Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s the 24th of December, and Arthur takes a weary sip of his coffee while Gwen brings their colleagues another round of wine. She looks happy, as do most of them – most of the day has been spent on well-wishes and discussions of holiday plans, rather than actual work. It helps that there’s only a few of them around the office today. Most people have already gone home, taken the week off to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. Arthur will have leave soon, too. It’s a long drive to Camelot Manor, and the roads will be packed with other people desperate to go home.

Not that Arthur is desperate. He isn’t even sure he’s really going home.

If only the office had been open tomorrow. He could have claimed that it was impossible to get a day off, and his father couldn’t have protested. After all, Arthur’s work is the only thing that keeps s them together. Despite their different “opinions” – which is how Uther described his disapproval of Arthur’s sexuality – Arthur is still in line to inherit the Pendragon real estate agency. Even though Uther has barely spoken to his son the past year, he always let him know that he approved of the work Arthur was doing, and to ask whether he would join the family business soon.

Not for the first time that night, Arthur wishes he could gulp down the glasses of wine his assistant is handing out.

Do it. A little voice whispers in his head, one that he has been ignoring ever since December started. Drink the wine. Stay at the party. Go home, your real home. Spend Christmas with people you actually love. People who actually love you.

He would love to. He would love to just throw all caution to the wind, and to tell his father he’s not coming. His father will be furious. It might be the thing that ends their fragile relationship once and for all.

But then again, hadn’t it already ended last year, when Arthur had sat at that same laden Christmas table, and had told his father and sister that there was something they needed to know about him?

Hadn’t it ended on that cold night, when Uther had denied his confession with a laugh, had told Arthur that bisexuality wasn’t a real thing, that he was too old for such fits of fancy. Hadn’t it ended when Morgana dragged him away, hours later, when the wine and meat and words had settled down, and Uther started to threaten disinheritance if Arthur didn’t stop this nonsense? Surely it had felt that way.

It had felt that way as they sat in the car back and Morgana held his hand as she cursed at the other cars on the highway, and at the spirit of Christmas, and at their fucking awful father most of all. It had felt like whatever there had been in ways of a bond between Arthur and his father had been dealt the final blow. It had felt terrible, but somehow inevitable, and after all the tears had been spilled, Morgana had pulled the car over and held him until they could do nothing but laugh. They had been hysterical, truly, mad with sadness and relief. They pretended the tears that rolled from their eyes were different from the ones they had shed before, were somehow a sign of strength rather than weakness. They denounced their father and all he stood for, ridiculed his inability to deal with modernity, repeated his horrified words in mocking tones. They had sat there, together in the dark, the most pathetic Christmas party in their lives, until Morgana untangled herself and drove them home.

They had stumbled into Arthur’s flat on the edge of London, and Morgana had looked at him with firm resolution in her eyes.

“We are not going to let him ruin Christmas for us,” she had told him, and he hadn’t dared to argue when he saw the fury in her eyes.

So Arthur had gone to the kitchen to make tea as Morgana called everyone in her contact list to invite them over. Part of him was glad as he listened to her voice gain that little frustrated edge after the umpteenth declination. He didn’t feel like having people over while he looked like this. He just wanted to watch a shitty movie with his sister, send her home while pretending to be fine, and then drink himself into oblivion. But he had to think of Morgana too. 

Morgana, who was pretending to be fine right now, even though the fact she had her back turned to him indicated that she couldn’t control her facial expression enough to face him.

Morgana, who had listened to his coming-out with a pale face, even though she had already known for years. 

Morgana, who had to calm down their father with a sympathy she didn’t feel, who had had to school her face at the numerous homophobic remarks Uther had made.

Morgana, who had planned to come out right after him, and had seen the chance taken away by their father’s blatant disgust.

Arthur had known that Morgana was desperate to come clean, to stop hiding her relationship with Elena from their father and his many, powerful associates. Arthur felt a pang of guilt as he remembered how he had persuaded her to let him go first, that Uther would have less trouble accepting him. Arthur, the obedient son, only “half-gay”, much easier to wrap the mind around. And then Morgana could come, and Uther would already be understanding, or otherwise blown away by the first shock. Arthur had really thought it would work, had wanted so badly for it to work. Morgana was always the one to receive the first blow, the harshest criticism. It was time for Arthur to take one for the team.

Obviously, it hadn’t worked, and now everything Arthur felt was worsened by the guilty knowledge that he had ruined things for Morgana, too.

