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Arthur is partial to pumpkin muffins.
He eats them on his lunch break, when he’s far away from Morgana, who is always making snide comments about his waist line, and Uther, who swore off sweets and life’s little pleasures in the seventies. Arthur never had a sweet-tooth growing up, but there’s this little tea shop around the corner from the office, with mismatched china, approximately eight hundred different kinds of tea leaves from around the world, and Merlin.
Merlin, who is ridiculous, and beams every time Arthur walks into the shop, all elbows and ears. It’s Merlin’s tea-shop; has been since his uncle died when Merlin was halfway through university. Why Merlin gave up a maths degree and a proper career to save this dinky little tea-shop is unfathomable to Arthur. He asked, once, over a plate of tea sandwiches Merlin had brought him – on the house, because their crusts were wonky, and Arthur had looked hungry – and Merlin had just shrugged and said that he loved the place, and he didn’t regret it for a minute. Arthur was unconvinced, but Merlin had just smiled.
Arthur had studied business at university, and went on to work in his father’s company. He has a big flat in the centre of London, a big office with a secretary, fancy suits, and expensive wine in his fridge.
Merlin has the tea shop, and a little flat over it; old sweaters worn soft with use that he pulls over his knuckles when he’s thinking, and exchanges for even more worn t-shirts when he’s baking. He has one person in the shop to help him, Gwen, a sweet girl with chocolate skin and beautiful curls. She helps Merlin bake the scones, and muffins, biscuits, and petit-fours that they tuck into the glass display case at the front of the shop, and she sings sometimes, when it’s only her and Merlin and Arthur in the shop, and she has a voice like sunlight and blueberries.
Arthur eats his lunch at Merlin’s tea-shop every afternoon, walking down the street from his office building, and eating sandwiches, and scones that Morgana wouldn’t approve of.
“She’s on a no-carb, no-sugar diet,” Arthur tells Merlin, attempting to refuse the blackberry scone that Merlin is offering. Merlin just hmmphs, and gives Arthur the scone anyway, and then watches him like a hawk (or perhaps a merlin) from behind the counter until Arthur eats every last crumb.
“You’re going to make me fat,” Arthur grouses, leaning over the counter, and paying his bill, which always seems to come to significantly less than it should (he makes sure to stuff bills in the tip jar when Merlin’s not looking to make up for it). “You’re going to make me fat, and that means my sister will have won.”
Merlin drops Arthur’s change all over the floor and Gwen scoops it up for him, and pokes him in the ribs, before darting away to finish frosting the carrot cake.
“Your sister?” He asks, and for a minute he looks as white as the bowl of cream cheese frosting Gwen is slathering on her carrot cake.
Arthur frowns. “Morgana, yes. My half-sister.”
“Morgana is your sister.” Merlin repeats, and then visibly shakes himself, beams, and hands Arthur his change, and a neat square of fudge wrapped in a piece of tissue paper. Arthur protests, but Merlin shakes his head, and scurries away.
Arthur eats the fudge in his office and wonders if Merlin cut that square especially for him, or if he’s that generous with all his customers, and, if so, how he manages to pay the rent, and keep the tea room in business.
On the weekends, Arthur goes to Merlin’s tea room with an armful of files and his laptop. He sits by the window, and makes hushed calls, opens spread-sheets and ignores the way Merlin laughs with his regulars. On Sunday afternoons, when the shop empties out but for Arthur, Merlin puts on his old, scratchy soul records and he and Gwen bake trays and trays of scones, muffins, and biscuits for the upcoming week.
Merlin wears raggedy t-shirts and an apron, and swings his slim hips to Sam Cooke and Etta James. He stirs big silver bowls of batter and flicks flour at Gwen and bends down in concentration over his muffin tins and Arthur stares and stares and stares. Merlin always ends up with batter on his cheek and the palms of Arthur’s hands hurt because Merlin is not in them.
The Sunday Arthur realizes what Merlin has been saying all along, with his big smiles and fudge squares, they’re baking pumpkin muffins. The batter is orange and sticky, and Gwen has it in her hair, and Merlin has it on his wrists, and the air grows warm and sweet, and Arthur is struck by how much it smells like home.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Merlin’s eyes meet his. His mouth twists into a crooked smile, and he has flour in his eyebrows. Arthur’s heart thuds, and Merlin smiles even wider. He turns to Gwen, and hands her a tray of pumpkin muffins for the oven. And then he slides over the counter.
Merlin is wearing his apron and he beams at Arthur who finds that he can do nothing but stare at Merlin’s skinny arms and gawky elbows, the impossible slant of his cheekbones, and the flour in his eyebrows.
Merlin pulls him up and he’s warm and smells like cinnamon.
