Arcane Asylum 4/16
Aug. 14th, 2010 08:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
new_kateTitle: Arcane Asylum
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin and a bunch of less true pairings mentioned in the flashbacks.
Rating: NC-17 overall, PG-13 for this part.
Warnings for this part: none.
Summary: Modern AU. Originally written for this prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kinkme_merlin
Betaed by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
devikun
Notes: Like some sort of demented Dickensian character, I now unexpectedly launch into a massive Merlin-centric flashback. Back to Arthur early next week, promise!
Word count: 7K for this part.
First part
Chapter index
Part 4: Fugue-1
He was Merlin, the greatest sorcerer who had ever lived. He couldn't remember how old he was, or how long had he been living in this place, and he didn't know how long he would stay here. None of that mattered. He knew with bone-deep conviction, without ever having to think about it, that he would be happy and safe wherever he went - the universe would see to that. From his place of power, hidden and secure, he could hear and feel everything that was happening in his domain, and even with his eyes closed he saw all, down to the last mote of dust swirling in the slanted rays of early morning sunlight. And everything, even the sunlight itself, was quick and eager to bow to his will, to do his bidding, to come play with him.
He spread his fingers and pulled the sunlight in, in, thread by thread. It went, smooth and slow like melted chocolate. It wrapped around his skin, clinging tight, gently warm and almost invisible. Only he already knew how much power was there, in this smooth coil threaded around his palm. He could feel the tiny vibrations deep inside the glow, he could let them seep into his skin, flow through him, and if he opened his eyes - really opened his eyes, all the way, not just lifted his eyelids but really let himself look...
"What are you doing?" said his mother. He shook the tangled skein of light off his fingers and it singed tender skin in between like an angry bite, upset that the game was cut short. He swallowed down tears of pain and fisted his hand so she wouldn't see the red marks.
"Nothing," he said. "Playing."
She bent down, pulled him from under the table and then he was in her arms, curled against her warmth, soothed by familiar heartbeat.
"Don't do that," she said. "You know you're not supposed to."
And then he really started to cry, even though his hand didn't hurt any more.
Mum held him close and carried him around the room, and she kept talking, more to herself because he wasn't listening, consumed by a sudden wave of abject misery.
"They say if you don't encourage it it might go away, and I have to try, baby, I have to. I just want you to be safe. That's all I want. I wish I knew what's the right thing to do, honey. I just have to hope that everything will be all right. I promise everything will be all right."
Her voice was calming and soft, always, even when she was crying right along with him. He pressed his cheek against her pale blue bathrobe - he didn't remember her face from back then, just that shade and the rough pile of terrycloth against his skin - and slept.
That was his first memory. Obviously, he was aware long before that, and back then he must have remembered at least some of the things that happened previously. But now it seemed like his mind only had awakened on that morning, and everything before then would forever be out of his reach.
He would cling to that feeling later, when it would be useful for faking brain damage and memory loss.
It first clicked for him when he was about six years old. He was watching his Saturday morning cartoons. He'd waited for those cartoons all week, counting down days, and then he woke up too early on Saturday morning and had to count down hours, and then finally minutes, resisting the temptation to give the clock hands a little push. He'd learned his lesson last month when he pushed too hard and missed the cartoons altogether.
He was watching, sprawled on the floor, sipping his milk, saving the second half of his biscuit for the closing credits. It wasn't a sudden revelation, more like a cold uneasy feeling that must have been in his gut for a while and now was getting harder and harder to ignore. He watched his heroes claim another victory as the villain was arrested once again and now cursed them through the barred window of the police car, and suddenly he knew.
If he were in the cartoon, like he sometimes daydreamed about, he wouldn't be Alec, the handsome and brave team captain. He wouldn't be Selma. Not that he wanted to be a girl, but she was really cool and got to hug Alec at least twice an episode. He wouldn't even be Bobby, the clumsy funny sidekick.
No, if he were in the cartoon, he'd be the gross evil witch behind the bars.
He ran into the kitchen, into the warm thick smells of cooking, threw his arms around Mum's legs and buried his face in her apron.
"Did something scary happen in your cartoon?" she asked. He nodded fiercely against her hip and she pushed the bubbling pan off the hob, hugged him and petted his hair.
But the dreadful feeling didn't melt away like it always did when he was in her arms. It was still there, ugly and desperate, growing stronger.
"Mum," he said. "If they find out about me, will I go to prison?"
"No," she said firmly. Her arm tightened across his shoulders till it was hard to breathe, but he didn't mind. "Don't ever think that. No. Only bad people go to prison. Only those who did something bad. Do you understand?"
He sighed in relief and pulled away.
"Besides, no one will ever find out. This is our secret, isn't that right? Only you and me will ever know."
"Right," he agreed. "It's just, in the cartoons the witches are always evil."
"Well, you're not. Don't worry. You won't go to prison. It will never come to that."
It came to that when he was twelve, only back then he didn't quite understand what was happening.
"What's psychological evaluation?" he asked as soon as he was through the door. He hadn't dared to ask anyone at school.
Mum was watching news and reading newspapers. There was a thick stack of newspapers on the couch, more than they ever got. When she looked up at him her face was a little scary, with little wrinkles at her mouth and between her eyebrows. That was the face she had when he was in serious trouble, and he felt his legs go weak. It didn't help any that he felt like he was in trouble all day, which didn't make any sense. He hadn't done anything wrong.
"Mr Benton?" she asked unexpectedly gently.
"Y - yes. The principal said he was going for psychological evaluation. Because he's a warlock. She wouldn't tell us when he's going to be back. And Susie said Mr Benton will be declared unfit to work with the children and won't be our teacher any more. Her dad said that. Mum, is that true?"
"It's possible," she said. The newspaper in her hands was shaking, making a rustling sound, and she put it down. "Now, this is very important, did you ever tell Mr Benton about you?"
"No," he said. It was the truth, but it still felt like lying, because he wanted to tell. For so long, ever since he'd known about Mr Benton, he wanted to tell him everything. Every day he lingered after class, asking stupid questions about homework, and the confession danced right on the tip of his tongue. He'd run out of things to say and fidget in front of the teacher's desk for endless minutes, and Mr Benton would just smile at him, mildly, patiently. Like he already could guess.
The need to tell was enormous. He and his secret were growing together, and it was getting uncomfortably huge, itching under his skin. He wanted to share it with someone who knew what it was like. Just with one person who was his kin.
"But even if I had, he'd never tell anyone," he said meekly. "He'd keep the secret."
"I'm sure he would," said Mum. "We're moving. Start packing your things, please."
He remembered the time when they seemed to move at the drop of a hat, easily and swiftly. They'd pile all their stuff in the boxes, and shove the boxes in the back of a rental car, and they'd be away, driving down narrow country lanes, and he'd stare out into the unfamiliar lands through the back window and think about the new life that was waiting for them, new amazing friends he'd make, new room to make his own, new places to explore.
But with every year it was getting harder and harder, as if the older they got the more they were prone to sprouting invisible roots to tie them to any place where they lingered. They had months of rent left on their house, Mum couldn't find a new job, and there was something or other to organise about his school transfer that was going to take ages. He'd already said goodbye to all his friends. They hugged and cried a bit, and made their promises, and he was still here, hanging around like a restless spirit. Everybody was unbearably nice to him, very polite and very distant, clearly not seeing a point of being friends with someone who wasn't going to be around much longer. He was stuck in the limbo, bored and lonely. He couldn't even really be angry at Mum for making them move, because, in the end, even thought she'd never say it outright, all of it was his fault.
Still, he was angry at her. There wasn't anyone else for him to be angry at. He would barely speak to her, and when she tried to have a conversation he'd only snap at her till she gave up. He avidly fantasised about running away, going to the sea or joining the circus, or becoming the youngest criminal mastermind in history. Then - he thought with vicious satisfaction - then she would be sorry.
Mr Benton never came back. Some children talked about that, but he wouldn't listen.
The moving day was less than a week before his birthday, and that was the last straw.
"I'd only have been there for days, I wouldn't have any friends, nobody would come to my party!" he yelled. "Why can't we stay here just for a bit longer? Why do you have to ruin my birthday?"
"Yes, clearly, I'm doing all this to ruin your party," she said, pushing boxes at him. "Come on, we have a long drive ahead of us."
