《pavement》vernon

3、第 3 章 Uther

　　Uther is back in the office on Monday, satisfaction oozing out of his every pore. He arranges for a short lunch with Arthur in the cafeteria to talk about nothing at all, and definitely not about his reason for spending a week in Spain.

　　The fish burgers they’re having taste stale and leave Arthur with a sick feeling. Despite that, he smiles and nods in all the right places. He’s had enough practice, after all.

　　--

　　Halfway through the genetics course for which Merlin’s report still consists of a blank page, he receives a message from Morgana. Fortunately, he remembered to turn his phone to vibration mode. Managed to drag my brother away from his desk, have lunch with us? M.

　　As Merlin left his flat without grabbing something for breakfast and his stomach’s been bothering him already, he hides his phone under the table to type his reply. sure. when, where?

　　Westminster Cathedral entrance at twelve? Enough different snack bars around Cardinal Square that even A will find something to his liking. M.

　　kay, might be 5 min late

　　Merlin slides the phone into his backpack and forces himself to pay attention to the lecture. It isn’t that he’s disinterested in today’s excursus, per se – the theory of proteomics is somewhat abstract for his taste, but when combined with that article Gaius gave him, it actually does gain a certain practical relevance, at least if Merlin’s vague memories from his introductory biology seminar don’t fail him and hormones really are a specific form of protein. In any case, he doesn’t care about sequencing, be it genes or proteins.

　　He stares blindly at the succession of amino acids, an example for a tiny protein that the young lecturer put in her slides, and considers why Gaius gave him the article. It would be an interesting topic for a dissertation, yes, but Merlin doesn’t actually have an idea where he could start. Endocrine disruptors aren’t limited to marine life, and it’s an area that’s so wide-spread that the mere thought is daunting. If Gaius wanted to give Merlin a pointer, endocrine disruptors aren’t a very good choice.

　　“We can separate them using two-dimensional polyacrylamide gel electrophoresis,” the lecturer says, and Merlin heaves an inaudible sigh and glances at his watch. Another half an hour.

　　He spends it by doodling molecules and mice onto his notebook, chin propped on his left hand. As soon as the lecturer reluctantly declares the session over, leaving a number of her slides untouched, Merlin shoots out of his chair, having packed his things away minutes ago already. The Tubes come quite often at this hour, but it’s thirteen to twelve already, and there is no way Merlin won’t be late.

　　Fortunately, he arrives just in time to catch a train into the centre. This close to the lunch rush hour, it’s packed, so he has to squeeze in between a sweating guy who’s still breathing hard, probably from running to the bus, and a woman who overdosed on perfume, her sharp-edged handbag repeatedly poking Merlin in the hip. He’s relieved when he can escape into the fresh air of a fairly warm spring noon.

　　Merlin’s watch shows the time to be six minutes after twelve. The cathedral towers above him, its white stripes a nice contrast to the orange brick walls. He crosses the square, looking for long dark hair.

　　He spots Morgana just beside the large doors that guard the main entrance, her purple jumper a bright speck of colour amongst the dark-dressed lunch crowd. She’s talking to a guy with blond hair, his back turned to Merlin. He’s got a nice arse that his gray jacket doesn’t quite hide. Not that Merlin is looking.

　　Morgana catches sight of him over her brother’s shoulder and waves, her smile immediate and strangely—strangely something. Merlin can’t quite decide what’s odd about it, but the expectant edge isn’t always there. He cants his head and slows his steps, a frazzled businessman overtaking him.

　　That’s about when Morgana’s brother turns.

　　Merlin’s first thought is, hot. Then his brain catches up with the fact that despite the different lighting and the different attire, Morgana’s brother is none other than Arthur Pendragon. Merlin doesn’t notice he’s stopped dead in his tracks until a tourist behind him walks into his back.

　　He quickly continues up the stairs, glancing from Pendragon’s surprised face to Morgana’s smile, much easier to interpret now. “This is your brother?” Merlin asks the moment he’s reached them, stepping away from the steady flow of pedestrians.

