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Merlin thought it was cats that did this. Mostly, at least–or so the internet said. The cat distribution system. Certainly the internet would not lie to him. Yet even after several slow blinks and even slower sips of bracing tea, the sight remains the same.
Gentle brown eyes stare up at him through the library window that overlooks the garden, imploring. Downright dewy. Let me in, they say. Show pity. It’s Christmas, they beseech.
“It’s December twenty third,” Merlin corrects the dog, whose ears perk up even through the glass. And it’s already too late; Merlin feels it in his bones. Even as his feet carry him through to the kitchen and then again as his hand reaches for the antique iron handle of the back door. He had gone to great lengths for this door handle–had hauled himself to six different shops in actual real-life person and everything. The renovations to the house are ongoing and endless, and the dog would not respect the lovingly refurbished original wood floors. Merlin had sweat and bled over these floors–sometimes he swore he could still taste the varnish fumes on the back of his teeth.
The dog would roll on the rugs, and chew on the bannisters, it was all but assured. He had the cold hearted look of a criminal about him, Merlin could tell. Tock-tock, the dog’s tail wags.
The air when Merlin opens the door is chill and damp with the wet-but-no-snow sort of winter that has persisted all month. It blows straight through his thin shirt, and every bit of him that isn’t clutching a warm mug starts shivering. The dog brushes past his legs as soon as the door opens the slimmest crack, slithering inside like a snake.
“Idiot,” Merlin chides himself, but even in the kitchen all by himself he can’t tamp down his smile. The lights are dim, and the barely there hum of the fridge lends the early morning an uncanny, dream-like feeling. “What am I supposed to do with you, hm? Have you got a person out there missing you?” he asks, kneeling and stretching out his free hand. The dog does not answer him other than to trot closer, sniffing happily against Merlin’s hand, fluffy tail wagging. His nose is pink and black in a spatter of speckles, and under the fine coating of morning-mist he’s a shade of golden that Merlin’s sentimental heart immediately recognizes as a perfect pantone match for Arthur’s hair.
“Ah,” Merlin says, swallowing around the sudden stickiness in his throat and setting the mug down on the counter in order to kneel. The ceramic clicks, and the noise in the quiet makes him feel like a child again, trying not to wake his mum before school after she worked a long night shift. His eyes flick to the kitchen door like he’s doing something wrong, but of course no one comes. Arthur is in Beijing until tomorrow. The longest six weeks of Merlin’s life.
The dog noses against his cheek. “No collar,” Merlin says, pretending like it’s a hassle, and not set a giddy hope expanding through him. “Though we should probably take you to the vet, shouldn’t we? See if you’ve got a chip.”
Be rational, he tells himself. He fills a bowl (handmade, local) with water from the (new, beautiful) tap, stroking a hand patiently down the dog’s flank as he drinks. Merlin sits cross legged on the kitchen floor, in the house Arthur bought them because Arthur is insane. Undefeated king of grand gestures.
Of the two of them, one might expect Merlin–the medievalist book-keeper with his head in the clouds–to be the less steady one. That Arthur, with his corporate job doing something or another for his father–of which Merlin should really know what, by now, but every time Arthur mentions spreadsheets Merlin’s head fills with white noise–would be, well, the boring one.
Arthur is many things, Merlin knows, but rarely boring.
It’s Merlin who has been the practical one. Somehow. Too used to having a budget, maybe–a skill Arthur has never once had to learn.
For a moment, petting the dog, Merlin lives two lives, one half in the kitchen and one half on a bench in Stockholm with Arthur’s plummy voice echoing in his ears. Talking about his old flat, how much he hated it. White and impersonal, devoid of the rich flush of human touch Arthur had been chasing all his life. Merlin likes to think they’ve managed a little better, here.
The honey-hued wood shelves in the little library are still here, still dotted with history of the strangers who lived here first, who loved it so well. Instead of the sterile white walls and slick trims its rich blues and greens, practically dripping with paintings. Prints and papers and pressings. Oddities and souvenirs alike. He stares at the plättpanna, hanging in a place of pride on the wall. The sun from the garden is still misty and grey, but the light from the kitchen is golden and warm.
