Une seconde, mom, j’veux juste finir…” [7] Merlin said, holding a finger up.

“Not your mother, Merlin.” Arthur, tried to keep himself from smiling and laughing, and possibly just from crossing the short space between him and Merlin and kissing him, kissing him to see if he’d taste like apples and earth and tea and sunshine.

Merlin turned around quickly, standing up, his look of surprise quickly replace by a wide, completely happy, smile.

“Arthur!” He took a step toward Arthur, stopped, and shuffled his feet like he wasn’t sure what to do. He was wearing flannel pyjamas, thick wool socks, possibly three jumpers, and a scarf, all in different colours and patterns. His hair was messy and it was all so utterly adorable. Affection fluttered in Arthur’s chest. Merlin was also wearing black-framed glasses, and that was actually rather sexy.

“Hey,” Arthur said. “Yeah, so… um... I have two questions for you.”

Merlin pinched his lips together, letting Arthur take the lead. “Go on,” he said.

“First. Why is your mum’s B&B called Le Dragon d’Or? [8]”

Merlin gave him an incredulous look. Clearly he hadn’t expected that question, but he rolled with it nonetheless.

“Well, when mom bought the house and decided to turn it into a B&B, we found this old wood panel in the attic. It was carved with a dragon, just a dragon, no lettering or anything. The paint was all gone and it was impossible to see what colour it had been, but mom said that the dragon belonged to the house. So we decided to make it our sign. We picked gold because it somehow felt right. We also thought it was funny that Le Dragon d’Or made it sound all posh and rich and fancy, and the B&B is all country-style and well-- ”

Merlin got this look on his face that Arthur was quickly learning to love where he tried to remember the proper English words to express what he wanted to say. “ --not posh.” Merlin wrinkled his nose in distaste at his choice of words. “Why do you ask?”

Arthur shrugged, trying to appear casual. “You know my family? The Pendragons. We’re an old family, old money and all that.”

“Yeah?” Merlin gave him a confused look.

“Well, you see, that’s what’s strange, I’m a PenDRAGON. Our family crest just happens to be a gold dragon.”

He knew Merlin would love this—this little coincidence. There was something a bit magical about it. There was something a bit magical about Merlin, and between his talk of emotional pies, unusually large plants, tangible, floating words, and who knew what else, he was sure he would see something in it. He wanted Merlin to see something in it.

He had never really felt this way before. Never wanted to be a part of a certain place. Before it had always been I wish I didn’t feel so out of place, never, I want to fit right here.

Merlin’s eyes grew wide with wonder. “Really?”

Arthur nodded. Merlin took off his glasses and put them on his desk. He took a few small steps toward Arthur, his head bowed, and looked at him through his lashes, a small smile on his lips. “Maybe… maybe you do belong here.”

“Maybe.” Arthur agreed with a grin.

“What was your second question?”

Arthur reached out and grabbed the bottom of one of Merlin’s jumper, rubbing the wool between his fingers, pulling him closer. This was the difficult part, the step Arthur had never really taken. He had never met someone he really wanted to take a chance with, not this badly anyway. Not enough to find excuses to not go through with it. But he thought Merlin could be that person. Arthur wanted to see, was curious enough to find out, to try.

“I was wondering.” he said, not looking at Merlin. He was very warm, even with his back against the cold October night air. “I was wondering if you would like to practice your English with me more? We wouldn’t want you to lose it all and prevent you from writing a truly great novel, now would we?” He tried for a bit of humour, though he knew full well it didn’t hide how nervous he was.

Merlin didn’t answer, he only stepped forward and rubbed his nose lightly against Arthur’s cheeks, nuzzling the skin. Then he moved and nudged Arthur’s nose with his own, before lightly brushing their mouths together. Arthur tightened his hold on Merlin’s jumper.

“No, we wouldn’t want that at all,” Merlin whispered against Arthur’s lips.

“I don’t do one night stands,” Arthur said quickly, almost regretting the words as he said them. He closed his eyes and cursed himself for always choosing the worst moments to say things.