“Merlin,” Arthur starts, helplessly, and the muscles in Merlin’s throat work as Arthur’s hand drifts to Merlin’s face, which flushes from the ears in. “You have…” He touches Merlin’s eyebrows. “Merlin, you idiot, you’ve got flour on your face.”
Merlin laughs and his breath is spicy warm on Arthur’s wrist. “Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, Arthur.”
It hits Arthur the way heat and smell do when you open the oven. Merlin looks straight at him. Beaming, awkward Merlin, who gives him fudge squares; who dropped out of university to run his uncle’s tea room and bake muffins; who wears soft sweaters and who is consistently the best part of Arthur’s day.
Merlin, who waits patiently until Arthur gets it, then shuffles forward and mutters:
“Took you long enough,” and kisses him. He’s been eating batter, and his mouth tastes like pumpkin spice, and Arthur shudders when Merlin’s tongue slides against his, and Merlin whines and presses closer.
Arthur wants to kiss Merlin every day for the rest of his life, hold his hand and lick the flavours of whatever it is that Merlin’s been baking out of his mouth. Merlin hums against him, wraps strong fingers around Arthur’s shoulders, and nips at his lower lip mischievously because Merlin delights in not being what Arthur expects of him.
“When I first saw you,” Merlin whispers to Arthur’s collarbone, “I had never seen anyone more in need of baked goods, straight from the oven. You looked so lonely.” He tips his chin upwards and catches Arthur’s stunned mouth in another kiss and his eyes are so blue and so near and so lovely that Arthur has to shut his own. “The only way I know how to help people is through baking. So I made you biscuits and scones and muffins, even fudge one time, took me hours to get that right… And I just waited for you to catch up.”
“I thought you might give fudge squares out to all your customers,” Arthur says, haltingly, and Merlin laughs and shakes his head no.
“Just you,” he murmurs, and his Arthur-smile creeps across his lips, slow as molasses and sweet as honey, and Arthur leans in to kiss him until it’s Merlin that shudders, and when Merlin pulls away for breath his eyes are wide and astonished. Arthur smirks, and Merlin takes a deep breath.
“Gwen?” He calls, “I think I might close the shop early.”
She giggles, and Arthur flushes.
“I’ll close up,” she says, because Gwen is a saint, and she shoos Merlin away from the trays of pumpkin muffins waiting for the oven. “And I’ll finish these, too. You go upstairs.”
Merlin hops over the counter to kiss her on the cheek, and then tugs his apron off his neck, mussing his hair beyond repair. He grabs Arthur’s hand and pulls, taking him through the small, tidy kitchen behind the counter, and up the stairs to his flat.
Merlin’s flat is small and crowded with books. There are stacks of cooking magazines at either end of his sofa, creased and labelled, and cheery yellow curtains on the windows. There are potted plants on the floor, and crates stuffed full of records. Merlin has his own kitchen up here, and Arthur peeks into it for a moment while Merlin fiddles with the record player, smiling at the mismatched dishes, the photographs papering his fridge, and the half-eaten loaf of misshapen, home-baked bread on the breadboard. It feels lived in and comfortable, and a little bit of a whirlwind: much like Merlin himself.
Music trickles into the flat from the record player, Bob Dylan, something scratchy and warm that Arthur would never listen to, but that fits Merlin perfectly. Merlin, who wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist from the back and pulls, lightly, guiding Arthur into his bedroom, where he kicks off his shoes and flops down on the bed, beautiful and beaming against the bright bedspread. Arthur unlaces his shoes with more care, and leans over Merlin who sighs upwards, into him.
Later, Merlin says that he’s going to cook for Arthur, make sure he’s warm and comfortable and well-fed, and not losing his soul in a world of spread-sheets and board meetings.
“I don’t think that that’s going to happen with you around,” Arthur says, fondly, stroking Merlin’s shoulders, which are shockingly pale and sensitive enough that Merlin wriggles while Arthur touches him. “You’re going to make me fat, Merlin,” he teases, and Merlin shrugs.
“Maybe, but you’ll be happy.”
*
(And he is happy. Blindingly so. Arthur introduces Merlin to Uther and Morgana at one of their family dinners, and Merlin brings a pie merengued within an inch of its life. Uther smiles (lemon pie used to be his favourite) and Morgana moans and calls him a devil and loves him instantly.
On Saturday nights, Merlin bakes bread in their flat, filling the air with a warm, yeasty smell. He gets flour all over himself and the kitchen, and he cleans most of it up, although there’s usually still some in his hair when he brings Arthur a slice of warm bread and chastises him for working too hard. Arthur brushes the flour out of his hair and makes room for Merlin among his papers, and lets Merlin tug him off to bed when it gets late.
He sleeps well, and he makes Merlin breakfast in bed, and lets him laugh at how he burns the toast every morning as long as Merlin doesn’t choke on his tea, and they’re happy.
Warm, and well-fed, and happy. Blindingly so.)