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"Well?" Arthur demands, pacing across the impressive Persian rug, "Am I crazy?"
Morgana looks at him, and then back down at the phone he'd thrust into her hands when he stormed into her sitting room as soon as lunch with their father had concluded. Open on the screen is a photograph of some sort of tart, obviously shaped in celebration of Valentine's Day, and decorated with sweets Morgana hasn't eaten since childhood.
She blinks at him.
"Are you crazy for..." she asks, leading, pursing her lips at his dramatic strides, the bottoms of his shoes grinding into the plush rug.
"Did you read it?"
Morgana rolls her eyes. But flicks a glance back at the screen. One perfectly plucked eyebrow rises slightly. Arthur huffs, but at least now she's actually paying attention.
"Date Me, Blue Eyes, I Love You." she reads aloud, carefully schooling the humour from her features before looking back at him.
What a ridiculously goofy, yet oddly endearing little message.
"I thought you'd bought this at a cafe, you're saying someone made you this?"
"Yes! Well, no, I- yes and no."
Morgan's lips twitch. Her eyes gleam.
"Eloquent."
"Don't start." he snaps back, running a hand through his hair.
"So... Someone served you this, in a cafe. And you think there's a hidden meaning?"
The way Arthur glares tells her she's guessed correctly. Hidden is a strong word, really it's only to soothe Arthur's temper.
"Not someone all elbows and angles and unbrushed hair, I hope?"
Arthur almost bares his teeth at her, and she laughs in in spite of him.
"Oh, this is good."
"Yeah, laugh it up you harpy. What am I supposed to do with this?"
Morgan's eyebrows shoot up.
"I imagine the obvious."
Arthur pauses pacing to look at her skeptically.
"Obvious?"
She laughs again, short and soft.
"You did eat it, didn't you?"
"... Yes."
Her smirk curls wider.
"But not before taking a picture."
Arthur waves his hand dismissively.
"I was already-" he cuts off, scowls, and then continues "Doesn't matter. My point is, what do I do about it now?"
Morgana tilts her head, and Arthur can't decide if her confusion is genuine or if she's toying with him like she usually does.
"Well, I imagine it'll pass through your digestive system at the same rate as-"
"Morgana!" Arthur snaps, his face turning red and his scowl darkening, "You know that's not what I mean."
She smirks again, rolling her thumb across his screen to see what else he's photographed lately. He's never really been one for using his camera much. Arthur dives over and snatches it from her hand.
But not before she sees them. Coffee pictures, quite a lot of them by the looks of it. With very little else dotted in-between.
Unless her brother is planning on becoming a very niche Instagram user, there isn't much else his collection could indicate. She looks at him shrewdly, as he shoves the device hard into his trouser pocket and crosses his arms.
"Oh, Arthur." she breathes, after a dreadfully awkward moment.
He's surprised by the gentleness in her tone, torn between whether believing it's an invitation to talk or worse than being mocked outright.
"It's nothing." he lies at last, averting his eyes under the pretence of looking at the photographs on her mantle.
"Is it?"
And suddenly Arthur looks pained when he meets her gaze. Her heart twists. For all their fighting and bickering and rivalry, he is her brother. And she loves him dearly. She pats the cushion beside her, carefully neutral with her expression. After a wavering beat of indecision, he sighs and joins her.
"Tell me." she asks quietly.
Arthur rubs a hand over his face. She's not sure he'll talk, in fact she's not certain at all until he actually starts.
"He told me all their new menu, and they're on display. I didn't see any others with more than- with more than the one message."
Morgana hums for him to elaborate, her hand finding his wrist. He won't look at her, and his face shows very clearly how little he wants this conversation, and she doesn't blame him. They're neither of them very good at vulnerability, a product of their father's parenting. Weakness was to be mocked, disgraced, beaten out of you like imperfections from metal.
Figuratively of course, not that the damage was any less obvious. They're getting better, she thinks, as they grow truly into their own adulthood. But Arthur has always been more Uther's son than she has his daughter.