Merlin only pressed a bit closer. “Good,” he said and gave Arthur’s lips a quick lick with his tongue.

Arthur gasped and pushed forward until his mouth was crushing Merlin’s. He moved from the doorway and put one hand on Merlin’s hips and the other against the side of his neck. Merlin came closer to him until their chests were flush against each other and put his arms around Arthur’s waist. He stretched a hand out behind Arthur, grabbed the doorknob and closed the door, slamming Arthur against it.

Arthur smiled into the kiss and bit lightly at Merlin’s bottom lip. Merlin didn’t waste any time in shoving his hand under Arthur’s jumper, pulling hard at his undershirt to untuck it from his trousers, sighing lightly when his fingers grazed Arthur’s warm skin.

Merlin’s fingers were freezing.

Arthur gasped. “Jesus, Merlin.” He pulled back to throw a reproachful look at him, but Merlin only grinned, splayed his hands over Arthur’s ribs and started raining small kisses all over Arthur’s cheeks, nose, the corner of his mouth. Arthur could not find it in himself to object more.

The kisses were tender and gentle, more intimate than he could have ever hoped for. He lowered his head, overwhelmed, and mouthed at Merlin’s jaw, hiding his face in his neck. He didn’t want Merlin to see whatever was written in his eyes, not sure himself what Merlin would see, but knowing it would be raw and vulnerable.

Arthur’s breathing hitched, he trembled and shook, his arms tightened around Merlin’s chest, pulling him involuntarily closer. Merlin never stopped with his kisses--at the side of Arthur’s neck, his jaw, his hairline. Then he bit softly on his earlobe, sending a shiver down Arthur’s spine.

Merlin smiled against his skin and blew hot breath against his ear.

“Oh god, Arthur,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful, you’re just... I can’t believe you’re here. With me. Why are you here?”

Something came undone inside Arthur. It wasn’t only the wonder and incredulity and want in Merlin’s voice, but also the sheer honesty of his words, so open and vulnerable and there. Merlin wasn’t holding back.

With that thought, Arthur took what he was never able to take before. No matter how many times Morgana berated him for it, no matter how many times Leon shook his head with a soft Oh mate, before pushing a pint toward him, no matter how many times he had been angry, or disappointed with himself for not taking it: the take-the-chance, the seize-the-day, the proverbial leap of faith.

He just took it. Just like that. Like it was easy.

“Merlin,” he whispered against Merlin’s neck, his voice breaking on the word.

He pulled back and pushed their mouths together once again, almost violently, but not desperately. They had time. They could have time.

Merlin moaned into the kiss and opened his mouth, pushing his tongue against Arthur’s. Merlin tasted like tea and apples and sunny October days, and something else that was just him. Just him.

Merlin rubbed his hands against Arthur’s sides, then up, until his thumbs could rub small circles over his nipples.

Arthur shivered.

Merling kept at it, slightly pinching then rubbing. Arthur’s fingers were frantically trying to find a way to Merlin’s skin as well, encumbered by the apparently innumerable layers Merlin was wearing. He groaned with frustration, and Merlin giggled into his mouth, before pulling off and out of Arthur’s embrace.

He took a few steps back and gave Arthur a playful look, while starting to slowly, very slowly, take off one jumper at a time. Arthur leaned his head back against the door, panting, gazing at Merlin through half-lidded eyes.

God, he was beautiful.

And there was so much more to him, Arthur could feel it, could see it. Something in his smile and something in his eyes, and he wanted to find what it was. Wanted to explore all of Merlin, in and out. He was something new, something intriguing and just a bit wild.

Merlin was down to his last thin cotton shirt, seeming not in a hurry to do anything about it. Arthur realised that if he didn’t do something, Merlin could very well tease him all night. And if the glint in his eyes was anything to go by, he would. Cheeky bastard.

