Archive of Our Own ^beta

~oOo~

Merlin felt as though he were vibrating with excitement. He’d always loved the first day of term as a student, and now he faced it from the other side. While he knew that, as a newly minted lecturer in Modern Languages and Linguistics, he’d inherited the introductory course none of the more senior faculty wanted to teach, he didn’t mind. He loved historical linguistics and tracing the evolution of language, and he intended to make learning about it interesting. 

He stepped back to admire the enormous chart he’d tacked up, nearly covering the whiteboard. He’d created the infographic as part of his doctoral research, using historically accurate typefaces and graduated colouring to show both the pace and spread of Latin’s development into the Romance languages. Merlin expected most of the students to be proficient in at least two of the major modern languages, but his chart included Asturian, Walloon, Ligurian, Occitan, and others even more obsure. He was looking forward to rattling off answers to questions in all of them, seeing who could keep up.

Noticing the time, Merlin began unrolling his shirtsleeves and slipped his suit coat over his shoulders. Then he plugged his phone into the speakers, cueing up the playlist he was sure would put a smile on the students’ faces when they made the connection.

Settling himself behind the desk in the back corner of the room, he bent his head over his lecture notes, scribbling ideas in the margins and tapping his foot in time with the beat of the song. “J'veux ton amour, et je veux ta revanche,” he sang under his breath.

“Ahem,” came a loud voice from the front of the room.

Merlin’s head snapped up. A man stood just inside the doorway, face turned to the chart. Merlin could tell his arms were crossed over his chest by the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders. “Oh, hello!” he said brightly. “And you are?”

“Wondering why you’re playing pop music in a lecture hall,” the newcomer said drily.

Merlin sagged. He’d been hired a mere two weeks before term time when the position had come suddenly open, and he’d jumped at what had long been his absolute dream job—teaching at Camelot University, the most prestigious research institution in the nation. He’d packed up and moved from the University of Ealdor in record time, and between that and preparing his lessons, he hadn’t had a chance to meet most of the other faculty yet. This bloke seemed to clearly be one of the old guard who certainly wouldn’t approve of Merlin’s cheeky take on traditional pedagogy. “It’s my first-day playlist,” he replied, voice becoming steely. “All the songs have the word ‘romance’ in their titles. It’s good fun for the students to try to figure out—”

“Modern-language faculty,” the man huffed, finally turning to face him, and oh fucking hell—he was bloody gorgeous. Merlin about swallowed his tongue as he looked him over. The blond hair was almost golden in the sunlight streaming in from the window, which also highlighted his Roman nose, sky-blue eyes, and plump lips. 

Forcing himself to regain his voice, Merlin stood and made his way towards the front of the room. “Perhaps we should try this again,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Dr Merlin Hunithson. New lecturer in Romance languages.”

“Obviously,” drawled the other bloke, eyeing the proffered hand warily and keeping his arms tight over his chest. “Although I’m not certain starting off with ‘Bad Romance’ is the way to make the best impression.”

Withdrawing his hand, Merlin crossed his own arms. Why were the pretty ones always wankers? “I don’t need to impress you, so I don’t much care.”

The blue eyes went wide and a smile pulled at the corner of the pink lips. “Oh, you don’t, do you? Not here to make friends?”

“Given that I’d never be friends with an uptight arse like you, no.” Merlin narrowed his eyes, definitely not noticing the sudden twinkle in the blue eyes staring into his own.

At last the man unfolded his arms, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets in a way that was somehow ridiculously suave. “Right. Introductions. Dr Arthur Pendragon. Professor and chair of Classical and Modern Languages,” he said smoothly.

Merlin wanted to melt into the floor. “Shit,” he muttered, not quite under his breath enough. “My department head, then.”

Pendragon smirked. “Indeed, Hunithson. I’d say I’m someone you absolutely do have to impress. See that you try harder.” 

With that, he left, and Merlin closed his eyes. 

Bloody buggering fuck. 

~oOo~

“Remind me again, Leon, why I put up with instruction, and instructors, in modern languages.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, swivelling a bit in his desk chair.

“Because in the twenty-first century, it’s generally frowned upon to teach only the Classics,” Leon replied. “And you’re certainly not going to teach modern languages yourself.”

“I might do.”

“Mate, you’re rubbish at most of them.”

Sighing, Arthur shoved a hand through his hair. “Here’s where I remind myself I made you deputy department head precisely for that kind of honesty.”

“Eh, be fair—we all have our weaknesses.” Leon winked.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Be that as it may … the new bloke today—”

Leon perked up. “Oh, Hunithson? Haven’t met him yet, but I hear he’s quite the prodigy in anthropolinguistics. I ran into Gaius White at that Peloponnesian War conference this summer—he mentored Hunithson for his doctorate. Gaius said he’s great with the students, really gets their attention.”

“Et tu, Brute?” Arthur muttered. 

“That’s Shakespeare and you know it, Pendragon.”

“Fine, fine. Shakespeare’s at least better than Lady Gaga, which he was blasting from the speakers in his lecture hall at the start of his class earlier.”

Leon crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. “If I recall, you quite liked Gaga the last time we went clubbing.”

With a sour look, Arthur replied, “The last time we went clubbing, I wasn’t heading up the department. And regardless, it’s not—rather—Leon, it’s Hunithson’s very first day on his very first lecturer job, and he’s already got no respect for decorum.” Arthur’s lips twisted. He wasn’t a pedant by any stretch of the imagination, believing innovation had its place in the classroom. But the provost, an economist named Aredian who was clearly on a witch-hunt with the humanities as the target, would take any excuse to gut the programme—and a teacher turning the lecture hall into a dance club would rank high on his list, Arthur was sure.

The fact that Arthur had taken one look at the bloke and suddenly wished they were on a dance floor instead of in a lecture hall certainly had nothing to do with his reaction.

A light snort left Leon. “He’s teaching first-years, isn’t he? I’m sure he’s just trying to make it fun, welcoming.”

“I’m fun,” Arthur said petulantly. “I wear a toga when I recite the Catilinarian orations.” 

With a long-suffering sigh, Leon shook his head. “I know. And all the girls who took your seminar on Ciceronian politics showed up in my Homeric epic class chatting about it and proving they came away with zero idea why Catiline wanted to overthrow the republic, but rave reviews of your legs.”

Arthur frowned. “Good lord, is nothing sacred any more?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “At least you’re aware I’m never going to be giving girls the time of day, no matter what they think of my legs.”

Chuckling, Leon leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Speaking of which … when was the last time you went on a date?”

“Let me see. I think Nero may have played the fiddle as local entertainment that night.”

“I’m serious, Arthur.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m too busy.” Arthur shuffled some papers around to demonstrate just how busy he was.

“Look, you’ve been my best friend for ages, so I’m going to speak freely even though you’re also my department chair,” Leon said then. Arthur threw him a dirty look, but he pressed on. “You’re thirty years old. You’re light-years ahead of where you should be in your career because you’re brilliant, but that doesn’t mean you have to act as old as the material you teach.”

Shrugging, Arthur refused to meet Leon’s eyes. “I still have to prove I was the right choice to take my father’s chair when he passed, given my age and tenure. I know the administration is trying to kneecap the humanities; I can’t let them run this department into the ground. And that means I can’t have neophyte modern-language faculty bollocking everything up.”

“Give him a chance.” Leon looked at his watch then and stood, straightening his tie. “Who knows? Could be his energy is just what this department needs.”

“I’ll think about it. Now go, or you’ll be late, and I’ll be forced to loan you to history when they need an Alexander the Great expert.”

Leon threw him a two-finger salute over his shoulder, and Arthur bit back a smile. He knew he probably was being too hard on Hunithson, but there was something about the unorthodoxy of his approach that rankled. Maybe it was merely that Arthur had never been allowed such leeway when his father was in charge. 

Or maybe it was that the man had the sharpest cheekbones and plushest lips Arthur had ever seen, and his knee-jerk reaction was to revert to being a playground bully.

Giving his head a quick shake to clear it, Arthur opened the file with his own lecture notes. He was teaching Virgil again this year, which made him smile; he’d always had a soft spot for The Aeneid. He grabbed his well-worn copy from his bookshelf, and set to work.

~oOo~

“I mean it, Gwen. I’m going to be sacked before my first week ends.” Merlin was stress-eating the berries he’d packed in his lunch, throwing them into his mouth at a furious pace as he sat at a small table in a quaint little coffee shop just off campus.

Gwen’s sigh was loud through his earbuds. “Well, to be fair, I’ve been telling you for years that not every thought in your head needs to come out of your mouth, but even so, I’m certain you’re overreacting, Merlin.”

Merlin and Gwen had been best friends since their own undergraduate days. After graduation, she’d come to Camelot’s sustainability research centre, focussing on textiles, while he’d continued his post-grad work at Ealdor. She’d been kind enough to let him crash on the sofa-bed in her sewing room when he needed a place to live on short notice, and Merlin counted himself lucky to have a friend, and current flatmate, who always put up with him when he was in a strop. 

He rolled his eyes, despite her not being able to see him. “I called the chair of the department an arse to his face. I’m fairly sure that’s a fireable offence.”

She considered for a moment, then said, “Maybe he liked it. Maybe he thought you were complimenting his actual arse.”

“Very funny. I knew I shouldn’t have told you he was gorgeous.” 

She laughed lightly. “It will all be fine, Merlin. By the end of the week, he’ll have forgotten you exist.”

“I’m not sure that’s better. Ugh! How was I supposed to know the head classicist at Camelot wasn’t some ancient, wizened crone, but actually young and exceedingly hot?” Merlin slumped, pressing his forehead to the table.

Gwen hummed. “New subject. Did you see Elyan’s Instagram story on the reef restoration project last night?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, hauling himself upright again. “It looks like they’re making real progress in coral planting.”

“Only my brother could turn a degree in marine biology into a job where he gets paid to snorkel the Great Barrier Reef.” 

They both laughed, and Merlin felt the last of his ire bleed away. He knew Gwen was right and he wasn’t going to be sacked for one unfortunate first meeting. Still, he had been so excited actually to land this position; he didn’t want to jeopardise it right off the bat due to flying off the handle a bit too quickly when someone seemed to be judging him.

