da_ya_ri | [fic] 40 Days and 40 Fights, 3/3

Title: 40 Days and 40 Fights
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~26k
Beta:

kura_tan
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur (with background Leon/Morgana)
Warnings: homophobia, elements of bullying, violence & slight gore, maybe underage depending on where you live (Arthur, Merlin & Leon are 17, Morgana is 21)
Summary: High school AU. In which Arthur is (a) the best captain that the volleyball team has seen in ages, (b) too handsome for his own good, and also (c) decidedly not gay; although Merlin agrees with the first two, he's willing to bet that (c) is open for discussion.

Part 1
Part 2

(1 hour earlier)

In retrospect, the stormy Thursday afternoon during the first week of December went down in Arthur's personal history as one of those days that made him wonder whether Morgana might be right in thinking him unobservant.

There were certain obligations that came with being the captain of the volleyball team, after all, and Arthur still remembered the little speech Mr. Muirden had given him almost a year ago. He was supposed to be their leader, the one who was first in the gym and last out, and the one his team turned to for advice and guidance. But most of all, there was little that was more important than knowing his teammates, their strengths and weaknesses, and to be able to discern the nearly unnoticeable, tell-tale signs of strained endurance, and of patience being stretched too thin.

He should have seen it coming, after everything else that had happened already, but somehow, the raised voices Arthur heard upon walking out of the gym complex still took him completely by surprise.

Practice hadn't gone too badly, all things considered, and the team had been quick and alert, more so than usual after a long day at school. Even Owain did better than he had in weeks, his eyes gleaming with a vicious, focused kind of energy that made his spikes just that bit more deadly, and propelled the ball a little higher towards the ceiling with each dig. Arthur hadn't questioned the intent on his face, assuming that Owain had had a bad day at school and was channeling the frustration into some of the best passes Arthur had ever seen from him.

After practice, Arthur had clapped Owain on the shoulder and told him that he'd done a good job when they passed each other on the way to the locker room. He'd been feeling magnanimous, benevolent even, and willing to overlook Owain's past behavior just for long enough to compliment him on an hour of practice well spent. Owain had looked taken aback, but even then, Arthur never thought to suspect his smile of being anything but genuine.

Now, though, Owain clearly wasn't smiling, if his tone was anything to go by. Arthur stopped in his tracks just outside the gym, bag slung over his shoulder and his face turned into the wintry breeze that cooled his overheated skin. His teammate's voice rose to a shout as Arthur turned around, searching the yard, but the noise seemed to come from behind.

Arthur frowned, redirecting his steps to the narrow path, and wondered what matter could be so private that Owain only discussed it behind the gym. He was still too far away to make out the words when Owain spoke again, more quietly this time, although no less belligerent—Arthur sped up into a light jog, his muscles still warm and loose from practice. Normally he wasn't one to spy on his teammates, but Arthur recognized that tone, and knew all too well that it usually led to chafed knuckles and bloody noses.

Maybe he'd gotten into an argument with Leon, Arthur thought as he rounded the corner of the gym, seeing a flash of movement from behind a small, snowed-in copse of leafless trees. Leon's temper wasn't easy to rouse from its usual mellow state, but once someone struck just the right spark, it could roar up into a flash of fire, and Arthur really hoped that it wasn't him Owain was shouting at. Owain was shorter than Leon, more stocky, but Arthur still wouldn't know who to bet on if they came to blows.

Snow trickled into the collar of his shirt as he ducked under a few low-hanging branches; he still couldn't make out any words of the argument, his own breathing and the rustle of his waterproof coat drowning out most other noises. But whoever Owain was arguing with apparently had no sense of self-preservation, because Arthur heard them talk back, and everything froze in him as he recognized Merlin's voice.

"That's just completely ridiculous," Merlin exclaimed, sounding genuinely frustrated, like he was trying and failing to understand what Owain was shouting at him about. There was just the barest hint of apprehension in his tone, although Arthur could tell that he tried very hard to hide it. "I don't even—"

Arthur broke through the treeline just when Owain grabbed Merlin by the front of his coat and slammed him into the wall of the gym, and even from a distance, Arthur heard the thud when his head collided with the bricks. Merlin's hands, which had been outstretched in a placating gesture, jerked, but he didn't try to dislodge Owain's grip, probably realizing that resistance would just make Owain angrier.

"Dude," another voice broke in, and Arthur suddenly noticed Pellinore, who had put a hand on Owain's arm and looked nervous and wary. "Dude, calm down, what the fuck? You said you just wanted to talk—"

Owain didn't seem to hear him, though; he crowded Merlin into the wall, jerking his arm out of Pellinore's grasp in the process. "He's been completely out of it, and it's all your fault!" he shouted. His voice echoed oddly, doubling back the words and the barely-there hysteria underneath the fury in his tone. "I knew you were bad news right from the start, and you'd better stay away from Arthur if you want to survive the term!"

"I never—," Merlin started, now sounding vaguely indignant, and a distant part of Arthur rolled his eyes—it was just like Merlin to try to reason with someone who was shaking him by the front of his coat, hard enough for his back to collide with the wall again. But although he couldn't see Owain's face, he could picture the grimace of rage his features must have twisted into, because Merlin shrunk back, probably realizing that he was about to get punched.

Arthur didn't even bother raising his fists. His body was in motion before his mind could fully catch up, the frozen shock in him shattering, and he barreled into Owain with all his weight before he'd even told his legs to move, tackling him to the ground. Pellinore exclaimed something Arthur couldn't quite make out, but he didn't care anyway, didn't care about anything save for the white-hot fury that exploded in his head, without warning and just because Owain had been about to beat Merlin up—Merlin, who was tall but so scrawny that even his reckless brand of courage couldn't have helped him stand up to a trained athlete.

Owain let out a wordless shout of pain when Arthur's fist collided with his jaw, and Arthur almost felt the splintering crack of bone before Owain's hands were on him, trying to dislodge his weight. They rolled over, and Owain managed to smash his elbow into Arthur's eye, but the pain was faraway and indistinct underneath the adrenalin that coursed through his veins. Stars burst across his vision when his head thumped into the frozen ground, but another shove gave him just enough leverage to put his fist into Owain's stomach. His teammate retched, his grip slipping for a moment, but Arthur barely got in another punch to his face before Owain's knee slammed into his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs.

