Work Text:
One:
Dublin is rainy and grey, which should not come as a shock to Arthur. He knew it would be like that before moving here and anyway, London wasn’t exactly the Riviera either.
But he had a horrible day, and the rain doesn’t exactly lighten his mood.
It is also easier to blame the weather than to deal with the conflicting feelings of relief over being independent of his father, and the persistent ache of it. How Uther could never bring himself to love Arthur enough to, after twenty-five years of Arthur trying and trying and trying, meet him halfway.
So, Arthur is in Dublin, and it has been raining all goddamn day, and his co-workers have been pushing each and every one of his buttons, and perhaps he feels just the tiniest bit sorry for himself. Sue him.
It is all worth it, of course; Arthur knows this. That doesn’t change how it’s not easy, neither in the big nor in the small ways. Arthur allows himself a little bit of wallowing into his sandwich before he kicks himself, pulls up the address of the gym he had picked out weeks ago, and grabs his bag.
There is no good reason why he should let all of that pent-up energy go to waste, and he can only clean his flat from top to bottom so many times before it becomes worrisome.
The gym isn’t far from his flat, and after filling out a registration form, Arthur is free to check out the equipment at his leisure.
Restlessness is still brimming beneath his skin, and he lets his gaze sweep through the extensive floor while doing his warmups.
He used to go to the gym at least once a week back in London, and went to play football with Gwaine, Elyan, and Leon on top of that on most weekends. Since his move several months ago, he hasn’t really got back into the habit yet.
It might have something to do with his recent agitation, loath as he is to admit it.
The gym is relatively empty for an early evening, with only a handful of people here and there. All in all, it looks like most other gyms Arthur has been to. The one difference is that this one has a small but well-equipped section on the far side for martial arts.
It has been years, but Arthur used to go to boxing lessons for a few months while he was at university, before Uther got wind of it and strongly advised—ordered—Arthur to find something else, less he disfigured his face.
Arthur had been reluctant, but had done as he was told.
It has been years, but once he finishes his warmups, he finds himself getting drawn closer.
Several punching bags are hung up in a row before the space opens up, a boxing ring to the right-hand side, and mats and other equipment to the left.
There aren’t many people around here either, which is why Arthur instantly notices as a man his age approaches one of the punching bags. He is tall and wiry, not the kind of build that Arthur has come to expect from boxers; his mid-thigh shorts and loose tank top certainly leave nothing to the imagination.
That being said, he is also distractingly, annoyingly pretty with his full lips and high cheekbones, bright blue eyes alert beneath a mess of black hair.
He certainly doesn’t belong back here though, amongst the benches for weightlifting and equipment for fighting. Usually, Arthur would let it be. He doesn’t know the guy, and it isn’t any of his business, anyway.
The thing is that despite obviously being lost, the guy is attractive. He is very much Arthur’s type, and it is a new thing, this—Arthur being able to admit to himself that he even has a type of man, to begin with, but that guy certainly falls into it. If there is one thing that helps better against pent-up frustration than exercise, it is a date—preferably one that ends in Arthur’s bedroom rather sooner than later.
He watches as the guy aims a few light punches at one of the bags. Arthur has to give it to him that while his punches aren’t strong, they are at least precise. Quick. He might get somewhere with them, someday.
Finally noticing him, the guy steps away from the punching bag, cocking a brow at Arthur. “Can I help you?” he asks, unwrapping professionally looking bandages from his hands.
That should have told Arthur to think once more before speaking, but then, that has never been one of his strengths.
“I can show you how to do that,” he says, jerking his chin at the punching bag. “If you put more of your weight behind the punch, you might actually get that bag somewhere.”
A pause. “You are new here, aren’t you?”
It isn’t exactly the response Arthur was hoping for, but alright. He smiles. “I just moved here. I’m Arthur.”
“Merlin,” he says, his gaze considerate. “Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer—”
“I boxed for a while at uni,” Arthur interrupts. He knows it’s rude, that it’s bad form to talk the ears off of a stranger at the gym either way, but he isn’t quite sure if he could take getting brushed off on top of everything else today. “Maybe I could show you how.”