So he let her be the one to decide how they’d deal with this. And when she came into the kitchen, telling him Merlin and Gwen were coming over like it was a victory that all her usual skill at persuasion had only managed to trick two people, Arthur just smiled. He smiled and scourged his empty cupboards for snacks. He had uncorked the bottle of wine he had saved for special occasions, deciding it was a special, if deeply wretched, situation indeed.

Now, almost exactly a year later, Arthur watches as Gwen takes a sip from her wine. She catches him looking, and casts him a supportive smile. They hadn’t talked about last year, but Arthur had caught her looking at him with a sad pity in her eyes more than once since he had slotted the 25 th in his agenda with a hastily scrabbled Camelot . He knows Gwen and Morgana think he shouldn’t go. He knows he shouldn’t go. But when Uther had called him halfway through January, supposedly to congratulate him on his promotion, Arthur couldn’t help himself. He had clung to his father’s words, the unspoken truce leaving his cheeks damp. He know it was unhealthy, the way he needed validation from a man he didn’t even like, who didn’t seem to care about much more than the continuation of his bloodline.

But Arthur was only a man, and a very flawed one at that. He had fallen right back into his old pattern of trying to please Uther, carefully avoiding any and all talk of private matters. And when Uther had called to confirm their dinner appointment for Christmas – he had left a voicemail for Gwen, who had seethed with rage as she spoke of the audacity until Arthur had silenced her with a short notation in his planner – when Uther had invited him for Christmas again, Arthur’s heart had jumped. It had jumped for a moment, and then sank all the way down.

He eyes the bottle of wine with longing. If he drinks, he won’t be able to drive. Camelot is impossible to reach by public transport, and taxis will be sparse this afternoon. He would be forced to stay in London, at least for the night.

Maybe he could crash at Gwen’s and Morgana’s. They are living together now: one good thing to come from last year’s dreadful holidays. They’ll probably want the time alone, but he knows Morgana won’t deny him a place at their table. Maybe they could invite Merlin, too, repeat the whole debacle until all the pain is replaced by tradition.

No matter how tempting that sounds, Arthur cannot bear the thought of his father celebrating Christmas alone. If you call him now, he’ll still have time to arrange for other people to come instead.

Instead, he says goodbye to his colleagues. He hardly knows any of them personally, but he wishes them all happy holidays with a smile that seems genuine to everyone but Gwen. She hugs him, and squeezes his shoulder when he turns away. All Arthur can do is shrug. He kisses her cheek and leaves before he can change his mind.

He takes the stairs down. If he can keep his body occupied, he might not start thinking again. 

The caffeine buzzes through his body. In the pocket of his coat, his phone vibrates once, twice. He reaches the ground floor and runs to his car, briefcase over his head to shield himself from the pouring rain. Once he has settled behind the steering wheel, he unlocks his phone, and smiles at the messages that pop up. All of them are from Merlin. It looks like he has chronicled his whole day in short, increasingly exasperated texts. Arthur scans them quickly and smiles at the whole string of curses directed at the warehouse Merlin is working at. Merlin had spent weeks lamenting the fact that he had to work on the day before Christmas. The texts reinforce Arthur’s preconception that whatever happens in retail in holiday season is enough to make anyone homicidal, though he knows that Merlin is probably exaggerating at least half of his stories. 

While Gwen has quietly kept an eye on him the past days, Merlin has never one to stay silent, no matter the situation. Ever since he found out about Arthur’s Christmas plans, he has been trying to alleviate Arthur’s mood. Complaining about his work is guaranteed to do the job, and so Arthur settles comfortably behind the steering wheel as he opens Merlin’s latest message. It’s a voice message, and it’s almost forty minutes long. Arthur drives himself to the highway leaving London City, and presses play.

There is a soft rustling before Merlin’s voice pipes up. He sounds tired and out of breath, as if he’s walking.

“So I finally escaped this hellhole, and I swear to every creature on this Earth that no matter what they pay me, I am not going back until this year is done. Also, if I still work in retail this time next year, you are free to kill me. I mean that, Arthur. I’m dead serious. I know you’ve done fencing, and I promise it would be in fact be very merciful if you just skewered me like a shish kebab rather than send me back to wrap presents for thousands of stressed out assholes.”

Arthur smiles softly at the frustration in Merlin’s voice. He had told his friend many times that he’d be able to get him a better a job if only he would allow him to. Every single time, Merlin had refused. He would explain that he actually really loved his work, he liked seeing people and talking to the regular customers, and anyways anything that Arthur could offer him would suck out his soul in less than a week. 

He wasn’t wrong about that, Arthur had to admit. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little justified in his offers when he heard Merlin speak like this.