And Merlin knew he would be judged. He had a natural knack for languages, and in Year 10—having exhausted the language offerings at his comprehensive—he had begun to teach himself historical linguistics with the help of online courses. For fun, he challenged himself to translate his favourite graphic novels and pop songs into obscure dialects. By Year 12, he was sharing his translations on a blog, and his work caught the eye of the world-famous linguist Gaius White, who became his mentor. He’d flown through his program to become one of the youngest PhDs in the field, but Merlin was aware he still had a lot to prove. Academia did not always value quirkiness and energy. He’d been caught off guard with Pendragon earlier, and the fact that the man was un-fucking-believably stunning hadn’t helped.

It also probably hadn’t helped that he had broken up with his last (and first) boyfriend his second year of undergrad, and hadn’t been on a date (or, hell, even swiped right on anyone) in … well, maths wasn't actually his strong suit, but it had been a while. 

Glancing at the time, Merlin began to pack up his things. “I’d best be heading back, Gwennie,” he said, getting in the queue for a coffee to go. “I haven’t even been to my desk yet, and I want to go through the introductions I had my first-years write earlier.” 

“Oh, you’ll have to tell me about it later!” Gwen said. “Spending time in the department is a great idea, too. I’m sure you’ll start getting to know the other lecturers soon. You’ll find some solidarity.” 

“I hope so. Pendragon seems like the typical stick-up-the-arse classics professor, staunchly modern-averse, so I’ll need backup.” 

Just then, a low voice behind him said, “I believe that’s the second comment about my arse you’ve made today, Hunithson. I’ll try not to read too much into it.”

Merlin blanched, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh fuck me,” he muttered. 

“Merlin?” came Gwen’s voice, confused.

Shit. “Hanging up now, I’ll tell you when I get home if I’m still alive. Bye!” He thumbed the button to end the call and removed his earbuds, then turned, willing himself not to blush. “Pendragon.”

Flashing him the smirk that Merlin was quickly coming to despise, the blond leant a bit closer to say, “You’ll learn most of the faculty frequents this spot. Best to keep your opinions of people’s personalities—or anatomy—to yourself while here.” 

“Yeah, about that, I—”

“Perhaps I should refer you to a seminar on collegiality.”

“Now, hang on—”

“I mean, I’m quite the expert on it myself, if you’d like me to give you a quick lesson in appropriate workplace conversation.”

“A lesson from you? Not a chance,” Merlin huffed.

“Look, Hunithson, believe it or not, I pride myself on the department being a welcoming place for everyone. After all, I’ve been trained to take over as chair from the day I enrolled as an undergrad.” 

Merlin nearly exploded then. “And how long have you been training to be a prat?” 

Pendragon barked an incredulous laugh at that, showing off a crooked tooth that in any other circumstance Merlin would have found utterly adorable. “You really shouldn’t speak to me like that.”

“Sorry, professor,” Merlin spat back. “How about I speak to you in French? Sardinian? Old Church Slavonic? Elvish?” 

“Sindarin or Quenya?”

“What?” Merlin felt distinctly like he’d lost the plot all of a sudden.

“You said Elvish. Which dialect?” 

Merlin blinked a few times before replying. “I speak both.” 

“Not bad.” Tilting his head, Pendragon gazed at Merlin with an inscrutable look in his eyes. “There really is just something about you; I can’t put my finger on it,” he said at last, so quietly Merlin almost didn’t hear it.

They stared at each other for a long moment. He’s definitely going to have me sacked now, Merlin thought, an odd twisting in his stomach that must have been apprehension, but not quite as unpleasant as he expected. 

However, the other man merely gestured towards the counter. “You’re up.”

Merlin goggled at him. “Hm?”

“Front of the queue.” Pendragon’s blue eyes bored into his own, and it took Merlin a moment to parse what he was saying.

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Hurriedly, Merlin ordered a latte, tapping his card and stepping aside. As soon as his drink appeared, he grabbed it, leaving before he could say anything else potentially career-ending. With any luck, he wouldn’t run into Pendragon again until the mid-term department meeting.

~oOo~

“Ah, my dear brother!” Morgana announced as she swanned into his office. “How is the start of term treating you? Has Rome fallen yet?”

“Harpy,” Arthur huffed, but rose from his seat to give her a hug. “You look well. Your sabbatical seems to have agreed with you.”

She tossed her long, midnight-dark waves over her shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt that Porto is delightful even when one isn’t researching the Portuguese Renaissance. But I’m here to talk about you.” Settling into a chair, she crossed her long legs and leant forward, folding her hands on his desk. “I hear the new Romance lecturer has you all in a tizzy.”

Groaning, Arthur dropped gracelessly back into his own chair. “I should never have let you and Leon share an office.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m the deputy head for modern, he for classical. It makes sense. That we can gossip about you more easily is merely an added bonus.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at her. “Well, I am not now, nor have I ever been, in anything resembling a tizzy. Dr Hunithson and I started off on the wrong foot, but as the remainder of his first couple of weeks passed without further incident, I decided to let it go.” 

That wasn’t the whole story, of course. Midway through their encounter at the coffee shop, Arthur had realised with a shock that he was actually enjoying the verbal sparring with Hunithson. Most of the faculty—with the exception of Leon and Morgana—more or less always treated him with kid gloves, first when he’d been Uther’s son and presumptive successor, and then after he took the reins and became the chair. The fact that a young upstart had no compunctions about challenging him? Well, it was a breath of fresh air. 

He’d just made up his mind to invite Hunithson to sit and chat over their coffees when he noticed he had already gone. Arthur had found himself oddly disappointed.

Over the next few days, his feet kept spontaneously carrying him past the open door of Hunithson’s lecture hall. He’d deny, upon pain of death, that he was listening in, but he couldn’t help but overhear enthusiastic voices chattering away in a panoply of languages—Hunithson’s surprisingly deep, mellifluous voice always recognisable no matter what language he spoke.

And much to Arthur’s surprise, he seemed to speak them all.

Hunithson read from the Cantilène de sainte Eulalie, recited part of the Cantar de Mio Cid, and shared at least a dozen other clearly obscure, pre-modern texts that Arthur could barely identify (he was fairly sure one was Galician-Portuguese, which would probably make Morgana drool to hear it). More than that, though: he made each one sound energetic, vibrant, alive. Arthur strove to do the same in his courses, but his students had been trained to read and parse, not listen and speak. He was lucky if he had one student in a hundred who could actually speak Latin well enough to stage a senatorial debate with him.

He wondered idly if Merl—er, if Hunithson could.

Morgana cleared her throat, and Arthur called himself back to the moment. “Was there something else?” 

“Yes. It’s not like you to get huffy about a faculty member, then do an about-face and let it slide. What’s really going on?”

Arthur shrugged. “He’s good. Really good. I’ve yet to find a language he doesn’t speak, and his fluency and expression are off the charts.”

Frowning, Morgana asked, “Were you observing him this early in the term?”

Fighting back a blush, Arthur said, “Not officially. I just, er, have found myself in the corridors frequently while he’s lecturing. A couple of Orkney’s third-years from folklore and mythology are in Hunithson’s intro course to fulfil their Romance requirement, and he said they were raving about it, so I wanted to hear, and … erm. Yeah.”

Morgana’s face lit up with a gleeful smirk. “Santa Maria, you have a crush on him.”

“You’re a witch.” Arthur glared at her. “I don’t have a crush on him, Morgana. I don’t even really know him. I merely decided I would be willing to give his teaching style the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’re sneaking around to listen to him teach. That sounds like a crush to me.” She folded her hands on the table primly, as though challenging him. “And you’ve never given the benefit of the doubt to anything Gwaine’s students say before.” 

“Yes, well, folk and myth seems like a waste of time in my book, but that’s Gwaine for you. And I’m not sneaking—”

“Lurking in the corridors to listen to him lecture counts as sneaking.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure he’d be pleased to see me. The first day, he annoyed me by taking quite obvious pedagogic liberties. I insulted him, he insulted me, and we got into it a bit.”

She looked impressed. “Most people don’t risk arguing with you. Especially as very few can keep up.”

“He can. Frankly, he’s damned clever. Gaius knew what he was doing when he recommended him for Geoffrey’s spot. And … all right. He intrigues me. He’s sharp. I will acknowledge that he’s attractive, but you know I don’t do casual, or one-offs, or—hell, I don’t even know if he swings my way. And I started things off badly enough between us that I doubt he’d be interested if he does.”

“Arthur.” She cut him off sharply with a perfectly-manicured nail pointing at his chest. “I know you consider your position of the utmost importance, to the point that you put maintaining it above your personal happiness, but you know you are allowed to fraternise with your faculty, don’t you? Hell, Uther had a fling with that visiting lecturer in Old Norse poetry, what was her name, the one who had all that grotesque statuary of trolls in her office—”

Shuddering, Arthur shut his eyes. “Catrina Tregor, and don’t remind me. The lecture hall smelled like lutefisk for three months after she left.”

She grimaced. “That’s off-putting.”

“Quite.”

“Back to my point, though. This Hunithson bloke—yes, you’re his department chair, but you know that only the chancellor can actually terminate him from his position. It’s not verboten to make friends in the department, or, heaven forbid, even date someone. Just ask Leon and Gwaine.”

“Orkney isn’t officially in the department, and you have spent too much time in the hot Porto sun if you think that my not immediately having Hunithson sacked means I want to date him.”

Morgana snorted. “I know you’ve never been good with feelings, Arthur—”

“Oi!”

“I just remember the way you used to antagonise boys back in school when you didn’t know how to say you liked them.” She gave him a sharp look.

“I was fifteen, so that’s largely irrelevant, and this conversation is giving me a headache, Morgana.” He rubbed at his temples.

Her demeanour softened. “You’ve hardly done anything but work since Uther died. Yes, you’re the youngest person ever to hold this chair, but even before you became department head, you hadn’t been on a date in, what, two years? 

“Four,” Arthur said, dejected. “Since Cenred.” 

Taking his hand, she squeezed it gently. “And that situation was miserable—I know that. But you can’t sequester yourself in this stodgy old office forever, hiding behind the excuse of making Father proud.”