The car was awful, smelly and rickety, and every part of it made a different kind of weird noise. After three hours of tortuously slow and shaky drive he didn't so much fall asleep as passed out from sheer exhaustion on the lumpy back seat, boxes poking him everywhere.
When he woke up, they were still moving. It was pitch dark, maybe the middle of the night. The radio was droning on in the most boring voices imaginable, and he didn't know how Mum stayed awake through that. He was going to climb into the front seat and find a music station for her, but the words "mandatory psychological evaluation" caught his attention, and he stayed where he was, quiet and listening.
It was supposed to be some sort of debate, only nobody was really arguing. All the boring-voice people were in perfect agreement about this.
"Maybe I should do it," he said. Mum's hand on the wheel jumped slightly - she must have thought he was still asleep.
"No," she said.
"But it's the law. And I'm not unstable or anything. They said they would only isolate the ones who pose a threat."
"I'm not taking that risk. I'm not letting anyone decide if my child is fit for society. Nobody gets to do that."
Her fingers were white-pale where they were gripping the steering wheel. Her dark nail polish started chipping days ago, and she hadn't fixed it yet. Now, with her hair lank and messy and her skin sallow with fatigue, she looked like a druggie, almost embarrassing to be seen with.
"But if I don't go for this evaluation, and someone finds out about me, you'll go to prison," he said, cringing as the words left his mouth. Even saying that was unbearable. An image of his mother in prison uniform, led by the guards into a barred cell, flooded his mind and he bit into the inside of his cheek to stop a wave of nausea.
"That's really the least of our worries," she said and smiled at him in the rear view mirror. "Besides, nobody will ever find out."
Nobody bothered him at the new school. The kids didn't pick on him, didn't want to get to know him. The teachers weren't interested in him, since he didn't make any trouble, didn't struggle with his classes and didn't excel at anything. He day-dreamt through school hours, wandered around town till dark, ate dinner with his mum, washed the dishes and sat in front of the TV with an open book in his lap, not paying any attention to either. She asked him about his day, and he answered in detached monotone. It's fine, Mum, everything is fine.
This was the whole point of it, after all. Becoming invisible, constantly severing all ties, slipping away as soon as anyone got close, so nobody would ever know. This was the only way he could live - on the edges of people's vision, unnoticed, inconsequential, hidden.
He could feel something growing in his mind, like a tooth cavity you couldn’t see but couldn’t stop poking with your tongue either. He knew if he really let himself think about it - if he really dared to ask himself what was the point of living like this all his whole life, for months and years, forever and ever - there'd be no turning back. He’d never be the same again.
He hadn't done any magic since they moved. Not a single thing. Not even something stupid like heating his bath water or cooling his tea, polishing his shoes or getting a book from the shelf that was out of reach. He did all his chores by hand, with clumsy and slow fingers, and listened to the restless hum of magic inside, waiting for it to rebel and come to a breaking point. He wondered if it would convulse in hunger and hurt, and lash out, or would it just curl in on itself and fester, and wither quietly.
One night Mum sat next to him, put her arm around him and pulled his head onto her shoulder. He wanted to bristle - he was far too old for cuddles - but in the end he couldn't, and let himself melt into it, feeling the warmth of her body like a song resonating through his blood, like he always had.
"I guess the worst part for you," she said, "Is that you can't talk to anybody who knows what it's like. I can't even imagine what it's like for you. You're my child, and we’re a world apart. I wish I could... just... understand."
"It's okay, Mum," he said, meaning it this time, and pressed his forehead against ticklish curls of her hair.
"I've never even heard of it happening like this. It's not supposed to happen until puberty, or even much later, and then it's supposed to be uncontrollable and violent. Telekinesis, pyrokenesis, disturbing visions. And it's terrifying when it happens, people go mad with it. And you - you were just there, in your crib, smiling like an angel, floating your toys around. Making your own toys from nothing. You were so at peace with it all. So happy."
They never spoke about this, just like they never spoke about his father. He held his breath, afraid to break up the moment.
"I waited for the Old Religion to come for you, you know," she said, her fingers tracing familiar patterns through his scalp, ticklish and comforting. "They were already banned by then, but I thought they still would try to take you in, because you were so special. Worth any risk. I kept wondering what I should do. But they never came."
"You'd give me to them?" he asked, almost soundlessly, his throat too tight to let his voice through.
"Of course not. But I thought - you were a baby, of course they wouldn't separate us, they'd let me come with you. And you'd be with your people. We'd live like criminals, but..."
"You're my people."
She giggled and kissed his temple. He let his book drop on the floor and curled into a ball against her side. It was probably like that before he was born: huddled up in soft warmth, listening to her heartbeat, soaking up boundless affection that poured off her in steady, calm waves. He used to be able to sense her so much better when he was little. The feeling was growing weaker the older he got, getting dull and dimmed like everything else in his life.
"What used to happen to the people they took?" he asked.
"Well, there were stories. They were a cult, after all. But after they were banned a lot of the disciples came back home. Like your teacher, Mt Benton, do you remember him? His magic manifested when he was fifteen, they came for him, and he lived in the temple for eight years. It didn't sound that bad, really. Sort of like a monastery, but instead of prayers they were teaching him to control his power. When the temple shut down and the priests went on the run he went to college and - well, the rest you know."
He knew the rest up to the psychological evaluation part, but he didn't want to talk about that right now.
"Do you know if someone ever refused to go to the temple?"
"I heard about that. The priests wouldn't insist, apparently, they'd just leave."
"What happened then? I mean, before."
"Same as now, really. Mental institution. Medicated till they aren't a danger to themselves and others."
"Do you think something will change when, you know, the puberty stuff happens? Do you think I might be a danger?"
She didn't tense up at all, just laughed softly and shook her head.
"No. If there is one thing I know about you - one thing that will never change - it's that you have an amazing heart. This is one thing in our lives I never had to worry about. I know that you were given this great gift because you can be trusted with it. When the time comes, you'll know what to do with all this power."
"I wish I had your faith in me," he grumbled.
"You should. I know you have a great destiny. I just need to keep you safe till you can claim it."
He slept so well that night, wrapped in a cloud of warm, silly dreams. But in the morning the reality started seeping in again, and on his way home from school he was deflated, dragging his feet like an old man. He wanted to believe in this great destiny, and he wanted to believe that his heart and his brains were somewhat above average, but he was old enough to know that was all just mum talk. Every mum thinks her kids are the best in the world. Even the mothers of murderers must still love their kids and somehow make the excuses for them.
A few boys from his year were standing by the edge of the park, looming over a primary school kid. He was backed against the fence, pale, fidgety, desperately trying to keep a brave face on. They weren't doing anything to him yet, but it was clearly not a friendly conversation.
Even their mothers must have thought their thug sons were just little angels, Merlin thought morosely, as he turned off his usual course and crossed the road, heading toward them. That's mothers for you. Can't rely on their judgement.
"Hey," he said and tapped the tallest one on the shoulder, and only then he remembered that he was supposed to stay out of trouble. That his life and his mother's freedom literally depended on him staying out of trouble. This just showed how much he really could be trusted with anything.
They turned around and stared at him. They were probably trying for menacing, but ended up looking extremely dumb, like a litter of bulldog pups.
"That's enough, you've had your fun. Now let him go," he told them.
"Hey, it's the new guy," said the tall boy. "New guy thinks he's so tough. He thinks he's got the bollocks of steel."
"Yeah, what am I thinking, messing with the guys who gang up to beat up a nine-year-old?"
The little kid finally found the courage to move and tore down the street, his school bag flapping against his back. Someone made a half-hearted attempt to grab him, but they were more interested in Merlin now. Two of them stepped around him and crowded close, trying to back him into that same spot by the fence they had the kid pinned at. He didn't move. It had been years since he’d fought, not counting friendly wrestling and tussling during games. A rational part of him knew that now, when they were almost adults, fistfights were going to be nasty and hurt a whole lot more, but he couldn't feel even a tingle of anxiety. Compared to the actual dangers of his normal life, this didn't seem serious. It didn't even seem real.
A completely irrational part of him wanted this. Something simple and physical, unrestricted by rules of sports and codes of conduct, something dirty and primal to take him out of himself for one bright moment. It wanted to hurt and to bleed, and to hurt someone else, make them scream in pain, make them pay for everything.