Dimly, he could hear more shouting, but the words couldn't penetrate the roar of noise in his ears, the crazed, violent pounding of his heart and the quick, raspy sound of his own breathing. He didn't even notice that Owain's nose was bleeding copiously all over them both, or that his own eye was swelling shut and an ominous throbbing in his ribs heralded what would be a big, colorful bruise the next day. It felt like something in the back of his head had finally snapped, some strand of patience that had been stretched too thin for far too long. All the pent-up frustration of the past weeks seemed to burst out of him now, mingling all too easily with the tidal surge of unthinking anger that had erupted in him when he'd seen Owain push Merlin into the wall.

But there were hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him off of Owain, and Arthur snarled wordlessly, struggling against the arm that wound firmly around his chest. The red-hot fog hadn't quite lifted from his vision yet, but he recognized the arm as Leon's—and suddenly it was like someone had turned up the volume of the world around him, because he could hear Leon practically shouting into his ear now, telling him to stop, Arthur, stop it, you'll kill him—

The familiarity of Leon's voice was enough to make Arthur loosen his grip just for a moment, and Leon pulled him backwards and out of Owain's reach—Pellinore was doing the same with Owain, trying to drag him up into a standing position. Arthur dragged himself to his feet as Pellinore finally managed to twist Owain's arm behind his back, but Owain didn't even seem to feel the burn of sprained muscles. He tried to lunge at Arthur again, his face flushed a blotchy red even underneath the blood that still ran freely from his nose, and Arthur barely recognized him for the twisted grimace on his features.

But the whirlwind of frustrated rage in Arthur's head was already receding, having blown itself out in the crack of his fist into Owain's jaw, although he still felt tense all over, ready to react if Owain so much as took a single step towards Merlin. He struggled briefly against Leon's hold, the movement little more than a sharp jerk of his shoulders, but Leon let him go instantly, apparently realizing that Arthur was still so wound up that restraining him would only aggravate him further.

Merlin stood a little off to the side, and of course he looked scared now, when no one was threatening to beat him up anymore. His gaze was flickering back and forth between Pellinore and Owain before coming to rest on Arthur with a kind of dawning concern—his eye had swollen completely shut by now, and the side of his face was probably turning black and blue. He felt the pain now, too, a dull, blunt throb in his head and his stomach and various other places where Owain's fists or knees had landed without him noticing.

"I knew it," Owain spat, as soon as he'd recovered enough to talk. His face had gone a pasty white that stood out in stark contrast against the blood still trickling from his nose. "I knew he'd turned you into a faggot—what did he do? Did he charm you, suck your brain out through your cock so he could mess with your head—"

Pellinore cuffed him in the shoulder to cut him off, not quite as hard as Arthur would have done, but hard enough to produce a wince. "Shut up," Leon said, his voice dangerously quiet, and his eyes were dark and angry when Arthur turned to look at him. "Shut the fuck up. The only messed-up head here is yours."

A low buzz was humming in Arthur's ears, probably from when his head had gotten smashed into the frozen ground, and suddenly he felt almost drowsy, the familiar leaden weight of fatigue pulling on the firm set of his shoulders and the clench of his fists. The cold winter air did nothing to alleviate the tiredness that settled into his bones as an exhausted tremor; it felt a bit like the exhaustion of falling into bed after a hard-won game, but it lacked the fierce triumph and the euphoria of having won, although he was fairly sure he'd broken Owain's jaw, and maybe his nose as well.

They were all looking at him, he realized dimly, waiting for him to speak. The color was returning to Merlin's face, but he looked even more worried now, and he'd moved closer to Arthur's other side some time ago without him noticing.

"You're going to talk to Dr. Muirden tomorrow," Arthur said to Owain, but his mouth seemed to be moving on its own accord, the words coming from a calm, detached place in the back of his mind that knew that there was no other way to deal with this. "You'll tell him that this year's classes are more demanding than you thought they'd be, and that you're leaving the team, because God knows there's room for improvement in your grades. If I ever see your face in my gym again, I will rearrange it until even your mother doesn't recognize you anymore."

The words came out as hoarse as if he'd been screaming for an hour, although Arthur felt briefly grateful to whichever calm vestige of his mind prevented his voice from shaking. Pellinore, who had always been friends with Owain, looked stricken for a moment; but when he slowly let go of Owain's arm, Arthur knew he wasn't going to second-guess his captain's decision. At his side, Leon drew himself up to his full height as though to dare anyone to protest.

Owain just stared at him for a moment, disbelief briefly chasing the hateful grimace from his features, but even he seemed to realize that Arthur was as serious as he'd ever been. He looked at Pellinore, who stepped back a little when their eyes met, and there was a worrying spark of something dark in his eyes when his gaze finally came to rest on Merlin. Unconsciously, Arthur widened his stance, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet in spite of the brief, warning touch of Leon's hand to his shoulder.

A few seconds passed in strained, frozen silence, but Arthur could actually see the moment the fight went out of Owain and he realized, with a dim sort of surprise, that he was quite spectacularly outnumbered. His shoulders slumped a little, although his fists never unclenched, and in the late afternoon light his eyes looked almost black.

He seemed to be searching for something to say, something spiteful and scathing, but to Arthur's own surprise, he had no trouble at all holding his now former teammate's gaze. He watched Owain go even paler, not caring about the stings of pain his own heartbeat was setting off in his temple, and let the hush speak for itself to assure Owain that he meant every word he'd said.

Owain looked from him to Merlin and back again, but then he finally dropped his gaze with a quiet, disgusted sound, and wiped at his nose with his sleeve. It left a dark red streak on the light blue of his coat, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He turned around and stumbled back towards the copse of snowed-in trees, his gait not as steady as he probably would have liked despite the ramrod-straight, obstinate line of his back, and Arthur thought that he was probably feeling dizzy as well.

Pellinore kept his gaze on Owain's retreating back until the trees hid him from view. Then he turned to Arthur, catching his gaze with an expression Arthur didn't think he'd ever seen on his face—a kind of subdued hopefulness, as if he wanted to ask something of him, but didn't think that his request had even a slim chance of being granted.