The highway ahead of him was filled with cars. The strips of red tail lights were reflected in the asphalt, and in the raindrops that landed on his windscreen in between the angry strokes of the wipers. The rain was pouring from the sky with a dizzying pace. The roads to the estate would surely be nothing more than muddy puddles by the time he reached Camelot.

“So obviously you are about to have a much shittier night than me,” Merlin’s message went on, as if reading his mind, “I definitely had the worst day.”

Arthur turns off all thoughts of his destination as he listens to Merlin list off all the terrible customers he has had. 

“And then there was finally a lull in the stream of screaming people, and this Santa Claus that had been sitting in a sleigh for kids to take pictures with walks up to me. And obviously I’m tired and desperate for human contact that isn’t demeaning and full of aggression, so I ask him how he’s doing, and you know what he says? He starts complaining about how much his legs hurt from all the kids that jumped on them, and then he says, and I quote: ‘I am only doing this for the money, I don’t even like kids!’ Do you know how traumatising it is to hear Santa say that to you? I mean, I never believed in him and part of me knows that he’s just a normal guy in a costume, but it still feels like… Like something I don’t have a good comparison for right now, but it’s scarring and shocking and very disenchanting.”

The car inches forward and now Merlin is complaining about his immense hatred for Christmas songs. He is trying to whisper, because he’s in the underground on his way home, but he gets so indignant that his volume rises until it echoes through Arthur’s car. Arthur can’t suppress a chuckle as he imagines the strange looks he must have gotten in the metro as he shouted at his phone.

“It’s a torture device, seriously! It’s like that Chinese water drop method that they use to drive people crazy, except instead of waiting for a drop to fall you’re just waiting to find out whether the next song they’ll play will be ‘Last Christmas’ or fucking Mariah Carey again. I swear, if I ever meet that woman, there is a good chance I have some kind of Pavlovian response to her that makes me lose my mind and start wrapping the nearest object in paper.”

Arthur’s stomach rumbles. It’s only six o’clock, but he didn’t really have lunch. With the way this traffic jam is going, it’s going to be a long time till he gets some food into him, and he asks himself why he imagined it would be a good idea to travel during rush hour on Christmas Eve. 

He wonders if he should call his father to let him know he’ll be late. It would be the polite thing to do. Instead, he listens to Merlin’s voice until it peters out. Then, with half an eye on the road before him, he places his phone into the hands-free holder in his car, and dials his friend’s number instead.

“Hey Arthur,” Merlin picks up after the second ring. “How’s it going?”

Arthur shrugs, then remembers that Merlin can’t see him. “I’m stuck in traffic,” he says, though that really is the least of his problems now. 

“Unexpected,” Merlin deadpans, and Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“At least I had a nice podcast about the horrors of retail to keep me company,” Arthur says. 

A groan resounds from the other side. “If you’re going to tell me ‘I told you so’ right now, I’ll make sure to grow a pair of wings and fly over the whole highway until I reach your car and then I’ll break your window and punch your face.”

“That is one of the most elaborate threats you’ve made in a while.”

Merlin lets out a laugh that sounds at least half deranged. “I spent a lot of time thinking very violent thoughts at a lot of people, so my brain is running away with itself by now.”

Arthur smiles. He doesn’t know what to say, because suddenly, he’s hit by a giant wave of loneliness. The idea of Merlin being here, even if it’s completely ridiculous, even if it’s only to punch him in the face, fills him with so much longing that it physically hurts. A pang beneath his midriff, a searing ache that makes him gasp for breath. 

“Arthur?” Merlin must have heard, and Arthur would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so busy trying to stop himself from crying. 

“I wish you were here,” he admits, before he can think better of it. He can hear Merlin breathing and he wishes more than anything that he was sitting here next to him. With Merlin next to him, it wouldn’t be so bad to spend Christmas Eve stuck in traffic. With Merlin next to him, even facing his father wouldn’t be so scary.

“Do you remember that time you celebrated Christmas at Camelot with us?” Arthur asks, because Merlin still hasn’t said anything. 

A short chuckle comes from the phone. “How could I ever forget?”

“My father kept asking you questions about your family and lineage as if you were a horse he wanted to buy.”

“To be fair, he did think I had the intention of swooping away Morgana to defile her or something.” Merlin laughs, and the sound makes Arthur’s heart swell. “He kept staring at me, and every time I tried to say something to her he changed the subject.”