Arthur had wanted a nice kitchen, Merlin remembers. Even though neither of them was a gifted cook, Arthur had fondly recalled memories of visiting Leon’s house as a boy, or Merlin’s mum, later. Had coveted that feeling for himself, even years down the line. Affection had coloured that, Merlin thought–his mum’s kitchen was… yellow. A matchbox compared to the Pendragon estate, which was–and still is–grand. The kitchen there is the sort that requires a staff to work properly, lined with pretty copper pots that never come off of the wall except to be dusted.
When Arthur said he wanted a nice kitchen, Merlin has come to understand what he really means is a kitchen with someone in it.
He rubs his thumb carefully across the dog’s brow, his heart full to bursting as the dog curls up at his side. Little bits of mud dot the floor. They’d picked these tiles carefully–recovered from a victorian tear-down four train stops out of the city. Merlin had mopped them every day for a month, he was so in love with them. Morgana had mocked them ruthlessly for being old men with too much free-time, but had also been the first to give them a housewarming gift, eyes sparkling.
The mud…doesn’t really look too bad, Merlin considers.
A house should be lived in.
“You probably have a person,” Merlin admits to the dog, rambling. “And it’s very stupid to get a dog without checking. Deeply stupid. Even if Arthur has wanted one since he was only little.” The dog does not so much as twitch. Merlin picks furiously at his thumbnail until there is a sharp sting. With a wince he stretches his fingers out one at a time–something he’s trying, to get rid of bad habits. They are easier to fall into, with Arthur away. “Look,” he says to the dog, “you have to want to go back.” The dog lets out a gusty sigh, eyes still closed in bliss. “To whoever, or wherever. It’s…I mean, probably, anyway.”
They sit there, the two of them, in companionable silence. Merlin, contemplating the morality of stealing someone’s dog, and the dog thinking whatever dogs think of. This dog probably belongs to some sweet child. Or Christmas elves. Both of their legs give a twitch.
“I am getting old,” Merlin complains, “Morgana was right.” He gets up with a theatrical groan, grabbing one of Arthur’s cardigans from the back of a bar stool. It hangs awkwardly on his thin shoulders, over-large. It has long since lost that last bit of Arthur-smell, but Merlin can pretend with the best of them. “Come on,” he tells the dog, “there’s a vet not too far. We’ll find your person.”
They find the vet, only a few streets away, Merlin’s arms aching from carrying the dog all the way. She’s bigger than she looks. He twiddles his thumbs, trying hard not to pick at the red as he waits. What they do not find is a chip.
Merlin stares at the dog, pretending he’s not going to do something terribly foolish. He’s a champion pretender, after all–he almost starts to believe it. The dog stares placidly back, completely confident that Merlin will do something terribly foolish. He thinks about the wrapped gifts under the tree, waiting with far more patience for Arthur’s return than Merlin is. They’d agreed not to do a big Christmas, what with all of the renovations. It was sensible.
Practical.
Arthur…deserves a grand gesture, too.
“A dog is not as crazy-person as buying a house, right?” Merlin desperately asks the very kind vet-tech who has been helping him. “I mean, if you compare them?”
“What?” the vet-tech asks, wrinkling her nose.
“Nevermind,” Merlin says, already reaching for his reading glasses and a pen. “If he’s not got a chip can he come back with me?”
“She…can,” the vet-tech agrees, moving on from Merlin’s nonsense with the dedication of the truly over-worked.
“Oh, sorry girl,” Merlin nods to the dog. “I suppose it seemed rude to check.”
The vet makes Merlin sign a ridiculous amount of forms, and then makes him buy a ridiculous amount of items. Do they have a back garden? Are there any children in the house? Is Merlin the only occupier of the house? The dog helps by holding a toy in her mouth and looking terribly precious, so Merlin finds it hard to mind all that much.
They walk back, Merlin panting under the weight of all of the food and the toys, the bedding and the bathing things, and the dog trying to kill him by tripping him with the lead–but only a few times. All in all not too bad, he thinks, all too ready to set down his burdens.