She still believes, even after all these years, that's he not truly like their father. When they were children, he was... Softer. Rebellious, almost. He'd looked up to her, and the way she bucked under Uther's expectations and his rules. He'd always been kind. Uther is cold. Always has been. At least since Arthur was born. Morgana doesn't remember her life before then. Arthur coming along has always felt like the beginning of her life. And although she knows it's probably just a product of her young mind learning to hold memories long-term, it doesn't stop her feeling like she was waiting for him.
Silly, of course. But when he hurts, she hurts. And it's obvious that he's hurting now.
"So he served you one that was clearly different." she murmurs, carefully neutral, lest he retreat.
He sighs heavily.
"I mean what else am I supposed to think? It just happened to have more messages, they just happened to be in an order that sounds like- like..."
"An invitation."
"Yes." he glances at her briefly, gratefully.
"It makes all our... Little conversations feel more... Argh."
He slumps and crosses his arms. Morgana gives him a moment, watching his scowl bending and squirming across his face.
"Like flirting."
Arthur closes his eyes.
"But you've seen her."
Morgana nods, rubbing a gentle, hopefully soothing pattern into the skin below his cuff.
"I have. I've also heard the two of you. Is he always like that?"
Arthur snorts.
"Worse. It's like he behaves better when you're there. He never normally... It's different."
Morgan's frowns. For a minute, she thinks it through, and only clears her throat when he looks to her again.
"So he flirts with you? When I'm not there?"
"Well I didn't think that's what it was, before. And now I... Now I can't help thinking that maybe-"
The quiet falls again and Morgana decides that pressing it is probably the worst option.
"I see."
He crack an eye open to look at her, and she feels her chest tighten at the almost pathetically hopeful look in them.
"What do you see?"
She looks across the room, not at anything in particular, but just so she can think about what she's about to do. She knows false hope has undone her brother before. She knows how fragile his heart can be, how little he really loves himself, despite all his learned arrogance.
But she's not so sure she's seen what he believes he has between the two bakers. She remembers thinking, more than once, that Merlin looked at her brother differently. At the time, she'd not been sure it was anything more than simple banter with a regular customer.
But when she adds in the tart...
"I think, perhaps, that he's interested." she says at last, sounding more confident than she feels, and hoping she's right.
Watching him fall apart if she's wrong... She hopes that's not the case. Arthur very rarely takes an interest in anyone, and it's easy to see from his face that he's more than simply interested. It's subtle, but the fact he's even here, even broaching the subject, is a very loud neon sign.
"And I think you need to take the chance and ask for the truth."
Arthur makes a grumbled, reluctant sound.
"I don't think you're crazy, Arthur. I think you're interested, and I think he's shy."
"Shy!?" Arthur splutters, and she smiles.
"Shy."
Arthur laughs then, a real one, loud and amused and warm. He seems more himself already. She hopes she's done the right thing. And if she's wrong and this Merlin is only playing with her little brother, she knows plenty of abandoned places to bury the idiot. They'd never find all of him.
"I don't think shy is in his vocabulary." Arthur grins, "He's an irreverent moron."
Morgan's flashes her best smirk.
"And yet, you like him."
His face flushes, and he shoves her off, but it obvious she's right by the way his expression wavers, his cheeks darkening red.
"So," she teases, knowing it's now safe, "the coffee?"
Arthur groans and rolls away, getting up from the couch and grabbing his coat from where he'd flung it. He strides towards the door.
"I'm not having this conversation."
Her laugh is almost wicked.
"Have you photographed every coffee he's ever served you?" she calls after him, cackling when his only reply is a frustrated growl and the slam of her front door.
Arthur debates, at length, whether to march back into the bakery and demand the truth. It's eating at him, and he can think of nothing else for longer than a few minutes at a time. He doubts he has the confidence to starts such a confrontation, but he so desperately needs to know if his sister was right. If he is right.
It's an awful lot of coincidences if he's wrong. But that's the whole point of coincidence, isn't it? It tricks you into believing things are connected when they're actually just completely random, unconnected events.
He forces himself to sit upright in his desk chair. And he thinks, again, of Merlin. Of the way he smiles, cheeky, Arthur has always thought, but now... Is it flirtatious? He's still cheeky when Arthur brings a witness. But it's not nearly as pointed. There's an element of it muted, missing.