Swallowing hard, Arthur stared at their linked hands. “I’m not. Not really.” 

She squeezed again. “Leon said you stopped meeting the lads for footie while I was away, and that you haven’t even gone for drinks with him in ages.”

“He’s been in the honeymoon phase with Gwaine,” Arthur grumbled. 

“Please, he’s your best friend. He’d make time for you. Or you could go out with them both!”

“I did, once, but I swear Gwaine kept hinting at us having a threesome, and I just—” He shuddered.

Morgana’s eyebrows arched. “Hm. I’ll file that away for future reference.”

“That is something I definitely didn’t need to know.”

“What? They’re both bi. Might be fun.”

“I hate you.”

She laughed brightly before sobering again. “Leaving that aside, you must remember you are more than just Uther’s successor. You deserve to have a life. And I’ve never known you to even feign the slightest bit of respect for the teaching style of anyone in a modern language before, so there’s obviously something about this new lecturer that’s caught your attention. Perhaps it’s merely your professional interest in his approach to pedagogy, but you won’t know if you don’t actually talk to him—as a person, not as head of his department.”

Arthur’s brow creased in thought. “But I am head of his department. I could find myself under investigation for harassment if I asked him out on a date.”

Morgana shook her head. “Only if you keep pulling his pigtails because you’re afraid you might actually like him.”

“You really are a witch, you know.” He frowned; she always had been able to see right through him. But she had a point. Whether or not he could develop feelings for Hunithson, he did want to get to know him better.

“Right,” she said with an air of finality. “I’m off to the library. Join us at the pub tonight. I’m inviting Merlin so he can meet some of the other modern-language faculty.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed again. “You’re already on a first-name basis?”

“No, you twat, I just don’t subscribe to the patriarchal chest-thumping of only using surnames. Will you be there?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Nodding, she walked around his desk and kissed his cheek. “That’s all I ask.”

“Glad you’re back,” he said quietly. “It was dull around here without you.”

“I missed you too, brother.” With that, she was gone, and Arthur stared blankly at his computer, wondering what he was going to do.

~oOo~

Merlin slipped through the door of The Rising Sun and shook the wet out of his hair. Leave it to him to forget an umbrella when the forecast called for it to start bucketing down. 

“Merlin! Over here!” He looked in the direction of the voice, caught sight of Gwaine, and felt his shoulders relax. He’d met Gwaine the week before when the folklorist had walked into his office hours with a smug look and informed Merlin that some of the Celtic mythology students were drooling over his course.

“Mate, I’ve never heard undergrads gush like that,” Gwaine had said, flopping into a chair and taking a bite of an apple. “I had to meet the legend himself.”

“I don’t think I’m a legend, Dr … er, Orkney, was it?”

“Gwaine, mate, just Gwaine.” He’d grinned, propping his feet up on Merlin’s desk, shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

Merlin had smiled. “Well, Gwaine, I do have to say your students are delightful. Did you know Mordred speaks proto-Celtic?”

“Won’t shut up about it. I think he’s trying to use it to flirt with Kara, but she’s too focussed on her studies of the fae folk to notice. Anyway! How’s the department treating you? I’m language-adjacent only—no one really keeps me full-time. I bounce amongst languages, history, and literature, collecting all the hot goss.” At that, he had waggled his eyebrows.

Merlin had turned a snort into a cough before replying. “I think I’m too new to have anything of use to share.”

“Well, my boyfriend is in your department, so I guess I can rely on him for that.” Grinning, Gwaine had stood then and pocketed his apple. “But, mate, you’re breathing new life into the modern languages—Monmouth was a dusty old dinosaur. Pleased to have you on board. You’ll come to pub nights, yeah? First pint on me.” 

Merlin had felt a little overwhelmed, but pleased, at the effusive welcome. “Yeah, pub nights sound grand. Thanks, Dr Ork—er, Gwaine.”

With a wink and a click of his tongue, Gwaine had ambled out the door, and Merlin hadn’t wiped the grin off his face for an hour.

Hurrying over to the table now, Merlin smiled and dropped into an empty chair. “Thanks for the invitation.”

“Oh, that’s all Morgs’ doing,” Gwaine said, nodding towards a woman with striking features. “We missed her while she was on sabbatical. By the way, this is Leon deGrace, my adoring significant other and, incidentally, deputy chair of classics. Have you two been introduced yet?”

Merlin looked at the man whose shoulders Gwaine’s arm was draped over, and stuck his hand out. “No, not yet. Merlin Hunithson.”

“Pleasure,” the man said with a soft smile, light brown curls with a hint of ginger falling about his face. “And I believe you’ve met Morgs—that’s short for Morgana Pendragon, our resident Portuguese expert. She teaches Spanish and Catalan too when we need it.”

From the end of the table where she was engaged in conversation with a statuesque blonde woman, Morgana waved. 

Merlin waved back. “She blew into my office earlier, invited me out tonight, and then swept out again, so I guess I’ve met her by the barest definition of the word. I didn’t realise she was another Pendragon. Are they—that is, she and Arthur. Are they married?” 

At that, Gwaine did an actual spit-take, while Leon smiled benevolently. “Far from it. Half-siblings. The previous department head was their father. I grew up with them—family friends.”

A large man appeared then with a tray of pints, smiling shyly. “I’m Percival, but most everyone calls me Percy,” he said to Merlin as he distributed the glasses. “I study Sanskrit and Hindi, primarily, but I dabble in native and aboriginal languages of the Americas and beyond, too.”

Goggling a bit, Merlin raised his glass in recognition. “We didn’t have nearly this breadth of study at Ealdor,” he said. “I still feel like the cat that got the cream, having ended up at Camelot.”

Morgana materialised and slid into the seat next to him. “You trained with Gaius White, didn’t you?” She sipped a cocktail—obviously pints were not her style—and arched a perfect eyebrow at him.

Merlin nodded. “He discovered me, I guess you’d say, and recruited me to Ealdor to mentor me. But he came from Camelot, right?” 

“Oh, yes,” Morgana replied. “He worked closely with my father, but left to head the Ealdor department before most of us here began our training. Morgause did study with him when she was an undergrad, though.” She indicated the blonde woman she’d been speaking to earlier. 

“Morgause Gorlois? Finnish and Estonian?” Merlin asked, sipping his pint. “Gaius mentioned her, and I read her book on women in Estonian poetry.”

“The very same.” Morgana arched an eyebrow. “Do you speak Finno-Ugric languages too?”

Merlin nodded, feeling the blush rise on his cheeks. “I can pick up more or less any language,” he admitted. “It’s a strange talent, but luckily it aligns with my interests, so it’s served me well.”

Morgana’s eyes took on an eager glint. “We are fortunate indeed to have landed you, then!” she exclaimed.

“Ha, thanks. My best friend’s brother just calls it the world’s nerdiest party trick.”

“Speaking of brothers,” Morgana said with a smirk as she tipped her chin to the door and waved. “Arthur!” 

Merlin blanched. He hadn’t actually interacted with Pendragon since their odd conversation at the coffee shop, which he still couldn’t, with any certainty, classify as either an argument or … well, something else. For a day or two afterwards, he’d tried to summon the courage to go to the chair’s office and make a fresh start, but time had got the better of him. Instead, he found himself lurking (not at all suspiciously) in the corridors during Pendragon’s Virgil lecture, listening with awe at the way he brought a dead language to life. His students likely didn’t appreciate the absolute genius of a professor who could truly speak Latin, but Merlin could tell that his interpretation and facility were second to none. 

That kind of skill made him even more stupidly attractive, actually, which Merlin refused to let himself think about too closely.

Then, as Merlin began meeting other members of the department, he’d realised they all had nothing but kind words about the chair: how he’d lived in his father’s shadow for so long, but had really stepped up as a leader when Uther had passed; how he was constantly working to make the department appealing to new students, even if they skewed to modern languages over the classics, which were his true passion. Sure, he could be stand-offish, they mentioned—who wouldn’t be, taking charge of a prestigious department at a tender age, following in the footsteps of the man who happened to have written what were still considered the pre-eminent biographies and analyses of Homer and Virgil—but at heart he was generous and fair.

Every time Pendragon’s name arose in conversation after that, Merlin had felt a peculiar flutter in his chest, like a single butterfly had taken flight.

The man in question came into view then, and Merlin reassessed: it wasn’t a single butterfly, it was a swarm. After hours, the chair had loosened his tie, suit jacket abandoned in favour of a mac thanks to the rain. He clapped Leon on the shoulder, shook Gwaine’s hand, and then kissed his sister on the cheek. “You all started without me, as usual,” he said with a put-upon sigh.

“Perhaps if you’d confirmed you’d be here, brother dear, we’d have waited,” Morgana said. 

“I wasn’t sure I would be. Aredian came by to sneer at me about what he claims are budget overruns and what I argue are fair wages for talented faculty,” he replied, rolling his eyes. 

“Well, you know he won’t give any credence to a field of study that doesn’t produce a constant stream of money-grubbing—” Morgana began.

“No political talk at pub sessions!” Gwaine interrupted.

With a nod, Pendragon continued, “And that happened right after I spent nearly an hour consoling Drea that her less-than-stellar mark in Ovid last term wouldn’t prevent her from earning an Upper Second.”

“That girl is too hard on herself,” Leon said, commiserating.

“She is. And this term she’s taking courses she’ll sail through, so it’s really not going to be a concern, but the poor thing was just sobbing. I couldn’t turn her out on her ear.”

Merlin took it all in. Pendragon couldn’t be much older than he was—thirty at the most, to Merlin’s twenty-seven, he reckoned. From the sound of it, the man was knee-deep in administrative woes, but still taking the time to deal with students compassionately and wisely. Merlin wanted to hate him for being so … perfect.

“Well, that’s all right, Arthur,” Morgana said, tone honey-sweet. “We’ll forget your tardiness if you get the next round.”

“Fair dues. Same for everyone?” The heads around the table nodded, and he added, “Hunithson, come help me carry it.”

Merlin stood, grumbling, “I can see why you’re the chair, my lord. You’re good at giving orders.” 