Arthur couldn’t wait any longer and, with a groan that was probably more like a growl, he launched himself forward before wrenching the shirt over Merlin’s head and attacking his collarbone with his lips and teeth, and tongue.

Merlin laughed. He laughed. Loud and clear and so fucking delighted, it resonated inside Arthur like no sound ever had before.

Arthur rubbed his hands over Merlin’s chest, felt his ribs under the pads of his fingers, the muscles of his stomach as they moved under his palms, his nails lightly leaving red trails over the pale, smooth skin. He gripped Merlin’s hips and brought them hard against his own, slipping one of his legs between Merlin’s, feeling his hard cock against his thigh. Merlin moaned and his hips twitched, shivers passing from him to Arthur as he rolled them against Arthur’s leg.

Merlin’s hands grabbed the bottom of Arthur’s jumper and shirt and he pulled them harshly over Arthur’s head, rapidly capturing his mouth with his own once he had thrown them across the room.

“Bed?” Merlin mumbled still not pulling away.

“Yeah... yes.”

“Get these off!” Merlin groaned, frustratingly pulling at Arthur’s jeans.

“Yours too.”

It took them a few more minutes before Arthur was able to pull away from Merlin, and try to undo his belt with shaky fingers. Merlin didn’t have this problem. He simply pulled down his pyjama pants swiftly, and Arthur was not distracted by the fact that Merlin hadn’t been wearing anything underneath and was now shamelessly standing naked in front of him. Except, of course he was.

“Oh,” Merlin said, looking around him with wonder in his eyes.

Arthur followed his gaze around the room, his belt halfway undone in his hands. Every single frame on Merlin’s walls--and there was a lot of them--was crooked. He was almost certain, that they hadn’t been that way when he first came in.

He met Merlin’s eyes, incredulous. Merlin laughed again, and crossed the distance between them in two strides, pushing away Arthur’s hands and finishing undoing his belt and the buttons on his trousers with deft little movements of his fingers.

“It’s alright,” he said, leaning his forehead on Arthur’s. “You can take care of it later.”

Arthur would have had a reply to that, he was sure, but then Merlin’s hand was in his pants, taking hold of his cock, and the crooked frames were forgotten entirely.

Later on--after a surprisingly not awkward dinner with Hunith and Percy, more sex, and some serious cuddling--at the darkest point of the night, Arthur lay awake, loose and comfortable. Things, for the first time in a long time, if not ever, were sharp and bright and clear.

He tightened his arm around Merlin’s waist and stared at him. Merlin was on his back, a pale hand on his equally pale chest, long fingers--wickedly skillful fingers at that--lightly splayed through dark hair.

Arthur followed the lines of Merlin’s profile with his eyes: the strong descent of his nose, the cutting edge of his cheekbones, and the way his long and dark eyelashes curved and casted deeper shadows on his cheeks. His full lips were parted and Arthur could see Merlin’s words escaping his throat every time he exhaled softly. They bounced slightly against his teeth and lips, and rose slowly through the room, casting a gentle yellow glow, as if dozens of small fireflies filled the room. They collided with each other on the ceiling, resting over their heads, like balloons filled with helium, silent and comforting.

Arthur resisted the urge to catch one between his fingers, papery and transparent, like an insect’s wing, and pop it into his mouth to see what it tasted like. What Merlin’s words tasted like. They were not Arthur’s to have and hold. Not yet.

The cool breeze coming through the slightly opened window made the sweat on Arthur’s bare shoulders dry. He shivered, but didn’t cover himself more with the comforter. He let the night air play on his back and raise goosebumps all over his skin, relishing its touch.

He looked up and saw the painting on the wall over the bed, crooked, low enough for him to reach. He straightened it with a steady hand. The light scraping of the wooden frame against the wall sounded like a relieved sigh, not unlike a swoon.

He heard the sharp, clear cries of wild geese in the distance, listened to the crackling sound of the dead leaves pushed around by the swift October wind, and he smiled against Merlin’s warm shoulder, burrowing his nose in his neck, content.