“Oh, shit,” he says in realisation, spotting Morgana lounging dangerously on the swinging bench in the front garden. Leon stands beside her offering a friendly wave, a shopping bag tucked under his other arm.
“Quite,” she agrees, eyes widening as she spots the dog. As always she is dressed like she might be asked to walk a runway at any moment, wrapped up in an impeccable green coat, her sky-high boots black and vicious-looking. “What happened to our appointment?”
“I forgot,” Merlin admits, passive as she fishes the keys from his own coat pocket. It’s blue, and wool, and already showing the dog-hair. “It’s been a morning.”
“I can see that,” she laughs, letting them in.
“Your mum isn’t already here, is she?” The dog food finds a temporary spot on the floor, and the dog herself makes her way into the kitchen like she’s lived here all her life. Merlin hears her lapping at the water bowl, and he feels just a little bit less crazy.
“On her way,” Leon says, kicking his boots off as they filter into the entrance hall. “She’s been talking about it all month though, I swear. You couldn’t have made her happier if you crowned her.”
“There’s a dog,” Morgana interrupts, flinging her coat onto the rack. “Biscuits later, dog now.”
“She just showed up in the garden,” Merlin defends himself. “What was I supposed to do, just leave her there? I’m not the grinch, Morgana.”
“Does Arthur know?” she asks, giddy.
“No, and you shan’t tell him,” Merlin points an accusing finger at her. She’s a gossip of the highest order, and they all know it.
“I cross my heart,” she says, dragging a wine-red manicured nail in an x across her chest and following him through to the kitchen. “He’s going to go absolutely mad, I can’t believe you got him a dog!”
“Santa got him a dog,” Merlin primly corrects. “I had very little to do with this, I’m a completely innocent party.”
“Santa didn’t get him a dog the eight years in a row he asked for one,” she snorts, voice wry. She digs in the fridge like she’s lived here all her life, helping herself to her expensive yuzu juice that Merlin only really buys for her, anyway. “I don’t know that he’s going to buy that this just happened to be the year.”
Merlin is saved by a knock at the door–and the dog throwing her head back like a wolf and baying like mad to make sure they all hear it. “Oh, good,” Merlin says to Leon, bracing himself and fixing a tight smile on his face, “your mum!”
The kitchen is both bigger than the one from his last flat and bigger than his childhood one in Wales, but it is still very full with four adults and a dog. She circles like a shark for any crumbs, her eyes huge and yearning as she bulls through Merlin’s legs.
Leon’s mum zests an orange with the vigour of a woman half her age. “We beat it with the sugar,” she leans in to tell Merlin, like she’s sharing a secret. “That’s what makes them so special.”
They do smell amazing, Merlin has to admit. He’d felt a bit silly reaching out to Leon for his mum’s ginger biscuit recipe, but Arthur had gone on and on about them, and how he had loved winter because that was the only time he got them. Trailing after Leon, three years younger, sitting at the kitchen counter and being fed up with everything in arm’s reach.
“I was ever so happy to know Arthur still remembers these,” Leon’s mum says, and Merlin can tell she means it. Her eyes are the same blue as Leon’s, her hair the same curls–even the shape of her smile is the same. She’d insisted on teaching Merlin herself when Leon asked, clearly deeply moved. “Such a dear. Teenage boys, well,” she laughs, looking completely content to be lost in her memories, “they’ll eat anything, won't they? I didn’t know he liked them so much.”
“He likes them very much,” Merlin tells her, feeling unaccountably shy under the warm glow of her joy. How to tell her that Arthur had carried the memories of those childhood kindnesses all the way into his rocky start to adulthood? Had treasured them for what they were–a bit of softness in the harsh world of living with as demanding a father as Uther Pendragon. An empty house. “Very much,” Merlin says again, rather than any of that.
She’s chuffed, either way.
“You will tell me how it goes,” Morgana instructs him, as they gather their things to leave. “In fact, maybe I should be here to supervise. I want to see his face.” She grins, pulling her hair out from where it’s trapped under her coat. Somehow it’s still perfect, silken and shining. “I bet he cries.”
