《pavement》vernon

7、第 7 章 Merli

　　Merlin switches his brain off and clicks on the Wikipedia link.

　　The information is pretty basic, to be honest. The picture of Arthur on the right side of the page is nice enough, but Merlin is certain there are plenty more that are much, much nicer, and anyway, he was trying not to think about Arthur because thinking about Arthur only serves to make him angry.

　　Of course that doesn’t stop him from reading the entire page, but the only thing that jumps out at him is the fact that Arthur was apparently one of the youngest graduates to receive a first class honours degree in law from Cambridge’s law school. It fits. What doesn’t fit quite as well into Merlin’s perception is the information that Arthur’s mother died just after his birth, never recovering from an infection she caught at the hospital. The ensuing lawsuit brought Uther Pendragon the money it took to get the Pendragon chain started, but it obviously didn’t bring him back his wife.

　　Because Merlin is already on a spree of madness, he returns to the search results and checks out the fan page. ‘Scary’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. For one, its background features pink hearts, and whereas the biography and newspaper section is not very well equipped, the gallery is a different matter. It isn’t always clear where the pictures originate from – some might be scans of magazines and articles, one looks like it was taken out of a yearbook – but a considerable number of them seem to have been featured in a gossip column or taken by people on the street.

　　There is also one gallery section dedicated entirely to Arthur’s arse.

　　Sanity kicking in, Merlin back-pedals his way out of there. He returns to the search results for CV and goes with the first link that looks halfway promising. It still takes a while for the heat in his face to ebb away.

　　--

　　Monday finds Arthur back at Trisha’s hair salon. He felt strangely guilty for already leaving the office at five, but mixed in with the guilt was also a rare feeling of freedom. If this lands him a flat he can actually see himself living in, it’s well worth the amount of unread e-mails in his inbox.

　　Trisha seats Arthur in a waiting chair and leaves him with a package of biscuits. They’re filled with nasty orange goo that supposedly came into contact with the actual fruit at some point of its existence. Arthur highly doubts the company’s claim, but he still takes a second biscuit, munching on it while turning a page in one of the fashion magazines Trisha stacks up on a table. According to Trisha, her neighbour promised to drop in as soon as she made it back from work, coming to fetch Arthur and show him the flat.

　　“She’ll be here any minute,” Trisha says, voice soft so as not to be heard by the customer whose hair she’s supposed to cut. She piles four biscuits onto a small plate to take back to the middle-aged man.

　　Arthur gives her a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

　　“Of course you are.” Trisha squeezes his shoulder, and it’s kind of insulting but also kind of nice. Her gaze moves from his face to a spot off to the left, something outside on the street catching her attention. “Do you know that boy? Or is he just thinking about a haircut? He’s looking at you.”

　　“Who?” Arthur half-turns in his chair, and—Oh. What’s Merlin doing here? “I know him,” Arthur says without breaking eye contact. Behind the windowpane, Merlin appears oddly distant, reflections on the glass distorting his silhouette, but the indecision is written clear on his face.

　　“Ah,” Trisha says. Arthur doesn’t like the knowing tone of her voice, and neither does he approve of the quiet chuckle she gives before she hurries back to her customer. It doesn’t propel him to look away from Merlin, though. He arches an eyebrow, and while he in no way intends to influence Merlin’s decision on whether to come in or move on, the small gesture is apparently enough to make Merlin turn away.

　　Arthur is not disappointed.

　　He also doesn’t care to analyse the stupid elation in his chest when he realises that Merlin is not, in fact, leaving. Instead, he’s walking around to the door, entering to the gentle tinkling of the bell. His anger seems to have dissipated. He takes in the room with a curious expression on his face, smiling at Trisha before his gaze travels back to Arthur.

　　“If you’ve come to collect your shirt,” Arthur tells him, perfectly even, “I’ll have to disappoint you: I don’t carry it with me everywhere.”

　　“Yeah, no.” Merlin shrugs and glances down at the biscuits on the table. Snapping the fashion magazine shut, Arthur nods at the chair opposite the table.

　　“Feel free to sit down and take a biscuit.”

　　After a moment’s hesitation, Merlin does. He lets his backpack slide to the floor, sits down and reaches for one of the biscuits, turning it over in his hand as if he doesn’t quite trust it. Arthur sympathises. “So,” Merlin says, looking up too quickly for Arthur to avert his eyes. “Is this where you get your hair cut?” The disbelief in Merlin’s voice is hard to miss.