Arthur grins as he remembers the look of confusion on Morgana’s face when Uther first did that. As soon as she had understood that her father thought she was being courted by the twelve-year-old friend of her little brother, however, she had tried her very best to confirm every suspicion and more. It had taken quite a lot of reassuring glances when Uther looked the other way to calm Merlin down from the initial panic of Morgana fluttering her eyelashes at him. 

“He was so adamant that I sleep in the room that was literally on the other side of the castle from Morgana’s-”

-“Not a castle,” Arthur interrupts, but Merlin ignores him and blabbers on.

“- as if I was going to creep through his house to make sweet love to his terrifying lesbian daughter that was two years older than my innocent twelve-year-old self! And he locked you in there, too, to keep an eye on me, and - oh fuck, Arthur! Do you think he now thinks I defiled you instead?”

The fear in Merlin’s voice is enough to make Arthur laugh, as is the thought of teenage Merlin defling anyone. If anyone had absolutely no game, it was Merlin in his teens. Arthur would know - he had tried many times to do the impossible and fix a date for Merlin with someone. 

“I think even my father knows I have better taste than that,” he replies, and hears the scoff that indicates that his friend is pretending to be offended.

“I’ll have you know that I am a very good catch and that the lack of a love life is completely due to my own high standards,” Merlin says. Arthur might be imagining it, but he thinks he hears a little sadness behind the joke. He feels tempted to reassure Merlin that anyone should be happy to have him, but he catches himself before the words leave his lips. 

To say that would be to steer the conversation in a dangerous direction. A direction that might lead him to confess feelings he should not be confessing right now, if ever.

The thing is, Merlin is his best friend, is the best friend he could possibly imagine. He is kind, considerate, funny, honest. He knows what Arthur likes and what scares him, and how to make him talk about his emotions even if he doesn’t want to. Merlin is always there for him, and he makes it so easy for Arthur to be there for him in return. It’s so easy to make him happy, so gratifying to do him a favour, no matter how small.

Merlin is the best person he can imagine. He is brave, humble, smart, loyal, down to earth and never afraid to speak his mind. And despite everything Arthur likes to say, he has grown out of his teenage awkwardness and into something that could be described as beauty. 

Ever since they met, somewhere in the pit of despair that was secondary school, Arthur hasn’t been able to imagine a future in which Merlin isn’t by his side. But now it’s almost twelve years later - soon the years they’ve known each other will outnumber those before - and Arthur increasingly imagines a future in which Merlin isn’t just by his side as a friend. 

“Seriously though, I do expect updates on what Uther thinks of me. I need to know whether I’ve outdone myself this year or if ‘campy good-for-nothing’ is the best I can get.”

That’s the other thing. His father doesn’t like Merlin at all. Granted, Uther Pendragon doesn’t take a liking to people often, and none of Arthur’s friends had ever received the dubious pleasure that was Uther’s approval. So maybe it’s a bit much to ask that whoever he dates does meet that elusive criteria, especially since his father will instantly hate any lover of his that happens to be male. That being said, Uther’s dislike of Merlin goes way back, and Arthur would be lying if he said that hadn’t affected him at least a little. 

Not that he likes Merlin any less for it. He just feels guilty for liking him, increasingly so as the manner of his affection starts to change. Not only does he feel as if he’s somehow betraying his friend’s trust, he can also hear Uther’s disapproving voice in the back of his head, and it doesn’t make anything easier.

 “I won’t let him speak ill of you again,” Arthur says, with more urgency in his tone than Merlin’s joke warranted. “I have a whole list of conversation topics written down. As soon as he dares to talk about anything or anyone from my personal life, I’ll hit him with real estate trivia so fast he won’t even remember he was thinking about something else.”

Merlin laughs, and Arthur just knows that he's shaking his head right now, eyes tired and small, made into little moons by his smile. 

"Alright," Merlin says, and his voice is a little softer. "Alright. It sounds like you have everything under control then."

"Yeah," Arthur replies, although he doesn't feel like he's in control of anything.

"I'm going to take a shower, wash off all the grime and tape glue,"  Merlin tells him. He's trying to make him laugh one last time, Arthur knows, but he feels so tired all of a sudden that he can't do more than huff a little.

"Call me if you need anything, alright Arthur? And if you change your mind, you know you're always welcome here, don't you?" 

Arthur nods. He knows Merlin can't see him but he doesn't trust his voice right now. So he just grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are white and nods.

He thinks Merlin understands. He thinks Merlin might understand it all.

“I’m going to go now, okay? You’ve got this. Show him how much you know about useless subjects.”

Arthur smiles, smiles so he doesn’t cry. “I will.”