"All right, how about I beat the snot out of you one-on-one then," suggested the tall boy sweetly and threw a punch at him right away.
And like it often did, when something happened before his brain could react, his magic took over. He's seen it a million times already - when he'd knock a glass off the table and it would freeze mid-fall, a splatter of water glistening in the air, waiting for the wave of his hand. Or he'd trip badly, and would be propelling towards the pavement head-first, and suddenly his fall would turn into a slow, smooth sinking glide till he could rearrange his limbs and trade concussion for a skinned knee. The boy's clenched fist was flying at his chest, slowly and predictably. He moved sideways, pushed his forearm down to deflect the blow and, to his own surprise, socked the boy on the jaw.
His knuckles stung sharply; the boy's teeth audibly clanked together in his mouth. His eyes lost focus for a moment, and Merlin nearly dove in to catch him should he fall. But then everything came back to normal, the time snapped back into the usual flow, and the boy didn't look really hurt. In fact, he was smiling.
"Well look at you," he said and launched himself at Merlin like a WWF wrestler.
An eternity of mad scrambling and face-pushing later they lay on the damp grass in a sweaty, breathless heap. All energy was spent to the last drop, leaving limbs heavy and wobbly, limp like over-boiled noodles. Neither of them could lift an arm, but they both kept trying, uselessly pushing and pulling at each other, twisted up together in a very uncomfortable and rather painful way.
"All right there, Will?" asked one of the other boys, smirking. To their credit they didn't interfere at all, keeping the fight fair.
"New guy's tougher than he looks," Will panted somewhere near Merlin's armpit. "Truce?"
Merlin nodded, immensely relieved, and they slowly pulled themselves apart and to their feet. He didn't actually feel better, but he was pleasantly numb, like Will's punches had knocked out all the demons that had been chewing at his insides. Merlin stretched, mentally cataloguing the bruises. His elbow felt like it was scraped raw and bleeding on his school shirt, but he could do the laundry before mum got home. She'd never know.
"You're all right," said Will magnanimously and extended his chapped hand. "I'm Will. Friends?"
"I don't have friends who pick on little kids," Merlin said haughtily. A small voice on the back of his mind reminded him that he didn't have any friends, and whined about beggars and choosers, but it wasn't that hard to ignore.
"That little kid, for your information, terrorises the whole of St Mary's Primary," said Will, glowering.
"Yeah, my sister asked me to sort him out," nodded another boy.
"Well, all right then, I guess," said Merlin and took Will's hand. Will's palm was dirty and still sweaty from their grappling, but so was his. "I'm Merlin."
When Will put his mind to something, he did it the way he fought - with complete dedication and clumsy, whole-hearted, bull-headed abandon. He approached their new friendship the same way, throwing himself into it without reservation. He waited for Merlin on the corner on the way to school, looked for him at every break, got them on the same team for every game, stole most of his chips at lunch, but always offered half of his pudding in return.
The days suddenly grew unacceptably short. There was so much to do, and all of it had to be done right now, urgently, like there could be no tomorrow. Will had lived in the town most of his life, and he had countless things to show Merlin: the really ugly house down the road, the crazy lady with an actual moustache, the pond with tons of frogs, the best climbing trees, the abandoned textile factory, the bit of forest behind the council estate that was really creepy after dark. There was a pet shop where Merlin temporarily lost his mind over a golden retriever puppy and had to have two slushies to calm down. There was a comic book store from which they nearly got banned on the very first visit, and there was a hill with a breathtaking view across the fields, with a river glistening far in the distance like a silver thread in the green. Will said that his dad would take them both fishing there in the summer.
"Word on the street is," said Mum a few weeks later, "That my son's made friends with the school bully."
"Will's not a bully!" he protested hotly, even though she was smiling, obviously not concerned at all. "He's just misunderstood. He's awesome."
"Then I should trust you to keep you both out of trouble. Bring him to dinner, will you? I'd love to meet your friend."
Will baulked at the invitation as if Merlin suggested he'd kiss a toad.
"She'd hate me," he said after Merlin pried enough. "Mums just hate me. They’re all like, nooo, that Will, he's a rebel, he's dangerous, stay away from him."
"She's not like that," said Merlin. "I promise. And she's making apple crumble tonight. She makes the best apple crumble in the world, it's just apples and crumble! None of that boring old crust on the bottom. She makes it in the frying pan."
"Huh," Will said, his eyes glazing over dreamily. "Well, I warned you."
He turned up dressed in a suit, thankfully without a tie, with a bunch of carnations wrapped in a newspaper. His hair was artfully spiked and encrusted in gel, and his face was red and shiny, like he was scrubbing at it with soap for the best part of the afternoon.
"Oh hell no," Merlin moaned. "You look like you're going to ask her out or something."
"Shut it, tosser," Will hissed through clenched teeth, and elbowed him in the side on the way through the door. "That crumble better be sensational."
At the table Will started a conversation about the weather, and then congratulated Mum on serving especially delicious boiled potatoes. He sat very straight, like he literally had a broom handle shoved up his ass, and kept daintily touching the napkin to his lips. As if it wasn't him who yanked a Yorkshire pudding off Merlin's plate today at lunch and sprayed them both with gravy; as if he wasn't normally so committed to sprawling in his chair that he went tumbling backwards onto cafeteria floor more than once.
When he picked up his tea cup Merlin couldn't take it any longer and tried to kick him under the table, but couldn't reach.
"Will, stop sticking your pinky out or I break it, seriously," he said. Will glared and blushed and, because the bastard had longer legs, actually landed a kick to Merlin's shin.
"Oh, is there more cream?" he said vindictively and upended the tub onto his plate, not leaving Merlin any. "I must have the recipe for this dessert, it's scrumptious."
Mum wasn't weirded out by any of this, she just kept smiling and looking at them a little misty-eyed.
"I'm so glad you've made friends with Merlin, Will," she said suddenly. "He was very lonely here. I know he's a sensitive boy, and can be a little shy..."
"Mum!" yelled Merlin in utter outrage.
"Mm, let me tell you something," Will said, swallowing a huge chunk of crumble. "This sensitive thing - he just puts on for the girls. They are all over him, he'll get a girlfriend soon if we don't watch out. How gay would that be?"
"Not... very?" Mum ventured. "Girls, really?"
"He's lying," Merlin grumbled. "They're just being friendly."
"Oh yeah, does that sound familiar: Meeeerlin, let me borrow your peeencil...."
"She just wanted to borrow a pencil!"
"Yeah right," Will smirked sagely, and turned back to Merlin’s mum. "Truth is, and I know he looks like butter wouldn't melt, but Merlin is freaking badass. I'm, personally, well pleased to have a friend who's actually cool."
Mum laughed and reached out to stroke Will's spiky hair. For a moment he looked like he was going to close his eyes and lean into it, and possibly rub his face into Mum's hand and purr like a kitten, but thankfully he didn't, so Merlin was spared from going completely insane.
"Your mum's pretty great," he said as Merlin walked him home.
"Don't you even think about having a crush on my mother."
"I'm not, you dirty pervert! She's just... a great mum."
"Well, yeah," Merlin shrugged. "Isn't yours like that?"
"Not really. Hey, do you think you could come over to mine for a sleepover? Now that she knows I'm trustworthy and sensible. I have Playstation Two!"
Will's house was two streets from theirs and looked exactly the same, except it was painted a slightly darker beige. All of the terraced houses lined up north of the square were exact replicas of the same model, except for the shades of beige paint on the front walls, the shapes of the front doors and the types of curtains hanging in the front windows.
Will's front garden was completely paved over, clean and empty, and looked like a helicopter could land on it at any moment if it managed to manoeuvre into the tiny space.
"We're not much into gardening," he said. "The back's a jungle, we're kind of proud of it."
The house was cold and smelled musty; Will went straight to the kitchen, switched on the boiler and filled up the cheap plastic kettle. It was getting dark, and the back garden did look a bit like a piece of wild jungle in the sparse light from the window. The lawn had grown knee-high and was dominated by nettles, the fence was swathed in thick layers of ivy. Hideously overgrown rose bushes stood stark against the sky, still bearing the hips of dead flowers on the top branches. There was a sickly apple tree in the corner, drowning in masses of climbing weed. Merlin loved the garden on sight.
"It's really nice in the summer." Will threw his school bag on the kitchen table and picked up the phone off the wall hook. "So, pizza?"
