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Fluorescent streetlight, watery and pale, dribbles through the gaps in the curtains. Birds sing, oblivious to the cold, the damp, the misery.
Merlin blinks at the bedside clock and breathes. The day is beginning, trying its best in the pitch black outside the window, but Merlin can't yet find the will to do so himself. He hates this time of year. Loathes it, even.
Yet eventually he accepts he'll be late if he stays here any longer, and he has to push off the shield of his duvet, leave the security of his bed.
He's still late, mere minutes but still. He takes the chiding without retort. Pulls on his apron, and with it, his facade.
Smiling brightly, he heads through from the staff room to the space behind the counter.
"Merlin! I thought for sure you were going to miss today!"
Gwen's arms are warm as she wraps herself around him, ignoring the flour down her apron and the fact that she's now contaminated him. Not that it matters.
"Nearly did." he murmurs back, leaning briefly into her hold, "But I'm here!"
She tips her head without letting go, even though it's obviously very busy in the bakery. She stubbornly holds tight, forging them a moment from the bustle. He loves her so. Her curls tickle his nose, and she smells like vanilla and chocolate underneath her peachy shampoo.
"We'll get you through today. And the week. Easy peasy. Try not to let it eat at you."
Merlin's smile this time is smaller, paler, quieter, but it's real.
"Do my best." he promises, and she grins so brightly as she releases him that he almost believes her.
"Come on, we're low on chocolate croissants."
He lets her drag him over by the apron strings, laughing as she puts him to work. And it helps; the familiar roll and pat and stretch. He loves the work, it satisfies him in a way that his years in the supermarket bakery never did. No frozen cardboard boxes of perfectly identical pastries, No eight minute pre-set oven cycles. Flour under his nails and sticky streaks of dough on his apron, that's what he loves.
Their first hour goes fast, the early birds start arriving in groups and pairs and he loves that Gwen always does the great grumbly coffee machine first thing. It means he doesn't have to rush through coaxing it awake before they open, and it means that he's always greeted with the smell, with the hot ceramic against his palms and the rich taste on his tongue.
He serves, swift and efficient and it does cheer him. His greetings are genuine, his smile solid. He recommends pastries, lists their syrup options when asked. Even as he explains the dreaded seasonal items on their menu, he manages to keep his smile.
Until eight thirty on the dot rolls up on him like an incoming car, and blue eyes catch his, and he's lost it all again.
Arthur Pendragon is next in his queue, crisp in his perfect suit, hair neat and tamed, eyes so beautifully, so breathlessly blue. Merlin's heart clenches. He grins weakly at the woman in front of him, pushing across her plates and thanking her as sweetly as he can manage for the generous tip she leaves in their chipped mug.
Merlin turns half away, pretending he's wiping down his hands, and shoots his eyes at Gwen.
But she's lost track of time, it seems, and she's in the middle of removing new tarts from an oven, so she's missed her cue to pop up brightly behind him and ask him for a favour that means he'd have to leave her at his till.
He swallows and turns back to the man who is looking at him expectantly.
Two years ago, Arthur had come in and caught Merlin at a bad time. He'd been dealing with a delayed order, and the resulting missing lines when they'd unloaded it. Half their menu couldn't be replenished, and on a Saturday! Disaster. He'd hung up the phone and, apparently, his attempts at a welcome tone had not been good enough for his Lordship and mighty, Prat Pendragon.
The man had scowled at his attitude, sneered at his name, and promised to complain to his manager.
Gwen had smoothed things over enough that Merlin kept his job, but he'd loathed serving him ever since. Gwen had taken it upon herself to intervene more often than not; switching places with him just before Arthur's usual entrance, interrupting, making up favours or tasks she need from him, things she couldn't reach in the store room.
Two years had softened the animosity, of course, and their encounters now were more pleasant than not, and that was entirely Merlin's problem. He'd fallen for the idiot, and no amount of reminders about the woman who so often accompanies him, hand on his arm, beautiful and classy and so very well-suited to the man's clearly posh character, would stop Merlin's heart from aching with longing every time he saw him.
"Morning, Merlin."
Merlin couldn't help but roll his eyes, my own mouth twitching at the smirky little tug on Arthur's lips.
"Your majesty, what shall it be?" he returned in kind.
He wouldn't call it flirting, no matter what Gwen said. It was... Banter, antagonism. Irreverent goading. Gwaine, of course, always called it foreplay, much to Merlin's annoyance.
"My usual on the coffee. What's new in the bakery?"
And Merlin felt his smile slide as his heart sank. Ah. Bollocks. The new menu.
He dropped his gaze to the side as if trying to remember, as if the horrible pink monstrosities weren't burned into his head already.
"Well, we've got our seasonal specials on at the moment." he starts, shooting a glare when Arthur loudly interrupts him.
"Seasonal- Christmas is long past, you Muppet."
Merlin grits his teeth for a fleeting second.