After a moment, Arthur concluded tiredly that he was supposed to say something, although he had no idea what. The tremble of stale exhaustion that had sneaked into his spine made thinking harder and harder, and for some reason his mind kept circling and circling around the vague realization that he'd need to fill Owain's space in the team.

Leon seemed to know what Pellinore wanted, though, and a surge of fierce gratitude briefly pierced the fog that had settled into Arthur's mind. "You'd better go after him," he told Pellinore, his voice pitched low as though he wanted to avoid startling any of them. "His jaw might be broken."

Heaving a relieved sigh, Pellinore nodded, and set off after Owain at a light jog. Arthur hoped that he'd keep his head down when he caught up with his former teammate—knowing Owain's temper, he'd still be riled up enough to lash out at anyone who so much as met his eyes for a second too long. But Pellinore had known Owain since middle school, and probably knew all too well how to handle him when he got like this.

Now that Owain was gone, both Leon and Merlin were staring at Arthur, and the open concern in Merlin's eyes made a prickling itch of budding irritation start up under his skin. He suddenly found that he hated being looked at like that, like he was expected to either keel over or perform some sort of trick, and he jerked his own gaze away from Merlin's when their eyes met for the briefest second, gritting his teeth.

"Arthur—," Leon started at his other side, sounding worried and slightly wary, as though Arthur were a skittish horse he needed to calm down. The tension in him snapped like a thread, and he clenched his hands into fists, well aware that they would have been trembling otherwise.

"Right," Arthur said, to no one in particular, although he heard the way his voice came out too loud, echoing slightly like Owain's had earlier. "That's that, then," and he pushed away from the tentative hand Leon had once more put on his shoulder. The frozen ground seemed to sway and buck under his weight for a moment, but then his feet steadied, and he walked off towards the gym's front doors with the vague intention of getting something cold and wet onto his eye some time soon.

Merlin caught up with him in the shower room, but Arthur had heard him trudge along behind him all along, although Merlin had apparently tried to be quiet and grant him some measure of privacy at least until they reached the gym. He had the sense to remain hovering in the doorway, though, and Arthur figured that one had to be grateful for small favors.

He didn't spare even a single glance at Merlin, not even when the other boy softly cleared his throat,
and continued to carefully run a wad of wet toilet paper over his eye. The pain was more acute now than it had been outside, an ever-present throb that spiked into sharp stings whenever he touched it, however lightly. The only available mirror was in the locker room, though, and Arthur was kind of glad that he didn't have to look at the damage right now anyway. The porcelain sink was reassuringly solid, something to prop his hip up against, because he still felt alarmingly unsteady on his feet, and the stale taste in his mouth made him faintly nauseous.

It was a bit like he'd felt in the shower a mere week ago, when he'd first seen the bruises that he had thought he'd left behind for good. Even now, with a blunt ache pulsing in his ribs and what was supposedly a massive bruise on the side of his face, Arthur found it hard to feel anything but incredulous. Sure, he should have seen it coming, least of all because he was the thrice-damned captain and it was his duty to recognize any and all signs leading up to what had almost derailed into a gay bashing. But although he'd been slightly worried by Owain's behavior towards Merlin right from the start of the term, an image of the nearly hysterical, furious look on his face still hovered in front of Arthur's mind's eye, and he just couldn't reconcile that with the usually easy-going, slightly lofty boy he'd known for years.

He dropped the soaked toilet paper into the sink, and stared stupidly at the drops of blood on the porcelain for a moment until he realized that his hand was bleeding. Rough from the wintry cold as it was, it had only taken a few well-placed punches for the skin to split over his knuckles. Arthur turned on the tap, leaning against the sink as icy water ran over his hand—it numbed the ache in his fingers, though it did nothing to alleviate the dizziness.

"I'm sorry," Merlin said eventually, his voice soft, but not soft enough for Arthur to pretend he hadn't heard. He sounded subdued, guilty even, as though he truly believed the sentiment would change anything.

That finally penetrated the thick haze that had been fogging up Arthur's thoughts, and he turned to look at Merlin before he could stop himself, blinking at him in utter disbelief. He had no idea what Merlin could be apologizing for, whether it was for the loss of a valued teammate, or the bruise on his face, or even the shell-shocked silence in the back of his mind.

But he found that he didn't really care to find out either way, because he'd need to muster up the energy to get angry if Merlin really was feeling sorry for him and not for the fact that he'd kicked Owain out of the team. He turned off the tap, wincing at the numbness in his hand, before he replied, in a neutral note, "I don't want you to be sorry."

Merlin nodded slowly, as though he'd expected that answer all along. The set of his shoulders was guarded, but his eyes were not, and his gaze never strayed from Arthur's when he asked, carefully, "Anything else you don't want?"

Arthur stared at him wordlessly, and wished, for a single, thoughtless moment, that he didn't know what Merlin was going on about. The beginnings of wintry dusk were slowly dimming the light that streamed in through the door to the locker room, partly obscured by Merlin's body, who was still standing in the doorway and looked like he wouldn't budge until they'd... talked about this, or whatever it was he was trying to achieve. Arthur knew he needed to drive home some time soon, and make up a good excuse for his swelled-shut eye, but those things seemed oddly inane and inconsequential in the face of the steady intent in Merlin's eyes. He looked like he'd stand there all evening waiting for an answer if need be, as though with this, time didn't matter at all.

Merlin's voice was even quieter when he spoke again—to Arthur, it sounded like he'd spent quite a few long nights thinking about the words, although they now came out in an oddly unguarded rush. "What do you want, then?"

The words sparked an uncalled-for surge of anger, and Arthur pushed himself away from the sink, ignoring Merlin's startled intake of breath when he swayed on his feet for a moment. It was not unlike how he'd felt on that day in the library, when Merlin had insisted, the words carefully written beneath the angry scrawl or Arthur's pen, that there was nothing to fight over. Once again he felt like Merlin was putting him through some sort of test, like Arthur was being goaded into a challenge he wouldn't have recognized otherwise.

"Because if you—," Merlin started, and took a deep breath, and even in the dim light Arthur saw him square his shoulders, like he was bracing himself against the impact of his own words. "If this is— if you want it, you can have it."