　　“Well, yes. Adoptive brother,” Morgana says. She lowers her head to adjust the scarf slung around her neck, and Merlin is convinced she’s hiding a smug smirk. He exhales and turns to face Pendragon with a heavy feeling in his chest. He was looking forward to a nice, relaxed lunch, but it looks as if his plan just collapsed into itself. Pendragon meets his gaze with a nonplussed expression.

　　“Don’t tell me you’re the friend we’re supposed to be meeting,” he says, rude as ever.

　　“And why the hell not?” Merlin asks.

　　Pendragon’s stuffed both hands into the pockets of his jeans, a steep line between his brows. His tone is matter-of-fact. “Because I find it rather hard to picture you as a chemistry student.”

　　“Oh, really?” Merlin crosses his arms, drawing his shoulders up against a cool breeze. “Why is that?”

　　“Because,” Pendragon begins, but before he can get even more insulting, Morgana interrupts with, “You know, I haven’t eaten yet. Can the two of you continue this later, maybe?”

　　“I don’t think I feel like eating anymore,” Merlin says. As if to contradict his words, his stomach contracts, grumbling softly. He’s grateful that the noise level around them covers it up. Despite that, it seems as if Pendragon noticed something because his lips curve into another one of those most irritating smirks.

　　“Still scared of me?”

　　“Scared?” Since it would be childish, Merlin doesn’t point out that he’s taller than Pendragon. If he did, Pendragon would probably counter with muscle mass, and anyway, they’re both too old for playground games. “I was never scared of you. Creeped out, maybe.”

　　“Guys.” Even though she’s the one responsible for this undesirable meeting in the first place, Morgana sounds annoyed.

　　“Not sure you get to complain,” Merlin tells her. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

　　Morgana’s gaze is evasive. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

　　“Like hell you don’t,” Pendragon says. Despite his obvious exasperation, a previously unheard note of fondness has snuck into his voice. It makes Merlin take another look at the man and his crisp jacket, thrown over carefully casual black jeans. The entire outfit might have been selected to play to the perfect image of a skilled, young businessman who hasn’t been assimilated by the establishment just yet. Didn’t Morgana say her brother just returned from a stay abroad and suffered from a case of overly high expectations?

　　It would fit.

　　“Well.” Morgana glances from Pendragon to Merlin. “I mean… really, I just thought it would be funny. I didn’t think the two of you would be at each others’ throats.”

　　“Not such a surprise, considering your brother fired me last Thursday,” Merlin says. He’s done a good job not thinking about it this weekend, running a Lord of the Rings marathon with Lance and Gwen while simultaneously avoiding his report for genetics, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t cower at the back of his mind somewhere, lurking in the shadows.

　　Pendragon snorts. “I did no such thing.”

　　“You implied,” Merlin says.

　　“Actually, you did.”

　　“I did not.”

　　“You most certainly did.”

　　Merlin opens his mouth to contradict before he realises the ridiculousness of their exchange. Again. They’re barely one step away from nursery school, and he can identify the precise moment when the same thought occurs to Pendragon because Pendragon’s lips twitch briefly in what might have been the hint of a wry smile.

　　“I,” Morgana says, “rest my case.”

　　Merlin shifts his stance and looks away from Pendragon’s scrutiny. “Actually, I think I could use some food. Was in a rush this morning, and that genetics lecture is exhausting.”

　　“You should have done the seminar on structural and physical properties of different compounds with me.”

　　“So that I can conduct experiments for the food industry? No, thanks.” Merlin shakes his head. The wind has picked up again, ruffling his hair. “At least genetics is kind of interesting. Sometimes.”

　　Morgana grins. “Only not really. I have recordings of your whining to prove it.”

　　“Food?” Pendragon interrupt. He chances a look at his watch, an expression of distaste flashing over his features before he glances up to catch Merlin staring. Quickly, Merlin averts his eyes.

　　“Yeah,” he says. “All right.”

　　--

　　It isn't often that Arthur feels like an outsider. However, listening to Morgana and Merlin discuss the merits of fast food versus molecular cuisine gives Arthur the strange impression that they're talking in an entirely different language. While he could follow the beginnings of the exchange (“You know, food isn't necessarily less artificial just because it's fancy”), he lost the thread the moment they started on methods of processing.