"Not Christmas." he says flatly, gesturing to the horrid decorations he'd had to stay late last night to hang, as the sole tall man on staff. Gwaine's night off, the bastard.
He refuses to say the words.
Arthur blinks and looks around as though noticing them for the first time. Something changes in his eyes, but Merlin doesn't quite know what it is. A tiny part of him hopes Arthur hates the bloody holiday as much as he does. A larger part is dreading seeing Arthur with the beautiful woman in the coming days.
"Ah, shit. That time already."
And damn it, but Merlin can't read his tone, either.
"Mmhm."
Arthur rolls his eyes, and it warms Merlin just a little.
"Alright. So what mad rubbish have you got for this season, then?"
And Merlin's new grin is real and amused, because Arthur's emphasis on the title is derisive, exasperated. It's Merlin's favourite colour on him.
He takes his time explaining them, even helpfully giving them their dumb cutesy names, and he basks is the amused look on Arthur's face, the traces of disgust.
"- and lastly, the Cupid's tarts. Strawberry, in a heart. Light sugar dusting, and topped with a random fizzy love heart. The sweets."
Arthur makes a great show of sighing in relief when Merlin's finished, and his chest twists with stupid affection for him.
"I suppose I should support the attempt." Arthur hums, and then he laughs at the wrinkle on Merlin's nose.
"You're not supposed to show the customers that you don't believe in the holiday."
"It's isn't that I don't believe in it." Merlin retorts, insulted, "It's that I think it's stupid. But it definitely exists."
Arthur smirks at his pedantry, and Merlin sticks his tongue out like a little kid. It always makes him a touch giddy when he gets a real conversation with Arthur, even if it's about stupid pastures in stupider shapes.
"Idiot." Arthur throws at him, a little fondly.
Merlin's grin shows almost all his teeth.
"Prat " he shoots back, more than a touch fondly.
Arthur's eyes dance with humour. Merlin wants to keep this going, but as the door goes and a couple walk in, he knows Arthur must order and move aside. It aches, but that's life. It seems to dawn on Arthur, too, because he gives a little cough, and his face goes a bit more serious.
"Okay, well, my usual and... What was that last one?"
"The Cupid's tarts." Merlin supplies immediately, too wistful to even twist his mouth around the words in distaste.
"One of them, please."
And Merlin can't help but smirk at him, preening a little under the please, because they'd had many snatches of conversation about good manners. Arthur, as though reading his bloody mind, purses his lips.
He calls gently over to Gwen about getting him a fresh Cupid's tart as he makes Arthur's coffee, and she pops one on a plate and jumps in to serve the next in line to minimise their wait.
Merlin swirls the milk into the mug - it's Saturday, so Arthur's work commitments must be later. He's noticed it's the only day of the week that Arthur sits down in the seating area. - and turns the cardboard carefully. Arthur teases him over his attempts at doing shapes in the surface of his Americans, but he always seems pleased to receive them, nonetheless. Merlin has definitely seen him take a furtive photo or two on his phone, when Merlin was particularly successful at one design or another. Not that he can prove it was a phot of his coffee, mind you, but who's taking pictures of plain scones these days?
It's wobbly, and he still needs practice, but it's not terrible. He carefully slides a wide saucer under the cup, and sets it down in front of Arthur like it's fragile. Arthur's lips quirk. Merlin retrieves the plate with the still-warm tart on it, and slides both across to the customer side.
"Enjoy!" he calls, as he steps back to his till to greet his next customer.
The busy rush is starting now, as it creeps closer to nine, so Merlin doesn't get a moment to breathe for a quarter of an hour. He glances over, helpless against the pull, to see what book the blonde is reading today. But though he has one with him, it lays closed on the tabletop, and Arthur is slouched back in his seat in an uncharacteristic way, phone in hand, and frowning.
Merlin tears his eyes away, because being caught looking - staring - would be humiliating, but he cannot stop himself from glancing up. Every few minutes, from the corner of his eye, he looks over. Arthur finally opens his book, and Merlin feels the curl of concern he hadn't even realized he was feeling lift from his ribs.
Once the rush settles, Gwen sidles over while Merlin is cleaning the counter down. She grabs the wet cloth next to the coffee machine and sets to mopping up the coffee drips, and checking the tray for anything that could block the narrow drain tubes. Merlin is aware of her, behind him, and he waits her out.
Eventually, satisfied the machine is clean again, she dunks the cloth in the sink off to the side, replaces it with a fresh one - ever efficient - and sidles up beside Merlin to refill the little tin cups of sugar sachets.
"So?" she asks lightly, deliberately not looking at him.
"Hm?" he answers, wiping at a spot that was already clean to keep their charade going.
She tips her head to the side, fussing with the arrangement of tins.
"Did you give him it?"
"What?"
"The tart, you twat."
He shot her a look, met with fond exasperation.
"What d'you mean? Course I did. He ordered it."
Gwen's fingers still. She looks back up at him properly, not from the side. He blink at her, bemused by the array of emotions that flit across her face.