"Shut up," Arthur said, because he didn't know what to do with the uncertainty that he could just barely make out underneath the calm veneer of Merlin's tone. The restless unsteadiness was back, and the first steps towards the door felt dangerously like he was going to fall, and Arthur had quite enough of getting his head knocked into solid things for the day. On the other hand, an unconcerned part of Arthur's mind concluded, if he fell and ended up with a concussion, he might forget what Merlin had just said. Which would be better than having to turn the words over in his mind, and Arthur found that he rather wanted to go home, curl up in his bed and sleep for a day, and not spend a single second thinking about what Merlin was implying.

Merlin frowned at him when he caught on to the fact that, as wavering as Arthur's steps were, he was trying to walk out on him, and pushed away from the wall to block the doorway with his skinny frame.

"Arthur," he started, stepping towards him, and although Merlin's touch was feather-light when he put a hesitant hand on his arm, Arthur still flinched as though Merlin had jumped at him with flying fists. It occurred to him that this situation bore a weird kind of resemblance to that day when he'd had to change in the shower room and Leon had come after him, except for the single pinpoint of touch at his elbow.

"Let me go," Arthur said, despite the fact that he could easily have thrown off Merlin's fingers—but somehow he knew that Merlin wasn't going to move from the doorway. His voice sounded wooden and hollow, like a rehearsed line delivered by an unenthusiastic actor, and up close, Arthur couldn't pretend that he didn't notice the way Merlin's eyes softened with concern. "Merlin, let me go."

He could see Merlin's throat work as he swallowed, but he didn't budge. "Arthur, look," he started, his voice pitched low, placating, "let's just—"

With sudden, startling clarity, Arthur found that he didn't want to hear the end of that sentence, and that Merlin's touch on his arm seemed to burn him, scorching through the thick layers of his coat and his sweater and searing a brand into his skin. He shoved at Merlin to get him out of the way, a too-forceful push born of the reckless, impatient frustration that still simmered in his gut and felt like it had been eating at him ever since Owain had first called Merlin a fag.

Merlin's breath left him in a rush, and he grimaced when his back collided with the doorframe—quick as a flash, Arthur recalled how Owain had slammed him against the wall, but the sting of pain didn't deter Merlin at all, if the sudden glint of aggravation in his eyes was anything to go by. "Arthur," he repeated, with more vigor than before, but it was the lack of hesitance in the sudden, tight grip of Merlin's hands on his shoulders that snapped Arthur's patience.

Usually, he never would have so much as brawled with Merlin—his sense of honor dictated as much, because comparing Merlin's scrawniness to his own more muscular frame seemed ridiculous even if he took into account that Merlin was slightly taller. Now, though, Arthur found himself not all that surprised that Merlin could give as good as he got. And they weren't really fighting anyway, they were just shoving each other around because Arthur wanted to get through the damn door and Merlin wouldn't let him, wouldn't let go of his coat, no matter how hard Arthur struggled to wrestle out of his hold.

The roar of blood was back in Arthur's ears as though it had never been quieted in the first place, but this time there was a curious flickering at the edges of his vision, like all the anger in him had burned itself out in his fight with Owain and couldn't quite rise to the occasion now. His breath was coming hard and fast, but at least he managed to twist away from one of Merlin's grasping hands when Merlin made the mistake of trying to crowd him back into the room. He tried to push Merlin's weight into the wall with his now free arm, but he hadn't counted on Merlin suddenly lunging forward, and there was a sharp crack as Arthur's elbow collided with Merlin's cheek.

Merlin let out a little gasp and stumbled back, releasing Arthur in favor of clutching his head, squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace of pain. Hell, Arthur's elbow hurt from the force of the blow, and for just a moment he wondered, helplessly, what the fuck was wrong with him today that made him keep breaking people's jaws.

Arthur watched in numb silence as Merlin slowly straightened up, wincing as he gingerly probed his cheek. In spite of the dim light, Arthur could see that a bruise was already forming just beneath his cheekbone, and he wanted nothing more than to say that he was sorry, because he was, he'd just wanted to get out of the room, he'd never intended to nearly smash Merlin's face in.

But it seemed like heavy, trembling breaths were the only thing he could force past the hot, jagged lump in his throat, and so he didn't speak. He probably should have used his greater weight to his advantage, to throw Merlin off of him as quickly and gently as he could and made a run for it. But he hadn't really expected Merlin to just hang onto him like that, to refuse to give even an inch of ground. It had never occurred to him that Merlin hadn't stopped him from leaving just to annoy him, but that he'd probably just wanted him to stay.

Only now that they were apart did Arthur notice how warm Merlin had been, how he'd felt his body heat despite the thick layers of clothes between them. It was an oddly idle thought, misplaced in the jumble of exhausted, frustrated confusion that seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the back of his mind. He flinched back as Merlin lifted his head, but Arthur couldn't stop the instinctive movement, not even when Merlin readily met his gaze as though nothing had happened at all.

His heart was pounding out a frantic staccato in his chest, and Merlin was coming closer, or maybe Arthur was swaying forward. It probably didn't matter who moved first anyway; he still wanted to get out, but the thought seemed faint and far away. Merlin's eyes were wide and dark but no longer uncertain. That hadn't suited him anyway, Arthur thought hazily, and it should probably worry him how his breath kept hitching in his chest. He felt oddly disconnected from himself, as if he was reduced to being a passenger in his own body, surveying his surroundings with detached interest.

This time, though, his reflexes were too sluggish to push Merlin away when he grabbed him by the front of his coat, yanked him close, and crushed his lips to Arthur's.

Somehow, inanely, the first thought that wrestled itself to the front of his mind was that it was different from kissing Sophia. His former girlfriend had been outwardly pliant, all lush lips that tasted like strawberry lipstick, and soft curves that pressed a little too close for comfort even when they'd been out in the yard in full view of everyone who happened to look their way. But for some reason she never shut her eyes, and the feeling of Sophia's gaze on him had always made feel Arthur oddly self-conscious about kissing her, like she was gauging his reaction and her body was poised to attack underneath the soft press of her breasts against his ribs.

Merlin wasn't pliant, though. Arthur could feel his knuckles dig into his chest where Merlin's hands were fisted in his coat, and there was nothing hidden in his eyes because he'd closed them, whether in concentration or out of fear, Arthur didn't know. All of Arthur's muscles had locked tight on instinct, as though braced against an attack, but the frenzied sprint of his heart just quickened the rush that went through him, a bone-deep shiver that scorched a path down his spine and left goosebumps in its wake. He inhaled, a single, startled intake of breath, and Merlin responded by catching the slack bow of his bottom lip between his own, and Arthur felt just the faintest scrape of teeth before his weight shifted forward on its own accord, into the startling, addictive heat of Merlin's mouth on his.