　　Maybe he should have resisted Morgana’s needling – and scheming – and spent another day eating the dreadful food at the cafeteria, without ever setting a foot outside the office building. On the other hand, at least he can’t complain about today’s lunch break being boring. Right now, he has no urge to return back to his sleek desk in an office that’s too far away from the coffeemaker to provide him with the gossip that’s making the rounds. While his secretary occasionally provides him with a piece of news, he always feels as if she expects something in return. He isn’t entirely certain Sophia’s caught on to the fact that he isn’t much into women, these days. Maybe prancing around in purple trousers might do the trick, but Arthur’s self-respect prohibits it.

　　He tunes back in to the conversation just in time to hear Morgana state, “There is a vast difference between peppering a piece of meat with about twenty different artificial flavours and treating some shrimps with calcium lactate gluconate and liquid nitrogen.”

　　“There isn't.” Merlin shakes his head, sidestepping a group of tourists. The father is taking a picture of his family in front of Scotland Yard, which Arthur always found to be particularly ugly. “There really isn't,” Merlin repeats. “Just ask the cow or the shrimps. I'm sure they'd tell you it makes no difference whatsoever.”

　　“Except,” Arthur puts in, because this at least he understands, “for how the shrimps are far more numerous. Their cries of pain would be manifold.”

　　Merlin gives him a surprised glance. It's a change to his previous strategy of pretending that Arthur doesn't even exist – despite the fact that the thick lunch crowd keeps pushing them together. “Well,” Merlin says after a noticeable pause. “Well, yes. Except for that.”

　　Arthur finds it rather hard to decipher the smug look Morgana throws his way. In any case, she's wrong. While Merlin is certainly pretty (in spite or maybe because of his jug ears), that doesn’t set him apart from any other stripper working for Camelot or any other club of the chain. He might be closer to Arthur’s type than the Latino guy whose name Arthur’s forgotten, but he has also proven himself to be much more difficult than any other dancer Arthur’s interacted with thus far.

　　They reach an area that’s slightly less crowded and noisy. The pizza place Merlin suggested is just up ahead, and Arthur squints at its nasty neon sign before he turns to study Merlin’s profile. “So,” he asks, “you study chemistry?”

　　Instantly, the line of Merlin’s back tenses, his jaw tightening. “Yes. Got a problem with that?”

　　“I never said I did,” Arthur tells him mildly.

　　“Your tone implied it.”

　　Arthur lifts one shoulder, drops it again. “Maybe you’re just overly sensitive.” Although, in all honesty, it is rather difficult to reconcile Merlin’s golden-eyed, near-naked stage persona with the everyday student dressed in jeans that are slightly frayed at the hems. London Calling is scrawled over the front of his blue hoodie, The Clash’s logo winking from one sleeve.

　　“Overly sensitive?” Merlin repeats. He sounds incredulous, and that somehow makes Arthur grin.

　　“Overly sensitive. Precisely.”

　　“Or maybe you’re just an arse,” Merlin suggests. While his tone is innocently sweet, his eyes are narrowed. They’re actually a lovely shade of blue, nowhere near as striking as the gold, but much more authentic.

　　“Remember how I’m your boss?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t sound as cross as he should, and he’s certain Morgana notices: the corners of her mouth curl in that way they do when she thinks she sees right through Arthur’s façade.

　　Merlin throws him a sarcastic smile. “I keep forgetting, what with you repeatedly threatening to sack me.”

　　As they have reached the pizza place – which turns out to be a shady kebab bar that also lists pizza on the huge plastic menu above the counter – Arthur doesn’t bother with a reply. Instead, he chances a sceptical glance at the several boxes with pre-cut vegetables lined up behind a glass pane. Despite the antiseptic neon light, they look reasonably fresh. He scans his options for something that sounds simple enough that even the untrustworthy man handling the oven won’t screw it up.

　　“Decided yet?” the man barks out, hardly even looking their way. At least he’s speaking at a level that easily makes it over the tinny blaring of some unnamed pop station.

　　“The Monster Pizza Corn, please.” Merlin sets both elbows on the counter. The smile he directs at the cook is breathtaking, Arthur’s brain immediately making the connection to the same smile being directed at customers in Camelot.

