Work Text:
By the time we got to Woodstock we were half a million strong
And everywhere was a sound and a celebration
White Lake, NY. August 17, 1969.
Merlin’s not entirely sure who’s on stage right now, Ten Years After or Johnny Winter or someone, and he can’t really hear them over the noise the sea of people all around him is making. It’s been raining for two days now and Merlin’s got mud caked into his bellbottoms, along his bare arms, even some in his hair. But the acid he dropped about an hour ago hasn’t completely worn off yet, so Merlin doesn’t really care that much right now. Right now he’s idly watching strands of colour in the sky, which he only sort of realizes aren’t real, and listening to the boom-boom-boom of a far away bass amplifier that still resonates under all the other sound.
Lancelot and Morgana are ranting about the war a few feet away. Merlin really, really doesn’t want to think about that right now, but the acid is finally starting to wear off and he can’t shut their conversation out any longer. “Well, all I’m saying is that if Nixon doesn’t bring the troops home soon, he’s going to have to answer to the young people of this country. He was elected by the people, he’d better listen to the people!” Young people, that’s what he said, young people. Sometimes Merlin wonders if Lancelot is a fifty year old in a college student’s body.
“Oh, you are so naive,” Morgana scoffs. “People can march and shout and complain all they want, but at the end of the day it is Nixon and his cronies who have all the power in this country. Do you think the men sitting down in Washington care at all about the Vietnamese who are getting raped and burned and --”
“Guys, save this for your next SDS meeting, all right” Merlin cut in, “I’m trying to have one weekend where I can just have fun and not have to think about all this shit, okay?”
Lancelot looks for a second like he’s going to argue but Morgana elbows him in the side and he keeps his mouth shut. Gwen and Gwaine show up then; they’re giggling a little bit and Gwen is carrying a joint between two of her fingers. Merlin makes grabby hands for it, but she just gives him a stern look. “Maybe you should try to not spend the entire weekend in a drug induced stupor, Merlin,” she says reproachfully.
Merlin thinks that’s a bit unfair. He’s having a rough time of it right now; if he wants to spend the weekend high, he should be allowed to do that. He’s going to have to deal with harsh reality soon enough, anyway. He sighs and rubs his hand over his face and ignores the probably imaginary fairy that’s landed on Morgana’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go see if I can get closer to the stage,” he tells them.
Gwen takes pity on him and gives him the joint after all before he leaves. As he walks into the crowd Merlin can hear Lancelot start singing to her. “Guinevere had green eyes, like yours, my lady like yours...”
It’s not very easy fighting his way through the crowd, even on the outskirts of it. Mud squicks under Merlin’s Chuck Taylor’s and the field is filled with wet, smelly people whose long hair is clinging to their faces, making facial features difficult to make out. But still, Merlin’s never seen this many people all together in his life and he probably never will again. It feels good -- like the whole generation has finally come together as one community.
He finally finds Arthur where he said he’d be, sitting behind the stage at the edge of Filippini Pond. He makes quite a sight, in contrast to the surroundings. His hair is sheared short, only just curling around the nape of his neck, and he’s simply wearing blue jeans and a white tee shirt, not the bohemian, hippie dress many of the people here have on. He’s staring unseeingly out at the pond, holding a cigarette loosely between his fingers. Merlin stands observing him for a minute, watching as Arthur takes a slow drag of tobacco.
There are several naked men and women getting in and out of the water nearby; Merlin makes a point of averting his eyes.
Eventually, Arthur looks up and their eyes lock together. Merlin wants to say that it’s like one of those moments in the movies where time stops and all that matters in the world is the two of them, but that might be the pot and the acid talking. Either way, He pads across the grass towards Arthur and sits down, cross legged, next to him, offers him the joint. “Switch?”
Arthur hands over the cigarette and takes the joint in return. “How are you doing? he asks, “Last I saw you, you were babbling about dragons in the clouds.”
Merlin gives a little laugh. “No more dragons,” he says, and gives in to temptation and leans his back against Arthur’s chest. “I came down from it and Morgana and Lancelot were arguing about Nixon’s foriegn policy, so I came to find you.”
Arthur hums in response, his arms coming to creep around Merlin’s waist, pulling him closer. They sit there together for a long time, listening to what they could hear of the music coming down from off the stage and the myriad sounds of hundreds of thousands of people milling about in a field. Finally, Merlin speaks.
“I don’t want you to go,” he says in a quiet voice.
He feels Arthur go still at his back. “I have to.”
Merlin goes from calm and melancholy to animated and agitated in an instant. “No you don’t!” he insists, jerking around to face Arthur. “No you don’t! There are -- there are options!” He’s gesturing wildly with his hands, waving them in Arthur’s face. “We can go to Canada -- I’ll come with you. It’s only a few hours from here!”
Arthur just sighs, grabs Merlin by his arms and holds him still. He’s looking Merlin right in the eyes but Merlin can see that he’s forcing himself to do it. “It’s too late,” he says, “you know it’s too late. I need to report for duty on Tuesday.”
They’ve been carefully avoiding that fact all weekend and Merlin has thrown himself into acid and reefer music, trying to make him forget. And for the most part it’s worked, ever since Morgana barged into their Lower East Side apartment and announced, “We’re going to that concert upstate,” and they all piled into Lancelot’s VW Beetle even though there were six of them, and Merlin made them all listen to WNEW through the whole traffic jam of a trip, even well passed the time they could pick up a proper signal for it, and then they arrived on a farm in White Lake and, well. It’s been sex, drugs and rock and roll ever since. (Admittedly with less sex than Merlin would like, maybe he can talk Arthur into some skinny dipping later.)
But now Merlin can’t escape from reality, no matter how much acid he’s put in his brain in the last three days. Arthur has to report for duty on Tuesday. He has to get on a plane that will take him to Saigon. And there’s nothing Merlin can do about it.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, concerned, “Merlin -- please don’t cry.” And then Merlin is being pulled by strong arms against Arthur’s broad chest and Arthur is kissing Merlin’s lips, his cheeks, his nose, under his eyes, kissing away the salty tears that are suddenly there. And Arthur is making Merlin promises but Merlin can’t even hear them over the roaring in his ears.
+
In the morning, Arthur shakes Merlin awake. They’re still under the tree by the pond, but there aren’t any skinny dippers around anymore. Merlin has a crick in his neck.
“Jimi’s playing,” Arthur tells him, and that gets Merlin’s attention. He comes awake all at once as the sounds of heavily amplified guitar reach his ears.
They stand up and brush pine needles from their laps. Arthur takes his hand and leads them around to the front of the stage. “You can leave if you want to,” Jimi Hendrix is telling the crowd from the stage, “We’re just jammin’, that’s all.” As if Merlin would want to be anywhere but here, with Arthur’s arms once again around his waist, listening to Hendrix jam.
Suddenly, the nonsensical jam turns into a very recognizable tune. And even though no one on stage is singing, Merlin can hear the words as clear as day in his mind. Oh say, can you see by the dawn’s early light what so proudly we hailed, in the twilight’s last gleaming?
Arthur is whispering in his ear. “I’ll come home to you, Merlin. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Merlin tells him.
Well come on all of you big strong men
Uncle Sam needs your help again
Got himself in a terrible jam, way down yonder in Vietnam
So put down your books and pick up a gun
We’re gonna have a whole lotta fun
And it’s 1-2-3, what are we fighting for?
Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn
Next stop is Vietnam
And it’s 5-6-7, open up the pearly gates
Ain’t no time to wonder why
Whoopie! We’re all gonna die