They ordered the super deluxe special, got mugs of tea to warm their fingers on while they waited for the house to heat up, settled on the comfy beat-up sofa and fired up the Playstation.
"Willll," Merlin said three hours and twenty minutes later. "I have actual blisters on my thumbs and I'm going to throw up pizza and coke through my nose, probably, and I never felt so happy in my whole entire life. I blame you for everything."
"Sugar rush, man!" said Will, grinning hugely. "Have some more coke before you come down, we have another seven levels to do."
"When are your parents coming home? We're totally having a party in the front room, they'll kill you. We should clean up. Except I can't move."
"Oh, they're not coming. That's why I said Friday, we can stay up all night and then go out for full English in the morning, yeah?"
Merlin nodded, carefully, still unsure he wouldn't throw up if he moved his head too much, and tried to think through the pizza-induced happy fog.
"Will, do you actually have parents?" he asked, fighting off vague Dickensian images of orphans in his head.
"'Course I do."
Will put down the controller and twisted about on the sofa, dislodging pillows, disk cases and empty cans till he could fully turn toward Merlin and sit there cross-legged, hunching and steepling his fingers like a super-villain in a movie.
"Can you keep a secret?" he hissed in a dramatic loud whisper.
"Yeah!" Merlin yelped, delighted. Somehow, without even realising that, he'd been waiting for this moment. The friendship just didn't seem complete without a secret to share.
"I kind of live by myself right now. It's not really legal, so don't tell anyone."
"That's so cool! But how?"
"Well, really, I live with my dad, all right. But he's in the army, so right now he's in Germany for a month, on some exchange thing. Last time he went away I stayed with my mum, but this time I said no way. I'm almost fourteen, I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself. And I just hate her new bloke. First degree tosser. So, the house's all ours for another two weeks."
"But, but, how do you live?"
"What, he left me money, obviously. All bills are on direct debit, I just buy food and stuff."
"But what if you get sick? Or if the house is burgled? Or there's a fire?"
"You're such a mummy's boy, Merlin," Will said, "I'm talking about the, the ultimate freedom! And you’re all, oh, oh, what if there's a fiiiire? Next thing you'll be asking me if I'm not scared to sleep all by myself in the house."
"No, but..."
"Look, I have the emergency numbers. I can call my mum if I need to, dad calls me every day, and nothing is going to happen, okay? In two weeks all that's happened was that the timer on the boiler broke. No big deal."
Merlin settled back down on the sofa pillows and tried to think of the ultimate freedom, staying up all night and eating nothing but pizza, but he kept getting stuck on stupid details. He thought about having to do the ironing, and all the cleaning. And getting up for school in an empty house, all alone, on a grey cold morning, having to make his own breakfast, and locking up the house as he left, knowing it will be just as empty when he comes back, not really a home, nothing but an empty brick box.
"I can't think about it properly," he complained. "It's the pizza, it hurts my brain. Do you really eat pizza every day?"
"No, I cook. That's for special occasion."
"You? You cook?"
"I've been cooking since my mum moved out, since I was ten. Bangers and mash, spag bol, you name it. And now I have the recipe for your mum's crumble. I could, like, be a celebrity chef if I wanted to."
He gave Merlin a long, slow look and a wide grin, reached over and punched him on the shoulder.
"All right, just say it, it's awesome and you're completely jealous. It's all right to admit it, Merlin, it doesn't make you less of a man."
"Fine, fine, it is awesome."
"And you can sleep over any time, because I'm nice and generous like that. You can start thanking me now."
"All right, I'll come over whenever you're lonely, Will," he said and got hit on the head with the controller. "Ow! And you can sleep over at mine, too. But only if you bring the Playstation."
He didn’t notice when he fell asleep. One second he was fighting, frantically mashing the buttons, straining his eyes at the screen, trying not to blink, and kept getting killed over and over, and then he must have been dreaming about doing just that, because he woke up with a start, fingers scrambling for the controller, desperately trying to strafe left because the enemies were everywhere.
The lights were off; the TV was muted, showing white noise. He was sprawled across the sofa, and partly over Will, who slept with his head improbably jammed against the sofa arm and his left shoulder jerking restlessly. When Merlin tried to get up he fussed, yawned and blinked his eyes open.
"Wanna go to bed?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah, okay," Merlin whispered back.
Mum made him pack pyjamas and toothbrush, but they were in his bag, dumped somewhere in the dark room, and normal evening routines would be out of place in the middle of the ultimate freedom adventure. Besides, it wasn't even evening. The clock on the TV showed 03:41. He's never been awake at this time of night.
Will turned off the TV, took him by the hand and led him through complete, nearly palpable darkness out of the room and up the narrow staircase. They'd turned the boiler off around midnight, and it was chilly upstairs. Will pushed open the door, and they were in his tiny bedroom, scarcely lit by the diffuse glimmer of distant street lights. It was even colder inside; their shoes were left downstairs, discarded hours ago, and they dove into the bed straight away, burrowing under the icy blanket with all their clothes on.
"Head to feet?" Merlin asked, uncertain of the proper etiquette. When he went to sleepovers as a small child there was usually about five of them, and everyone had their own makeshift bed and blanket.
"I'm not smelling your dirty socks all night," huffed Will and stretched on his back flush at Merlin's side, so their shoulders and arms touched together, down to their wrists. "Ugh, s-so cold! This is a bit like camping, yeah? Sharing body heat."
"Yeah," agreed Merlin. Will's knuckles rested against his; Will's shoulder was bony but pleasantly warm and his breathing was already evening out, and the room was getting toastier by the second. He was going to sleep forever, maybe till noon, huddled up with his best friend for warmth and sheer pleasure of being next to each other. And then they'd go out for breakfast.
And then he knew he had to, he had to do it, he had to risk it. He knew that if he'd let this moment go he'd never be daring enough again, and would regret it forever.
"Will," he whispered toward the ceiling.
"Sleeeeep," moaned Will, tensing against him unhappily.
"Will," he twisted his hand against the sheets and grabbed Will's wrist, harder than he meant to, shivering with urgency, dread and excitement all mixed up. "Can you keep a secret?"
Will sat up right away, swathed himself in the blankets and crouched over Merlin, intently peering at him through the dark.
"Yeah," he said with the desperate, intense earnestness in his voice, the kind that, Merlin thought, probably only existed between best friends at around four in the morning, on the edge of the shaky sleepy exhaustion, when nothing is quite real, and anything, including the most impossible, seemed to have the same probability of happening.
"You can never tell anyone."
"I won't. Ever. I swear."
Merlin brought his hands up and let it happen, without really thinking about it or trying for anything in particular. Blue glow bloomed between his palms, only the purest light, tame, cold and quiet, and then he let it flow into red, and then gold, and break into thousands small sparks, and melt into a pool of smooth radiance once more.
When he dared to lift his eyes Will wasn't even looking at his hands. He was staring at Merlin's face, enraptured, his eyes huge and full of honest, pure awe.
"Oh wow," he said, "You're. You are."
"I am, yeah," said Merlin. His chest felt tight - he forgot to breathe for a while.
"Brilliant," said Will in a choked, reverent whisper.
Merlin dropped his hands on the blanket, sending wisps of light flying, and started laughing. He laughed all through Will settling back down under the blankets, and even afterwards he couldn't stop, light-headed, woozy and somehow free, boundless and free like he's never been before.
"I'm probably the coolest person in the world," Will said over his sobbing giggles. "I'm thirteen and I live by myself, and my best friend's a warlock. I'm so awesome."
"You also... you also have Playstation Two," managed Merlin, gasping for breath, and wiped his face with the corner of the blanket. He'd laughed himself to tears.
"That too, yeah."
"You're also a criminal now. You could go to prison for not reporting me."
"Sooo cool, living on the edge, rebel to the bone," Will said smugly. He was on his side now, facing Merlin; his knees poked Merlin's leg, but that, too, was great. Everything was fantastic right now. "Can you do it again? I wanna see it again."
Next part
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin and a bunch of less true pairings mentioned in the flashbacks.
Rating: NC-17 overall, PG-13 for this part.
Warnings for this part: none.
Summary: Modern AU. Originally written for this prompt at
kinkme_merlinBetaed by
devikunNotes: Like some sort of demented Dickensian character, I now unexpectedly launch into a massive Merlin-centric flashback. Back to Arthur early next week, promise!