　　“Sweet corn on a pizza?” Arthur steps up beside Merlin. As the counter is dirty and he just picked his jacket up from the dry cleaner, he doesn’t lean against it. “That’s disgusting.”

　　“Yeah, you’d think that.” It might be only Arthur imagination that has Merlin’s gaze lingering on his mouth for barely a second. His reflexes are rusty in that respect.

　　“The corn pizza is actually rather good,” Morgana remarks. “Certainly better than those fish burgers you had yesterday.” She steps up beside him, a warm, solid presence. Arthur stuffs his hands in his pockets, frowning up at the menu, but doesn’t move away. He should stop telling Morgana things; they only make her worry.

　　“I’ll take your word for it,” he says although he has to admit that watching the cook prepare Merlin’s corn pizza is encouraging: the man’s motions are quick and efficient, pulling the dough into shape with practiced ease. Also, he actually pre-bakes the dough before topping it with tomato sauce, cheese and corn, then pushing it back into the oven.

　　“Next?” Still the man doesn’t consider them worthy of eye contact.

　　“Another Pizza Corn, please,” Morgana says. For a moment, Arthur is tempted to echo her order – Morgana’s taste can be relied on, usually. He isn’t about to distance himself from his unfavourable opinion quite so quickly, though. Besides, there’s a good chance Morgana won’t eat the entirety of her pizza and he can snag a few bites.

　　“Onion for me,” he tells the cook.

　　“Boring,” Morgana says.

　　Arthur lifts a brow. “Classy.”

　　“You could try something new, for once. Take a risk, Arthur.” She grins. “Live a little.”

　　“I’m having lunch with you. Isn’t that risky enough?”

　　“Not particularly,” she says, her tone exaggeratedly sweet. “If it counts, it’s only because Merlin’s part of the deal today.”

　　Arthur is about to reply when he notices Merlin following their exchange with curious eyes, his elbows still on the counter, head tilted. The sickly light in here paints his skin in a hue of blue, emphasizing the clean cut of his cheekbones.

　　“I’m not part of any deal,” Merlin puts in, and Arthur needs a moment to remember the context.

　　“Now, pumpkin,” Morgana says. “Don’t be like that.”

　　“Don’t all pumpkins turn into princes at night?” Merlin’s tone is innocent, but there is a smile hiding in the corners of his eyes.

　　“No, honey, that would be frogs.” Morgana leans around Arthur to poke Merlin’s chest, her grin bright. “And in your case, I think it would be a princess.”

　　To his own surprise, Arthur finds himself laughing softly. He ignores the imploring stare Merlin directs his way in favour of watching his pizza come together. It looks promising, but even if it turns out tasting stale and greasy, it will still be better than yesterday’s fish burgers. Maybe Morgana is right and Arthur should make more of an effort to come along when she invites him.

　　--

　　At this hour, St. James Park is anything but deserted. Fortunately, it’s a warm spring day, allowing them to sit on a spot of grass near the lake, the water surface smooth enough to reflect the weeping willows and the few clouds scattered across the sky. For once, the evil geese that particularly enjoy scaring small children are nowhere to be seen.

　　Merlin can tell that Pendragon hesitates while Merlin and Morgana have sat down already. Glancing at his immaculate jacket, Pendragon pauses before something eases about his posture. He sets his pizza carton on the ground and sinks down beside Morgana.

　　Whether it’s the food or the sun, Merlin doesn’t know, but the lunch is not as horribly awkward as he thought it might be. About halfway through, Merlin is close to forgetting about the fact that the grinning guy who’s exchanging rapid-fire comments with Morgana has a Pendragon attached to his first name; being cautious around someone who steals a slice of pizza from Morgana, declares it nasty and then proceeds to steal another one just seems… unnecessary. In addition, Merlin has to admit that Arthur isn’t any less attractive upon closer inspection – blonde tousled hair and white teeth and eyes that are surprisingly bright when he laughs.

　　Not that Merlin has a type, or anything like that.

　　Over the course of the hour they spend on the grass, Merlin’s concern recedes to a buzz at the back of his mind, just like the question of why Morgana never thought to mention that her connection to the Pendragons wasn’t limited to hiring and press work.

　　Of course it would be too much to expect their temporary truce to last.