　　“What’s wrong with that?” Arthur asks. He might sound a tad defensive, but really, he does like Trisha, and he’s never found reason to complain about her haircuts.

　　“Nothing.” Merlin shakes his head emphatically. “It’s just… I didn’t think this was your style, is all.”

　　“My style,” Arthur repeats slowly, questioningly. This is getting interesting. Even more interesting is the fact that Merlin appears to blush under Arthur’s scrutiny.

　　“It’s just… less posh than I expected. That’s all.” Merlin lifts one shoulder and finally bites into his biscuit. He’s chewing thoroughly, studying the posters on the wall and avoiding Arthur’s gaze. His hair, Arthur notices randomly, is curling more than it did on Saturday, probably induced by the dampness of the foggy air that’s been clinging to the city for most of the afternoon.

　　“You think I’m posh?“ Arthur isn’t sure whether to feel insulted.

　　“Does it matter?”

　　Maybe it does. Arthur shrugs and reaches for another biscuit without any particular desire to eat it. “I guess it doesn’t. Anyway, I’m not here for a haircut today. There’s a flat on the third floor which is going to become available.”

　　“Oh.” Merlin shifts in his seat and finally glances over at Arthur. “You weren’t kidding about liking my place better than yours, then?”

　　Arthur has only a hazy memory of admitting as much. Fortunately, he’s excused having to answer when the door opens, a well-dressed woman poking her head in before she enters. Arthur straightens, already smiling when her searching look lands on him.

　　“Arthur Pendragon?” she asks just as Trisha utters an apology to her customer and joins them.

　　Arthur offers his hand, taking a step forward. “Yes, that would be me. Delighted to meet you, thank you so much for making the time.”

　　“Sarah Canel,” the woman says, shaking his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. To Trisha, she adds, “You were right, he really is charming.”

　　“Told you so.” Trisha’s laugh is almost proud, and she rests a light hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He turns his head to give her a grateful smile, but it doesn’t mean he misses the rather incredulous glance Merlin’s shoots him, as if it’s ludicrous that anyone would consider Arthur charming. It isn’t; there are a lot of people who think Arthur is very charming. He has websites dedicated to his charms.

　　“You did,” Sarah tells Trisha. She hoists her leather bag higher up on her shoulder, and Arthur makes a split-second’s decision not to offer his help in carrying it. He isn’t certain she’d appreciate that. “So,” she says, “you’re interested in my flat?”

　　“Well, yes.” Arthur nods and keeps his face open, his arms loosely by his side, weight evenly on both legs. “Trisha told me you’re going to move out, and I lived in the area a couple of years ago and really liked it. As opposed to my current house, which is rather too big for one person.”

　　Merlin makes a small movement that Arthur notices out of the corner of one eye. It also catches Sarah’s attention because she turns towards him, voice friendly. “I’m sorry, I think I interrupted your conversation with Arthur, earlier.”

　　“Oh, it’s no problem, really.” Merlin jumps to his feet and shakes her hand, beaming. “I’m Merlin Emrys. I just happened to pass by, that’s all.”

　　“He’s a friend,” Arthur puts in, sending Merlin a warning glance to stifle any protest before it forms. Merlin doesn’t protest. Instead, he nods eagerly, shoving both hands into his pockets. For all that he’s practically vibrating in place, both Sarah and Trisha are regarding him with instant fondness, and it’s enough to make up Arthur’s mind. It might be a mistake. “Actually,” Arthur asks, “would you mind if he came along to have a look at the flat? It’s always good to have a second opinion. Unless,” at this, Arthur smiles at Merlin, “you were in a hurry?”

　　“Uh.” Merlin rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “No, not really. I could come along, if that’s okay.”

　　“Of course it is.” Again, Sarah’s bag starts to slide off her shoulder. “By the way, I hope neither of you is allergic to dogs?”

　　“Not at all,” Arthur says, and Merlin echoes the sentiment. He appears slightly out of his depth, so Arthur steps up beside him, nudging their shoulders together the way friends would. It clearly doesn’t serve to reassure Merlin. His reaction consists of a confused sidelong glance before they finally follow Sarah out onto the street while Trisha returns to her customer.