Somehow, it felt like a lot of unsaid things went into the kiss, and in retrospect, Arthur knew that it couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds, although it felt like minutes. But unlike the kisses that still reminded him of his breakup with Sophia, there was nothing hidden and unsettlingly subliminal about it. Merlin's mouth didn't taste like much of anything except skin and spit, and his lips were chapped from the cold, a coarse, prickling edge that shot heat through Arthur's veins to coil low in his gut.

There was nothing rough about the way his tongue delved into Arthur's mouth, though, the firm gentleness a startling contrast to the clench of his fists in Arthur's coat—it was like he'd decided, belatedly, to do his best not to startle Arthur into trying to run away again.

Only when he felt Arthur's hands on his shoulders did Merlin open his eyes, and dazed as he was, Arthur wasn't quick enough not to notice the way his pupils were blown wide, swallowing up any and all color save for a thin ring of blue.

The shove, when it came, wasn't entirely unexpected, if the sudden spark of resigned belligerence in Merlin's gaze was anything to go by, but somehow, Arthur knew that it still hurt more than Merlin let on.

***

His car emits a faint sort of croak when Merlin kills the engine for the last time that day, and it's a testament to how out of it Arthur is that it doesn't occur to him to wonder at the sight of Lance's battered old car, looking oddly misplaced on the tree-lined driveway.

Merlin has jumped out of the driver's seat and is halfway around the car before Arthur so much as unfastens his seatbelt, but a single warning glare is enough to send Merlin back to hovering uncertainly when he opens the passenger door. Arthur struggles out of his seat on his own, although he can't help a hiss of pain when he attempts to straighten up. His ribs hurt something awful by now, a bone-deep ache that he suspects even painkillers won't drain away completely; his stomach must be a mess of bruises, and he takes a mental note to lock the door to his room before he takes off his shirt later.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin make several quick, aborted movements in his direction as they slowly walk up the driveway to the front door. He looks like he's having some strange seizure, but he's probably just trying to keep himself from reaching out to steady Arthur whenever his gait falters. No matter how gingerly he sets down his feet, each step feels like the pounding of a jackhammer in his skull, and it's all Arthur can do to try to wipe the pained grimace off his face when the front door is suddenly flung open.

Arthur thinks, somewhat hazily, that he can't recall when he last saw his father move so quickly. He's down the steps before Arthur can so much as blink, eyes giving him a quick once-over as he takes in the bruise marring his face and the hunch in his posture. He's still in his suit, but the tie is undone and he's paler than Arthur has seen him in a long time.

The undisguised concern in Uther's gaze is foreign and unfamiliar enough that it makes Arthur feel oddly crowded, and so he takes a deep breath, pulling a somewhat lopsided smile onto his face. "You should see the other guy."

It's not as good a comeback as he would have liked, but he still sees something relax in his father's face; apparently, he realizes that as long as Arthur can still crack jokes, however lame, he doesn't have to be swept off to hospital. Uther's gaze moves on to Merlin, and Arthur would have found the boy's squirming hilarious in any other situation; still, he almost expects Merlin to attempt to flatten his hair any second.

"Um, I'm Merlin," he says hastily, sticking out a haphazard hand on instinct. "Merlin Emrys— we talked on the phone— well, Arthur's phone— I wouldn't have picked up normally, I just—"

Arthur sees the recognition on his father's face even before he reaches out to firmly shake Merlin's hand; Merlin appears shocked to have his clumsy greeting accepted at all, but even manages a somewhat harried-looking smile. He looks cold, and Arthur can hardly blame him—to him, the icy winter wind is a relief, clearing his head and soothing the ache in his eye, but he still follows when his father herds them towards the front door.

"Thank you for bringing my son home," Uther says quietly as they're scaling the steps to the front door; Arthur blinks at him for a moment, startled, before he realizes that his father's eyes are fixed on Merlin.

Merlin, who nearly trips over the last step at the words. "Oh," he replies, dumbfounded, and even in the fading light of dusk, Arthur can see that his ears are slowly turning red. "Um, yeah, that's— alright, really."

If he didn't think that it would hurt far too much, Arthur would have rolled his eyes.

The entrance hall is only dimly lit, but Arthur still catches Merlin gaping at the paintings lining the walls and the high, domed ceiling as they shrug off their coats. Their steps echo on the hardwood floor as Uther leads them past the staircase, and Arthur casts a longing look at what little he can see of the first floor hallway. He'd like nothing more than to go to bed, maybe take a quick shower to rinse away the dried sweat from practice. But he knows that his father—or Merlin, for that matter—won't let him go without thoroughly checking him for any injuries that won't be better the next morning, and so he follows without complaint.

The blaze of light hurts his good eye when his father opens the door to the dining room, but he still sees three figures huddled close together on one end of the long oaken table. All things considered, Arthur has been expecting Morgana and Leon, but Lance is a surprise, even after the sight of his car—maybe he heard of the fight and came to make sure he's okay. But if rumor has gotten around to Lance already, the entire school will know tomorrow that he kicked Owain out of the team, if not the reason. Arthur swallows, feeling a little sick.

Morgana rises from her chair when she catches sight of him, and for just a moment Arthur gets to see the relief warring with concern in her eyes. Then her expression turns determined; before Arthur can so much as think of ducking out of the way, she has pulled him into the room and pushed him down on an empty chair. Something chilled and slippery is suddenly pressed to his eye, and Arthur flinches away for a moment before recognizing the ice pack.

The cold is a welcome relief to his throbbing temple, and Arthur lets out a slow breath that feels like he's been holding it for the past hour when the chill slowly seeps into the raw, abused skin. It's too late for the coldness to alleviate the swelling, but this way he probably won't have quite as splitting a headache tomorrow, and God knows he'll need his wits about him when Owain has told everyone and their mom about their fight tomorrow. He finds his gaze catching on Lance, who looks like he's valiantly trying to conceal his worry but finds himself failing, if the deepening frown is anything to go by.