He ends the call shortly after. The silence in his car only makes his breathing sound louder.

For a while, Arthur just sits there, staring at the road outside until the lights before him become less blurry. Then he maps the journey ahead out in his mind. It’s what he usually does when things get too much, when a certain task seems unsurmountable.

It’s easy, he tells himself. Drive to Camelot. Enter the house. Excuse yourself for being late. Sit through dinner. Make small talk, listen to Uther degrade your life choices, smile and nod. Be polite. Go to bed. Wake up. Spend Christmas Day in your parental home recognising only half of it. Listen to Uther shout at the servants for not being fast enough. Greet all of your father’s friends who are coming over for dinner. Sit through dinner. Make small talk. Listen-

It doesn’t help at all. If anything, it makes things worse. 

Arthur turns on the radio to turn off his thoughts. Mariah Carey is singing through his car, and it seems that once again all Arthur can think about is what he wants, rather than what he needs to do. He thinks of Merlin and his hatred for Christmas songs. He thinks of the big, cold house that doesn’t feel like home anymore. He thinks of his best friend sipping from his cup of tea, seated in Arthur’s living room last year, drowning in his sweater as he cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair, telling him everything will be alright. 

He thinks of Merlin, and he thinks of his father, and he knows what he wants. He knows what he needs to do.

Arthur hardly hears the horns honk behind him as he switches lanes, cutting off the person behind him. He takes the road shoulder and hits the gas until he can see an exit coming up. 

The highway back to London is just as swarmed as the one leading out of it, but Arthur doesn’t need to be delayed anymore. He takes the back roads, making extra miles he usually would avoid, but at least he can keep driving. He keeps driving. There are Christmas songs streaming from his radio, and he doesn’t know which ones they are but he loves them all the same, because suddenly he understands what they mean. He knows what it means. Going home.

He pulls over when he’s a few blocks away. He texts his father first. 

“I’m afraid I caught a nasty cold. Won’t be able to make it tonight. Will let you know about tomorrow. Gr, Arthur.”

It’s a lie, and a cowardly one, but he doesn’t feel like being much braver tonight. If this is the end, this is the end. Uther doesn’t like texts and Uther doesn’t believe in being too ill to do what you need to do. But Arthur doesn’t owe Uther his courage.

He hits send.

If this is the end, this is the end.

He calls Merlin. 

“Arthur? Is everything okay?” 

Merlin sounds out of breath, as if he ran to get to his phone this quickly. He probably did. There’s a concern in his voice that Arthur wants to take away, but he can do that later.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?”

If Merlin is surprised, his tone doesn’t betray it. He sounds certain and strong, and Arthur can’t wait until he can be held by him. “Of course you can stay. When will you be there?”

Arthur tells him where he is, and now Merlin does sound surprised. “How did you get back so quickly?”

“Early Christmas miracle, I suppose.”

Arthur can hear Merlin breathing out, almost a snort.

“Do you think you can stall a little? It’s going to take a miracle to clean this place up in ten minutes.”

Arthur wonders why Merlin would even worry about his place being a mess - as if Arthur would complain. He has never seen his friend’s flat in a state even remotely close to ordered, and he doesn’t expect anything else tonight. Still, it’s only fair to give Merlin some time, even if it feels like there is a thread physically trying to pull him all the way to Merlin’s arms.

“Of course,” Arthur says. “There is a supermarket down the street that’s still open. Do you want me to get anything?”

“I have some chicken soup left for you, but maybe, if you want something for Christmas…”

Merlin sounds apologetic, as if it’s his fault he isn’t prepared for a holiday he doesn’t even celebrate. Arthur can feel his cheeks heat as he remembers that Merlin is Jewish, and every time he celebrated Christmas had been for Arthur’s sake. He had forgotten that, and feels ashamed for it now. Maybe he shouldn’t be bothering Merlin with his Christmas breakdowns every time when Merlin was already getting the holiday shoved down his throat by everyone else. But if Arthur’s honest, he doesn’t know who else to turn to. He doesn’t want anyone else to turn to. 

“I’ll just see if they have crisps or something,” he offers, if only to give his friend some time. 

Merlin sounds relieved. “Perfect! I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, and his heart lifts at the thought. “See you in a bit.”

He walks to the shop without quickening his pace. It’s still raining, but Arthur lets the rain pour over him without ever regretting getting his formal suit wet. There is a light in his chest that refuses to be quenched by anything, and the street lights reflected in the puddles on the street are calling to his heart. 