“Do you,” Merlin says drily, still unimpressed. He studies Arthur’s face, his blue eyes bright in the fluorescent lights of the gym.
There is something about him, and Arthur doesn’t trust himself to tell if Merlin is even interested in men like that, but he hasn’t told Arthur to get lost yet either. “Enough for the basics, I’m sure,” Arthur says with more confidence than he feels. He drags up his best smile. “So, interested?”
Merlin snorts, his eyes sweeping across the floor before settling back on Arthur. His voice is full of poorly constrained humour when he says, “Tell you what—how about we have a friendly sparring match in the ring over there, and whoever comes out on top gets to lend the other a helping hand if still so desired.”
It sounds almost filthy, the way he says it, lips curled up at the corners and his eyes sparkling. Arthur isn’t sure whether he imagines it or not, but it’s not like Merlin stands a chance.
Arthur has never been able to pass up a challenge, and so he grins back at Merlin with what he knows must be smugness. “You’re on.”
Arthur finds himself flat on his back and without air in his lungs less than ten seconds into their first round.
“Again,” he wheezes, and he barely gets up before he is back in the same position.
It takes three more attempts and subsequent losses until Arthur can—has to—admit defeat.
“How?” he forces out, still sitting in the middle of the ring. A part of him tries to insist that he ought to feel humiliated; mostly, he is just stunned. And impressed, not that he would admit that on pain of death.
“Not all fighting is about having flashy muscles,” Merlin says, smirking at him from where he is leaning in the corner of the ring. He hasn’t broken a sweat at all. “You obviously have little fighting experience; you might be strong, but that guarantees you nothing.”
“But you do? Have experience, I mean?” Arthur asks, intrigued despite himself. “You had no trouble whatsoever to put me on my back, and you didn’t even have to hurt me.”
Merlin’s smirk grows, and Arthur almost regrets his choice of words, but Merlin mercifully doesn’t comment on it. “I’ve been doing Krav Maga since I was eight years old. You never stood a chance.”
Arthur just about knows what that is, but it is enough to feel incredibly stupid.
Before he can consider how to react—with some much-needed humility, or leaning into the lingering frustration—Merlin sends him a mock salute and bows out of the ring.
“Keep it up, Arthur,” he calls, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Who knows, one day you might be able to actually teach someone how to throw a punch.”
And really, Arthur deserves that one; he still winces as he watches Merlin leave.
That could have gone much, much better.
Two:
Arthur is tempted to find another gym altogether if only not to face Merlin again. He has never considered himself a coward, though, and he refuses to start now of all times.
Several weeks pass during which Arthur keeps an eye out for the mop of black hair while trying to tell himself that he does not. The bruise to his pride slowly fades, and he eventually signs up for a weekly Muay Thai course.
Of course, Merlin reappears just when Arthur is having his first lesson.
It distracts Arthur enough that he misses at least half of their teacher’s lecture about how to hand-wrap properly.
Which is stupid, really, because Merlin’s gaze sweeps across their small group, lingers on Arthur perhaps for three seconds longer than on everyone else, and then he disappears towards the treadmills, headphones dangling from his ears.
Arthur can’t help but keep glancing in his direction though, not even when Percival makes him rewrap the bandages from scratch, or when they are finally allowed at the punching bags.
It is incredibly stupid because Merlin is just some random guy. Granted, a guy in front of whom Arthur had utterly embarrassed himself, who had knocked Arthur off his feet—literally—four times in a row without losing breath, and who is very, very pretty on top of that.
Arthur can’t deny the sting of regret beneath his breastbone about how he had put his foot in his mouth enough that, even when Merlin walks by and greets Percival, he doesn’t offer Arthur more than a small grin.
It’s fine, really. Arthur can find some other guy to explore this whole being-bi-thing with. It doesn’t have to be Merlin.
Unfortunately, Arthur really rather wishes that it was.
Three:
The rainy days of autumn turn into even rainier days of early winter. Arthur wishes he could say that he gets used to seeing Merlin around, but he absolutely doesn’t.
He at least tries to be subtle about it, tries not to watch Merlin fight, but he knows that he fails horribly.
If he did have any doubts about it, one early evening in November erases those quite effectively.