Word count: 7K for this part.
First part
Chapter index
Part 4: Fugue-1
He was Merlin, the greatest sorcerer who had ever lived. He couldn't remember how old he was, or how long had he been living in this place, and he didn't know how long he would stay here. None of that mattered. He knew with bone-deep conviction, without ever having to think about it, that he would be happy and safe wherever he went - the universe would see to that. From his place of power, hidden and secure, he could hear and feel everything that was happening in his domain, and even with his eyes closed he saw all, down to the last mote of dust swirling in the slanted rays of early morning sunlight. And everything, even the sunlight itself, was quick and eager to bow to his will, to do his bidding, to come play with him.
He spread his fingers and pulled the sunlight in, in, thread by thread. It went, smooth and slow like melted chocolate. It wrapped around his skin, clinging tight, gently warm and almost invisible. Only he already knew how much power was there, in this smooth coil threaded around his palm. He could feel the tiny vibrations deep inside the glow, he could let them seep into his skin, flow through him, and if he opened his eyes - really opened his eyes, all the way, not just lifted his eyelids but really let himself look...
"What are you doing?" said his mother. He shook the tangled skein of light off his fingers and it singed tender skin in between like an angry bite, upset that the game was cut short. He swallowed down tears of pain and fisted his hand so she wouldn't see the red marks.
"Nothing," he said. "Playing."
She bent down, pulled him from under the table and then he was in her arms, curled against her warmth, soothed by familiar heartbeat.
"Don't do that," she said. "You know you're not supposed to."
And then he really started to cry, even though his hand didn't hurt any more.
Mum held him close and carried him around the room, and she kept talking, more to herself because he wasn't listening, consumed by a sudden wave of abject misery.
"They say if you don't encourage it it might go away, and I have to try, baby, I have to. I just want you to be safe. That's all I want. I wish I knew what's the right thing to do, honey. I just have to hope that everything will be all right. I promise everything will be all right."
Her voice was calming and soft, always, even when she was crying right along with him. He pressed his cheek against her pale blue bathrobe - he didn't remember her face from back then, just that shade and the rough pile of terrycloth against his skin - and slept.
That was his first memory. Obviously, he was aware long before that, and back then he must have remembered at least some of the things that happened previously. But now it seemed like his mind only had awakened on that morning, and everything before then would forever be out of his reach.
He would cling to that feeling later, when it would be useful for faking brain damage and memory loss.
It first clicked for him when he was about six years old. He was watching his Saturday morning cartoons. He'd waited for those cartoons all week, counting down days, and then he woke up too early on Saturday morning and had to count down hours, and then finally minutes, resisting the temptation to give the clock hands a little push. He'd learned his lesson last month when he pushed too hard and missed the cartoons altogether.
He was watching, sprawled on the floor, sipping his milk, saving the second half of his biscuit for the closing credits. It wasn't a sudden revelation, more like a cold uneasy feeling that must have been in his gut for a while and now was getting harder and harder to ignore. He watched his heroes claim another victory as the villain was arrested once again and now cursed them through the barred window of the police car, and suddenly he knew.
If he were in the cartoon, like he sometimes daydreamed about, he wouldn't be Alec, the handsome and brave team captain. He wouldn't be Selma. Not that he wanted to be a girl, but she was really cool and got to hug Alec at least twice an episode. He wouldn't even be Bobby, the clumsy funny sidekick.
No, if he were in the cartoon, he'd be the gross evil witch behind the bars.
He ran into the kitchen, into the warm thick smells of cooking, threw his arms around Mum's legs and buried his face in her apron.
"Did something scary happen in your cartoon?" she asked. He nodded fiercely against her hip and she pushed the bubbling pan off the hob, hugged him and petted his hair.
But the dreadful feeling didn't melt away like it always did when he was in her arms. It was still there, ugly and desperate, growing stronger.
"Mum," he said. "If they find out about me, will I go to prison?"
"No," she said firmly. Her arm tightened across his shoulders till it was hard to breathe, but he didn't mind. "Don't ever think that. No. Only bad people go to prison. Only those who did something bad. Do you understand?"
He sighed in relief and pulled away.
"Besides, no one will ever find out. This is our secret, isn't that right? Only you and me will ever know."
"Right," he agreed. "It's just, in the cartoons the witches are always evil."
"Well, you're not. Don't worry. You won't go to prison. It will never come to that."
It came to that when he was twelve, only back then he didn't quite understand what was happening.
"What's psychological evaluation?" he asked as soon as he was through the door. He hadn't dared to ask anyone at school.
Mum was watching news and reading newspapers. There was a thick stack of newspapers on the couch, more than they ever got. When she looked up at him her face was a little scary, with little wrinkles at her mouth and between her eyebrows. That was the face she had when he was in serious trouble, and he felt his legs go weak. It didn't help any that he felt like he was in trouble all day, which didn't make any sense. He hadn't done anything wrong.
"Mr Benton?" she asked unexpectedly gently.
"Y - yes. The principal said he was going for psychological evaluation. Because he's a warlock. She wouldn't tell us when he's going to be back. And Susie said Mr Benton will be declared unfit to work with the children and won't be our teacher any more. Her dad said that. Mum, is that true?"
"It's possible," she said. The newspaper in her hands was shaking, making a rustling sound, and she put it down. "Now, this is very important, did you ever tell Mr Benton about you?"
"No," he said. It was the truth, but it still felt like lying, because he wanted to tell. For so long, ever since he'd known about Mr Benton, he wanted to tell him everything. Every day he lingered after class, asking stupid questions about homework, and the confession danced right on the tip of his tongue. He'd run out of things to say and fidget in front of the teacher's desk for endless minutes, and Mr Benton would just smile at him, mildly, patiently. Like he already could guess.
The need to tell was enormous. He and his secret were growing together, and it was getting uncomfortably huge, itching under his skin. He wanted to share it with someone who knew what it was like. Just with one person who was his kin.
"But even if I had, he'd never tell anyone," he said meekly. "He'd keep the secret."
"I'm sure he would," said Mum. "We're moving. Start packing your things, please."
He remembered the time when they seemed to move at the drop of a hat, easily and swiftly. They'd pile all their stuff in the boxes, and shove the boxes in the back of a rental car, and they'd be away, driving down narrow country lanes, and he'd stare out into the unfamiliar lands through the back window and think about the new life that was waiting for them, new amazing friends he'd make, new room to make his own, new places to explore.
But with every year it was getting harder and harder, as if the older they got the more they were prone to sprouting invisible roots to tie them to any place where they lingered. They had months of rent left on their house, Mum couldn't find a new job, and there was something or other to organise about his school transfer that was going to take ages. He'd already said goodbye to all his friends. They hugged and cried a bit, and made their promises, and he was still here, hanging around like a restless spirit. Everybody was unbearably nice to him, very polite and very distant, clearly not seeing a point of being friends with someone who wasn't going to be around much longer. He was stuck in the limbo, bored and lonely. He couldn't even really be angry at Mum for making them move, because, in the end, even thought she'd never say it outright, all of it was his fault.
Still, he was angry at her. There wasn't anyone else for him to be angry at. He would barely speak to her, and when she tried to have a conversation he'd only snap at her till she gave up. He avidly fantasised about running away, going to the sea or joining the circus, or becoming the youngest criminal mastermind in history. Then - he thought with vicious satisfaction - then she would be sorry.
Mr Benton never came back. Some children talked about that, but he wouldn't listen.
The moving day was less than a week before his birthday, and that was the last straw.
"I'd only have been there for days, I wouldn't have any friends, nobody would come to my party!" he yelled. "Why can't we stay here just for a bit longer? Why do you have to ruin my birthday?"
"Yes, clearly, I'm doing all this to ruin your party," she said, pushing boxes at him. "Come on, we have a long drive ahead of us."
The car was awful, smelly and rickety, and every part of it made a different kind of weird noise. After three hours of tortuously slow and shaky drive he didn't so much fall asleep as passed out from sheer exhaustion on the lumpy back seat, boxes poking him everywhere.
When he woke up, they were still moving. It was pitch dark, maybe the middle of the night. The radio was droning on in the most boring voices imaginable, and he didn't know how Mum stayed awake through that. He was going to climb into the front seat and find a music station for her, but the words "mandatory psychological evaluation" caught his attention, and he stayed where he was, quiet and listening.