Even the harsh light of the supermarket feels like a blessing, and he can’t stop a smile from coming to his lips. He buys them some snacks and a bottle of wine, then grabs a box of chocolates as a thank-you present, too. He tips the girl behind the counter the full price of his purchase. She raises an eyebrow at him, but pockets it all the same. She reminds Arthur of Merlin, and he sends her a smile that leaves her flustered when he walks away.

The last miles to Merlin’s home pass within a moment; he doesn’t have to look for the way, just listens to the compass beating a steady rhythm inside him. And then he is standing in front of the apartment building, and Merlin buzzes him up, and all the way up in the elevator, Arthur feels like soaring. 

When he reaches the fifth floor, Merlin is already waiting for him, his hair still curly from the shower. He’s wearing a white knitted sweater that Arthur hasn’t seen before, but when Merlin wraps his arms around him, Arthur notices that it already smells like Merlin. Herbal and deep, Arthur takes in the fragrance of home and buries his face in the soft fabric. He knows he should unclench his wrists, that he shouldn’t hold on so tight, but he can’t bring himself to let go. And Merlin holds him just as tightly.

They stay there for a long time, two men holding each other in a drafty hallway, the wetness of Arthur’s clothes slowly seeping into Merlin’s. 

Merlin is stroking his hair, ever so lightly, and every feeling of guilt melts away for a second, leaving only love behind. And then, so much later but still much too soon, Merlin steps away and takes him in.

“You are shivering,” Merlin says, his own voice hoarse. 

Arthur looks at him, feels the blue gaze burning back at him, and sees the lines under Merlin’s eyes, the paleness of his cheek,

“You look tired,” he replies. 

Merlin shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. “I am tired.” 

He pulls Arthur’s arm, tugging at the sleeve of his coat. “If you keep this on much longer, you’re going to catch a cold for real. Go get yourself some dry clothes while I warm up the soup.”

Merlin turns around to open the door for them, and only then does Arthur see the little blue circle on the crown of his head. The yarmulke is attached to Merlin’s messy hair with a pink hair clip, and the sight of it fills Arthur with so much warmth that it takes him a while to follow Merlin into the warm apartment. 

“I’ve never seen you wear one of those before,” he admits when Merlin catches him staring. “It looks nice on you.”

Merlin beams at him, and Arthur’s heart can’t seem to stop fluttering.

“I don’t wear it often, only when I’m doing religious things, mostly,” he explains. He strikes off a match to light his old gas stove, and places a pan with soup over the fire. “If you want, you can help me light the candles later? I know it’s not Christmas, but it’s nice all the same.”

Arthur looks into the living room. A nine-armed candle stand is waiting by the window, one candle in the middle and three on the right side. A box of matches lies next to it. 

Arthur has to blink a few times. He is so emotional these days, but he can’t blame himself now. No matter how nonchalant Merlin tries to be, Arthur knows that this is important to him. Despite all his chattering, Merlin is a private person. It had taken Arthur years to even find out that he is Jewish, and even then Merlin hardly ever talked about it.  It was one of those things that belonged to the Merlin he didn’t know, that he only got to see glimpses of - the Merlin from before they met. It’s a side to Merlin he always wishes to know better, but now that he’s here, standing in Merlin’s house and looking at the unlit menorah, he feels insecurity raising its head. He doesn’t know how to do this, what to say, how to act. The intimacy of the gesture scares him. He can’t afford to lose Merlin now. Maybe he should have gone to Camelot after all.

But then Merlin is behind him, placing a steaming bowl on the table and muttering something before disappearing into his bedroom. He returns a few moments later, a big red sweatshirt that was once Arthur’s slung over his arm, and what seems like red paper in his hand. 

“Just because I’m letting you wear this does not mean you’re getting it back,” Merlin warns Arthur as he hands him the sweatshirt. “You gave it to me and now it’s legally mine.”

“I think you stole it from me, actually,” Arthur reminds him, gratefully taking off his own soaked button-down and burying himself in the warm sweater. “I spent months trying to find it before you confessed your crimes.”

Merlin smiles, a crooked grin that shows he knows Arthur is right. “You have no way to prove that it’s yours, though. Besides, I’ve had it longer than you by now. It has already adapted to my shape.”

“Whatever you want to tell yourself, Merlin,” Arthur replies. He settles down at the table and starts wolfing down the soup, letting the warm, hearty liquid sate his hunger. It’s so very different from what he expected to eat tonight. Simple and light, rather than the spectacular procession of needlessly complicated courses that Uther would always force their cook to make. Once again, a wave of guilt overcomes him, and he wonders if he did well in coming here, if this is truly where he belongs. The soup is delicious, but it is made to feed rather than to present, and Arthur doesn’t feel as if he deserves that kind of love.