“Get out,” Merlin groans, muffling his laugh.
“Maybe it will get Uther off of my back,” she contemplates out loud, “if you two start doing the milestones instead.”
“Don’t you dare point Uther at me just because he’s suddenly got the grandfather itch.” Uther has mellowed in his old age, but only slightly. If Merlin is condescended to about when the next wedding is one more time–
“Better you than me,” she cheers, abandoning Merlin to join her husband, her cackling witch-laugh echoing down the street. Morgana, they have all found, has not been mellowed by age or marriage.
Their poor neighbors. Annis stares daggers at him from over the hedge. He waves limply at her.
“Alright,” Merlin tells the dog, eyeing her somewhat less than pristine coat, “let's get you in the bath.”
There are heavy marks all over the house of Arthur’s presence, even when he’s gone.
The side of the bed where he sleeps, with his half finished paperback. The bit of rejected fabric colour swatch he’s been using as a bookmark holding his place. It’s some adventure shlock with knights and kings that Merlin has heard is absolutely terrible. He can’t wait for Arthur to tell him all about it. A pair of slippers half kicked under the bed that Merlin hadn’t been able to bring himself to tidy. His pillow, tugged over to Merlin’s side of the bed as a poor substitute.
His toothbrush, which he had forgotten, and had to buy another one of in Beijing. He’d complained to Merlin for a full ten minutes about how he always forgot something, and how poor his Mandarin still was, even after months of lessons.
The house smells like ginger and molasses, and Merlin misses Arthur so sharply it feels like an open wound.
Merlin had never minded living by himself, before Arthur.
“How come he’s the one who’s gone and I’m the one who’s homesick?” he asks his little shadow, voice cracking.
It’s only six weeks, he tells himself, and it’s almost over. It’s only until tomorrow. What a mess he has become.
“Sorry,” he apologises to the dog, who he should really name. The taps turn smoothly on, and he lays a towel across the bottom, like the vet had suggested. The bath is a gorgeous free-standing one that Merlin is still half-afraid to use himself. “We could call you Vasa, like the ship in Stockholm. Arthur might like that. Or Cavall, like King Arthur’s dog–Arthur might like that, too. Maybe too much,” Merlin huffs, biting his lip.
The dog doesn’t fight him much when he lowers her into the bath, merely whining until she discovers that Merlin has gentle hands. Maybe the towel trick does work, or maybe she’s just a perfect angel. It’s been one morning, and he thinks probably he’s just as crazy as Arthur is, falling in love so easily.
It had been easy to fall in love with Arthur, too. Merlin hadn’t even known it happened for a while there it had been so easy.
“Plättpanna?” he suggests to her, shampooing carefully between her paw pads and checking for any hurts. Wet, it is harder to tell that her colour is golden. Like Arthur’s hair, or the sun streaming in through the bay window, moving down the bookshelves in Merlin’s library. Warm, beautiful, and perfect. “Like pancakes,” he says, instead. Arthur had brought him breakfast after Morgana’s wedding, Merlin vividly recalls–the first, strange overture of his mad plan to win Merlin over. A confusing morning, for one of them. “Or french toast.”
Merlin hopes no one is looking for her, which in turn makes him feel terrible.
Lifting her from the tub makes him sodden, and then more so when she shakes herself, ears flapping and fur sticking out in funny little cowlicks. At least it’s warm. If there had been a dry bit on him, or indeed the whole of the bathroom itself, there certainly isn’t now.
“I should have expected that,” Merlin is reasonable enough to admit, toweling off his own face before beginning to dry hers, amused as she darts about and bows playfully at him, tail whirling like a whip.
He walks her, after she’s sufficiently dried. Guilt makes him look out for missing posters, but it’s more than that. Something wretched occurs to him for the first time. If someone is looking for her, there is no way he can let Arthur ever think she’s here to stay. It would break his heart as surely as Merlin knows it would break his own.