It was supposed to be some sort of debate, only nobody was really arguing. All the boring-voice people were in perfect agreement about this.
"Maybe I should do it," he said. Mum's hand on the wheel jumped slightly - she must have thought he was still asleep.
"No," she said.
"But it's the law. And I'm not unstable or anything. They said they would only isolate the ones who pose a threat."
"I'm not taking that risk. I'm not letting anyone decide if my child is fit for society. Nobody gets to do that."
Her fingers were white-pale where they were gripping the steering wheel. Her dark nail polish started chipping days ago, and she hadn't fixed it yet. Now, with her hair lank and messy and her skin sallow with fatigue, she looked like a druggie, almost embarrassing to be seen with.
"But if I don't go for this evaluation, and someone finds out about me, you'll go to prison," he said, cringing as the words left his mouth. Even saying that was unbearable. An image of his mother in prison uniform, led by the guards into a barred cell, flooded his mind and he bit into the inside of his cheek to stop a wave of nausea.
"That's really the least of our worries," she said and smiled at him in the rear view mirror. "Besides, nobody will ever find out."
Nobody bothered him at the new school. The kids didn't pick on him, didn't want to get to know him. The teachers weren't interested in him, since he didn't make any trouble, didn't struggle with his classes and didn't excel at anything. He day-dreamt through school hours, wandered around town till dark, ate dinner with his mum, washed the dishes and sat in front of the TV with an open book in his lap, not paying any attention to either. She asked him about his day, and he answered in detached monotone. It's fine, Mum, everything is fine.
This was the whole point of it, after all. Becoming invisible, constantly severing all ties, slipping away as soon as anyone got close, so nobody would ever know. This was the only way he could live - on the edges of people's vision, unnoticed, inconsequential, hidden.
He could feel something growing in his mind, like a tooth cavity you couldn’t see but couldn’t stop poking with your tongue either. He knew if he really let himself think about it - if he really dared to ask himself what was the point of living like this all his whole life, for months and years, forever and ever - there'd be no turning back. He’d never be the same again.
He hadn't done any magic since they moved. Not a single thing. Not even something stupid like heating his bath water or cooling his tea, polishing his shoes or getting a book from the shelf that was out of reach. He did all his chores by hand, with clumsy and slow fingers, and listened to the restless hum of magic inside, waiting for it to rebel and come to a breaking point. He wondered if it would convulse in hunger and hurt, and lash out, or would it just curl in on itself and fester, and wither quietly.
One night Mum sat next to him, put her arm around him and pulled his head onto her shoulder. He wanted to bristle - he was far too old for cuddles - but in the end he couldn't, and let himself melt into it, feeling the warmth of her body like a song resonating through his blood, like he always had.
"I guess the worst part for you," she said, "Is that you can't talk to anybody who knows what it's like. I can't even imagine what it's like for you. You're my child, and we’re a world apart. I wish I could... just... understand."
"It's okay, Mum," he said, meaning it this time, and pressed his forehead against ticklish curls of her hair.
"I've never even heard of it happening like this. It's not supposed to happen until puberty, or even much later, and then it's supposed to be uncontrollable and violent. Telekinesis, pyrokenesis, disturbing visions. And it's terrifying when it happens, people go mad with it. And you - you were just there, in your crib, smiling like an angel, floating your toys around. Making your own toys from nothing. You were so at peace with it all. So happy."
They never spoke about this, just like they never spoke about his father. He held his breath, afraid to break up the moment.
"I waited for the Old Religion to come for you, you know," she said, her fingers tracing familiar patterns through his scalp, ticklish and comforting. "They were already banned by then, but I thought they still would try to take you in, because you were so special. Worth any risk. I kept wondering what I should do. But they never came."
"You'd give me to them?" he asked, almost soundlessly, his throat too tight to let his voice through.
"Of course not. But I thought - you were a baby, of course they wouldn't separate us, they'd let me come with you. And you'd be with your people. We'd live like criminals, but..."
"You're my people."
She giggled and kissed his temple. He let his book drop on the floor and curled into a ball against her side. It was probably like that before he was born: huddled up in soft warmth, listening to her heartbeat, soaking up boundless affection that poured off her in steady, calm waves. He used to be able to sense her so much better when he was little. The feeling was growing weaker the older he got, getting dull and dimmed like everything else in his life.
"What used to happen to the people they took?" he asked.
"Well, there were stories. They were a cult, after all. But after they were banned a lot of the disciples came back home. Like your teacher, Mt Benton, do you remember him? His magic manifested when he was fifteen, they came for him, and he lived in the temple for eight years. It didn't sound that bad, really. Sort of like a monastery, but instead of prayers they were teaching him to control his power. When the temple shut down and the priests went on the run he went to college and - well, the rest you know."
He knew the rest up to the psychological evaluation part, but he didn't want to talk about that right now.
"Do you know if someone ever refused to go to the temple?"
"I heard about that. The priests wouldn't insist, apparently, they'd just leave."
"What happened then? I mean, before."
"Same as now, really. Mental institution. Medicated till they aren't a danger to themselves and others."
"Do you think something will change when, you know, the puberty stuff happens? Do you think I might be a danger?"
She didn't tense up at all, just laughed softly and shook her head.
"No. If there is one thing I know about you - one thing that will never change - it's that you have an amazing heart. This is one thing in our lives I never had to worry about. I know that you were given this great gift because you can be trusted with it. When the time comes, you'll know what to do with all this power."
"I wish I had your faith in me," he grumbled.
"You should. I know you have a great destiny. I just need to keep you safe till you can claim it."
He slept so well that night, wrapped in a cloud of warm, silly dreams. But in the morning the reality started seeping in again, and on his way home from school he was deflated, dragging his feet like an old man. He wanted to believe in this great destiny, and he wanted to believe that his heart and his brains were somewhat above average, but he was old enough to know that was all just mum talk. Every mum thinks her kids are the best in the world. Even the mothers of murderers must still love their kids and somehow make the excuses for them.
A few boys from his year were standing by the edge of the park, looming over a primary school kid. He was backed against the fence, pale, fidgety, desperately trying to keep a brave face on. They weren't doing anything to him yet, but it was clearly not a friendly conversation.
Even their mothers must have thought their thug sons were just little angels, Merlin thought morosely, as he turned off his usual course and crossed the road, heading toward them. That's mothers for you. Can't rely on their judgement.
"Hey," he said and tapped the tallest one on the shoulder, and only then he remembered that he was supposed to stay out of trouble. That his life and his mother's freedom literally depended on him staying out of trouble. This just showed how much he really could be trusted with anything.
They turned around and stared at him. They were probably trying for menacing, but ended up looking extremely dumb, like a litter of bulldog pups.
"That's enough, you've had your fun. Now let him go," he told them.
"Hey, it's the new guy," said the tall boy. "New guy thinks he's so tough. He thinks he's got the bollocks of steel."
"Yeah, what am I thinking, messing with the guys who gang up to beat up a nine-year-old?"
The little kid finally found the courage to move and tore down the street, his school bag flapping against his back. Someone made a half-hearted attempt to grab him, but they were more interested in Merlin now. Two of them stepped around him and crowded close, trying to back him into that same spot by the fence they had the kid pinned at. He didn't move. It had been years since he’d fought, not counting friendly wrestling and tussling during games. A rational part of him knew that now, when they were almost adults, fistfights were going to be nasty and hurt a whole lot more, but he couldn't feel even a tingle of anxiety. Compared to the actual dangers of his normal life, this didn't seem serious. It didn't even seem real.
A completely irrational part of him wanted this. Something simple and physical, unrestricted by rules of sports and codes of conduct, something dirty and primal to take him out of himself for one bright moment. It wanted to hurt and to bleed, and to hurt someone else, make them scream in pain, make them pay for everything.
"All right, how about I beat the snot out of you one-on-one then," suggested the tall boy sweetly and threw a punch at him right away.
And like it often did, when something happened before his brain could react, his magic took over. He's seen it a million times already - when he'd knock a glass off the table and it would freeze mid-fall, a splatter of water glistening in the air, waiting for the wave of his hand. Or he'd trip badly, and would be propelling towards the pavement head-first, and suddenly his fall would turn into a slow, smooth sinking glide till he could rearrange his limbs and trade concussion for a skinned knee. The boy's clenched fist was flying at his chest, slowly and predictably. He moved sideways, pushed his forearm down to deflect the blow and, to his own surprise, socked the boy on the jaw.