Arthur is doing bench presses with Lancelot spotting for him. The Merlin-disaster—as Arthur had privately dubbed it—aside, he has actually started to make a few friends around here.
“I’m sorry Arthur, but I’m being called to the front desk,” Lancelot says, offering Arthur an apologetic upside-down smile. “Could you—”
“I can take him,” someone says out of Arthur’s sight. It takes him a moment to place the voice; when he does, it takes considerable self-restraint not to let the shock show on his face.
“You sure Merlin? You don’t have to—”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m cooling down anyway; Nimueh put me through my paces,” Merlin says, appearing in Arthur’s field of vision and grinning down at him. “If that’s alright with you, anyway? I promise I’m stronger than I look.”
Behind his shoulder, Lancelot’s brow ticks up. Arthur is just thankful that he is warm enough from the exercise that it hides the flush that wants to crawl across his face.
His voice comes out remarkably steady when he says, “I don’t mind at all. Thank you.”
“Alright then,” Lancelot says, grabbing his water bottle. “Let me know if you need anything or—well, let someone know, anyway.”
Merlin waves him off before turning back to Arthur, his smile losing the edge of teasing. “He’s good at what he does.”
Arthur hums in agreement and wraps his hands around the bar again. “He is; I want to try to get in ten more.”
He desperately wants to say something witty, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to Merlin. For once, Arthur does the smart thing and bites his tongue, focusing on pushing the barbell up instead.
“So, I was thinking,” Merlin says, his voice low enough that only Arthur can hear him.
Arthur grunts, arms shaking as he lowers the weights back down. “Were you now?”
“Don’t be a prat,” Merlin admonishes mildly, tapping against the bar above Arthur’s face.
He presses it up again, forcing himself to focus more on the process of it than on Merlin’s stupidly pretty face.
“You know, I’ve seen you watching me, these last few weeks, and I thought… Well, I was wondering if you might want to go on a date with me?”
The barbell drops onto the safety pins with a crash loud enough to reverberate across the entire floor. Merlin jerks to keep it from jumping back out, and Arthur curses, extensively.
Scrambling into a sitting position, Arthur turns to look at Merlin with what he is sure must be disbelief written all over his face.
It takes several long moments for people to stop staring at them.
“I’m assuming that’s a no, then,” Merlin finally says, wrinkling his nose as he avoids meeting Arthur’s eyes. He looks nervous, of all things, and Arthur would laugh if he wasn’t about to mess this up. Again.
“No,” he blurts, and it is all he can do to keep himself from reaching for Merlin. “I mean, I would love to. Go on a date with you, that is. I simply—” he forces himself to breathe, and shrugs a little helplessly. “Well, I didn’t exactly make the best first impression, so I didn’t expect…”
Merlin grins, but it is a gentle thing, all fond amusement. “You really didn’t, but fortunately for both of us, I seem to have a bit of a thing for slightly arrogant blond prats who don’t mind making a total fool of themselves.”
Perhaps Arthur should be insulted, at least a little. He only laughs, though, searching Merlin’s face for the punchline and finding nothing but genuine humour.
“I’d love to,” he repeats, smiling up at Merlin. “As long as you don’t make me fight you again, that is.”
Merlin throws his head back and laughs, too, revealing the long, pale line of his throat.
Arthur has an inkling that he is well and truly fucked, one way or another.
Four:
They settle on a day over text. Merlin insists that it is going to be a surprise and to meet him at two pm.
Arthur tries not to question why Merlin would want to meet him that early; in Arthur’s experience, dates are more of an evening affair.
“You’re overthinking this,” Gwaine says when Arthur calls him on the Saturday of his and Merlin’s date.
“I’m not. I’m only calling because I can’t decide which jumper to wear.”
“Of course,” Gwaine says, drily enough to banish Dublin’s insistent rain. “Because I’m absolutely the person you would call for fashion advice.”
Arthur grimaces at his mirror. “Don’t be an arse. Just—don’t you think it’s weird? I mean who goes on a date at two—”
“Arthur. You’ve been pining after this guy for—”
“I have not—”
“—and I’m sure that he has a perfectly good reason for this. If you weren’t this nervous because you are, in fact, overthinking going out with a guy for the first time, you’d see it, too. You won’t believe me any more than yourself though, so I am going to hang up now, and let you get ready for your knight in shining armour.”