He sighs. There is nothing else to be done about it
It’s the work of a moment to stop back in the house, and about ten times as long to gather his courage to approach Annis’s door. He marches off like he’s headed to the gallows, armed with biscuits and a dog he instructs firmly to look as sweet as possible. He should have stuck a ribbon on her.
Annis harbors little love for them–Merlin had certainly never set out to be the annoying neighbor, but they have been doing renovations for over a year now. At first Merlin had thought she hated having a gay couple move in, and so he had done very little to endear himself to her. It turns out she’s not homophobic, though, merely… rigid in her appreciation of quiet hours. And clean gardens. And maintaining a certain aesthetic.
And she knows everything.
There is little time between his knock and the door being opened, and a stern face looks out at him. “‘Lo, Annis,” Merlin tries, voice going high with artificial cheer.
“Arthur,” she greets him. She knows everything, and thus knows very much that he is not Arthur.
“No, I’m the other one,” Merlin says easily–this is still an improvement over last time, though. “I was just wondering–”
“I don’t have your package,” she says, moving to close the door. The Christmas wreath that hangs there wobbles, little glittering red berries taunting him. It’s insultingly pretty.
“No!” Merlin shouts, embarrassed as she glares at him. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “but it’s important. I don’t suppose you know this dog?”
She looks him over from head to toe, sighing, before turning her glower to the dog. “Cenred’s,” she informs him darkly–arguably the only neighbor she hates more than Merlin. He of the flash cars and late-running parties. The worst sin of all. Music with bass.
“Wait,” Merlin remembers, “didn’t Cenred move out last week?” Merlin feels his jaw drop, and for once he and Annis are in perfect agreement. “That absolute fucker!”
“He lost his house,” Annis leans in to tell him, a rare, mean smile on her thin lips as she senses a kindred loathing. Another secret shared, only this time instead of a secret about orange zest in the biscuits Merlin is told all about the tax evasion charges.
Perhaps he is a bad person, but one of these secrets makes him rather happier than the other.
“I am sorry, you know,” he admits, after he’s heard all the sordid details and a mutual sort of wicked peace with the world settles over them. Justice is real. Cenred will suffer.
It’s a Christmas miracle.
“I know we were noisy, and at first, well–” He makes her take the biscuits before he continues, afraid she’ll at last slam the door in his face like she had clearly wanted to before. “I thought you were homophobic. So I didn’t, uhm, try to make things any easier for you. Sorry.”
“I’m not,” she informs him, eyebrow raised.
“I know that now!” Merlin agrees quickly. “And the house is nearly finished, so no more hammering or drilling, I promise!”
“Is that so?” She considers the house from across the hedge with curious eyes. The eyes of a deeply nosy neighbor. One with a particular standard. They’ve done their best to keep the original character that made them fall in love with it to begin with, though, so Merlin thinks they’re safe. “I should like to see it.”
It’s not a question, and it’s not a suggestion.
“We’re doing New Years,” Merlin impulsively tells her. “Arthur’s away, and Christmas is a whole thing this year,” he rambles, as though Annis has any idea about Uther or Morgana, or Merlin’s mum in Wales. Well, on a beach right now, actually, not that it matters. “So, yeah– yes, New Years. You’re more than welcome to pop by. I’d…actually, I’d love to show it off.” He smiles at her, feeling the cold air pinching on his cheeks. It’s true though, he does want to show it off. It deserves to be shown off. They’ve worked hard on it, he and Arthur both. A labour of love. “I think you’d really like it.”
“Perhaps I shall,” Annis agrees, inclining her chin and looking down her nose at the dog. “What are you calling her?”
“I’ll tell you once I know,” Merlin offers. It’s the best he can do, for now. It’s with a much friendlier wave when he leaves, this time. “Thanks. By the way. And, uh, if Cenred comes around, looking–”
“I don’t know anything,” Annis says guilessly. “Happy Christmas, Merlin.” Through the narrow crack in the door he can just see the corner of her mouth tug up. He knew she knew his name.
The smile doesn’t leave his face the whole way back to the house, feet crunching on the frost.