Wincing internally, Merlin berated himself. What the fuck is wrong with you that you just can’t keep a civil tongue in your head when you talk to him? Then he blushed as he desperately tried not to think about anything else that involved both Pendragon and the word ‘tongue’—despite that being a difficult task for a linguist.

“Just Arthur is fine, Hunithson.”

“Um, what?” Merlin had zoned out, and now he felt like he was on his back foot yet again.

Mouth twisting as if to hold back a laugh, Arthur replied, “Instead of ‘professor’, or ‘my lord’, or whatever other forms of address you somehow manage to make sound like insults, you can just call me Arthur. At least when we’re off campus.”

Merlin blinked rapidly. “Er, all right. If you call me Merlin,” he said at last. 

A quick, sharp nod. “Deal.”

As he trailed Arthur to the bar, Merlin tried to slow his racing mind. Yes, their first two meetings had been rather confrontational, but he supposed that if Pen—Arthur—was willing to let his (unintentional, but still uncalled for) rudeness slide, he could do the same.

Clearing his throat, he stepped closer as Arthur placed the order. “Listen, can I at least get yours? As an olive branch?”

Arthur turned the devastatingly handsome grin on him. “How very ancient Greek of you.”

Merlin shrugged awkwardly. “Yeah, well, the ancient Greeks weren’t all bad. And … you know. I didn’t—that is, after sticking my foot in my mouth twice on my first day, I feel I should apologise for being so … hot-headed.” 

Arthur’s nose scrunched up (which is not at all cute, Merlin, get a hold of yourself ) as he said, “Actually, I wanted to tell you, as well, that … I suppose my actions were probably a little unfair to you. It was slightly unprofessional to critique your teaching style without even seeing it in action.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Slightly?”

“Yes?”

“Wow.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “That’s it? Eloquent.” 

“Look, can you not be a clotpole for twenty seconds?”

“Clotpole? I am certain that isn’t a word.”

“It absolutely is—who’s the modernist here? Anyway, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that even if that was a piss-poor apology—”

“Oi!”

“—you still haven’t encouraged the vice-chancellor to sack me.”

Arthur barked out a laugh at that. “Believe me, it has taken some restraint.”

Merlin couldn’t suppress a chuckle too. “I appreciate it all the more, then.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “So. Your drink?”

A series of unreadable expressions flitted over Arthur’s face before he said quietly, “That would be inappropriate.”

Blinking, Merlin valiantly ignored the disappointment settling, unbidden and unwelcome, in his gut. “I see,” he said, despite absolutely not seeing, and reached out to gather several of the glasses the bartender had slid over to them.

A hand on his elbow—hot, firm—stopped him, and he looked over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow as the blond head shook. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?” Merlin felt anger percolating in him now, although he couldn’t say whether it was directed at Arthur or himself. Why did his every interaction with this bloke seem to go sideways?

“Like I didn’t want you to buy me a drink,” Arthur replied, biting his lower lip—which Merlin definitely didn’t watch—before seeming to recover his professional demeanour. “It’s just that the term has barely begun and I have to avoid being seen to play favourites.”

“From what I’ve heard, modern-language speakers are never your favourites,” Merlin shot back.

Arthur sighed wearily, and Merlin had the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and smooth the crease between his eyebrows. “That’s been true in the past, but maybe … maybe new developments have led me to believe I need to be more open-minded.”

Reflexively, Merlin quipped, “Don’t hurt yourself thinking too hard about it.”

With an incredulous laugh, Arthur replied, “Thanks. I’ll try not to.” Then he cleared his throat to add, “You’ve been here less than a month and you’re already the department’s most popular instructor. So I—I want to know more about your teaching, your interests. About … you.” 

Merlin bit the edge of his lip and let his eyes flick over Arthur’s (annoyingly beautiful) face. The steely arrogance from their first meeting was gone, and there was something there, an openness, that made Merlin’s anger—or frustration, or confusion, or all of it—bleed away. Letting his mouth quirk into a small smile, he said at last, “Okay. I’d like that.” 

They carried the drinks back to the table, and Merlin slid back into his seat. He didn’t say much as chatter resumed, answering questions put to him but largely just listening to the others … and watching Arthur. The group chatted about their lectures and swapped stories about students they knew well, and Merlin could almost see how Arthur let the weight of heading the department dissolve, becoming just one of the gang. He rolled his eyes at student antics and debated with the rest about the best time of day to lecture—not as their boss, but as their colleague. Their friend.

Merlin wanted to hate that Arthur had meant it when he’d said he was an expert in collegiality, but he couldn’t. In fact, he admired it, knowing it would make him an even better leader.

Maybe it was the warmth of the wood-panelled booth and the soft amber lighting, but as Merlin sipped his pint, unable to tear his eyes away from the golden head and sparkling blue eyes, he thought that Arthur almost seemed to glow. Every so often, he caught Arthur looking at him, too, his gaze almost fond.

It all crystallised when Leon told a story about a new Classics student named Forridel, who seemed to have a chip on her shoulder—about what, Leon couldn’t say. “But I do have to wonder if she might not have chosen a language she could yell in more efficiently,” he finished. Everyone laughed, but Arthur threw his head back in an enormous guffaw, and the swarm of butterflies swooped around Merlin’s stomach again.

Well, fuck. Merlin set his pint glass down, the realisation hitting him like a punch to the gut. I might really like him.

A buzz in his pocket called him back to the moment, and he pulled out his mobile to check his texts. “I’d best be getting home,” he announced to no one in particular.

“Aw, don’t go yet,” Gwaine said with an exaggerated pout. “The night is young!”

Merlin smiled but shook his head. “I’m not much for late nights, and I don’t want Gwen to worry.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur stiffen, his face shutter, and hurried to add, “But I’ll see you all Monday.”

The rest smiled and chorused their goodbyes as Merlin gathered his things. When he turned to bid Arthur farewell personally, though, Arthur had disappeared.

~oOo~

Steam curled above Arthur’s teacup as he stared, unseeing, at his annotations on Book IV of the Aeneid. He was not in the mood to teach one of the most tragic love stories of all time next week—possibly never again, given how utterly incompetent he was at finding a love story of his own.

He’d been enjoying himself at the pub the previous night. After spending much of the afternoon considering his conversation with Morgana, he’d admitted to himself that he really did find Merlin intriguing. Obviously, they’d only had those two meetings full of sarcastic one-upmanship, but after listening to his lectures, and replaying their bantering interactions in his mind, Arthur knew he wanted to get to know him.

So he’d tried to apologise for his previous boorish behaviour, and while Merlin hadn’t been wrong in calling the apology lackluster, he had seemed to accept it. He had even gotten in one or two cheeky, teasing jabs that made something pleasant twist in Arthur’s core. And Arthur could have sworn that Merlin had been looking at him the rest of the evening, with a soft smile on his lips and something bordering on desire in his eyes.

Until he’d announced he had to go home … to a woman.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He really must have been off the market too long if his gaydar was that broken.

HIs mobile buzzed, and Arthur groaned. Absolutely no one should be ringing him before nine on a Saturday. He declined the call and sent a text. 

-There is no possible reason you need me right now, Morgana.-

-Yes there is, you nitwit. Why did you disappear last night?-
-You went to the gents’ right as Merlin was leaving, and then you scarpered.-

-Because I had already made a fool of myself and wanted to get a good night’s sleep.-
-Read: wallow in my misery.-

He rolled his eyes at himself. He had done just that: come home, poured himself two fingers of whiskey, and moped round his flat, wondering if he’d always be alone. Since as far back as he could remember, Arthur had found emotional support in the epic tales of love and sacrifice he studied. In his own life, however, romance eluded him. He had no interest in casual sex, which seemed a big part of the gay scene in Camelot. Sure, he could look at a bloke he didn’t know and assess if he found him hot or not, but it was always in an abstract way. He didn’t really fancy someone until he got to know them.

Arthur craved connection, closeness—things he’d never really received in his home life growing up—and couldn’t imagine opening up physically to someone towards whom he felt no emotional pull. 

A pull like he’d felt with Merlin, the first time he’d laid eyes on him, all dark hair and pale skin and crystal blue eyes. Merlin drew him in like a magnet. He wanted to know him, to fall into his orbit.

Morgana’s reply popped up with a chime.

-A fool how?-
-I’m the first person to tell you when you’ve done something stupid.-
-Amazingly, last night, you weren’t a complete pillock.-

-Harpy.-
-Suffice it to say, I may have eyes for Hunithson, but he doesn’t for me.-

The three dots appeared quickly this time.

-Oh, Arthur. 🥺-
-I thought you two were getting on.-
-What happened?-

-Nothing happened.-
-We did get on, and we seemed to-
-IDK, make a tentative start of … something.-
-But then he went home to someone named Gwen.-

-Could be a sister.-
-After all, you’re talking to yours right now.-

-🙄-

-Emojis don’t suit you, brother dear. 😘-

-When was the last time you worried if I was late home?-

-Fair point.-

Arthur sighed, shoving a hand in his hair as he thumbed out a rapid-fire series of messages.

-It’s fine, Morgana.-
-Not as though we can’t be friends.-
-I just thought maybe he-
-No, nvm. That’s all.-

Tossing his mobile onto the kitchen table, Arthur groaned and scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. However, as usual, Morgana seemed to read his mind.

-He’s not Cenred.-

Suddenly, anger blazed through Arthur, and he smashed the icon to call her, launching into a diatribe before she’d fully spoken his name in greeting. “Fine, yes. He’s not Cenred. He didn’t flirt with me until I cautiously accepted his invitation of a date, despite being wary of intradepartmental relationships. He didn’t wine and dine me until I found myself falling for him, not knowing he had a long-distance boyfriend on the side. And as far as I know he’s not planning to root through my research and plagiarise it to publish under his own name, nor will I have to be dragged through an academic review board during which, although I’m the wronged party, my own father will look at me with disgust because of the revelations about my sexual orientation that are shared with the entire uni administration. There. Is that everything you were going to say?”

Morgana’s sigh echoed down the line. “Arthur. What you went through with Cenred was awful. No one will deny that. But you can’t let it convince you never to date again. Given who you are, how you are, it’s far more likely for you to meet someone with whom you get on at work than it would be at a bar or a club.” She paused before adding softly, “Not everyone is going to break your heart.”