　　The main door of the house is large and made of carved oak wood, yellow-tinted crown glass embedded in it. By contrast, the lock is modern. Sarah leads the way onto the third floor, fiddling with her keys for a moment before she finds the right one and lets them into a small reception area that opens almost directly into a living room. Honey-coloured wooden floorboards form an even pattern on the floor, giving an impression of warmth despite the fog lingering outside the windows, and Arthur’s first impulse is to move in straight away, as soon as possible.

　　His distraction is why he notices the brown bundle shooting towards him only at the last moment. He manages to keep a straight face when Sarah’s dog puts both its paws on his knees and gazes up at him with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, tail wagging. Fortunately, Merlin steps forward, and when he crouches down to pet the dog, its attention immediately transfers from Arthur to Merlin.

　　“Sorry about that.” Sarah sounds amused. “Stella doesn’t enjoy being locked up in here all day, so when the door opens, she thinks it’s time for a walk.”

　　Merlin looks up with a wide grin, the perspective making Arthur notice just how very pretty Merlin’s lashes are. It’s a really stupid detail to notice. “She’s cute,” Merlin declares, and yes, it was definitely the right decision to take him along, even if Arthur can’t quite shake the discomfort of looking at a potential new flat with Merlin by his side. It feels too much like something they aren’t.

　　“She most definitely is.” Sarah bends down to pick up her squirming dog with both hands, hoisting her into her arms. “She’s also hungry, so if you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll go and feed her. Feel free to poke around.”

　　“Thank you,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t move from his place near the entrance, taking in the large windows that follow the curve of a gazebo, everything bright and spacious and comfortable. He waits for Sarah to move towards where the kitchen must be before he turns to look at Merlin.

　　“What?” Merlin asks.

　　“Nothing.” Arthur shrugs and goes to examine the large bookshelf. It’s built into one wall, so chances are it will stay. His back to Merlin, Arthur adds, “I didn’t think you liked dogs.”

　　“Why is that?”

　　Arthur grins, half-turning and savouring the thought before he actually voices it. “Probably because you seem more like someone who will grow into a crazy old cat lady.”

　　Merlin’s frown is immediate. “How come you can be charming to anyone but me?”

　　“You think I’m charming?” Arthur asks.

　　“No.” Merlin’s tone is very resolute, and Arthur might keep pushing if Sarah didn’t choose that moment to return.

　　--

　　They spend nearly an hour at Sarah’s flat, and by the time they leave, Arthur is ready to move in. The only negative points he could find were the awkwardly positioned oven and the fairly small bathroom, which both fade when held against the light-streamed bedroom, the numerous nooks and crannies, the high ceiling and the beautiful floors. Since Sarah would be delighted to find a new tenant this easily, it comes down to the verdict of the landlord. Arthur isn’t particularly worried.

　　One month seems like a long time to wait before finally getting out of that large, empty house.

　　Trisha temporarily abandons another customer to ask how he liked the place. They spend a few minutes talking about the neighbourhood and the grocer around the corner, Trisha claiming that the bread there is still as amazing as it used to be four years back, when she first recommended it to him. All the while, Merlin listens with a curious smile on his face, no trace of impatience even though Arthur can’t quite figure out why Merlin doesn’t have better things to do with his time.

　　Once they’re back out on the street, the air still damp albeit the fog has lifted, Merlin stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket and glances off toward the closest underground station before he asks, voice quiet, “She really likes you, doesn’t she?”

　　The question pulls Arthur up short. All he can think of is an uninspired, “Jealous?”

　　Merlin snorts, gaze flicking to Arthur’s face. “Jesus, no. She’s old enough to be your mother.” Then his expression twists abruptly, and fuck, he knows. Maybe it’s common knowledge amongst the employees, maybe they joke about it while wiping down tables after one of them found the information on an internet page and—Arthur forcibly shoves the thought away while Merlin prattles on, words so rushed he nearly trips over them. “I mean, I didn’t mean she liked you in that way. Just, she cares a great deal.”

　　“Oh.” Arthur stares at a nearby park gate, perfectly trimmed hedges and trees visible beyond it. He’s always avoided thinking about whether Trisha treated every customer with the easy, genuine affection she shows him, and he’s planning to keep it that way; there’s a possibility that he wouldn’t like the answer. He clears his throat, voice brisk. “Anyway, thanks for coming along.”