He groans, trying and failing to pay attention to the email he's reading. He's simply going round in circles. Again. He needs to know. He wants to know, so much that it aches. Not that the ache itself is new. He's very familiar with the sensation. But the intensity of it now is almost overwhelming. He doesn't know what to do with it. Can barely do anything with himself, let alone his traitorous heart.
He shakes his head and furrows his brow at the monitor, as if focusing his eyes will do the same to his attention. His gaze follows the words on the screen again, but the ridiculous little flutter of triumph when he gets to the end is short-lived. He can't remember anything he's just read.
Admitting defeat, he closes everything down and sits in the resulting dimness. He pulls out his phone, flicking open the photo album before he can think about how bad an idea it is.
No wonder Morgana had so much wicked taunting in her voice. His album is pathetic, row after row of mugs and cups of coffee, all on the same table top, all from pretty much the same angle, all Americanos. He's pathetic and boring. His father would be so proud.
Patterns on the surface, some elegant, some impressive, many wobbly or just not quite right. A backwards progression, from yesterday morning's extravagant attempt at what he thinks is supposed to be a dragon, through wobbly swans and lopsided trees, ferns with leaves that almost eclipsed one another to almost perfect spirals, to the smiley face that started it. In nearly two years of coffee cups, there are only five outliers, and two of those are photos of paperwork.
He's pathetic, boring, and hopeless. He can't bear to delete any of them.
He dumps his phone on the desk. He'd thought this would go away. It wasn't that he didn't want to be loved, and loved in return. In fact, he longed for it, fervently. But typically, attraction is fleeting, and by the time he's gotten to know anyone, he's already aware that he can't really see them at his side long-term, so there's never any point in pursuing it. Short flings and random one-night stands just don't appeal.
Morgana seems to thrive on them, and she's told him more than once that it might be good for him. That affection, love, even temporary, would remind him he's allowed to be human. But Arthur just. Hasn't the time, or the energy. It seems a lot of effort only for it to go nowhere and leave him alone again.
And he doesn't hate being single. It's a relief, not to have to think about anyone else when he stays too late at work, not having to feel guilty when he loses track of the days and the month changes. Nobody to disappoint with his father. It freeing.
And yet, it doesn't feel that way much these days. It feels more and more like he's missing something. And every morning, walking through the glass doors and over to the counter with the hope that Merlin will be the one behind the till, when cerulean eyes meet his, he feels... Better. Human.
Less like his father.
Uther barely has time for his own children, so it's a good thing he never married again. He can't really even keep friends. He works, and he works, and he squeezes in family lunches on Saturdays, and then probably works again the moment they leave.
Arthur doesn't want to be like that. He wants to share his life with someone, even if he's terrible at it - someone who will help him learn how to balance it, instead of leaving when he fails.
He wants to share his life with Merlin.
But as far as knows, Merlin is already very taken, by the gorgeous brunette with the sunshine in her eyes and soft-looking ringlets in her hair. They're always together, the minute the queue dies down. Whispering, giggling, lots of touching. Arthur has had to look away more than once with envy in his throat as one hugged the other.
He can't compete with that, even if Merlin were interested. And he wouldn't compete, anyway. He'd stay his place and not interfere.
But Morgana seems so sure...
And, a day later, he still can't think of any other way to explain the stupid, heart-shaped tart. He stares at his phone again while he readies for bed. Debating setting his alarm even earlier, debating looking for a new place to get coffee. Debating messaging his assistant and telling him he's sick and won't be in tomorrow.
He sighs and sets the phone down on the bedside table. His father would have choice words for him, if he called in sick on a Monday. Maybe it would have to be a new coffee place after all.
He's still thinking that a new place would be the best option as he falls asleep.
And in the morning, dressed and ready and walking through quiet, early morning streets, his feet take him to his usual place anyway.
Traitorous bastards.
Too late now, he's already reached the door. It's almost empty inside, there's no way it won't be noticed if he turns tail like a coward. And Arthur Pendragon is no coward. So he pushes the door open the rest of the way, and he walks to the counter.
Merlin doesn't see him right away, his back turned to the customer side as he fiddles with something near the coffee machine. Arthur can't quite make out the words, but the man is muttering to himself, and he sounds rather peeved.
Somehow, despite his dreadful mood, the sound makes Arthur smile.