"Did you read it?"
Merlin blinked, a cold suspicion threading through him. His hesitation gave Gwen's eyes time to slowly widen, her mouth slipping out of her smile.
"Why?" he asked, starting to panic, "What did it say?"
"Oh, Merlin." Gwen breathed, brown eyes flickering between his own before she squeezed his hand, limp beside hers on the ledge under the counter, "I'm sorry, I just... I assumed you'd read it."
Still not sure what had happened, but sure that Gwen had done something he didn't want, he drew away a little, blinking round and then dropping his head as if returning to his task. Gwen, mimicked him almost immediately, her hands beginning to move smooth and happily again, as if they were having the lightest chat imaginable. Merlin envied her acting skills. His ears were begging to burn.
"I didn't." he confirms, "What did it... Say?"
Gwen makes a quiet, apologetic sort of sound in the back of her throat.
"I figured you'd either give him it or take one out of the display case. It was... well not a joke, but-"
"Gwen," he chokes on the word, teeth clicking together, "What did it say?"
"Don't get mad," she whispers, and Merlin is suddenly slammed with cold all over.
Dread seeps, icy and heavy, up his spine.
"Tell me." he practically whimpers.
Gwen glances uneasily at him from the corner of her eye, and she looks so apologetic that it just makes Merlin feel even worse. Panicked, even.
"Gwen!" he hisses.
"I put three on it."
Ohhh no. That was so much worse. At least one could just be random. All the tarts had one. Nestled right in the middle of the sticky strawberry surface.
If Arthur had half a brain, he'd realise he'd received one with noticeable extras. It would look deliberate. And he'd definitely checked out the cabinet while bantering with Merlin, and Merlin had definitely pointed them out when he was listing off the gods-awful Valentine's specials.
He whines, and she takes pity, and squeezes his hand again.
"I'm sorry, I really thought you'd check, or glance at it, something. I thought you would read the bloody thing as you handed him a heart-shaped cake."
And she is apologizing, sort of, but she's also telling him off, and that doesn't really feel fair, because he wasn't the one who'd done anything.
"Just tell me." he huffs weakly, terrified but drawn to him, as he glances back over Arthur's way.
And Arthur's looking right at him, over the top of his book - a cover Merlin vaguely recognizes - blue eyes already turned his way. Merlin freezes, as all the cold in his whole body seems to flip like a switch, hot and burning with sheepish embarrassment and undeniable longing.
He has to break it, has to drop his head with flaming cheeks, because he's just watched the tiniest, barely there smile curl almost hesitantly over the mouth he's wanted to kiss for nearly two years.
"Just tell me, please just- I need to know."
Gwen, too observant, is looking at him, and even though he tugs her hand to stop her, she turns to look, and surely she must see him, over by the window at the table by himself, looking like a sun-kissed God even though the weather is miserable and the sun is barely saying hello from behind the clouds.
"Oh." She says, and Merlin cannot handle it any longer.
"Tell me right now or I quit."
"You won't." She huffs in a laugh, and really that isn't fair.
"You're a horrid friend."
"You don't believe that."
"Right now, I do."
"Then I won't tell you."
"Gwen," he begs, glaring at her, and he must not look very intimidating, and he can feel the flush all down his neck and up his ears but he flares anyway.
"It said," she smirks, incredibly slowly, evilly, almost, "Date Me," oh no. "Blue Eyes," Merlin's insides seem to be shrivelling up, "I Love You."
Merlin is quitting.
He feels sick to his stomach, and he walks away, without really thinking, without saying anything, his trainers sliding in the flour all over the anti-slip rubber flooring.
He takes himself right through the building to the smoker's area out back. He drops down into the patio chair, wincing as the pooled rain from last night soaks into the seat of his jeans. Merlin doesn't smoke, but for a second he considers starting, bumming one off George in the back kitchen. Except he hasn't a lighter. And George would look at him funny, and probably tell him no.
So. That plan's out.
He buries his face in his hands, wishing he could scream in frustration, but then everybody would think he was being murdered or something and that would just be another embarrassment in the saga of his life.
He sits in his wet seat for as long as he can stand to, with the growing awareness that he's left everyone inside short a man and that the lunch crowd will start arriving very soon and he should be helping with the sandwiches and paninis. Arthur will definitely be gone now, off to wherever it is he goes in a suit on a Saturday. So at least he won't have to look at him again today. He might call in sick on Monday. He's not sure he'll be able to face him, and if Gwen gets busy or doesn't see him in time, she won't be able to take over for him. Maybe he should call in sick the whole week, come back on the fifteenth when all this stupid holiday shit is over. He could do extra shifts to make up for it.
The guilt of his overlong break starts to bite, so he forces himself to stand with a sigh. Rubbing harshly at the damp patch on his arse before giving up. He'll be damp and annoyed all day now.
Serves him right, he thinks to himself as he trudges back inside. This is what he gets for falling in love with men who clearly have girlfriends. And for telling Gwen his secrets.