　　“Yeah, no problem.” Merlin shifts his weight. His grin is uncertain. “I mean, it’s an amazing flat. I like it. Which doesn’t—You’ll like it there.”

　　“Yes.” Arthur pauses before he continues. “It is a lot cosier than my current place. It’ll be a nice change.”

　　“You lived in Notting Hill before?” Merlin seems honestly interested and Arthur doesn’t know why or what Merlin’s getting out of this; it’s not as if Arthur is likely to promote Merlin to management assistant just because they’re having a chat. If Merlin has ulterior motives, Arthur has yet to figure them out.

　　“Before I moved to the States, yes.” In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have given his flat up. It’s too late to regret that now, though, and besides, the company’s house is only a transition stage. He’ll be out of there soon. “Anyway, thanks again.” Arthur smiles and considers touching Merlin’s shoulder, but he’s not sure he’s allowed. “What are you doing here, by the way?”

　　“Free city,” Merlin says sharply.

　　“I never said it wasn’t. Just not necessarily your neighbourhood, is it?”

　　“Uh.” Merlin noticeably hesitates. Then he shrugs. “There’s this research project nearby, and they’re hiring students who can write their dissertations as part of the research. It’s a cool topic, so…”

　　“What is the topic?”

　　“Endocrine disruptors.” At Arthur’s questioning look, Merlin elaborates. “Endocrine disruptors are… They’re substances that influence hormones, so they can have quite an effect on bodies – interfere with development, have an impact on fertility, that sort of thing. For instance, the semen quality of men in industrial nations is on the decline.” A faint blush spreads over Merlin’s cheeks, and given the way he earns his money, Arthur has to bite back a smile. Then he remembers the certain, easy way in which Merlin moved against him that night, and smiling isn’t so much an issue anymore.

　　Quickly, Arthur asks, “So you’re applying for one of the spots, then?”

　　“I guess so. I’m just not very good at the whole application thing.” Merlin sighs and lifts a hand, scratching his knuckles over the back of his neck. It seems to be a nervous habit. “I thought if I had a look at the building, it might inspire me, but… not so much.”

　　“How many jobs have you applied for before?” Arthur asks.

　　“Um. Including Camelot?”

　　“Yes.”

　　“Two.” Merlin’s expression is sheepish.

　　“And how many of these were formal applications, with CV and covering letter and job interview.”

　　“None.” It sounds like a question, given the uncertain way Merlin’s voice tilts up at the end of the word. Arthur frowns at him for a moment, and he shouldn’t be trying to get closer to Merlin than he already has; neither their respective positions nor Merlin’s incomprehensible mood swings make it a good idea.

　　And yet.

　　“When do you have your lunch break tomorrow?”

　　Merlin gives him a look that is openly confused, but he still replies, “At twelve.”

　　“Okay. Then meet me for lunch at a quarter past at…” Nothing too fancy, probably; everything Arthur knows suggests that Merlin appreciates simple Italian food rather than modern French and the likes. “At Manicomio, that’s near Kings Road. The café, by the way, not the restaurant. Bring your CV and cover letter, and I’ll take a look at them.”

　　“Seriously?” Merlin’s voice is grateful and surprised at once.

　　“Well, yes.” Arthur pretends to pat his pockets in search of something, not even sure what it could be. A tissue, maybe. He doesn’t feel like meeting Merlin’s eyes as he amends, “Only if you want me to, obviously.”

　　“That would be great.” It sounds honest enough, so Arthur looks up and nods curtly.

　　“Don’t mention it.”

　　“Thanks anyway.” Merlin puts his weight on his right leg, hand twitching by his side. He glances toward the underground station again, and Arthur could offer to drive him home. He shouldn’t. “So, tomorrow?” Merlin asks.

　　“At a quarter past twelve.” Arthur buries both hands in his pockets and grins. Merlin grins back, raising one hand for a ridiculous wave.

　　“Okay. I’ll bring my application stuff.”

　　“You do that.”

　　They stare at each other for a moment. Then Merlin nods and, with another smile, turns to head for the tube. His shoulders are drawn up a little against the cool air, and Arthur watches him go for longer than he should. It’s probably a good thing Merlin doesn’t turn back.

　　--

　　For all that it’s mildly ridiculous, Arthur actually takes a change of clothes along to work. Next to Merlin’s band shirts and frayed jeans, he’d feel out of place wearing his usual business attire, in particular since a meeting in the morning requires formal wear.