Arthur knows he should have never told Gwaine how he met Merlin. “He is not—”
“Have fun!”
The line goes dead, and Arthur is left to stare at his reflection. Sighing, he throws the grey jumper back on his bed and shrugs the black one on instead. Morgana always said that it brings out his eyes.
When he steps out of Drumcondra station, Merlin is already waiting for him.
“You look good,” Arthur says in place of a greeting. It is strange to see Merlin in his slim dark jeans and grey jumper, instead of in his gym attire.
“You too,” Merlin says, clearing his throat. “Wondering why we are meeting here and at this time of day?”
“It’s fine,” Arthur says, and Merlin rolls his eyes.
“You’re a horrible liar,” he snorts, gesturing for Arthur to follow him down a side street. “I think you’ll like it, though.”
Merlin’s smile is small and genuine, and somehow, Arthur believes him enough not to push for an actual answer.
They walk in silence, and while a part of Arthur is itching to fill it, another notes with surprise that it isn’t uncomfortable, their lack of words.
Occasionally, Merlin glances at him, their shoulders brushing. They will smile at each other, Arthur’s fingers aching to reach out, but he holds himself back; catalogues Merlin’s sharp profile against the already darkening sky, and lets it feed the excitement in his gut with kindling.
Something about this, Merlin’s pale skin against the grey November sky, leaves Arthur breathless and hopeful. It smothers the nervous anticipation that has been sitting at the base of his spine ever since he decided that he would not change this part of himself, the one that couldn’t deny that his attraction didn’t much care for gender, for his father’s sake, too.
Arthur looks at Merlin and thinks that he can do this, opportunity and potential prickling across his skin. He almost misses when Merlin comes to a halt a few steps ahead of him.
“Here we are,” Merlin says, and Arthur takes all the sappy ideas that have already taken shape within his mind and puts them away. There is no use in getting ahead of himself.
Ahead of them, a massive stadium grows out of the earth. In bold letters, it names itself, ‘Croke Park.’
Arthur has heard of it before. He knows that it is Ireland’s biggest stadium; what he doesn’t understand is why Merlin would bring him here.
A small smile is playing around Merlin’s lips, though. “It’s not actually a football stadium.”
“Well, it does look an awful lot like one.”
Merlin hums, walking towards one of the side entrances. “One difference to England is the sports we like to play. Gaelic games—it’s a variety of games, really, but one of them is what we call Gaelic football.”
A smile is still persistent on Merlin’s lips when he meets Arthur’s eyes, and Arthur can’t help but grin back at him. “Is that so? And what would that infamous difference be?”
“I thought you might like to find out,” Merlin says, his own smile turning into a full-on grin as they reach the entrance of what Arthur now recognises as a museum. “Lancelot told me that you used to play—English football, that is.”
It is all that Arthur can do not to reach for him, his cheeks aching with the force of his smile. He says, “Explain the difference to me, then?”
Merlin’s eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased with himself. He waves Arthur through the entrance before paying their entry.
As they wind their way through the generous aisles of the museum, Merlin tries his best to do so. As it turns out, it reaches from different kinds of goals over the numbers of players to the use of hands and the point system.
“So, players are allowed to foul?” Arthur asks as they walk through the hall of fame, watching short clips of famous matches. He doesn’t mean for it to be judgemental, really, but Merlin rolls his eyes anyway.
“You’re not allowed to foul,” Merlin says, his voice pretending to be impatient while his eyes tell a different story. “It’s just that you are allowed, under certain circumstances, to make shoulder contact with your opponents. There is a ten-point list of things you are very much not allowed to do, though.”
“Tell me more,” Arthur says, but really, he is listening with only half an ear. Merlin is talking animatedly, his hands arching in wide gestures, and Arthur tries to pay attention, but Merlin is rather distracting.
The tour ends in a large room that looks a bit like a gym. Arthur raises his brows at Merlin.