"Leon called me," Lance says by way of explanation when he notices Arthur's eyes on him. He shrugs awkwardly, seeming to second-guess his reasons for coming here for the first time. "And, I don't know, I just thought that maybe I could help."

Arthur nods, momentarily relieved that word didn't reach his best friend by way of the rumor mill. The area behind the gym is quite secluded, after all, so maybe the bruise on his face will be the only thing drawing people's gazes to him if he manages to go to school the next day. And he's a little surprised to find that he is grateful for Lance's presence, although he has no idea how to explain what happened—which is doubtlessly what Lance will ask the moment he catches Arthur alone, no matter if that'll be tonight or only in a few days' time.

Leon has stood up too when Morgana rose from her seat, and his gaze is now flitting between Arthur and Merlin, who is still standing in the doorway, not quite daring to come closer. "You okay?" Leon asks awkwardly, addressing the question to Merlin—he's probably seen in Arthur's eyes that no matter how shaken and tired he feels, any concern will be deflected at all costs.

Merlin blinks, startled at being spoken to, and nods after a moment. "Yeah," he says; Arthur sees him pull his sleeve over his hand, an oddly misplaced, nervous movement. "I wanted to thank you," Merlin continues, the words clumsy but sincere. "For—"

Leon shakes his head, cutting Merlin off, but a bit of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Anyone would have done the same."

There's a brief pause as they all collectively mull over how that's not true at all, or at least not of the students of Avalon High. Arthur suddenly notices how the bruise on Merlin's cheek looks even worse in the glow of the lightbulbs, and quickly averts his gaze to the shimmering wood of the table, his stomach roiling with another stir of nausea.

Uther hovers near the table, and his tight, anxious expression would have made Arthur laugh in any other situation, simply because he doesn't think he's ever seen it on his father's face before. "I could call Gaius," he offers, sounding like he's been thinking about that for some time but held it back, something in the air checking his usual rashness.

"No," Arthur says, quickly now, because if there's one thing he doesn't want, it's getting fussed over by his father's best friend who also happens to be a doctor. "No, I'm fine, really."

Morgana scoffs, too quietly for Uther to hear, and presses the ice pack a bit tighter to Arthur's face. "Keep it there," she instructs brusquely, but lets her fingers rest on Arthur's for a moment longer than necessary when his hand comes up to take the place of hers. He spares a second to wonder what she thought when Leon called Uther, if she guessed who Arthur had gotten into a fight with and why. She'd been there when Owain found Arthur and Merlin in the library, after all, so she probably put two and two together.

But she doesn't look like she'll comment on the matter any time soon—usually, Arthur tends to find Morgana's occasional secretiveness annoying, but this time he's grateful for it. "Tea?" she asks, passing an inquiring look around the room; Leon smiles fondly at her, and Merlin and Lance exchange a puzzled glance before nodding.

"I'll help," Uther says, his tone almost relieved, and readily follows Morgana towards the kitchen. Belatedly, Arthur realizes what it must have cost his father to remain silent until now and not to shower him with questions and have one of his lawyers sue Owain for assault. It's what he probably would have done if it had just been the three of them; but the presence of Arthur's friends must have shown him, however subtly, that this is nothing that can be solved with a phone call.

Now, though, he seems almost glad for the chance to do something, even if it's just making tea and not calling his lawyers—or Gaius, for that matter. Morgana steps aside to let Uther walk past her into the kitchen before she follows, pointedly pulling the door almost shut behind her—she probably wants to give them some privacy, but doesn't dare close the door completely in case Arthur keels over or something undignified like that.

Left alone with Leon, Lance, and Merlin, Arthur suddenly feels rather crowded although Merlin has still not stepped into the room, and carefully shifts the ice pack a little higher. They're all looking at him, too, inquisitive, slightly concerned gazes that he doesn't know how to react to. It's not like he's ever been in this kind of ludicrous situation before—things like that just don't happen to him, and right now he can't even recall when he last got into a fistfight with anyone, least of all someone he'd called his friend until he tried to beat up Merlin. Merlin, who seems to wear his heart on his sleeve in a way that just makes him all the harder to figure out, who did his best to help Arthur with his essay, and whose too-blue eyes betrayed not a single ounce of hesitation when he'd kissed Arthur in the dim quietude of the locker room.

"I—," he starts, his voice coming out hoarse with disuse—his mind is utterly blank of coherent thought, and he has no idea what he could say, but the decision is taken out of his hands a second later.

Leon sighs explosively, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at Arthur with a slightly impatient frown. "If you're going to insist that you're not gay one more time," he says, sounding torn between exasperation and belligerence, "then I'll—"

"Don't hit him," Morgana's voice floats over from the adjacent room, and Arthur silently curses the gap that she left between the door and its frame. "Normally I wouldn't object, but he's battered enough as it is."

A sickening jolt goes through Arthur when he realizes that his father is in the kitchen too, he's probably heard every word as well, although the clatter of teacups never stops. For a long, dangerous moment, Arthur can't do anything but feel his stomach turn and think, vaguely, that he's going to be sick all over the ancient table. But then the feeling passes, leaving him with cold sweat beading at the back of his neck and nausea settling low in his gut. He swallows hard, and tries again. "But I—"

"I think you should stop getting to hung up about what you're not," Lance speaks up suddenly, and Arthur belatedly realizes that he didn't know either—even though there is nothing to know just yet, as a tiny stubborn voice in the back of his mind keeps insisting. He didn't talk to Lance about this at all, about the mess that Owain has been making of his team and everything else, not even when his best friend asked.

Lance sounds unusually decisive, too, like he's long ago caught on to the fact that Arthur was hiding something from him and is not too pleased about it, although he's still willing to offer all the advice he can. "How about you think about what you are instead?" he says, an earnestness in his eyes that's hard to look away from. "I mean— Merlin's a nice guy."

Arthur blinks, Merlin shifts in the doorway and coughs a little, and Arthur doesn't have to look his way to know that a faint flush has risen to his face. Lance looks a trifle embarrassed, but not nearly as mortified as he should be in Arthur's opinion, because self-respecting high school students don't just say things like that. But in a way, Lance's always been like that—too honest at heart to feel truly awkward when he's speaking his mind.