　　Unfortunately, the meeting not only requires formal wear, it also drags on forever when Aredian, Head of Human Resources, gets hit with a case of verboseness when he explains why the financial crisis gives them a perfect excuse to get rid of employees that never quite fit in with the company philosophy. It’s a good thing Uther isn’t there; Arthur is afraid he might agree that critical employees are a waste of time.

　　By the time Arthur finally gets back to his office, he rushes to change before hurrying down to his car. He earns a few confused looks on the stairs, people not used to seeing him in casual clothes, but for some reason, it doesn’t bother him. Quite the contrary - it feels utterly liberating.

　　When he passes Aredian, Arthur gives a cheerful wave and skips a step.

　　--

　　Merlin was lucky enough to arrive just when a group of three tourists paid and left the café. He managed to secure their table, defending it against an elderly couple, and since then, he’s been alternately studying the menu, glancing towards the street and sliding the printouts out of his backpack, then back in. They happen to be in his backpack when Arthur breezes onto the terrace, a few minutes late. He scans the crowded tables before his gaze finds Merlin, cracking a smile and weaving around flower tubs to come over. Not counting the night at the club, this is by far the most casual Merlin’s seen him: blue jeans and a red t-shirt. It’s almost disconcerting.

　　“Sorry I’m late,” Arthur says before Merlin can utter as much as a greeting. “A meeting lasted longer than I thought it would. It appears our human resources guy suffered from verbal diarrhoea.”

　　“Verbal—” The unexpectedness of hearing such a remark from Arthur startles Merlin into a laugh. He slides lower on his seat to kick the metal chair on the other side of the table out for Arthur, who sinks into it with an effortless grace Merlin equally admires and envies.

　　“Hi, by the way,” Merlin says belatedly.

　　“Hello.” Arthur’s voice is dry, but his eyes are amused, brightened by the sun shining down on the tables. “Did you take a look at the menu already?”

　　“Yeah. Can’t quite make up my mind, though.” In all honesty, the prices are a little higher than at the places Merlin usually frequents. It’s not so bad that he will have to stick to soup and a bread roll, but ten pounds for a few grilled vegetables does seem rather exaggerated.

　　“I wouldn’t recommend their meat, but otherwise, you can’t really go wrong.” Arthur turns the menu around to skim over the selections.

　　Merlin lifts a shoulder and grins. He fears it might come out a little sheepish. “Avoiding the meat won’t be a problem.”

　　“You’re a vegetarian?” The question has mild ridicule attached to it, and Merlin leans back, crossing his legs at the ankles.

　　“As a matter of fact, I am. Why? Don’t tell me you spend your weekends hunting defenceless foxes or something.”

　　“No, it’s been a few years since the last time I went hunting. And I only shoot what I eat, which I consider fair.” Arthur shrugs carelessly, dismissing the topic, and after a moment, Merlin does, too. He’s never been into the missionary side of vegetarianism, and while challenging Arthur is oddly tempting, they didn’t come here to bicker. Even though there’s a faint possibility that Merlin enjoys it, just a little.

　　“Okay,” he says. Arthur blinks at him as if he finds the acquiescence hard to believe, and the reaction makes Merlin bite down on a smirk. Arthur’s lips twitch.

　　They’re approached by a waiter who takes their orders before hurrying on to the next table, leaving behind a mildly helpless moment of silence. Then Arthur nudges his glass further towards the middle of the table and props his elbows on the wood. “So, did you bring that application of yours?”

　　“You want to look it over now?” Merlin retrieves it from his backpack without awaiting an answer, unfolding the two pages and flattening them on the table before he passes them over. Arthur’s fingertips brush over his for a split second, and after having had Arthur’s hands on just about every part of his body, Merlin shouldn’t even notice a detail so small. What he should concentrate on is the more important question of why Arthur offered to help in the first place; whether this is a way to get Merlin out of his club without having to fire him.

　　It’s not the greatest job ever, but that doesn’t mean Merlin isn’t a tad bit fond of it.

　　Fortunately, Arthur appears unaware of Merlin’s distraction. He arranges the two documents beside each other, frowning down at them before his gaze flicks up to lock with Merlin’s. It takes a moment before he says, voice flat, “Look, I know you’re a science geek, but if something like this landed on my desk, it would take a direct dive into the bin. I don’t care what you’ve been told; design does matter.”