“Well, would be boring if I only heaped theory upon you, wouldn’t it? Let’s see some of your Gaelic football and Hurling skills,” Merlin says with a grin that, after a beat, curls into an amused smirk. “After all, it’s only fair to give you a chance at besting me for once.”
Arthur laughs, unexpected and loud, but something warm and happy unfurls within his chest at the gesture. “You’re on.”
After Merlin loses spectacularly in both Gaelic National sports, he drags Arthur towards another area of the stadium.
“This is my favourite part,” Merlin says, curling his fingers around Arthur’s wrist to pull him along. “I hope you’re not afraid of heights, though.”
Arthur isn’t. He feels daring, twists his hand until he can link his fingers with Merlin’s, and asks, “Do this often then, do you?”
Merlin slows, and his fingers tighten around Arthur’s when he looks back. All he says is, “No.”
They had spent well over an hour inside the GAA museum. Now, a guide leads them up winding staircases, until they are spit out on a narrow gangway at the very top of the stadium. It curls around the entirety of the arena, and the late autumn air is tearing at their hair and clothes. It is not why Arthur feels suddenly breathless.
To their left, Dublin spreads out with twinkling lights and narrow streets. Dusk is enveloping the city, the sun dipping into the sea beyond it, and Arthur’s heart is fluttering within his throat as it sounds a distorted, unexpected rhythm of home, home, home.
To their right, the stadium assembles itself beneath them. At its feet, more of Dublin unfolds, ancient structures and office buildings, until the mountains raise their jagged ridges into the piebald sky.
“Come on,” Merlin says, his voice quiet. He slips his fingers between Arthur’s again, and amongst the swindling height and biting wind, the certainty of his touch is more grounding than it has any right to be. “Let’s see that city you have uprooted your life for.”
Arthur had already known that Dublin was beautiful; he had loved its old churches and winding streets, its countless pubs and raging sea and merciless mountains. How his mother’s love for literature had been built out of the heavy history lingering at every corner of this ancient city.
He had always loved Dublin, is the thing, ever since he discovered that it used to be Ygraine’s favourite city, where she had spent years of her short youth studying.
Now he is standing at the top of Croke Park, Merlin’s hand linked with his, and finally understands why. How there could have been no other choice.
The November twilight is weaving its purple and red calligraphy across the sky, and Merlin is silent and solid beside him.
Their shoulders are pressed together, though, their fingers fitting as if they were made for each other.
In winter, the sun here sets at four pm. It means that some people, people intent on doing something amazing, might schedule a first date at two pm, in order to catch the sunset.
It means that at five pm, when Merlin ushers them both into a pub, their fingers blue with cold, the city is brimming with shadows and yellow lights.
And it means that when darkness has long since blanketed the streets, and Merlin kisses him for the first time in front of Arthur’s flat, he barely remembers ever having been worried.
Merlin’s lips are chapped and cold, but his breath fans hot across Arthur’s skin, and all he can do is bury his fingers into the soft fabric of Merlin’s coat and pull him closer, his head spinning as if he were balancing on Croke Park’s highest railing.
Arthur is still awake when dawn teeters across the inky sky, happiness keeping him awake. He lies burrowed beneath his blankets, eyes heavy and thoughts sluggish, but his fingers are certain when he types, ‘I’ve had a fantastic day; do this again, soon?’
For the first time since he looked at his father, cold grey eyes and the slash of a disappointed mouth while Arthur finally decided to live his own life—
For the first time, Arthur believes that he can actually be happy. That leaving will have been worth it.
Five:
Arthur insists on planning the next date, which means he ends up on another call with Gwaine. Predictably, it once again ends with Gwaine telling him that he is overthinking things.
Perhaps Arthur can admit—in the privacy of his own mind—that Gwaine has a point.
In the end, he decides to keep it simple and takes Merlin to the Dublin Castle Christmas Market. They get tipsy on mulled wine as the lights from the stalls and the Christmas tree illuminate the old sandstone fortress. They huddle close together against the damp cold and make it a contest to find the gaudiest decorations to give their friends for Christmas.
At the end of the night, Arthur kisses Merlin first. They linger at the entrance to Merlin’s apartment complex for a long time, and Arthur’s lips are bruised when he finally walks home. His heart is light as the brightest candles on the massive tree of Dublin Castle.