“I know.” The fury he’d felt a moment prior dissipated, leaving him drained. “And I am willing to give it a chance, but I’m certainly not going to make a move on a new faculty member who appears to be taken already. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Hm.” There was a clacking sound, and Arthur could tell Morgana was typing. “I, for one, didn’t at all get the impression that Merlin is in a relationship. He doesn’t wear a ring, his Instagram appears to be travel pictures—a tour of castles in Brittany and Normandy last year, how charming—”

“Oh good lord, Morgana, are you internet-stalking him?” Arthur gaped.

“Yes, because you’re too bloody ridiculous to do it yourself. Ooh, he’s got gorgeous photos of some illuminated medieval manuscripts—there’s an actual Gutenberg in here! And would you look at that, a trip around Provence to Roman ruins.”

Groaning, Arthur sipped his lukewarm tea; he could actually hear the smirk in Morgana’s voice. “Fine, yes, obviously we share many interests. It’s also possible that one of them is not putting everything about our lives on social media. Like pictures of his partner, for example.”

“He’s got an entire series, quite artistic in point of fact, of the Maison Carrée in Nîmes. Damn, I’m starting to be attracted to him myself.”

“Morgana.”

“All right, I’ll stop.” A faint click indicated her laptop closing before she continued, “But I do think you might have got the wrong idea. After you brought the drinks back from the bar together—without coming to fisticuffs, I might add—I swear he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Despite himself, Arthur felt a tiny spark of hope somewhere under his sternum. “I … well, I don’t know what to say about that. But regardless, it’s not as though I can just walk up to him and ask him if he’s single, or something other than straight, or both.”

“Blah blah position of authority, yes, I know,” she drawled. “I’m merely encouraging you not to write off the idea completely. Besides, it wasn’t as though you planned to fall straight into bed with him, was it?”

Arthur grimaced in distaste. “God no, Morgana, you know I’m not … I don’t do that.”

“Exactly. So ask him to coffee, get to know him. You like him, Arthur, and that could be platonic as well as romantic. It’s still valid regardless of if you end up dating. Don’t shut down in a panic.”

Starting at the dregs of tea in his cup, Arthur said, “I really hate how well you know me.”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“Brilliant. I’m not on campus again until Wednesday, by the way; I’m flying out to Milan to review some of my research with Nimueh Benedict.”

“How you turned a term sabbatical into a year of paid world travel I’ll never know, but please teach me your secrets.”

“Hush. Text if you need me?”

“Always.” They rang off, and Arthur shook his head as if he could physically clear the fog roiling around in it. He could acknowledge that Merlin hadn’t explicitly mentioned a relationship, and he thought he got at least a subtle interest vibe from him. Maybe he had overreacted and overcorrected. And even if not, well … there were indeed worse things in life than making a colleague a friend.

Pushing it all to the back of his mind, he went to pop some bread in the toaster and return to his lesson plans. Dido and Aeneas were on deck, love and lust on full display to a tragic end, and he thought, perhaps, he just might manage it after all.

~oOo~

Merlin lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I’m so confused, Gwennie,” he whined.

Clucking her tongue at him, she continued sewing. “Because you’re overthinking it, darling,” she said.

“I thought we had buried the hatchet, but then he disappeared,” Merlin continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “And, you know, I’d been getting little looks from him … I thought he was interested? At least a bit? So what did I do wrong?”

She huffed a bit and snapped a thread with her teeth. “Nothing, love. Maybe he just needed a wee.”

As he sat up, Merlin shoved a hand in his hair. “Yeah. Fair. I just … I don’t know. He’d been relaxing, I could see it, and—oh, shit.” 

When no more words were forthcoming, Gwen raised her head. “Oh shit?” she asked.

“What if he’s straight?” Merlin chewed at his thumbnail. “Like, what if he’s straight, and realised I was into him, and … oh my God, I’m so sacked.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Merlin Hunithson, you are not sacked. I’m putting that in the flatmate rules: no more mentions of sacking. Plus, I know you’re worried about proving yourself in this job, but I think it’s fair to say the uni’s language department isn’t in the habit of sacking people for imagined offences.”

“Don’t be logical,” Merlin muttered. “It ruins my pity party.”

Sighing, Gwen set her sewing down in her lap. “Merlin, I adore you, but not everything has to be drama. Have the two of you tried just having a regular human conversation?”

“In which language?” Merlin grumped.

“Well, pick one,” Gwen replied happily. “I’m sure there are several that you both speak fluently.”

With a groan, Merlin turned and flopped onto his face. “Mphnx,” he said into the cushion.

A chime sounded then, and Merlin angled his face to be able to breathe as Gwen picked up her mobile, then smiled. “Lance says hi,” she relayed as she began to type out a reply.

“Grmph,” Merlin replied, pushing his face back into the cushion.

“I didn’t catch that.”

Merlin lifted his head enough to say, “You and your perfect fairytale romance. And I haven’t gotten laid in … I’ve lost track of how long it’s been.”

Sighing, Gwen set her mobile down. “Is that what you want these days, though? A hot one-off whose name you won’t remember the next morning? Because I’m sure you could find plenty, but it seems to me you’ve left that phase in the past.”

He wrinkled his nose in a look of distaste. “Yeah, I think I have done. I thought about going into my dating apps to change my location from Ealdor to Camelot, but realised it wasn’t worth the bother. It’s too … unfulfilling. I deleted them instead.”

“Hunith will be relieved, at least. You know she worries about the whole hook-up scene.”

“I don’t know what’s more disturbing: that you discuss my sex life with my mother, or … no. That’s definitely the most disturbing thing I’ve heard.”

“We’ve been best friends too long for me not to discuss your sex life with your mother.” 

Merlin hauled himself up off the sofa and headed for the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Always, darling.” Gwen scrutinised her sewing. “Ugh, this isn’t turning out properly at all.”

“It’ll be brilliant, Gwennie,” Merlin called over his shoulder.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Merlin chewed his thumbnail again and thought about what Gwen had said. He would admit he had a tendency to catastrophise when he was uncertain about himself. He had no qualms about his ability with language and linguistics, but when it came to dating, well … there was a reason his best mate from childhood had made it an annual tradition to give him items proclaiming him a  “Gay Disaster!” or “Hot 🔥 Mess” (total so far: four mugs, three t-shirts, a beach towel, and one pair of boxer-briefs with “dis-ASS-ter” on the bum that Merlin had immediately thrown in Will’s face and sworn never to wear). He’d not had the chance to date in school—perils of being queer in a small town—and his one uni boyfriend, Edwin, had somehow been both condescending and terrible in bed. After they were over, he threw himself into his studies, finding research more rewarding than the mediocre blow-jobs from anonymous Grindr matches that Gwen seemed pleased he was leaving in the past.

The whistle of the kettle pulled him back to the moment. As he carried the mugs back into the sitting room, he saw Gwen typing back to Lance, a warm, happy grin on her face, and he spared a moment to wallow in his own loneliness. Then he steeled himself. Pendragon—Arthur, he reminded his brain—had said he wanted to get to know Merlin. Whatever that ended up looking like, Merlin had to at least give it a go.

Monday morning, freshly showered and shaved, he popped into the coffee shop just at the edge of campus. “Good morning, sir,” said the barista—George, Merlin knew already (so sue him for his caffeine habit; he’d been here more or less daily in the first few weeks of term). And George, he’d come to notice, seemed to know everything about everyone.

“Morning, George,” Merlin said. “And I have a question for you.”

George’s placid face took on a look of moderate interest. “Yes?”

“Do you happen to know what Professor Pendragon drinks?”

“Which one?” George asked evenly.

“Ah, right,” Merlin muttered. “The chair, Arthur. I …” Merlin tried to will himself not to blush. “I wanted to buy his coffee this morning.”

George nodded. “Dry cappuccino, extra shot, no sugar.” 

“Vas-y,” Merlin replied, pulling out his card, only to take in George’s blank expression. “Erm, sorry, brain switched over to French—never mind. One of those and my latte, please. Oh, and a croissant, cheers.” He tapped his card, moving to the side even though the shop wasn’t busy yet. 

He made his way to the department offices, pastry tucked in his bag so he wouldn’t spill the drinks—it would be just his luck to dump hot coffee all over Pendragon’s designer shoes. He planned to leave the drink on Arthur’s desk with a note, but found himself thwarted when he saw the blond head bent over the desk, making notes in the margins of a book. 

Of course he’s so dedicated he’s in early on a Monday. Gorgeous, obnoxious prat.

Merlin knocked with his elbow on the open door, clearing his throat. “Morning.”

Arthur looked up, then down, then up again, eyes going wide. “Merlin. Er, Dr Hunithson. Um. What?” 

“Since I couldn’t buy you a drink Friday night, I bought you a coffee today.” Merlin shrugged, setting the paper cup down on the mahogany desk.

“Oh. I. Er.” Arthur stared at the steam coiling out of the mouth of the lid.

“Excellent word choice,” Merlin said, tongue peeking between his teeth as he smiled. 

Swallowing hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobbed—which Merlin did not watch, not at all—Arthur said, “Thank you. You didn’t have to, to do this.”

Heart doing a strange flip in his chest, Merlin nodded in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. “I was there anyway. Might as well prove that modern speakers aren’t all bad, right?” He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “It’s a cappuccino, extra shot. George knew your order.”

“George?”

“Probably below you posh classicist types to know the names of the plebs at the corner café,” Merlin replied, hoping belatedly that Arthur would hear it for the tease he meant and not as another criticism. Note to self: don’t interact before caffeine.

Luckily, Arthur seemed to, as he huffed a small laugh and shook his head. “Would you like to—that is, do you have time to sit and chat?” He gestured to the seat opposite.

Merlin blinked a bit owlishly. “Oh. I suppose, yeah, I … sure.” He flopped into the chair, setting his bag on the floor. After a moment, he pulled out the paper bag with the croissant. “I have this, too, if you want to split it.”

“I’m good, but go ahead.” Arthur popped the lid off his cup and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, and took a sip, as Merlin bit into his pastry. “George and Morris make excellent coffee. And Audrey rarely leaves the kitchen to come out and say hello, but her baking is second to none.”