And then Merlin straightens the papers he was holding. The green and red sheets of paper have little symmetrical holes cut into them, and when Merlin spreads them out they look like snowflakes. 

“I didn’t have time to go out for Christmas decorations, and it’s been a little while since I’ve tried to be craftsy, but it’s an attempt I guess.” Merlin smiles bashfully as he places the paper snowflakes around them on the table. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t dare to look at Merlin then. So he just nods, head bowed down, and hopes Merlin doesn’t see the teardrops forming ripples in his soup. Never, never, never could he deserve this kind of love. But Merlin gives it to him anyways.

The room is warm, silent once Arthur’s sniffles subside. When he finishes eating, Merlin takes away his plate, and Arthur promises himself not to wonder if he should be here anymore.

Merlin comes back from the kitchen and proceeds to ruffle through a drawer from one of his overflowing cupboards. The apartment doesn’t look like anything has been cleaned in the past week, but Arthur doesn’t mind. How could he mind, when every cluttered surface is brimming with Merlin ?

Merlin emerges from the mess and holds up another yarmulke with a triumphant grin.

“Are you ready for your first Hanukkah, Arthur Pendragon?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admits. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t want to do it wrong.”

Merlin smiles at him, comes closer, and pats Arthur’s head in a way he’d usually find demeaning, but which reassures him now. “No one is going to judge you if you do anything wrong,” he says, and places the yarmulke on Arthur’s hair. “I’m going to say something, we’ll light the candles, and then we’ll sing a song. It’s all going to be alright.”

And it really is all alright. Arthur listens as Merlin says a prayer in a language he can’t even begin to understand. It’s strange, to see Merlin’s lips form sounds Arthur’s never heard him say before, but it’s strange in the most beautiful way. Merlin says amen and at least Arthur knows that one too, so he repeats it, feeling a little silly, but only a little. 

And then Merlin strikes off a match and lights the candle in the middle, and uses that to light the first candle, the one that’s most left. “You can do the other two,” he tells Arthur with a smile, “because it’s your first time.” 

Their fingers brush when Merlin hands him the candle, and Arthur tries to stop his hand from trembling as he lights the other two candles and quickly hands the helper candle back to his friend. Merlin places it back in the middle holder, and shoots Arthur a quick grin. 

“I’m going to hand over an old family heirloom now,” he says, and gives Arthur a sheet of paper. It’s yellowed, and the words make absolutely no sense, but the handwriting is large and still legible. 

“It’s how you pronounce the words to the song,” Merlin explains. “My mother wrote them down for me when i was a kid, so I could sing along too.”

Arthur tries to imagine Merlin as a little boy, the yarmulke too big on his dark hair as he mumbled the words written on this same piece of paper. Arthur can’t help but smile at the thought, and runs his finger over the lines as Merlin hums the melody for him. 

It’s not a beautiful song, at least not how they sing it, Arthur missing the melody and Merlin giggling every now and then. Arthur has no idea how it’s supposed to sound, or what he is singing. But Merlin is warm next to him, and the light of the candle’s flames is reflected in the window, and it doesn’t really matter what they are singing. Arthur is just glad they are singing.

They move to the couch afterwards, and Arthur grabs the bottle of wine he bought. They drink. They talk. 

They don’t talk about his father. Instead, he asks Merlin questions about Hanukkah, his childhood, his mother. It’s nice, Arthur thinks. It’s so nice, to just be here with Merlin. To learn more about him. To love him more with every word. 

“Is it hard, to be religious when you’re gay?” Arthur asks when the wine has made him forget his scruples. “Doesn’t your God disagree with that?”

Merlin closes his eyes and smiles, so softly, so tenderly, and it makes Arthur ache. 

“Maybe,” he says. He’s slurring his words a little. “Some people say so, though less than in Christianity.” He smiles again, and shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s possible. For him to disapprove of love. He’s supposed to have made me who I am, isn’t he? How could he ever hate me for that?”

Arthur doesn’t know he’s crying again until he feels Merlin’s arms wrap around him. 

“Shhh,” Merlin whispers, and presses a kiss to his cheek, right on top of a tear. “Shhh. It’s going to be alright.”

Arthur hates himself for crying so much, hates himself for how letting his father still get to him, for drinking too much to stop the words from falling from his lips.

“Why can’t he just love me for who I am?” he asks, and he hates himself for making it come out as a sob. “Why can’t he just love me?”