They start texting on the days when they don’t see each other, although those become fewer and fewer.
Arthur learns that Merlin is a teacher for history and PE—which he maintains to be a strange combination no matter how many rolling-eyes-emojis Merlin sends him—and Arthur explains at least the basics of his situation with Uther and why he moved to Dublin.
They talk and they talk and they talk, and Merlin never pushes him to go any faster about things than Arthur feels comfortable with. December moves grey and soggy through the city but Arthur barely minds.
The last weekend before Christmas, Merlin takes him on a Whiskey Tour through Dublin’s best pubs. They both end up completely pissed and passed out on Arthur’s sofa.
Neither of them remembers exactly how they got there, but Arthur does recall the bright sound of Merlin’s laughter as they were stumbling up the stairs. He remembers pressing a brief kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth before burying his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck and falling asleep like that, Merlin’s body warm and comfortable and safe.
Arthur makes them breakfast and they eat in silence as the rain patters against the kitchen window. He is so wildly, painfully happy that it almost cancels out the nervousness when he tangles their ankles beneath the table and asks Merlin if he wants to make things serious between them.
It is two days before Christmas and Merlin smiles at him across the rickety table, his fingers finding Arthur’s wrist. “Yes, I—of course, you idiot. If that wasn’t obvious yet, perhaps I should try a little harder.”
“Well,” Arthur says with a grin, pushing his plate away, “you could stay here today. Have a lazy Sunday with me.”
Merlin studies him carefully, his head tilted. In the end, he smiles, a soft, happy thing, and says, “Under one condition; you’ll come to my Ma’s with me on Christmas instead of staying here on your own.”
Arthur’s first instinct is to protest. No matter how well things are going, it hasn’t been that long, and under different circumstances, meeting the parents already might feel rash.
He knows that it’s not like that, though; Merlin has been nudging him about spending Christmas alone ever since Arthur mentioned it weeks ago. It isn’t as if Arthur is exactly keen on it if he’s honest.
“Okay,” he says, swallowing against the lump trying to form in his throat.
Merlin hums, clearly satisfied, and gets up only to settle in Arthur’s lap. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and leans down to kiss him, slow and lazy like a rainy Sunday morning.
Arthur has no idea what he has done to deserve getting this lucky, but he cards his fingers into Merlin’s hair and vows that he won’t let go for the world.
Plus One:
As it turns out, January is even more miserable than the months prior, the cold and dampness crawling beneath layers of clothes and through the smallest cracks in windowsills and doorways.
Under different circumstances, Arthur might have minded. As it is, he spends most of his nights with Merlin wrapped around him. He spends a lot of his days exploring the city and looking forward to the warmer months when they’ll be able to explore the tracking routes around Dublin that Merlin keeps gushing about. Really, Arthur has never felt less like complaining, not even now after exhausting himself at the gym while pretending not to watch Merlin fight.
Despite their exhaustion, they are jostling and shoving each other as they step outside, the weather still predictably grey.
Slipping his hand into Merlin’s, Arthur pulls him close. “I think we should order in tonight; I definitely don’t feel like cooking, and I don’t believe you’ve ever managed—”
“What do you think you are doing.” The voice sends a chill down Arthur’s spine that has nothing to do with the season. His fingers clench around Merlin’s, and he slowly turns his head until he can meet Uther’s eyes.
His heart is thundering against the constraints of his ribs, but beneath the fear, indignation is starting to boil; Arthur hasn’t uprooted his entire fucking life to another city—great as it all turned out for him—to be accosted by his father in the parking lot of his bloody gym.
“What—” he starts, and he isn’t sure what he is going to say, isn’t sure if the shock will stop paralyzing his muscles anytime soon. Beside him, Merlin is practically vibrating with tension.
“Do you think that you can just walk around like that?” Uther sneers, but beneath the bristling contempt, Arthur can see the exhaustion painting his father’s face pallid, the faint but present tremble in his hands. “Walking around with—like that, as if it were natural; have you no shame?”