Spluttering a bit (and desperately trying not to spray crumbs everywhere), Merlin forced out, “So you do know their names.”

“Yes, Merlin. I really would be an arse if I hadn’t picked that up over the past several years.” Merlin cringed, but then he saw the crooked tooth peeking out of a half smile, and relaxed. Arthur went on, “You just caught me a bit off guard, as I wasn’t anticipating anyone else in the office so early. What does bring you to campus now? You don’t lecture until noon, and even you can’t be that much of an idiot to show up over four hours early when you haven’t even got office hours.” Merlin could have sworn he saw a faint blush on Arthur’s cheeks as he added the last part.

Merlin shrugged. “I’m an early riser. I like to get the day started, and since I’m crashing in my flatmate’s sewing room, it’s more comfortable to get out of there and come here.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Flatmate?”

“Mm-hm. I had to move from Ealdor so quickly when I got the position, I didn’t really have time to hunt for a flat. My best friend came up here a few years ago though. She let me take the fold-out sofa she keeps around for her brother when he’s in town. It isn’t the most comfortable, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Nodding slowly, Arthur asked, “Is your … friend affiliated with the university?”

“Only uni-adjacent,” Merlin replied. “Works with textiles at the sustainability centre. Right now the team’s focus is on creating clothing using threads and fabrics made out of recycled plastic bottles.”

“That’s fascinating,” Arthur said, and Merlin thought it sounded sincere. 

Swallowing a bite of his pastry, Merlin nodded. “She’s amazing. We met the first year of undergrad. A group of us studying Middle English mounted a performance of a morality play, The Castle of Perseverance. She helped make the costumes, period-accurate and everything. Been friends ever since.”

“You really are so much more than merely a modern-language scholar,” Arthur murmured. Then, louder, he asked, “And your girlfriend doesn’t mind you living with another woman?”

Merlin hadn’t been aware a person could actually choke on air until that moment, as he performed an excellent rendition of doing just that. “My who in the what now?” he managed, when he could draw air into his lungs again.

“Er, Gwen. The woman who texted you and you left the pub night.” 

“Yeah. That would be the same woman we’re currently discussing. Gwen, my best friend and current flatmate.”

Arthur’s brow creased in confusion. “Wait. It was your flatmate who texted to make sure you didn’t stay out late?”

“I still don’t know my way around that well,” Merlin said with a shrug. “I have a terrible sense of direction, too. So she’s a bit of a mother hen.”

“Then … you’re not dating?”

Merlin shook his head vehemently. “Good God, no. She’s having this wildly romantic love affair with a bloke named Lance she met doing some charity event to help end childhood hunger. And she’s straight as a board, whereas I am very much not.”

“Ah.” Arthur pressed his lips together and looked back at his notes. For a moment, Merlin worried that he’d crossed a line for acceptable workplace topics of conversation. Then he noticed that a bit of pink had flushed Arthur’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Oh.

Oh.

Had Arthur stopped flirting with him at the pub because he thought Merlin was in a relationship? With a woman? Christ, Merlin, you really are a fucking disaster.

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, sipping their coffees, while Merlin frantically searched his brain for a way to ask Arthur out without it being wildly inappropriate. Just as he went to open his mouth, however, his mobile buzzed. “Oh, hell,” he sighed. “My mum wants to chat with me before my first lecture. Can’t say no … you know how mums are.”

“Ah, not really, no,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Never knew mine. Died in childbirth.”

Merlin felt his eyes go impossibly wide. “Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t be expected to. Don’t worry about it.” Arthur’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Merlin felt a pang of sadness for him. Then Arthur cleared his throat. “Listen, I have to start scheduling observations soon. Is there a day, or a lesson, you’d prefer I attend?”

Struggling to gather all his things without his limbs flailing about like a gangly colt—and utterly failing—Merlin shook his head. “Nope, anything is fine. Unless you have a language you prefer to see taught. One you know, or one you don’t, whatever. I can adjust my lesson plans to accommodate pretty much whatever you want. Just email me and I’ll get back to you about it.”

“Or …” Arthur hesitated, and Merlin froze, worrying he’d said the wrong thing, until Arthur held out his mobile. “If you want, put my number in yours and text me. The IT folks won’t let us put our uni email on external devices, so text is better. If that’s all right with you.”

“Yeah, ’course it is.” Merlin quickly thumbed in Arthur’s number, then handed the device back before finally slinging his satchel’s strap over his shoulder. “See you, then.”

“See you.”

As he headed to his own office, Merlin opened the contact he’d named Posh Prat and typed out a message.

-Hot take: 85 is Catullus’ best poem.-
-(Hi, it’s Merlin)-

He held his breath until the reply came through. 

-You have good taste in Latin poetry.-
-Still a bit of an idiot, I suppose, but one with taste.-
-Thanks again for the coffee.-

Pocketing his mobile, Merlin opened his office door, a wide smile on his face. He’d never met anyone who might actually understand and appreciate his special brand of language scholar, which he could admit toed the line between “nerd” and “fanatic.” Edwin certainly hadn’t, calling his studies a waste of an agile mind. But Arthur … well, Arthur just might. And Merlin was determined, now, to find out.

~oOo~

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enough!” he announced, voice dangerously close to a shout. 

His students’ chatter stuttered to a halt.

Surveying the class, Arthur pursed his lips. He squared his shoulders, instinctually standing taller, prouder. He let the silence expand to fill the space, waiting.

Finally, he spoke.

“You.” He sent his gaze over his students’ faces. “You are Classics students. Do I expect you to have conversational ability in Latin? No, of course I don’t. But I do expect you to be able to pay attention better than a bunch of Year 10s taking the beginning of Latin GCSE. I expect you to be able to scan and translate off-the-cuff, to discuss Virgil’s use of poetic devices in a real and meaningful manner. And above all, I expect you to listen when you have an instructor who actually can speak the language that you have, might I remind you, declared as your expertise on which to base your own future careers.” He paused for effect, then crossed his arms over his chest. “Damn straight I expect all that.” 

The students appeared cowed, and Arthur hated himself for it. He knew he was an anomaly: almost no one learned Latin as a spoken language these days. But it had come to him easily, in a way modern languages rarely did. And he loved it—adored it. He didn’t expect his students to be the same, but he did require a certain respect and level of attention in class, which this seminar had long since lost. Students weren’t following along, weren’t taking notes or marking up their texts, couldn’t tell him if Virgil was using metaphor or simile. They’d never pass the course if they didn’t shape up.

“Sir,” said Daegal after a moment. “The thing is, we’re used to understanding everything in the text from reading it. We do all our coursework in writing. We don’t even have an oral defence of our thesis. So what’s the point of making us listen to it and try to discuss it aloud?”

Arthur sighed. He’d never had a seminar like this, and worse, he felt like he’d caused it, because his mind hadn’t been on his students lately. 

It was on Merlin.

Ever since their impromptu coffee together, they’d begun texting regularly. 

-Do you teach Ovid’s Amores?-

-Not this term.-
-Metamorphoses instead.-

-Damn. I always thought it would be funny to follow up Amores II.6 with this-

Arthur had burst out laughing in the corridor, nearly missing the follow-up.

-(If you’re too posh to recognise that, we can’t be friends.)-

He shot back a reply immediately.

-Do we think Corinna’s parrot was pining for the fjords?-

-🦜😍-

Merlin’s messages were funny, quick-witted, and (dare Arthur think it?) even a little flirty, but also sincere. It was as though he’d taken to heart what Arthur had said at the bar, that he wanted to get to know him better. As they taught at opposite times and rarely ran into each other in the office, it seemed like a low-pressure way to connect. In fact, Arthur found himself reaching out when Merlin hadn't sent anything in a while.

-I’ve just had Gilli Davies in my office.-
-He said your lecture today was amazing.-

-Surprised? I thought we’d moved past that 😉-
-You’re such a  dollop-head.-

-What, pray tell, is a dollop-head?-

-In 2 words?-
-Arthur Pendragon 😂-

-🙄-

-Did that hurt, using an emoji?-

-Very funny, Merlin.-

-In all seriousness-
-It was a good lecture-
-I enjoy French Romantic poets ❤️-
-Rimbaud, Verlaine, Apollinaire-
-Does that make me a 🏳️‍🌈 stereotype?-
-Oh well, it's not incorrect 😉-

-I should give the Romantics another go.-

-I’ve got a bunch on the shelf in my office-
-I have them in translation as well, if you need-
-And I won’t tell anyone if you do 😀-

-Dollop-head.-

-That’s my word!-

-And it suits you.-

-😁-

Their banter had become the highlight of Arthur’s days, although he knew his teaching had suffered as he’d lost focus on the lessons.

Instead, he continued to stroll the corridors during Merlin’s lectures, hovering just near enough to the open door to hear him speak. When Merlin played “Hotel California” for his modern French lit students reading Sartre’s Huis Clos, Arthur couldn’t deny it any longer; he was well and truly gone on this ridiculous man, who was clearly some kind of savant with teaching language and making it accessible and relatable to barely post-adolescent students.

Sighing, Arthur slumped into the chair next to the lectern. “You know what? Let’s just call it for today. Make sure to prepare a working translation of Book III for our upcoming lecture.”

The students began to gather their things, when the door to the lecture hall swung open. Arthur glanced up, then froze, as Merlin entered the room. He suddenly seemed far less lanky, shoulders broader than Arthur had noticed before. He spread his hands wide before him and began to speak as he strode slowly up the aisle.

“Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris
Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit
litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto
vi superum saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram;
multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem,
inferretque deos Latio, genus unde Latinum,
Albanique patres, atque altae moenia Romae.”

His voice was strong, sure, and Arthur couldn’t entirely remember how to make his heart beat properly as he listened to him intone the famous first stanza. He’d known Merlin had to have a working relationship with Latin, given his field and his mentioning a Catullus poem in his first text message, but he had no idea Merlin could do this, could speak the poetry so that it sounded organic. Modern.

Rising to his feet when Merlin reached the front of the lecture hall, Arthur inhaled deeply before responding.

“Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso,
quidve dolens, regina deum tot volvere casus
insignem pietate virum, tot adire labores
impulerit. Tantaene animis caelestibus irae?”