His knuckles stung sharply; the boy's teeth audibly clanked together in his mouth. His eyes lost focus for a moment, and Merlin nearly dove in to catch him should he fall. But then everything came back to normal, the time snapped back into the usual flow, and the boy didn't look really hurt. In fact, he was smiling.
"Well look at you," he said and launched himself at Merlin like a WWF wrestler.
An eternity of mad scrambling and face-pushing later they lay on the damp grass in a sweaty, breathless heap. All energy was spent to the last drop, leaving limbs heavy and wobbly, limp like over-boiled noodles. Neither of them could lift an arm, but they both kept trying, uselessly pushing and pulling at each other, twisted up together in a very uncomfortable and rather painful way.
"All right there, Will?" asked one of the other boys, smirking. To their credit they didn't interfere at all, keeping the fight fair.
"New guy's tougher than he looks," Will panted somewhere near Merlin's armpit. "Truce?"
Merlin nodded, immensely relieved, and they slowly pulled themselves apart and to their feet. He didn't actually feel better, but he was pleasantly numb, like Will's punches had knocked out all the demons that had been chewing at his insides. Merlin stretched, mentally cataloguing the bruises. His elbow felt like it was scraped raw and bleeding on his school shirt, but he could do the laundry before mum got home. She'd never know.
"You're all right," said Will magnanimously and extended his chapped hand. "I'm Will. Friends?"
"I don't have friends who pick on little kids," Merlin said haughtily. A small voice on the back of his mind reminded him that he didn't have any friends, and whined about beggars and choosers, but it wasn't that hard to ignore.
"That little kid, for your information, terrorises the whole of St Mary's Primary," said Will, glowering.
"Yeah, my sister asked me to sort him out," nodded another boy.
"Well, all right then, I guess," said Merlin and took Will's hand. Will's palm was dirty and still sweaty from their grappling, but so was his. "I'm Merlin."
When Will put his mind to something, he did it the way he fought - with complete dedication and clumsy, whole-hearted, bull-headed abandon. He approached their new friendship the same way, throwing himself into it without reservation. He waited for Merlin on the corner on the way to school, looked for him at every break, got them on the same team for every game, stole most of his chips at lunch, but always offered half of his pudding in return.
The days suddenly grew unacceptably short. There was so much to do, and all of it had to be done right now, urgently, like there could be no tomorrow. Will had lived in the town most of his life, and he had countless things to show Merlin: the really ugly house down the road, the crazy lady with an actual moustache, the pond with tons of frogs, the best climbing trees, the abandoned textile factory, the bit of forest behind the council estate that was really creepy after dark. There was a pet shop where Merlin temporarily lost his mind over a golden retriever puppy and had to have two slushies to calm down. There was a comic book store from which they nearly got banned on the very first visit, and there was a hill with a breathtaking view across the fields, with a river glistening far in the distance like a silver thread in the green. Will said that his dad would take them both fishing there in the summer.
"Word on the street is," said Mum a few weeks later, "That my son's made friends with the school bully."
"Will's not a bully!" he protested hotly, even though she was smiling, obviously not concerned at all. "He's just misunderstood. He's awesome."
"Then I should trust you to keep you both out of trouble. Bring him to dinner, will you? I'd love to meet your friend."
Will baulked at the invitation as if Merlin suggested he'd kiss a toad.
"She'd hate me," he said after Merlin pried enough. "Mums just hate me. They’re all like, nooo, that Will, he's a rebel, he's dangerous, stay away from him."
"She's not like that," said Merlin. "I promise. And she's making apple crumble tonight. She makes the best apple crumble in the world, it's just apples and crumble! None of that boring old crust on the bottom. She makes it in the frying pan."
"Huh," Will said, his eyes glazing over dreamily. "Well, I warned you."
He turned up dressed in a suit, thankfully without a tie, with a bunch of carnations wrapped in a newspaper. His hair was artfully spiked and encrusted in gel, and his face was red and shiny, like he was scrubbing at it with soap for the best part of the afternoon.
"Oh hell no," Merlin moaned. "You look like you're going to ask her out or something."
"Shut it, tosser," Will hissed through clenched teeth, and elbowed him in the side on the way through the door. "That crumble better be sensational."
At the table Will started a conversation about the weather, and then congratulated Mum on serving especially delicious boiled potatoes. He sat very straight, like he literally had a broom handle shoved up his ass, and kept daintily touching the napkin to his lips. As if it wasn't him who yanked a Yorkshire pudding off Merlin's plate today at lunch and sprayed them both with gravy; as if he wasn't normally so committed to sprawling in his chair that he went tumbling backwards onto cafeteria floor more than once.
When he picked up his tea cup Merlin couldn't take it any longer and tried to kick him under the table, but couldn't reach.
"Will, stop sticking your pinky out or I break it, seriously," he said. Will glared and blushed and, because the bastard had longer legs, actually landed a kick to Merlin's shin.
"Oh, is there more cream?" he said vindictively and upended the tub onto his plate, not leaving Merlin any. "I must have the recipe for this dessert, it's scrumptious."
Mum wasn't weirded out by any of this, she just kept smiling and looking at them a little misty-eyed.
"I'm so glad you've made friends with Merlin, Will," she said suddenly. "He was very lonely here. I know he's a sensitive boy, and can be a little shy..."
"Mum!" yelled Merlin in utter outrage.
"Mm, let me tell you something," Will said, swallowing a huge chunk of crumble. "This sensitive thing - he just puts on for the girls. They are all over him, he'll get a girlfriend soon if we don't watch out. How gay would that be?"
"Not... very?" Mum ventured. "Girls, really?"
"He's lying," Merlin grumbled. "They're just being friendly."
"Oh yeah, does that sound familiar: Meeeerlin, let me borrow your peeencil...."
"She just wanted to borrow a pencil!"
"Yeah right," Will smirked sagely, and turned back to Merlin’s mum. "Truth is, and I know he looks like butter wouldn't melt, but Merlin is freaking badass. I'm, personally, well pleased to have a friend who's actually cool."
Mum laughed and reached out to stroke Will's spiky hair. For a moment he looked like he was going to close his eyes and lean into it, and possibly rub his face into Mum's hand and purr like a kitten, but thankfully he didn't, so Merlin was spared from going completely insane.
"Your mum's pretty great," he said as Merlin walked him home.
"Don't you even think about having a crush on my mother."
"I'm not, you dirty pervert! She's just... a great mum."
"Well, yeah," Merlin shrugged. "Isn't yours like that?"
"Not really. Hey, do you think you could come over to mine for a sleepover? Now that she knows I'm trustworthy and sensible. I have Playstation Two!"
Will's house was two streets from theirs and looked exactly the same, except it was painted a slightly darker beige. All of the terraced houses lined up north of the square were exact replicas of the same model, except for the shades of beige paint on the front walls, the shapes of the front doors and the types of curtains hanging in the front windows.
Will's front garden was completely paved over, clean and empty, and looked like a helicopter could land on it at any moment if it managed to manoeuvre into the tiny space.
"We're not much into gardening," he said. "The back's a jungle, we're kind of proud of it."
The house was cold and smelled musty; Will went straight to the kitchen, switched on the boiler and filled up the cheap plastic kettle. It was getting dark, and the back garden did look a bit like a piece of wild jungle in the sparse light from the window. The lawn had grown knee-high and was dominated by nettles, the fence was swathed in thick layers of ivy. Hideously overgrown rose bushes stood stark against the sky, still bearing the hips of dead flowers on the top branches. There was a sickly apple tree in the corner, drowning in masses of climbing weed. Merlin loved the garden on sight.
"It's really nice in the summer." Will threw his school bag on the kitchen table and picked up the phone off the wall hook. "So, pizza?"
They ordered the super deluxe special, got mugs of tea to warm their fingers on while they waited for the house to heat up, settled on the comfy beat-up sofa and fired up the Playstation.
"Willll," Merlin said three hours and twenty minutes later. "I have actual blisters on my thumbs and I'm going to throw up pizza and coke through my nose, probably, and I never felt so happy in my whole entire life. I blame you for everything."