The fury and the hurt cloy sickly-sweet at the back of Arthur’s throat. All his words and rebuttals get stuck within it, and he wants to protest, wants to straighten his spine and step in front of Merlin. He wants to tell Uther that if he had to make the choice, if he has to make it all over, it would always be this one—a grey, rainy city that his mother had loved, with a mediocre paying job and a smelly gym and the best person Arthur has ever met. That he would take it a thousand times over London’s shiny office buildings and his rotten inheritance.
It doesn’t matter what he would have done, what he wants to do. It shouldn’t be a surprise, really; these things have never mattered to his father.
Uther steps forward with arrogance clinging to his movements, reaching for Arthur’s arm as he starts saying, “You are going to stop this nonsense and come—”
Before Arthur can blink, Merlin steps between them. His fingers press into unsuspecting points of Uther’s wrist, and Uther shouts with pain, his eyes wide as he stares between Merlin and Arthur.
Merlin’s voice is deadly calm when he says, “You are not going to touch him.”
“You can’t just—” Uther sneers, but Merlin must increase the pressure because Uther bites his lips until they go white, his face going pale.
“Merlin,” Arthur finally says, and his voice comes out rough. It occurs to him that at no point during this had Uther made it clear that they even knew each other. To Merlin, he would look like a random homophobe, and there is an irony in this that Arthur refuses to examine too closely right now. He says, “You can let him go; that's my father.”
Looking back at him, Merlin’s mouth twists with a mixture of horror and compassion and anger turning personal. “You don’t want to see him again, do you?”
Arthur had told him most of the story, huddled up in Merlin’s childhood room at Hunith’s house over Christmas. It hurts like an open wound, still, but that doesn’t make it a difficult decision.
He shakes his head.
Merlin watches him for a few moments longer before turning back to Uther. His hand shifts slightly, drawing renewed sounds of pain from Uther, his face pale and sweating even though Merlin only has a hand on him.
“You are going to leave him alone; both of us,” Merlin says. “He’s a grown man, and you are going to respect his bloody decision to cut you out after you have been nothing but a bastard for his whole life. Do you understand me?”
“And because he is a grown man,” Uther presses out, glaring at Arthur across Merlin’s shoulder, “he needs someone like you to fight his battles?”
Merlin makes an amused sound at the back of his throat, leaning closer. “Well, between you and me, Uther Pendragon, only one of us is a fucking queer, and it isn’t you. Between you and me, only one of us is on his knees whimpering with pain, and it isn’t me. I’m barely touching you, but you should keep in mind that we’re not fond here of the English. Especially not if they come for one of our own.”
The threat is unmistakable, and Arthur shouldn’t find this remotely as appealing as he does, but he looks at Merlin, the fierce protectiveness pressed into every line of his face. Looks at his father, the man who should have loved him unconditionally and instead forced him to make an impossible choice. Looks at both of them and doesn’t find an ounce of regret inside himself.
Arthur will never stop wishing that things could have been different, but he hasn’t had illusions about things changing in a long time.
When Uther looks at him as if waiting for Arthur to protest, he merely shakes his head. Uther’s shoulders sag, and Merlin finally lets go of him.
“Do leave me alone in the future; I’ve stopped being willing to denounce myself for you long before this,” Arthur says, his voice steady. If he squeezes Merlin’s hand too tightly when Merlin threads their fingers together, no one else has to know.
There is no relief in seeing his father bow his head in defeat, but what Arthur does have—
Well, what Arthur does have is Merlin’s solid warmth beside him as they walk out of the parking lot, a few rays of sunlight peaking out from behind the thick clouds.
“Your father really is a prick, huh?” Merlin says, approximately three streets later.
His voice is light, but the glance he chances at Arthur betrays his uncertainty about how his actions will be received.
Arthur smiles and tips his head back, trying to catch a glimpse of sunlight on his face. He throws his arm around Merlin’s shoulder to pull him close and says, “That he is; luckily for me, I have an amazing boyfriend who somehow thinks I’m a damsel in distress.”
Merlin laughs and wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist, his eyes bright in the tentative sunlight. Arthur thinks that the best decision he has ever made was to antagonisr a random guy in a gym, and getting put on his back for it without any mercy.
The things that have led him here weren’t great, but he would not change a single thing in the world about any of them.