Clearing his throat, Arthur turned to the room. His students were watching them, eyes wide. “That is how it’s done. Remember, Latin was a spoken language. When you read it, you have to treat it as such, imagine the audience listening raptly as the bards told the ancient tales in rhyme." He let his gaze rove over the room one more time, then said, "You’re dismissed.”

The students scurried out, and Arthur looked at Merlin. “That was … incredible.”

Merlin grinned, dimples deepening in the slight scruff of day-old stubble that Arthur suddenly wanted to feel on his tongue. “Did you just pay me a compliment?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Savour it; it’s unlikely to occur again.” 

“Clotpole,” Merlin huffed, but the pink tip of his tongue poked between his teeth and his eyes sparkled.

“But truly, how did you do that?”

Cocking his head, Merlin asked, “Do what?”

“That was more than rote memorisation of dactylic hexameter in scansion, Hunithson—”

“Another compliment? I might faint.”

“I’m serious, idiot.”

Merlin smiled again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I love The Aeneid. I’ve read it more times than I can count. The mythology, the struggle Aeneas faces with fulfilling his destiny and how the entire existence of civilisation, as the Romans saw it, relies on him doing so.” He shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You know, your namesake was said to be his descendant.”

Arthur felt himself blush. “King Arthur. Yes, I know.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Merlin pulled one of his hands out of his pocket to run through his hair. “Well. I, um. I suppose I’d best be heading back to the office. Prep for my lecture.”

Brow creasing, Arthur said, “That’s a good point. Why were you—that is, how did you know—?” He wrinkled his nose in confusion.

It was Merlin’s turn to blush, spots of colour high on his cheekbones that Arthur resolutely did not find charming. “I, ah. I may have made it a habit to go for a stroll in the corridors when you’re lecturing.” He worried his lip with his teeth. “So I heard—you know, you with the students, and—”

“Merlin?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.” 

Merlin’s mouth clicked shut, and Arthur let the gears in his brain start to spin. “You go for a stroll … to listen to me lecture?” Arthur asked after a moment, a smirk spreading over his features.

“You don’t have to be a prat about it,” Merlin muttered, and the desire to kiss the embarrassment off his face hit Arthur so strongly he felt nearly winded.

“I do the same thing when you teach,” Arthur blurted out. 

The sky blue of his eyes darkening to cobalt, Merlin took a hesitant step closer to Arthur. “You do?”

“Mm-hm.” Arthur felt a thrill run up his spine at Merlin’s proximity, but willed his voice to stay calm. “I walked by and you were reading to your students in Old French—possibly the oldest known text in the langues d’oïl, in fact, which I know because I’ve read it in Latin—and you had this ability to make it sound current. It took my breath away. And so I kept coming back to listen to more. Even in languages I don’t understand. Your voice, the way you bring them to life … it’s like magic.”

Merlin swallowed hard and licked his lips. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m … well, the department chair. I didn’t want to make an unwelcome advance.” Arthur spun his mother’s ring on his finger, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a teen.

“You must really be a turnip-head if you thought it’d be unwelcome after all the texts about love poems I’ve sent,” Merlin said, voice gone low and gruff.

“Love poems?” Arthur's heart stuttered in his chest. 

Widening his eyes in disbelief, Merlin inched a little closer. “Ode to his lover’s dead parrot. Verlaine and Rimbaud, who, admittedly, had a problematic relationship, but still. Odi et amo.”

“Hm. I’m not sure how to feel about that last one.” 

With an inelegant snort, Merlin replied, “Hate and love do seem a bit like two sides of the same coin. Rather like the two of us, in some ways, since despite my best intentions, it appears I’ve developed a thing for arrogant blond classicists.”

Voice coming out more hoarsely than he wanted, Arthur asked, “So you’ve been flirting with me?”

Merlin threw his hands in the air. “I’ve been trying to, you ridiculous arse!”

“Oh thank God,” Arthur exhaled, and then his hands were on Merlin’s hips. “May I kiss you?”

“How many languages would you like me to say ‘yes’ in?” Merlin murmured, his breath ghosting over Arthur’s lips, and then their mouths brushed together.

Arthur felt a thrill run up his spine as Merlin’s soft lips pressed against his. One of Merlin’s hands cupped the nape of Arthur’s neck, the other settling at the small of his back. Arthur tilted his head slightly, and Merlin’s plush lower lip glided over his own, raising a small noise of delight in the back of his throat. His fingers gripped Merlin’s waist, firm and strong, bringing them almost completely flush to each other, and Merlin seemed to melt into him before flicking the very tip of his tongue against the centre of Arthur’s top lip.

For an endless moment, Arthur’s entire world narrowed the sweet-slick drag of their lips together. He’d snogged a few lads in school, of course, and tried the hook-up scene during uni before deciding drunk one-offs weren’t really his thing, and there had been Cenred—but never before had kissing made his nerves spark with pleasure the way the touch of Merlin’s lips did. Too soon, he thought, Merlin moved back, separating them just enough to speak. “We’re still in the lecture hall,” he said quietly, the hint of a laugh in his voice. “And the door is unlocked.”

Sighing, Arthur leant his forehead to Merlin’s. “And I’m sure it would somehow give Aredian fodder for cutting our budget if he found us here,” he replied. 

Merlin straightened up and looked at him, eyes fond, and inclined his head towards the door. “Shall we?”

Arthur gathered his lecture notes and laptop. Then, before Merlin could move away, he reached for his hand and squeezed it. 

A smile danced at the corners of Merlin’s lips as he glanced at their hands, and wound his fingers through Arthur’s. “This is all right, then?”

Arthur could feel the flush spread over his cheeks as he nodded. “It’s—well, I don’t make a habit of it, but the university bylaws allow us to have intradepartmental relationships. That is, ah. If you are interested.”

“Arthur.” Merlin smiled, the dimples out in full force to make Arthur’s knees weak. “I very much am.”

“Good. Good, right. Splendid,” Arthur said eagerly. “So, um … want to head to my office and, perhaps, share lunch?”

“I have to teach.” Merlin yanked him closer with their joined hands, pecking a quick, chaste kiss to the edge of his mouth. “Which I think you’re supposed to know, oh wise leader.”

“Insolent,” Arthur muttered, tone full of fondness. “Well then. Tomorrow morning, perhaps it’s my turn to bring in coffee for us.”

Merlin smiled, eyes crinkling, making Arthur’s stomach swoop when he replied, “Este o întâlnire. It’s a date.”

~oOo~

Merlin tried to wipe the grin off his face as he deposited his bag in his office. Then he willed his feet to carry him at a not-at-all impatient pace across the small lounge area to Arthur’s office. He’d made a split-second decision the day before to walk into Arthur’s lecture to recite Virgil’s famous words, and hadn’t been quite sure how it would go over. He certainly hadn’t anticipated it ending in a kiss, but he wasn’t going to complain.

Rather, he’d gone home after his last lecture in a bit of a daze, bursting through the flat door with arms held out wide and announcing, “Gwen! He kissed me!”

“Pleased for you, mate,” a low voice had responded from around the corner. Then a pair of warm brown eyes met Merlin’s.

Dropping his bag, Merlin had grinned and hauled the other man into a back-slapping hug. “Lance! I didn’t know you were coming to town!”

Gwen had appeared from the kitchen then, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don’t worry, I’m making enough for three,” she’d said brightly. “Who kissed you?”

“Arthur, obviously. And it was amazing.”

Eyes twinkling, Gwen had replied, “I should hope so, after all the pining and ridiculous text flirting.”

“Oi, like the two of you didn’t do that for months,” Merlin had said, raising an eyebrow in Lance’s general direction.

Gwen had shaken her head, swatting him lightly with a dishtowel. “Dinner’s on, so both of you, come have a seat. Lance, open the wine, and  Merlin, you can regale us with the whole story.” 

“Taskmaster,” Merlin had muttered, earning a glare from Gwen and an ill-hidden chuckle from Lance as they settled in amiably at the table.

Now, he peeked around the edge of the door of Arthur’s office to find the blond head bent over lesson plans, and felt his heart do a rather anatomically impossible backflip. “May I come in?” he said brightly.

From his desk, Arthur looked up at him, giving him the slightly goofy half-grin that displayed his wonky tooth. “It would be rather awkward for you to have coffee while standing in the doorway, Merlin,” he replied, and gestured to the seat opposite, where a take-away coffee cup and a croissant awaited.

With a roll of his eyes that he knew looked more fond than exasperated, Merlin shut the door, walked over to the desk, and shrugged out of his suit coat before continuing around the desk to Arthur. He leant down, breath ghosting over Arthur’s ear. “How hungry are you?”

Arthur’s breathing hitched. “Not terribly, if the alternative is kissing you.”

“Good.” Merlin grabbed one of his hands and hauled him up to standing before capturing his lips in a searing kiss, the spit-slick glide sending tendrils of pleasure curling through his core.

Groaning into Merlin’s mouth, Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin’s waist and manoeuvred him to perch against the edge of the desk. In response, Merlin wound his arms around Arthur’s neck, nipping lightly at his lower lip before tracing his tongue along the spot to soothe it.

Arthur’s lips parted, and Merlin didn’t hesitate, licking into his mouth as if he wanted to devour him. Desire coiled at the base of his spine as he felt one of Arthur’s hands slip to cup his arse, giving it a light squeeze, and he bit off a moan as he dropped his head to kiss along Arthur’s cut-glass jawline. “You have no right being so fucking stunning and a Classicist,” he murmured.

“You’re one to talk, with your voice that sounds perfect in any language and your sparkling eyes and your dark hair and your damned cheekbones,” Arthur gritted out, tipping his head to give Merlin better access to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down his throat.

Voices in the lounge outside called them back to the moment, and they separated, chests heaving and faces flushed as they smiled widely at each other. “So you don’t have a catered full English with white tablecloths and fine cutlery every day?” Merlin asked when he could summon words again, pointing at Arthur’s blueberry scone.

“Would you believe it if I said my father often hosted the three-martini lunch? Wining and dining donors, buttering up the admin for funding, all of that.” Arthur sighed. “But no, that’s not my style. Usually I just work through lunch, in fact.”