"Misbehaving machine?" he quips, sounding braver than he feels.
"No, no, well yes, but it's not the machine's fault, I-"
Merlin turns to face him and Arthur gets a brief look at the rather adorable frown on his face before their eyes meet and Merlin's face clears. Of anything. He looks almost entirely blank. It's a little unnerving.
"Oh." he says, and Arthur tries his best to smile as he always does. Haughty, amused, smirky. He can't know if he's managed it, but his face doesn't quite feel right all the same.
"Oh?"
Merlin deflates a little and shuffles to one side.
"Hullo."
There's definitely something up with the man. He looks... Well, something. Arthur has never been particularly good at reading faces. So he doesn't mention the strange expression creeping across Merlins face.
"Good morning, Merlin." he says instead, and it feels like a victory that not only does his voice sound steady, but Merlin's mouth curls a little into a smile as if it's automatic.
"Good morning, your lordship. Usual?"
Arthur feels the glow of their regular banter filter through the depressing ache in his chest, and his smile this time is easy and natural.
"Yes, please."
Merlin's already grabbing the right size of takeaway cup, already turning to the machine and twisting something and then pouring milk into the little metal jug as the shiny silver contraption starts to grind.
Arthur has watched Merlin so closely for so many months, that he'd bet he had a good shot of working out how to use the machine himself. At least better than anyone else who's never used one.
And there he is again, creating competition in his head the way his father does. He shakes it away.
"Pastry today?" Merlin pulls him from his thoughts, looking back over his shoulder as he waits for the drip.
"Uh." says Arthur.
Merlin's laughing at him, he can tell before the grin is flashed his way, the amused glittering in those dark blue eyes. Arthur feels a little flush, but he rolls his eyes.
"I don't know." he manages eventually, and then, grasping for confidence, thinking of Morgana, thinking of the truth and how desperately he needs it; "I'm not sure anything will live up to Saturday's tart."
There. He's said it. If it was a coincidence and not a message, Merlin will just look confused and if it was- Merlin has gone very still. The machine is still grumbling and hissing and such, but it still feels like the whole world has gone quiet.
"Ow!"
Merlin yanks his hand to his mouth and sucks on the side of his thumb.
"Are you okay?" Arthur didn't realise he'd leaned over the counter to check on him.
"I'm fine, just- my thumb slipped. Hot metal. You know."
Arthur gives a concerned hum, unsure what else to say. Merlin shakes his hand and gives a shaky, self-conscious chuckle as he turns back around. His face is scarlet, his eyes jumpy and striking against the red. Arthur is still leaning, close enough to grab him. He forces himself back.
Merlin places the cup on the counter, and starts his pouring, and Arthur's heart jumps. Like a giddy little kid, he's eager to see what Merlin makes him today.
"Made your decision?" Merlin asks as he pushes the cup across the counter without looking at him.
Arthur takes it carefully.
"Well, I..."
Today's art in the coffee is simple, and yet so very not. Merlin has made him a perfect heart, or rather, perfect hearts. Nestling one inside the other in the other, like nesting dolls.
He's never done that before.
He's suddenly aware of every nerve in his skin. His suit jacket across his shoulders, the counter wall against his elbow. The heat from the bakery wafting through. His mouth is dry and his lungs feel too tight, and when he finds the courage to look up, they squeeze even harder.
Merlin's looking at him. His eyes trained on Arthur's face like always, wide and bright and blue. The attention is dizzying. But he's not smiling. His lips are pressed thin, his face a lot paler after the comparison of the deep blush just seconds ago. Merely pink.
Maybe Morgana was right. Merlin, loud, obnoxious, cheeky, witty Merlin, is shy. Arthur feels his own face heat, and he swallows painfully.
"I. Yes. I have. Uhm. Made my decision." he manages, and at least to his own ears, he doesn't sound too nervous.
But now that's he's looking for it, Merlin does. His fingers are twisting little bunches atop the edge of his apron pocket, and his eyes are just a touch too wide, wavering under Arthur's gaze as if holding it is difficult.
It seems Merlin is nervous too.
"What d'you want then?" comes Merlin's unusually subdued voice.
Arthur takes a breath. The truth, his mind yells, the truth!