　　They put their empty cartons away and are near the exit, not much further to Hyde Park station, when Pendra— when Arthur remarks, his voice off-handed, “So, you’ll be working on Friday, then.”

　　Merlin draws himself up. “Am I? I thought you wanted to fire me?”

　　“I never said that.” Arthur’s tone is patient and dismissive at once, the way someone might talk to a silly child. Merlin is tempted to argue. Instead, he nods stiffly and refuses to look at Arthur when he says his goodbyes, turning to descend the stairs to the underground. Some of his disgruntlement must show on his face because when he steps onto the platform, an old lady who’s waiting beside him clutches her handbag just a little tighter.

　　Merlin throws a forced smile her way and shifts his weight. His anger is already dissipating.

　　--

　　It’s long since dark by the time Arthur pulls up in front of his house. None of the windows are lit, staring black and blank into the night. The closing of his car door echoes in the silence. His feet crunch on the gravel, the porch light flashing brightly as soon as he steps into the radius of the motion detector.

　　He unlocks the door after an unnecessary glance at the well-tended garden – of course there is no sign of life. It’s past nine and the gardener that the company hired must have left the property hours ago.

　　Once inside, Arthur blindly throws his keys onto the table beside the front door, toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. He almost drops it onto the floor, then thinks better of it and ends up draping it over a hanger, neatly sliding it into place beside several other jackets and a few coats. On socked feet, he continues on into the kitchen, turning only the light above the hob on. The glass-ceramic cooktop gleams, and Arthur can’t remember if it’s because his cleaning lady was here today or the day before, or because he hasn’t used the stove since he moved in. Neither has he looked for a flat.

　　The fridge offers only a half-empty pack of Oreos. It’s better than going hungry, so Arthur takes them into the living room, flicking his TV on after needing a couple of minutes to locate the remote control.

　　There isn’t much of interest on, mostly series that he doesn’t understand because he hasn’t seen any of the previous episodes. Still, the couch is too comfortable to leave, and besides, Arthur feels no desire to climb the stairs to his silent bedroom. He should brush his teeth at some point, but instead, he reaches for the blanket draped neatly over one arm of the couch, wraps himself up in it and stretches out on his side, eyes drooping closed to two doctors discussing what sounds like the grave condition of a patient shown in the previous scene.

　　--

　　“I read it,” Merlin says, before Gaius gets a chance to ask. Everyone else has already filed out of the seminar room, Morgana waiting outside in the sun.

　　“Oh, did you?” Gaius eyes Merlin with a sceptical impression. “And what did you think of it, then?”

　　“Interesting,” Merlin says. He links his hands behind his back and leans against a desk. “Just, I mean. I’m not sure how this is relevant? Endocrine disruptors are such a huge area, and there’s a lot being done at the moment so I’d probably just end up duplicating what someone else has already figured out.”

　　“Well, that’s a risk you always have to face, no matter the topic.” Gaius slings his ancient bag over his shoulder.

　　“No, of course,” Merlin hurries to say. “I know that. And it’s not that I’m not interested, really! I did read those studies with the volunteers who—” Shit. Once in a while, Merlin should consider his words before actually saying them out loud. “The ones linking prenatal testosterone exposure to sperm count and motility.”

　　“Ah, yes.” Not a muscle twitches in Gaius’ face. “You mean the studies that had thousands of volunteers ejaculate for science’s sake, yes?”

　　“Uh.” Merlin shifts. “Yes.”

　　“Yes, those were fascinating.” Gaius nods dispassionately, but even so, Merlin is utterly convinced Gaius is laughing on the inside. “Just one of many examples, but I’m glad you appear to have done some background reading already. That should give you an advantage.”

　　“An advantage?” Merlin asks.

　　“Did I say that?” Gaius shakes his head and moves towards the door. “Never mind, I don’t know what I meant by that. Just… carry on looking for a dissertation topic. Good luck.”

　　“Thanks,” Merlin says. He watches Gaius leave with more than just a hint of confusion. The old man is clearly up to something, and Merlin can only hope he’ll like his role in the plan once Gaius is in the mood to reveal it.