***
The couch is cozier with a dog on one end. Merlin doesn’t make the rules, it just is. A film is on, because he couldn’t stand the quiet for a minute longer, but he can’t really watch it, either. Leg twitching, he doesn’t set his phone down–hasn’t all day. Glued to it for every update. The fairy lights of the Christmas tree reflect back up at him off of the black screen.
It’s decorated, more to have a warm place for Arthur to land in than anything else. Merlin had felt unfairly lonely to be putting the tree up by himself, decorating it and hanging the stockings. The first Christmas in the house, last year, they had barely begun with things. The downstairs radiators had gone out, so the living room turned into an icebox, half the bathroom floor had been torn out, so they had to put on shoes and walk on bare wood joists to get to the loo. The only reason they managed to have so long of a morning to themselves before they were keelhauled to Uther’s was because it was their first Christmas in the new house.
Even Uther had to let that one go.
The dog had done a good job last night, sleeping all the way through without complaining. It’s Merlin who had woken up every hour to check his phone, sure that somehow he’d overslept and missed Arthur–even though he wasn't due in for ages.
“You’ll love him,” Merlin finds himself telling the dog. “He’s–”
A million precious things. Adventurous and bold. Hard working and passionate. Repressed, but getting over it. Because he’s brave. Braver than Merlin, that’s for sure. If it weren’t for Arthur they wouldn’t even be here.
“I’d…still be in my tiny flat,” he explains to the dog’s curious face. “I never moved. Not even after getting hired with Gaius when I could have. It was fine, though, and–” he shuts his mouth, overcome. “I never would have told Arthur I was in love with him.”
Too stuck where he was. Too convinced things couldn’t change–or that they’d change for the worse. That he’d gamble and lose. Merlin was not always very good at helping himself, but he was trying to get better at it.
“He thinks I don’t know about the ring,” Merlin confesses, voice quiet. Barely audible over the telly, really, even to himself. The words spill out, because the dog is an excellent listener. Because Merlin hasn’t told anyone else, and he’s been aching to. “I, uh, pick at things.” He holds up his hands, which she agreeably sniffs. “So I don’t wear rings or anything–all I’d do is fiddle with them, I’m sure. And at work sometimes restoring things–anyway, that doesn’t matter, it’s just that I don’t have a ring to measure, not like Arthur does, with his mum’s old ring.” He strokes her. “So he had to get a little creative. I woke up when he did that trick to measure my finger with string.” Merlin can’t really keep the smile off of his face, as he remembers. He doesn’t really try. “I pretended to still be asleep.”
Of course he had. How could he have done anything else? Arthur loves surprises. Nothing makes his eyes gleam quite like making Merlin smile. Undefeated king of grand gestures.
Merlin’s grandest gesture is to let Arthur think he’s gotten away with it yet again.
“He was so pleased with himself the next morning,” Merlin beams, just as pleased with himself, now. “Puffed up like a peacock. He deserves a good surprise on occasion, too, though–just to keep him on his toes. That’s where you come in. You’ll meet him soon, so you better be good, alright? Best behaviour. That’s the deal.”
He offers his hand in a shake, and the dog ignores him, happy as can be just to be getting attention. She’s very sweet, and well-mannered, but Merlin has come to think that is just her nature, and nothing Cenred did, because she certainly doesn’t know any commands.
She did let him tie a green ribbon to her collar, though. He’d spied it on a present under the tree, which had set him thinking of the green ribbon once tied to a key–the one on the little highland cow toy, all the way back when Arthur had bought the house. Arthur will lose it when he sees her.
“We can work on the rest of it,” Merlin promises, flopping back into the pillows and throwing his arms over his face. He can’t bear to wait any longer until Arthur walks in the door. “Soon.” It’s more to himself than the dog, this time. It does a poor job of soothing.
He’s so tired.
Sleep had been hard to come last night, but also all of the others. How quickly he grew used to the sounds of another person. The steady breaths into the dark of their room. Even the snores, of which Arthur would fiercely deny. Merlin presses his arms down hard, until spots sparkle behind his eyes just like the fairy lights.
Soon.
The dog helps, a little. She must, because before Merlin knows it he falls asleep.