No one seems to know what to say to that, least of all Arthur, and they all jump as the kettle's whistle announces that their tea is almost ready from the kitchen. He's too tired to mull that over now, like he knows he will tomorrow, but acceptance was not what he expected, mostly because he's still not sure whether he wants to know if there's anything to be accepted at all. His thoughts feel a bit like the inconsequential splash of pebbles being thrown into the still waters of a deep lake, the pull of exhaustion slowing down his mind.

Morgana comes in carrying a tray, Uther trailing behind her, and no one speaks when they sit down; Morgana catches Merlin's eye and inclines her head towards the still empty chair beside her with a half-smile. Obediently, Merlin shuffles over and sits down between her and Lance, his posture hunched a little as though he wants to blend into the background, and gives Morgana a lopsided smile that doesn't look quite real.

The grandfather clock is ticking into the silence, only interrupted by the hushed sounds of everyone blowing on their tea and taking first hesitant sips. It's so hot that Arthur burns his tongue with his first too-large gulp, but it actually appeases the queasiness a little. Leon has sat back down as well, on Arthur's other side this time; he's bracketed securely between him and Lance, but to his own vague surprise, Arthur doesn't feel all that trapped.

The cup of tea settles comfortably in his belly, making him drowsy on top of slightly warmer than before; the ice pack has warmed as well, and Arthur puts it down on the table. His head still hurts, but it's more of a dulled sting by now, and it makes him optimistic enough to think that he might be able to stomach a painkiller before going to bed.

To his surprise, it's Merlin who breaks the silence, putting his empty cup down with extra care as though he realizes that he's handling rather expensive porcelain. "I think I need to go home," he says, voice quiet and hesitant. Sure enough, it's pitch dark outside, although Arthur has no idea how much time passed between the fight and now. "My mom—"

"I'll drive you," Lance says instantly, seeming eager to be able to offer his help. "I know where you live." There's a short silence as he contemplates what he just said; then he grimaces a little and adds, "And that sounded really creepy, sorry."

Merlin smiles, a real smile this time, one that reaches his eyes and lights up the relief Arthur is surprised to find there. Merlin didn't appear all that nervous, he hid it well once again, but Arthur realizes that he must have been all along, awkwardly trying to gauge Arthur's friends' reactions to him, and is now astonished and relieved to find himself accepted into their circle.

Morgana gets up from her chair, shooting a meaningful look at Uther, who blinks at her in incomprehension for a moment before he rises too, muttering something about email. Arthur nearly smiles at that—in any other situation, it would be strangely entertaining to see his usually stoic father so out of his depth. Leon gives him a worried glance when Arthur struggles into a standing position as well, but Arthur ignores it, routine taking over—he's going to see his guests to the door, the pain in his ribs be damned.

The blast of cold air wakes him up a little again when he opens the front door, but he's still not fast enough to dodge the quick, one-armed hug Lance pulls him into, all the while mindful of Arthur's bruised ribs. It feels odd to be held so carefully, and Arthur is a little horrified to feel his throat constrict even as Lance orders him, in a low, stern voice, to call him the next day. He nods into Lance's shoulder—not because he doesn't feel like arguing, but because he doesn't quite trust his voice—and can't help the relieved, shaky sigh that escapes him when Lance lets him go.

At Lance's meaningful look, Leon hurries to clap Arthur on the back and mutter something about how he hopes he'll recover faster than Owain, and hastily follows Lance down the front steps to the battered car. Belatedly, Arthur realizes that they're trying to give him and Merlin some privacy—Merlin must have come to the same conclusion, because he rolls his eyes, turning to Arthur with a cautious smile.

His eyes are clear and dark in the dim light from the entrance hall, and he's not quite as pale anymore, like the single cup of tea was enough to restore his spirits even after everything that happened today. But once again, Arthur can't tear his gaze away from the purplish bruise on his cheek, standing out darkly against his skin. It'll hurt for days to come, little twinges of pain whenever he smiles too widely; and tomorrow Merlin will probably steal his mother's make-up to cover up the worst of the damage and avoid questions.

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly doesn't notice the way Merlin's smile turns wry and he rolls his eyes. "I've had worse," he says, his voice quiet yet decisive. "And I could have had worse today."

"You're welcome," Arthur replies dumbly, since it seems like the right thing to say, and also because he knows that even if he managed to get out an apology, Merlin would just deflect it.

Merlin lets out a long sigh, his breath fogging up the cold winter air, and looks down for a moment; Arthur sees that he's toying with his sleeves once more. But when he raises his eyes again, he holds Arthur's gaze with the same decisive calm that Arthur has gotten so used to seeing from him. Arthur still doesn't know what's real, the nervous motions of his hands or the unselfconscious openness of his gaze, but for the first time he finds himself thinking that it's probably both.

"It's alright," he says, and hesitates for a long moment, seeming to think very carefully about what he's going to say. His voice is hushed, as though he was letting Arthur in on a secret. "Not to know what you want, I mean. Been there, done that, and all those things."

He holds up a hand when Arthur opens his mouth to speak, and for once Arthur obeys and shuts it again, not really sure what he was about to say anyway—the sudden rush of blood in his ears is loud enough to drown out all coherent thought. "So," Merlin continues, and he'd sound like he did in the library when he tried to wrap his head around the algebra Arthur explained to him, if it weren't for the faint tremor in his voice, "how about I help you figure out what you want, and we take it from there?"

The silence stretches long enough for Arthur's pulse to stumble and speed up, a bit belatedly, like it's taken a few seconds for the words to fully register with him, despite the fact that Arthur almost saw them coming. After all, if there's one thing he's sure about where Merlin is concerned, it's that he doesn't give up easily—sure, he retreats on occasion to regroup his thoughts and figure out a better strategy, although he never backs off completely. But like Merlin wrote to him in the library, this is not a fight, and Merlin is not seeking to win any ground from him, and he won't lose anything if he lets his guard down for long enough to truly think about what Merlin is asking.

That's precisely the reason why Arthur has no idea how to react, though, and he swallows convulsively, curiously unable to break Merlin's gaze. He can still hear the crunch of snow nearby where Lance and Leon are slowly walking towards the car, talking in low tones as though to avoid eavesdropping at all costs. They probably know what they're discussing anyway, but Arthur is still grateful for the small measure of privacy, because he knows he wouldn't have let Merlin say what he said if anyone else had been listening.