　　--

　　When their weekly dinner falls on Marcus Wareing, it hardly ever grates on Arthur’s nerves. The food is delicious – albeit the servings tend to be small – and usually, he enjoys the luxurious but laid-back atmosphere. While jeans and trainers are forbidden, it’s still less stuck-up than other places Uther likes to frequent.

　　Tonight, however, Arthur has to bite his tongue so as not to burst out with the question of why Uther is taking another secretive business trip, this time to the States. Arthur would like to think he’s entitled to know, but really, he’s just one of five board members. His father doesn’t owe him advance information any more than he owes it to Leon or Carol. As a result, Arthur focuses very hard on his food and doesn’t contribute much to the conversation. It falls to Morgana to fill the gap. To his relief, she does so graciously.

　　“You have been rather quiet tonight,” Uther tells Arthur when they step past the rigid porter onto the street. “Is everything all right?”

　　I didn’t think you’d notice, Arthur doesn’t say. He pastes on a smile and shrugs, not quite meeting his father’s eyes. “Just a little tired, is all.”

　　“Then maybe you should get an early night’s sleep.”

　　“I will,” Arthur says. But when Morgana suggests – a few minutes later, after they parted ways with Uther – that Arthur come along to some club, he doesn’t even pretend to hesitate before he agrees. He takes the spot behind the wheel while Morgana pulls out her mobile to text someone.

　　“We’re picking up Merlin,” she informs him when the phone buzzes a short while later.

　　The lights change from red to green, and Arthur puts the car back into motion, wondering if he should comment. Probably not. It doesn’t matter to him whether Merlin and his stubborn attitude will attend an outing that Arthur is planning to leave completely and utterly plastered.

　　He changes to third gear, squinting at another red traffic light. “All right,” he says, keeping his tone vague and disinterested. “Where does he live?”

　　“Camden.”

　　“That’s not exactly on the way,” Arthur says.

　　“Still closer than my flat, though, and we need some place to leave the car. Also…” She waves a dismissive hand at her sleek black dress, the bracelets slung around her wrist tinkling with the movement. “I need to change.”

　　“What’s wrong with that?” Arthur curses and hits the brakes when a suicidal taxi driver cuts lanes right in front of him. He doesn’t give the man the finger, but only because he doesn’t think it would be noticeable in the darkness.

　　“We’re going clubbing, Arthur, not to a cocktail party.” Morgana’s voice is patiently amused. “That’s what’s wrong with it.”

　　“Right.” Arthur indicates left and turns at the next corner before glancing down at his own outfit. Even if he lost the jacket, he’d still be wearing black dress trousers and a white, ironed shirt with long sleeves. “What do I do, then?”

　　“Oh, yes. That’s not exactly club wear.”

　　“Now you’re telling me.”

　　“We can drive past your place, if you want? After we picked Merlin up?” She pauses, considering. “Or maybe you can borrow something from him. Not trousers, but a normal t-shirt and a sweatshirt or something.”

　　“He’s about half my size,” Arthur says, but in all honesty, it still sounds better than having Morgana and Merlin poke around his house while he changes; the thought of them filling up the empty space makes something twist in his chest. If they weren’t about two crossings away from Camden, Arthur would make a case for driving past his house first. He thinks he could handle Morgana alone.

　　“He does have a few t-shirts that are pretty loose on him.” Morgana shrugs. “It’s worth a try. Turn right at the next crossroads.”

　　“Yeah.” Arthur exhales, waiting for a chance to switch lanes. He shoots a look at Morgana’s profile. “Anyway. I was wondering if you had an idea of what Father’s up to?”

　　“You mean his business trips and the way he’s all self-satisfied?” She shakes her head before reaching up to undo her plait. “No. I thought you might know, actually.”

　　“No. It’s not as if he tells me these things.”

　　“Arthur…” She trails off without actually finishing the sentence.

　　“What?”

　　“Never mind,” Morgana says. Her smile is fleeting, and Arthur wonders, not for the first time, why she seems to fare so much better than he does. His thought is cut off abruptly when Morgana points, voice sharp. “Here, there’s a parking space.”

　　Arthur ignores the impatient driver behind him and slows down, pulling into the space with some effort. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, waiting for Morgana to grab her backpack before they get out. Merlin’s flat is located in a nice, quiet side street that is lit by lanterns, bright circles of light at regular intervals. Most of the houses are old, with a certain charm to them. Backpack slung over one shoulder, Morgana leads the way towards a door with flaking blue paint.