Arthur hates himself until he is too tired to, until all his tears have fallen and he sinks into Merlin’s arms. 

Merlin is holding him close to his warm chest, and he whispers into his hair.

“You are so loved, Arthur. You are so loved. You are so loved.”

They lie together until Arthur feels himself slipping away, and remembers something.

“I got you chocolates,” he mumbles. “To say thank you. For everything.”

Merlin laughs, and Arthur can feel the low rumble vibrate in his chest. Merlin is stroking his hair again, hand passing over his locks and the yarmulke askew on them. 

“You’re so sweet, Arthur, you know that?” Merlin tells him. 

Arthur crinkles his nose. He is many things. Grateful. Scared. Hopelessly, sinfully in love. But he is never sweet. 

“You’re an idiot, Merlin,”he says, and he’s happy to hear Merlin laugh again. 

They’re silent for a little while longer, until Merlin speaks up. 

“Can I ask you something, Arthur?” he asks. Arthur nods, because Merlin can always ask him, anything, everything.

“Do you think it’s worth taking a risk if it might get you something you really, really want?”

There is something in Merlin’s eyes that Arthur can’t place, and once again he wishes he knew his friend better, knew him like he knows himself, from the inside out. 

He doesn’t though, so he just considers Merlin’s question. He thinks of himself only a few hours ago, stuck on the highway leading him to a house without love. He looks at Merlin, whose eyes are expectant, and feels that the love inside and around him here are enough to last him a lifetime. How he wants it to last a lifetime, more than he wants to rebuild the bond with his father.

“Yes,” he answers, finally. “Yes, I think it is.”

Merlin nods, shoots him the most brilliant smile, and scrambles to his feet.

“One second,” he says, says it like a promise. 

It really only is a few seconds, but Arthur misses him all the same.

And then Merlin is back. His hand is clenched into a fist, with scraps of green paper inside. Arthur realises they must be the clippings that were left from when Merlin made him those snowflakes, and his heart squeezes in his chest.

Merlin sits down next to him again, scoots closer so their bodies are pressed together. 

Arthur looks at him, a breath escaping him when he sees how close they are. Merlin’s eyes are wide open, pupils blown, and the hand holding the paper cuttings trembles slightly. Then, Merlin lifts up one corner of his mouth, in that lopsided smile that means he’s going to make a joke to alleviate his nerves. 

Merlin’s eyes flick from his fist to Arthur’s face and back. His leg pushes against Arthur’s. When he speaks, his voice wavers.

“So…” he says eventually, and Arthur lets out a chuckle at the sound of his nerves, at the feeling of his own every nerve on fire. 

“So,” Merlin starts again, and a pink hue creeps up his face. 

Arthur holds his breath.

“So I found out recently that I don’t really know what mistletoe looks like,” Merlin says, and Arthur can’t help but let out a laugh. He can feel Merlin’s warmth against the side of his whole body, and he thinks it might drive him crazy.

“And obviously, I didn’t bother to buy it,” Merlin goes on, emboldened by the blush that Arthur can feel spreading to his cheeks. “But since this is already a strange kind of Christmas Eve, do you think this will be good enough?” He opens up his fist to show the green snippets of paper. 

But Arthur isn’t looking at Merlin’s hand, he’s looking at Merlin’s lips, and he’s nodding so hard his head might fall of. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “I think that’s perfect.”

And then Merlin smiles, and out of all the smiles Arthur has ever seen on Merlin’s face this has to be his favourite one, because right then Merlin raises his hand with the paper above their heads and presses his smile right onto Arthur’s.

They smile and smile and smile until they have to give up smiling in order to kiss. When Merlin moves his hand to bury it in Arthur’s hair, little pieces of green paper float down on them like snow. Arthur laughs, and cracks his eyes open just a little to look at the paper clinging to Merlin’s hair. Then, he deepens the kiss, opens his mouth to let Merlin in, and holds onto him like he’ll never let go. 

When they break apart, their lips are swollen, and both their yarmulkes have fallen to the floor. Merlin’s eyes are little moons of happiness as he looks at Arthur, stroking his cheek with a tender hand.

“Merry Christmas, Arthur,” he whispers. 

Arthur doesn’t think his heart will ever beat calmly again. He doesn’t mind one bit.

“Happy Hanukkah, Merlin,” he whispers back, and kisses him again.

When Uther calls later that evening, Arthur only goes to his phone to turn off the sound. He can explain the situation to his father some other day, if Uther’s willing to listen. But nothing is going to keep him from being with Merlin tonight, or god willing, ever again.