***
He wakes to her launching off of his stomach, where she must have been resting. He groans, rolling off of the couch. The wild barks and the low noise of the telly make Merlin scramble, heart pounding as she races to the front door.
Socks slip him up, but he manages to scoop her up into his arms just in time, as a bewildered Arthur pushes the door open, keys dangling in his hand, face stunned. Fine golden stubble traces along the lines of his jaw, and there are dark, jetlagged bags under his eyes–which are wide. Utterly shocked.
“What the fuck Merlin,” Arthur gasps, covering his mouth with one hand as he takes them in–and Morgana had been right, he does start to cry, just a bit. “Is that?”
“Happy Christmas?” Merlin says, his voice sleep rough and strangled. The dog tries desperately to wiggle out of his arms and over to Arthur. He strides over the last step to them both, fascinated as he pets one hand through the dog’s soft fur and one hand down the back of Merlin’s head, carding his fingers through the short hairs there.
Merlin might feel a little insulted if he couldn’t see the joy on Arthur’s face. It’s even better than Merlin had thought–it’s no wonder Arthur loves doing things like this. It’s a rush to see him at a loss for words for once, the disbelief giving way to sheer glee.
“Seriously?!” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s pressing a hard kiss against Merlin’s lips, the rough of his stubble stinging terribly, which is the only reason Merlin’s eyes begin to well. Arthur smells like the airport, and he tastes like stale coffee, and Merlin feels the tears begin to flow in earnest, even as his face hurts from smiling, unable to help himself.
“I missed you,” he says against Arthur’s mouth, finally setting the dog down so he can wipe his eyes. He doesn’t even have the time to lower his arms before Arthur has wrapped him up, squeezing the absolute life out of him. Merlin feels his feet lift off of the floor as Arthur sweeps him around in excitement, the dog dancing around below, desperate to be involved. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
Arthur sighs against Merlin’s ear, his shoulders solid under Merlin’s hands. Solid and real, and most importantly, here. “I’m home,” he says, sounding like a prayer, before finally setting Merlin down.
He’s the most beautiful thing Merlin has ever seen.
“Never again,” Arthur insists, kneeling and holding a hand out to the dog, still clutching one of Merlin's hands in his, “I’ll tell father this is the last time. I couldn’t stand it, it was horrible–” He presses a kiss to the back of Merlin's hand, grip so tight it's almost painful.
“You missed me?” Merlin teases, feeling like himself for the first time in a month.
“Every day,” Arthur promises, laughing as the dog pushes onto his lap, her entire back end wagging back and forth with the force of her tail. It thwacks against Merlin’s legs. “Who is this? What on earth happened while I was gone? How did you keep this a secret? You’re terrible at secrets!”
Merlin is amazing at secrets, and does not tell Arthur he knows about the ring, even though it would be a great delight to throw it in his face right now. Love, Merlin thinks. “I’ll tell you about it,” he promises, bending to press another long, lingering kiss to the crown of Arthur’s head. He needs a shower, and Merlin kisses him again and again. Love, Merlin thinks, more loudly, until it’s the only thought in his head, ringing like a bell.
The suitcase is brought in, and the shoes come off. Arthur listens with rapt attention as Merlin tells him all about how Santa left them a dog in the garden, keeping his face sincere all the while. Arthur sits on the floor in the kitchen as he listens, because he doesn’t want to be parted from his new soulmate. Names are debated, calling one after another out to the dog to see if anything catches her ear.
Merlin clangs the pots a little as he starts making hot chocolate and warming the biscuits. The spoon drags through the cocoa, and the steam warms his fingers. The smell of ginger and orange zest permeates the kitchen. Arthur’s bright laughter chases away the very last of Merlin’s melancholy, and he thinks about their bed. Arthur’s half-read book, and his slippers. The spaces he fills.
Outside, a tiny flurry of snow swirls, sure to be melted by morning.
“Hey," Merlin says, catching Arthur’s blue eyes over the plate of biscuits. His cheeks are stuffed full like a chipmunk, and Merlin falls in love all over again. Again and again, for the rest of their lives. “Welcome home.”