　　Merlin’s flat appears to be on the top floor because that’s the button she presses. It takes only a few seconds before the door buzzes open.

　　The stairway is nice enough, if a little run down. Stone steps, polished smooth by decades of shoes travelling over them, are accompanied by a metal banister, its wooden handrail as smooth as the steps. Morgana moves with a purpose that tells Arthur she must have been here numerous times, another indication of what appears to be a close friendship with Merlin.

　　Arthur doesn’t quite get it.

　　After the third floor, the staircase gets narrow, more like something one might expect from steps leading up to an attic. The last section actually consists of steep, wooden stairs that resemble a □□.

　　“Seriously?” Arthur asks.

　　“Don’t pretend to be a snob when you’re really not,” Morgana tells him. At the end of the stairs, Merlin opens the door to beam down at them. His joy fades somewhat when he catches sight of Arthur.

　　Morgana adjusts her backpack and grips the railing before she sets her foot on the first step. “Brought a guest.”

　　“Yeah, I noticed.” Merlin’s voice is dry, but he doesn’t look too put out. Not one to hold grudges, it seems. “Come on up, then.”

　　“Thanks,” Arthur says. He climbs the stairs behind Morgana, and no, it’s certainly not an ascent that’s made for wheelchairs or people with balance problems. Also, a fire wouldn’t be a pleasant experience when stuck in Merlin’s flat.

　　Well. Not that a burning house is generally considered a pleasant experience.

　　Once through the door, Arthur has to admit that the place is quite cosy. True, it isn’t particularly big: The entrance door opens right into a small living room with a worn-down sofa and a TV, an adjoining kitchen beside it, and to the left, two doors lead to what’s probably the bedroom and the bathroom. The slope of the roof deducts space from the flat as well, but despite that, the numerous posters and pictures, the books scattered about and the small balcony tucked into the roof make it feel homey, lived in. Most of the flat lies in the dark, the only light coming from a lamp above the kitchen table and a torchiere beside the sofa.

　　Arthur notices that Merlin is monitoring his every move. He raises a questioning brow, and in reaction, Merlin crosses his arms, smirking. “So this is what you consider club wear?”

　　“The trousers aren’t that bad. If he borrows a t-shirt from you, it should work.” Morgana sounds unperturbed, and Arthur is grateful that she saves him the trouble of asking for a t-shirt himself.

　　“If I’d had an advance warning…” He shoots a glance at Merlin. “Although I’m not sure anything of yours will fit me, to be honest.”

　　Merlin pulls his shoulders back. “Just because I don’t feel the need to waste hours in some fitness centre…”

　　“It wasn’t intended to be criticism,” Arthur says mildly. It’s true, even; Merlin may not be particularly muscular, but he certainly isn’t hard on the eyes. If he were, he wouldn’t be working at Camelot. “Jesus, you’re touchy. Also, for the record, I do not spend hours in fitness centres. I wouldn’t have the time.”

　　“No, he only goes running about five times a week.” Morgana lets her backpack slide off her shoulder, catching the strap in one hand. She waves towards the door that presumably leads to the bathroom. “Give me a few minutes to change, then we can deal with Arthur.”

　　Arthur leans his hip against the doorframe of the kitchen. “Thanks. I feel like such an □□ when you dress me.”

　　Merlin’s lips twitch, but he nods at Morgana. “Sure, go ahead.”

　　She disappears into the bathroom, the door closing behind her. Once she’s gone, awkward silence extends between Merlin and Arthur. The ticking of the clock above the refrigerator is inordinately loud.

　　Mostly for something to do, Arthur goes to examine the scraps and pictures Merlin’s pinned to the fridge door. There’s a chemical formula with the words For mum? scrawled underneath it, a picture of the Piazza San Marco in Venice, random notes that list anything from groceries to music to what might be topics of scientific reports, an article half-hidden below them, as well as an advertisement for dance lessons that briefly amuses Arthur. Another picture shows Merlin arm in arm with a guy that Arthur recognises as the Latino stripper who dragged Merlin away that one time.