　　“Right.” Merlin swallows thickly and holds Arthur’s gaze.

　　“Also…” Arthur shakes his head. “‘I herewith wish to apply?’ That expression’s was out of style when you were born.”

　　“It’s what they taught me at school,” Merlin protests. “Besides, you’re not much older than I am.”

　　“And how would you know that?” Arthur’s voice has changed from bored to intrigued.

　　Well, fuck.

　　“You can’t be.” Merlin hopes he sounds certain instead of guilty. “You’re, what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

　　“Good guess.” Arthur doesn’t look entirely convinced, but the waiter’s appearance with their drinks probably keeps him from pursuing it. Merlin quickly picks up his Coke, taking a large, cold gulp that prickles on his tongue and nearly makes him choke. To no one’s surprise, Arthur’s manners are significantly better; he toasts Merlin before lifting the glass with mineral water, still, please, to his lips and taking a careful sip.

　　“Anyway.” Arthur sets the glass down and picks Merlin’s CV up. “This won’t do. There’ll be how many spots for students writing their dissertations?”

　　“Two,” Merlin says.

　　“And far more applicants. So obviously, you need to make it easy on the poor person who has to read all those applications.” Arthur leans forward. “Because, see, after the seventh application, all those CVs will become blurry and each covering letter will sound just like the previous one.”

　　“Personal experience?” Merlin asks.

　　Arthur’s grin is quick and bright, his blonde hair contrasting nicely with the red t-shirt. It’s a colour that suits him. “Personal torture might be more accurate.”

　　“Why didn’t you let someone else do the pre-sorting for you?”

　　“And give them full control over who makes it into a job interview with me?” Arthur raises a brow, lips pursed. “I don’t think so. Who says their criteria match mine?”

　　“Control issues,” Merlin tells him.

　　Arthur looks unfazed. “I like to be thorough.”

　　“Speaking of thorough,” Merlin begins, mostly because the red colour of Arthur’s t-shirt captivates his attention more than it should, and a little because Arthur’s being a surprisingly nice prat, but a prat nonetheless. “Did you wash my shirt?”

　　Arthur’s glass is suspended halfway between table and mouth. He pauses, then sets the glass down, looking perplexed. “I forgot about that. Sorry.”

　　“It’s fine. Just,” at this, Merlin grins to ease the mood, “don’t prove my accusations right by secretly adding it to your own wardrobe collection.”

　　“Are you sure you don’t want to sell it to me?” Arthur sounds hopeful, and that makes Merlin swallow down his immediate, sharp rebuttal before actually spitting it out. “After all,” Arthur continues, unaware, “it’s not quite your size, is it? And I really like it.”

　　“You’re serious,” Merlin says. He isn’t sure what to do with this realisation.

　　Arthur gives him a look that implies an insult of Merlin’s intelligence. “Of course I am. Why did you think I offered to pay for it?”

　　As there really isn’t a good answer to that, Merlin doesn’t reply.

　　After a moment of awkward silence, Arthur’s confused expression clears, then makes room for a scowl. Merlin clears his throat and lowers his eyes. “Sorry.”

　　It takes several seconds before Arthur reacts. First, he takes a sip of water, speaking only after setting his glass back down. “Well. At least I understand your… strong refusal much better now, I suppose.”

　　“I’m sorry,” Merlin repeats.

　　Arthur’s voice is smooth and devoid of inflection. “Let’s go back to your application, shall we?”

　　“Arthur—”

　　“First off,” Arthur talks right over Merlin’s attempt at another apology, “you need a fresh start for your covering letter. If you use a phrase that also shows up in half of the other applications, you’ve already lost.”

　　Merlin takes a deep breath and nods. As Arthur is staring resolutely at the documents, he probably doesn’t even notice. “All right,” Merlin says. “I guess that makes sense. What are your suggestions, then?”

　　“Do you have a pen?” Arthur asks.

　　Merlin digs one out from the depth of his backpack, pondering how to apologise, again, but have Arthur believe him this time. It’s not that—If Merlin had taken a step back from his anger about Arthur not only leaving in a hurry, but also having the gall to take a borrowed item of clothing along… Well.

　　They spend the rest of their lunch restructuring Merlin’s application and its content.