Something else occurs to him, though, a nagging thought that pushes itself to the front of his mind, now unhindered by the helpless frustration he'd felt in the locker room. Arthur takes a deep breath, and just blurts it out before the strained quietude makes him lose his nerve, frankly too tired to even second-guess what he should or shouldn't be saying anymore. "What about Mordred?"

Unsurprisingly, Merlin turns his gaze towards the sky again, like he's praying for assistance in dealing with Arthur's obtuseness. "If you had just listened to me the other day when I tried to explain—," he starts, exasperated, but Arthur thinks that he also sounds thrilled, relieved, almost, as though the question was enough to tip him over into hopefulness. "Mordred's a nice enough guy when he wants to be, but I don't like him that way. I like you."

"Oh," Arthur says, stupidly, and tries in vain to will away the heat he can feel rising to his face, even more acute in the cold air. "Well. That's—"

He trails off into blank silence, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tries to figure out what to say in reply. But Merlin flashes a relieved grin at him, although Arthur didn't miss the slight embarrassment that flitted across his features, like he'd spared a split-second to mentally berating himself for that too-bold statement. "You don't have to decide what you think of that yet," he answers, calm and reassuring once more, now that they're off the proverbial minefield—well, for Merlin, that is. His gaze flickers to the bruise marring the side of Arthur's face, and Arthur sees his left hand twitch as though he's stifling the urge to reach out. "Just— get well soon, for now, yeah?"

"Okay," Arthur replies, his voice a trifle shakier than he'd like it to be, but he figures it can be excused by now. "I'll do that."

"Good," Merlin tells him, solemnly this time, and his eyes soften visibly even as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, relaxing out of the straight-backed stance he'd unconsciously assumed earlier. Arthur has no idea why it makes him feel slightly better to recognize the little tell-tale signs of shared uncertainty that Merlin can't hide, no matter how hard he tries; but somehow it does.

"See you at school?" Arthur ventures after a pause, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that the sound of footsteps has stopped, and that Leon and Lance are probably waiting for Merlin at Lance's car, standing around awkwardly in the cold and trying not to listen.

Merlin's face brightens into another smile, and he nods. He makes a hesitant, aborted movement towards him, as though contemplating whether to stick out his hand for Arthur to shake like he did with Uther earlier, but then he touches Arthur's arm, and lets his fingers trail down Arthur's sleeve, carefully. The air is cold, but Merlin's hand is not, in spite of his scrawniness, and even through the fabric of Arthur's shirt, it warms him.

"See you around, then," Merlin says, his voice decisive; but he waits for Arthur's answering nod before he steps back, his touch trailing away, and turns around to walk down the front steps and towards the waiting car that Arthur can just barely make out in the darkness.

He doesn't look back, but there's a bounce in his step that wasn't there before, and Arthur retreats into the hall and closes the door before Lance and Leon can see him look after Merlin with the beginnings of a smile quirking his mouth.

Fatigue is still heavy on his mind like a water-logged blanket, but although Arthur would be free to go to bed now, he finds himself wandering towards the living room instead. A slant of dim light illuminates the hallway through the half-open door, and Morgana is sitting on the couch when Arthur walks in, the room plunged into a hazy half-light by the single reading lamp next to her.

She looks up at him in surprise, a book in her lap and sheets of paper spread out around her—probably catching up on her homework, although it's not usually like her to procrastinate. Arthur pauses, feeling tired and awkward just standing in the middle of the room like a discarded piece of furniture, but Morgana quickly clears the space next to herself and motions for him to sit down with a hint of her usual imperiousness.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but his feet carry him over to the couch without his consent. Just sitting down is a relief, and he can feel the warmth of the room slowly seep through his chilled skin, warming him up again after those long minutes of standing outside. Morgana doesn't say anything, just turns back to her book; Arthur feels a part of him relax that he didn't even know had been tense in the first place, and he doesn't pull away when Morgana shifts her weight slightly, causing their hands to brush.

He breathes out slowly, mindful of the soreness of his ribs, and settles back into the cushions, tipping his head back to rest against the back of the couch. The ticking of the clock in the dining room is the only sound breaking the silence, save for the occasional rustle of paper when Morgana turns a page of her book. Arthur feels the accumulated tension slowly melt out of his muscles although his head has started to hurt again, blunt, occasional twinges that feel like someone is poking at his sore eye. Still, he thinks drowsily that he could almost fall asleep like this, until he suddenly hears the door to his father's office open and close, and Uther walks into the room a moment later, exchanging a brief, questioning look with Morgana before sitting down on Arthur's other side.

Arthur is too exhausted to even blink at him in incomprehension, and his father studiously avoids his gaze anyway, leaning over instead to idly pick up a sheet of paper from where Morgana tossed it onto the table. It seems to be a print-out of typed lecture notes, and Uther settles back into the couch as well, apparently content to just sit there and skim over what Morgana has written and not shower Arthur with a barrage of questions.

It's weird to just sit there, with the back of Morgana's hand resting against his own, a little too casually to be accidental, and his shoulder pressed to his father's arm on the other side. It reminds him a little of Christmas when they sometimes sit together like this, when the presents have been opened after a few glasses of expensive wine. But even then, something usually happens to shatter the quietude before it can settle—Uther gets up to check his email inbox, or Morgana and Arthur start texting their friends their best wishes for the holiday season.

Nothing happens now, though, and no one even speaks, and suddenly Arthur is so fiercely grateful for the silence that he's helpless to stop the feeling from knotting into a lump in his throat. He swallows it down with some difficulty and settles back into the couch, thinking drowsily that the sound of Morgana turning the pages could lull him to sleep, although he knows that they'll rouse him and herd him off to bed if he does fall asleep. There's still tomorrow to be taken care of, after all, when neither his nor Merlin's bruises will have faded enough not to attract questioning glances, and he still needs to fill Owain's vacated spot on the team.

And he'll eventually have to figure out that other thing too, the thing that has been squirming restlessly at the back of his head and finally surged up bright and blazing today, coaxed to life by the feeling of Merlin's chapped lips on his. For now, though, Arthur is tired enough not to let the thought of tomorrow bother him, and he lets his good eye drift shut at last, barely noticing that outside, it has begun to snow.