He grinned at his reflection until the shopkeeper gingerly began to reach for her phone, darting an alarmed look in his direction. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head empathically, “I wasn’t – I was just – talking to myself.” The shopkeeper didn’t seem comforted, so he gave her a weak wave, shoved his hands into his pockets, and resumed walking. The Pendragon Estate was more than an hour’s walk from Merlin’s flat, but his bike was out of commission and Gwen was already at work by the time his presence was required. Merlin didn’t mind the exercise even though the scenery was lacking; it was his destination that soured his mood and made him dawdle. His first day at the job had been noticeably without incident: raking this and netting that, rescuing a wayward toad and figuring out what to do with a pesky tile that kept popping out of place. There was little that allowed him to cock up as badly as he’d done in the market (though he did manage to skid on flagstone and nearly brain himself) and the garden that surrounded the pool was nothing short of enchanting. It reminded him of a smaller version his mum had tended in Ealdor, filled him with daydreams that were half memories, fancy that was fuzzy around the edges. There were more recent memories as well – stolen kisses behind the petunias, bark scraping at his back and a mouth on his throat – but Merlin ignored those with a desperate sort of determination, fixing his attention on his work and the people around him. The man who’d caught him in the bushes, Wielki Smok, turned out to be stranger than Merlin expected. He had some bizarre fascination with coins and managed to work them into every stilted conversation, with far more gravity than the usual collector possessed. Merlin would’ve been tempted to keep his distance if the man didn’t also harbor a thinly veiled hatred for one Uther Pendragon, which was the sort of cause Merlin felt he could get behind. The day had passed quickly between Smok and his obscure metaphors. Arthur never showed up, for all his taunting, and Merlin wasn’t disappointed in the least. Really, the fact that it had been such a good day could be attributed to his absence. “If only he’d just disappear off the face of the earth,” Merlin muttered under his breath as he neared the estate. “And if wishes were horses…” The grass squelched under his sneakers as he cut his way across the yard. Smok had told him that paths were paved for a reason but what the point in walking in elaborate loops when you could walk in a straight line and get to your destination an hour earlier? He rubbed his hands together briskly against the gathering chill and picked up a rake from the shed. It was cooler here than it was near his flat, but brighter as well – the illusion of a sunny day fractured by the way the tip of his nose was slowly going numb. Merlin was willing to bet the pool would be deserted. If he had, he would’ve lost. Arthur’s body cut a long line in the water, the practiced sweep of his arms creating waves that lapped at the edge of the pool, and Merlin felt the mad urge to backtrack even as his feet propelled him forwards. Golden hair turned dark by the water resurfaced and Merlin blurted, “Arthur! Are you mad? You’re going to freeze to death!” Arthur ran a hand over his face and squinted at Merlin before swiping at his eyes. “Are you daft? It’s heated.” A splash emphasized his statement and Merlin recoiled from the spray of water, warm as it was, sputtering. Arthur’s mouth tipped into a smirk and he eyed the rake Merlin was holding in front him like a shield with ill-concealed amusement. The bunch of his shoulders drew Merlin’s attention as he propelled himself forward, the shifting of muscle reminding him what they felt like under his palms. “Well?” Arthur drawled, resting his arms on the edge of the pool and cupping his chin with a hand. “Are you just going to stand around and stare all day? I know I’m a sight, but really, Merlin. Try to act like a professional.” Merlin tightened his grip on the rake and refrained from bashing him over the head with it. Gwen would be proud, he thought, and poked half heartedly at the dead leaves littering the ground as he moved around the edge of the pool. It was only when he’d rounded the circumference to the other side that he realized Arthur had been following him, floating on his back and kicking lazily, blue eyes fixed on Merlin’s face. “What?” he snapped, the back of his neck prickling from Arthur’s stare. “What?” Arthur mimicked, affecting the whiny sort of tone that Merlin’s voice didn’t resemble at all. “What’s got your knickers in a twist? I’d think you would’ve gotten used to getting sacked by now.” “How do you know—” “Please,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “As if you’d ever go and quit on Gaius.” His gaze turned calculating. “What’d you do this time? Request condoms on the intercom again?” Merlin grit his teeth and Arthur’s grin widened, fully aware of the residual mortification Merlin still felt from that incident, when the teenager who’d asked him for the condoms had burst into loud tears. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” “I’m your employer,” Arthur said. “That makes it my business.” “No,” Merlin snapped, gathering more leaves into an ever-growing pile. “That would be your father. Speaking of which, how is Uther these days? Still doting on his little boy?” Arthur’s smile tightened around the corners, but didn’t fade. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Merlin shrugged, propping his rake up and tilting his head to the side. “I’m curious. Has he figured out you’re a poof yet?” Merlin had no doubt that if Arthur hadn’t been in the pool, he would have been on the receiving end of a fist to the face. He might even deserve it, he thought, as Arthur’s eyes shuttered and he dove, a tense arrow through the water. They’d hurt each other enough already, without Merlin stepping in to needle an open wound. His throat tightened as he watched Arthur make a round, then two, barely coming up for air at all. He wasn’t surprised, not really; they’d always brought out the best and worst in each other, one pushing and shoving until the other broke or pushed back – an essential, if often destructive, cycle. He missed it, Merlin realized with a sick lurch of his stomach, and didn’t allow himself to think he missed him. He turned his attention back to the leaves and kept it there until Arthur surfaced, swiping his hair out of his eyes and taking in a slow, measured breath. The tendons in his neck were tense and Merlin knew the tension would morph into a headache soon, pounding at the base of his skull and behind his eyes. Arthur kicked himself flat and floated while Merlin watched, biting his lower lip. “You were never this much of a swimmer before,” he blurted, then winced at the unsteady sound of his voice. Arthur’s eyes were fixed on the clouds and seconds ticked by, stretching the silence into something unbearable, until Merlin was itching to get away. “I spent two months on an island,” Arthur said finally, though he didn’t face Merlin. “Didn’t have much to do but swim.” Merlin made a noncommittal sound and drew his rake absently over the ground, relieved to have broken the tense silence, and entirely unprepared for what next came out of Arthur’s mouth. “I met a girl.” His voice was lazy, careless, like a punch to the gut. Merlin’s grip slackened on the rake and he fumbled with it as he tried to arrange his thoughts into some semblance of order, chest tight with shock and hurt. Arthur sounded casual but Merlin had witnessed this particular set of his mouth enough times to recognize it for what it was. “Sophia,” he said, slowly like he was savoring the word, her name. “She’s beautiful.” He turned and met Merlin’s eyes. “Father approves.” This was Arthur, pushing back. Merlin forced himself to nod, jerk his mouth into a crooked smile. “As long as he approves,” he managed to choke out. “That’s all that matters, right?” Arthur’s eyes flickered, face drawn, and Merlin wondered if they were ever going to stop coming to blows, if it would ever stop hurting so fucking badly. His hands were clammy, couldn’t seem to work the rake properly, and Merlin needed to not be in front of Arthur right now, needed someplace dark and quiet and not here to keep himself together. Either Arthur had the same compulsion or he recognized the desperation in Merlin’s face, because he splashed him again with a flat sweep of his hand. “Go home,” he said, as Merlin took a startled step back. “You can make up the hours tomorrow night.” “What?” Arthur ducked underwater and slicked his hair back as he resurfaced. “We’re hosting a party and we need someone to serve the drinks.” He looked Merlin up and down as if assessing his value as a server. “I’m sure you’ll end up spilling something on someone,” he said, “but the kitchen staff is going to be busy.” Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s an idea: how about you serve the bloody drinks? I’m not your waiter.” “No,” Arthur agreed, amiable, “you’re my pool boy.” He smiled beatifically as Merlin ground his teeth, all signs of strain melting under the amusement he derived from torturing him. “If you want to spend the rest of the afternoon pushing leaves around, feel free. If not, be here at eight.” The dismissal was obvious in the kick of his legs as he dove. Merlin twisted his lips and took off for the shed with sigh and the thought: I’m going to regret this. Next “You don’t have to do this.” Merlin pulled on his sneakers and patted the pockets of his jeans for his mobile. “Where’s my phone?” “On the dresser,” Gwen replied promptly, and then frowned at him. “Merlin. Listen to me.” “I am listening,” Merli...
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