"Sugar rush, man!" said Will, grinning hugely. "Have some more coke before you come down, we have another seven levels to do."
"When are your parents coming home? We're totally having a party in the front room, they'll kill you. We should clean up. Except I can't move."
"Oh, they're not coming. That's why I said Friday, we can stay up all night and then go out for full English in the morning, yeah?"
Merlin nodded, carefully, still unsure he wouldn't throw up if he moved his head too much, and tried to think through the pizza-induced happy fog.
"Will, do you actually have parents?" he asked, fighting off vague Dickensian images of orphans in his head.
"'Course I do."
Will put down the controller and twisted about on the sofa, dislodging pillows, disk cases and empty cans till he could fully turn toward Merlin and sit there cross-legged, hunching and steepling his fingers like a super-villain in a movie.
"Can you keep a secret?" he hissed in a dramatic loud whisper.
"Yeah!" Merlin yelped, delighted. Somehow, without even realising that, he'd been waiting for this moment. The friendship just didn't seem complete without a secret to share.
"I kind of live by myself right now. It's not really legal, so don't tell anyone."
"That's so cool! But how?"
"Well, really, I live with my dad, all right. But he's in the army, so right now he's in Germany for a month, on some exchange thing. Last time he went away I stayed with my mum, but this time I said no way. I'm almost fourteen, I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself. And I just hate her new bloke. First degree tosser. So, the house's all ours for another two weeks."
"But, but, how do you live?"
"What, he left me money, obviously. All bills are on direct debit, I just buy food and stuff."
"But what if you get sick? Or if the house is burgled? Or there's a fire?"
"You're such a mummy's boy, Merlin," Will said, "I'm talking about the, the ultimate freedom! And you’re all, oh, oh, what if there's a fiiiire? Next thing you'll be asking me if I'm not scared to sleep all by myself in the house."
"No, but..."
"Look, I have the emergency numbers. I can call my mum if I need to, dad calls me every day, and nothing is going to happen, okay? In two weeks all that's happened was that the timer on the boiler broke. No big deal."
Merlin settled back down on the sofa pillows and tried to think of the ultimate freedom, staying up all night and eating nothing but pizza, but he kept getting stuck on stupid details. He thought about having to do the ironing, and all the cleaning. And getting up for school in an empty house, all alone, on a grey cold morning, having to make his own breakfast, and locking up the house as he left, knowing it will be just as empty when he comes back, not really a home, nothing but an empty brick box.
"I can't think about it properly," he complained. "It's the pizza, it hurts my brain. Do you really eat pizza every day?"
"No, I cook. That's for special occasion."
"You? You cook?"
"I've been cooking since my mum moved out, since I was ten. Bangers and mash, spag bol, you name it. And now I have the recipe for your mum's crumble. I could, like, be a celebrity chef if I wanted to."
He gave Merlin a long, slow look and a wide grin, reached over and punched him on the shoulder.
"All right, just say it, it's awesome and you're completely jealous. It's all right to admit it, Merlin, it doesn't make you less of a man."
"Fine, fine, it is awesome."
"And you can sleep over any time, because I'm nice and generous like that. You can start thanking me now."
"All right, I'll come over whenever you're lonely, Will," he said and got hit on the head with the controller. "Ow! And you can sleep over at mine, too. But only if you bring the Playstation."
He didn’t notice when he fell asleep. One second he was fighting, frantically mashing the buttons, straining his eyes at the screen, trying not to blink, and kept getting killed over and over, and then he must have been dreaming about doing just that, because he woke up with a start, fingers scrambling for the controller, desperately trying to strafe left because the enemies were everywhere.
The lights were off; the TV was muted, showing white noise. He was sprawled across the sofa, and partly over Will, who slept with his head improbably jammed against the sofa arm and his left shoulder jerking restlessly. When Merlin tried to get up he fussed, yawned and blinked his eyes open.
"Wanna go to bed?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah, okay," Merlin whispered back.
Mum made him pack pyjamas and toothbrush, but they were in his bag, dumped somewhere in the dark room, and normal evening routines would be out of place in the middle of the ultimate freedom adventure. Besides, it wasn't even evening. The clock on the TV showed 03:41. He's never been awake at this time of night.
Will turned off the TV, took him by the hand and led him through complete, nearly palpable darkness out of the room and up the narrow staircase. They'd turned the boiler off around midnight, and it was chilly upstairs. Will pushed open the door, and they were in his tiny bedroom, scarcely lit by the diffuse glimmer of distant street lights. It was even colder inside; their shoes were left downstairs, discarded hours ago, and they dove into the bed straight away, burrowing under the icy blanket with all their clothes on.
"Head to feet?" Merlin asked, uncertain of the proper etiquette. When he went to sleepovers as a small child there was usually about five of them, and everyone had their own makeshift bed and blanket.
"I'm not smelling your dirty socks all night," huffed Will and stretched on his back flush at Merlin's side, so their shoulders and arms touched together, down to their wrists. "Ugh, s-so cold! This is a bit like camping, yeah? Sharing body heat."
"Yeah," agreed Merlin. Will's knuckles rested against his; Will's shoulder was bony but pleasantly warm and his breathing was already evening out, and the room was getting toastier by the second. He was going to sleep forever, maybe till noon, huddled up with his best friend for warmth and sheer pleasure of being next to each other. And then they'd go out for breakfast.
And then he knew he had to, he had to do it, he had to risk it. He knew that if he'd let this moment go he'd never be daring enough again, and would regret it forever.
"Will," he whispered toward the ceiling.
"Sleeeeep," moaned Will, tensing against him unhappily.
"Will," he twisted his hand against the sheets and grabbed Will's wrist, harder than he meant to, shivering with urgency, dread and excitement all mixed up. "Can you keep a secret?"
Will sat up right away, swathed himself in the blankets and crouched over Merlin, intently peering at him through the dark.
"Yeah," he said with the desperate, intense earnestness in his voice, the kind that, Merlin thought, probably only existed between best friends at around four in the morning, on the edge of the shaky sleepy exhaustion, when nothing is quite real, and anything, including the most impossible, seemed to have the same probability of happening.
"You can never tell anyone."
"I won't. Ever. I swear."
Merlin brought his hands up and let it happen, without really thinking about it or trying for anything in particular. Blue glow bloomed between his palms, only the purest light, tame, cold and quiet, and then he let it flow into red, and then gold, and break into thousands small sparks, and melt into a pool of smooth radiance once more.
When he dared to lift his eyes Will wasn't even looking at his hands. He was staring at Merlin's face, enraptured, his eyes huge and full of honest, pure awe.
"Oh wow," he said, "You're. You are."
"I am, yeah," said Merlin. His chest felt tight - he forgot to breathe for a while.
"Brilliant," said Will in a choked, reverent whisper.
Merlin dropped his hands on the blanket, sending wisps of light flying, and started laughing. He laughed all through Will settling back down under the blankets, and even afterwards he couldn't stop, light-headed, woozy and somehow free, boundless and free like he's never been before.
"I'm probably the coolest person in the world," Will said over his sobbing giggles. "I'm thirteen and I live by myself, and my best friend's a warlock. I'm so awesome."
"You also... you also have Playstation Two," managed Merlin, gasping for breath, and wiped his face with the corner of the blanket. He'd laughed himself to tears.
"That too, yeah."
"You're also a criminal now. You could go to prison for not reporting me."
"Sooo cool, living on the edge, rebel to the bone," Will said smugly. He was on his side now, facing Merlin; his knees poked Merlin's leg, but that, too, was great. Everything was fantastic right now. "Can you do it again? I wanna see it again."
Next part
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 06:53 am (UTC)Off to the next part!
no subject
Date: 2010-08-21 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 12:58 pm (UTC)Great update. Their friendship is so real. Loved Will with Hunith.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-21 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-15 12:58 pm (UTC)Great update. Their friendship is so real. Loved Will with Hunith.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-21 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-16 06:36 pm (UTC)On to the next bits (yay!) xxx
no subject
Date: 2010-08-21 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-28 03:31 pm (UTC)Will's reaction to the magic was pitch perfect for the boy you've written. He would be all over how cool he is for having Merlin as a friend!
no subject
Date: 2010-08-28 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-29 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-29 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-29 12:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-29 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-05 08:21 pm (UTC)Peace,
Bubba