"Your number?" he says instead.
Merlin blinks. Several times, and rapidly, and then his face starts to light in a lopsided smile. Arthur's nerves ease a little. That's a good sign, right?
Except...
"Gwen?" the shout bursts from Merlin like a blow, knocking into Arthur's chest like a mallet, "Gwen!"
She appears around the arch to the ovens, her face worried and streaked with flour.
"Merlin?" she gasps, "is- oh." she's spotted Arthur.
"Hello!"
Merlin turns his smile on her, and Arthur watches pathetically as it becomes a full blown grin. He hadn't considered that Merlin would be the type to take the piss out of him. Well, not cruelly.
"He's asked for my number!"
Gwen's face smooths of worry and into mirth. Arthur starts to hate her. There's no need for this. A no would suffice. He's going to kill Morgana. And oh, no, his eyes are beginning to do that horrible hot burning he hates.
"That's... Wonderful." Gwen replies, amusement lighting her eyes as he sweeps the back of one hand across her forehead, "Did you have to screech like you'd been hurt?"
"Oh. Sorry. I just-"
It suddenly seems to hit Merlin that Arthur is still standing there, like an idiot, like a pathetic, boring, hopeless, rejected idiot. Merlin's eyes flash back to him, and he almost looks panicked.
"Oh shit. I'm sorry, I-"
Arthur swallows. His body can't decide whether to be angry and insulted or wounded and upset or- or- or just wave it off and paste a smile on like it hasn't winded him and filled his belly with ice. In his indecision, Gwen's voice returns.
"Have you given him your number?"
Merlin wilts.
"I got-"
"Excited." she interrupts swiftly, "Yes, I can see. Here, pen. Write. Now."
Merlin does, messily and rushed, and holds the scrap of receipt paper over to Arthur. Arthur takes it robotically, meeting Merlin's gaze again in confusion. Merlin is pink, his eyes yes- shy. Huh.
He clutches the paper and looks between them.
"You don't mind?" is not what he wanted to say, but. Oops.
Gwen frowns at him.
"Why would I mind? I'm just glad it's happening. Two years of pining is frankly ridiculous."
"Gwen!" Merlin splutters, looking furiously red, his voice a squeaky reproach.
She simply shrugs.
"It is."
Merlin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and Arthur is sure they're both feeling the urgent need for the floor to open up and swallow them whole.
"Was I... That obvious?" he asks, pathetically.
They blink at him in surprise. Before Gwen's mouth slides into a wicked smirk and she elbows Merlin in the ribs.
"I meant Merlin. So you're both ridiculous."
Merlin sputters weak protests after her, but she simply disappears back through to the ovens with nothing but a laugh.
"So." Merlin breathes.
"Yes?"
Merlin meets his eyes again, so pretty and blue. His face is still a riot of blotchy red. Arthur still thinks he's stunning.
"The woman. Who comes in with you sometimes."
What the bloody hell does his sister have to do with anything?
"Morgana." He supplies.
Merlin nods, and drops his gaze to the counter, fiddling with something Arthur can't see.
"She's...your." his fingers flicker in a muted wave.
Oh.
"My sister."
"Oh."
Well, if Merlin can brave it, so can he. And he needs the truth.
"And Gwen?"
Merlin's lips lift in a soft little smile.
"Best mate."
Relief is a powerful kind of bravery. Unfortunately, there's a queue forming, and Arthur hears the door again. Merlin has read his mind.
"Cupid's tart?" he teases, testing the waters.
Arthur grins.
"One's enough for me. Plain scone, thanks."
Merlin's smile quirks.
"Jam and cream, coming up!"
Arthur rolls his eyes, but warmth blooms in his abdomen as he watches Merlin scurry to plate his order.
Back at his table, he pulls out his phone and takes a photo of the heart atop his coffee. He glances up and catches Merlin looking at him, and he smiles sheepishly. Merlin looks delighted, his grin toothy and his eyes sparkling, even as he turns back to his next customer.
Arthur's heart thumps. Morgana deserves a nice bottle of wine. Or those egregiously expensive truffles she likes so much. He'd taken the chance, (if only barely) and asked for the truth.
Thank the Gods she was right.