“I don’t know much about Uther.” Merlin flopped into the other chair and picked up his coffee, inhaling the dark, rich scent of espresso and steamed milk. “I know his work, a little, but Gaius only said he was a bit old-fashioned in how he ran the place.”

“Ha!” Arthur barked out, sipping his coffee. “That’s very circumspect of Gaius. My father was a bit of a tyrant. He was not at all a fan of modern language instruction that strayed beyond reading the accepted great literature of the language. He still thought Classics should be mandatory for GCSEs and leaving certs.”

Merlin took a bite of his croissant, leg jiggling under the edge of the large mahogany desk. “What about you?” 

Shaking his head, Arthur sat back in his seat. “My father and I didn’t get on, really. I mean, professionally, yes, he hand-picked me as his replacement, with the administration’s approval of course. But there was … well.” 

Merlin noticed Arthur’s fingers move to the ring on his forefinger, fidgeting with it. After a moment, he asked, “Did you have a falling out about how you wanted to lead?”

“I wish. That would have been easier. No, it was …” Arthur frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to burden you with listening to all of this.”

“You said you wanted to get to know me, right?” Merlin asked. “I want to get to know you, too.”

“Even after how we started?”

“Maybe especially after how we started. You’re kind of sexy when you’re annoyed.” He winked, and saw Arthur’s shoulders relax a bit. Then he added gently, “I take it you don’t do this much, though.”

“I do this never,” Arthur admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I … had one relationship, a bad one, with someone who was in the department at the time. I wasn’t the chair then, but it still ended up having some repercussions for the university when it ended. ”

Merlin blinked slowly. “May I ask how?”

Arthur bit his lip. “He was using me, stealing my dissertation research to publish under his name. When I called him on it, he pulled seniority and accused me of being the plagiarist. The uni held an academic review board and the only way I could clear my name was to share some of the … intimate … details of our relationship. My father took it badly, upset and ashamed I’d revealed such things to the administration.”

Frowning, Merlin said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

With another sigh, Arthur shoved a hand in his hair. “I suppose I should get this all on the table, as there are still a number of people around the uni who might say it for me. My father didn’t approve of me being out. He didn’t care so much that I was gay, as long as I more or less hid it. The circles he moved in—old money, the peerage—that he courted for support of the department, well, he felt they would shun him for having a gay son.”

“Oh,” Merlin said slowly. “So you’re not in the closet, but …” He cocked his head inquisitively.

“But I haven’t dated much. I’m an Eton boy, and public schoolboys don’t really date, you know; they just get off together, mutual handies in the showers after rugby matches.” He made a short, sharp movement with his hand, that Merlin readily acknowledged. “As an undergrad, well, there was this chap, Valiant … we shagged a few times, but we didn’t have much in common and drifted apart quickly. After that, I never met anyone I really clicked with enough to make it worth arguing with my father, and one-night stands, anonymous hookups, don’t really do it for me. After my affair with Cenred blew up, I didn’t even bother to look for someone again. That was more than four years ago.”

Reaching his hand across the desk, Merlin took Arthur’s. “If you’re worried I’ll judge you, just know that I won’t. I haven’t dated a whole lot either. I was the only out kid in my small town. At uni, well, my first boyfriend was a jerk of a computer scientist who thought my field of study was a waste of time. He also insisted I should bottom because I looked like a twink, and since I didn’t have any other experience, I went along with it for a while. But the sex was kind of lousy, and when I said I wanted to try topping, he refused. So I dumped him.”

“And the other boyfriends?” Arthur asked, eyes downcast.

“None. A few Tinder and Grindr hookups. One happened to be a bloke from the history department at Ealdor who became a booty call, but we never moved up to officially seeing each other.” Merlin gave him a shy smile as their eyes met. “Still haven’t found out if I’m actually vers or not, either.”

Arthur did a bit of a double-take. “So, you didn’t—with any of them?”

“The downside of growing up with a nurse for a mum is that the sex talk largely consists of PowerPoints about STIs. Maybe I’m the old-fashioned one now, but I don’t really feel comfortable getting that far with someone whose real name I may not even know.” Merlin took a sip of his latte.

Squaring his shoulders, Arthur said, “Arthur James Pendragon. It’s there on the wall, on my diploma. You can check my driver’s licence. And my most recent test results, if you’d like.”

Merlin nearly spat out his drink. “Bit forward for a first date.”

“Is it?”

They looked at each for a long moment, and then Merlin shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like it, actually.”

“Nor to me,” Arthur said quietly.

There was a chime, and Merlin grimaced at his mobile. “I lecture in an hour,” he said, blowing out a breath.

“I know. I, er. Usually listen to that one.” Arthur crumbled some of his scone onto his napkin, not meeting Merlin’s eyes.

“So do you still have to observe me officially, or does it count to stalk my course from the corridors?” Merlin asked, a smirk on his lips.

“Oi!” Arthur gaped at him. “You were doing the same to me!”

“True, but I don’t have to observe you. Wait, who does? Leon?”

Arthur nodded. “He’s the worst, too. Very nitpicky about pronunciation.”

“Unsurprising. This whole department is the crème de la crème,” Merlin said as he drained his coffee. 

“Now that we have you, that’s true,” Arthur said.

“Sweet talk from a clotpole.”

Shaking his head ruefully, Arthur chuckled. “You definitely made that word up.”

“Language is always evolving.” Merlin winked again, enjoying seeing Arthur’s face break into a grin.

Suddenly, Arthur stood, walking around the desk and leaning against the edge. “Can we have dinner tonight?” he blurted. “My treat. I just … it’s Friday, and we barely see each other in the office because we have opposite teaching schedules, and—”

Merlin grinned and, standing to face him, lay a finger over Arthur’s lips. “I’d love to. I was going to invite you to mine, actually. I like to cook at the end of the week; it’s relaxing. But my flatmate’s boyfriend made a surprise visit to town, and I’d be doing them a favour to get out of their hair for a while.”

“You could cook at mine, if you want,” Arthur said. 

“Oh?” Merlin asked.

“My kitchen might protest, since that would be the most action it’s ever seen.” Then Arthur flushed a deep pink, eyes going wide. “Oh my God, not that I meant—oh, hell.” 

Merlin burst into laughter. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but I think dinner might need to happen first.”

Closing his eyes, Arthur inhaled deeply. “I suppose what I should have said is, I don’t cook. I do order a mean takeaway, if you’d rather, but if you were looking forward to cooking … well. Um. Text me a list of ingredients, I suppose.”

Slipping his suit jacket back on, Merlin cupped Arthur’s chin and dropped a light kiss to the centre of his Cupid’s bow. “You can manage the inside of a Tesco, then, professor ?” he said, arching an eyebrow and taking in how Arthur’s eyes darkened and his throat bobbed at the teasing tone in his voice.

Arthur nodded. “I’ll figure it out.”

Their eyes met, and Merlin felt the butterflies that had been his near-constant companions these past weeks doing swoops around his stomach. Then they both seemed to shake themselves back to reality. Arthur stepped back a bit, and Merlin ducked his head, grabbing his coffee cup and heading for the door. Before he opened it, though, he paused and looked back, licking his lips. “I like you quite a lot, Arthur James Pendragon,” he said. 

“Do I get to learn your middle name too, Hunithson?” Arthur shot back, apparently trying to hide his delight at the statement.

Merlin paused, warmth flooding his core at the question. “Ambrose,” he replied at last.

“Well then, Merlin Ambrose Hunithson, against my better judgment—”

“Such a prat,” Merlin said under his breath, but he couldn’t quite stop his mouth from quirking into a smile.

“I like you quite a lot as well.” Arthur grinned a little goofily, and Merlin bit his lip to hide his wide smile and slipped out the door.

~oOo~

One Year Later

“Arthur, for God’s sake, will you relax?” Morgana huffed as Arthur paced the sitting room. “He’ll be here soon.”

“No one at Camelot University has ever been made a professor after just a year, though,” Arthur retorted. “Hell, it took you five, Morgana.”

“Merda, don’t remind me,” she all but growled. Then, softening, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s sweet that you’re so proud of his accomplishment.”

“You’ve got to read his monograph, Morgana,” Arthur said then. “The way he’s traced the development of modern Western European Romance languages through love poetry … it’s brilliant. Beautiful.”

“Did the prat just give a modern speaker’s work actual praise? Will wonders never cease?” came a voice, low and amused, from the doorway.

Looking up, Arthur caught sight of Merlin and felt his heart somersault in his chest. They’d been together for a year, but Merlin's dark hair curling over his forehead and deep dimples still took Arthur’s breath away. “Yes, it’s actually deserved, although how an idiot like you managed to pull it off I’ll never know,” Arthur shot back, unable to keep the smile off his face.

With a cluck of her tongue, Gwen pushed past Merlin into the room. “The two of you, I swear,” she said. “Who knew insults could be foreplay?” Arthur flushed bright pink, but Gwen merely patted him on the chest as she handed over a bottle of champagne and then went to hug Morgana. It hadn’t taken long after Merlin and Arthur had become a couple for her to become all but one of the department, especially after Morgana enlisted her collaboration on a project to create period-accurate Catalan Renaissance clothing. The luxurious verdugado Gwen had painstakingly sewn, paired with a chemise sporting flared, embroidered sleeves, now stood in a display case in the department lounge. 

After hugging her in return, Morgana grabbed her hand. “Let me see this rock!” she squealed, and the two of them moved to the window to let the light reflect through the perfect princess-cut diamond on her engagement ring (“All lab-made, cruelty-free, of course,” Lance had said, eyes shining as he knelt before her). 

With a groan, Arthur sidled over to Merlin. “They’re going to chirp about that damn ring all evening, aren’t they?” he murmured.

“It’s fine; it leaves us alone to finish arranging my books in the spare room—that is, the new library—before dinner.” Merlin’s dark sapphire eyes sparkled, and Arthur felt nearly light-headed with a rush of affection.

“You go get started; I’ll just pop the champagne into the refrigerator and join you in a moment, Professor Hunithson.” 

Smiling so widely his dimples deepened, Merlin replied, “Yeah, okay. I admit that the title really does sound pretty nice.” 

Arthur watched Merlin make his way to the library before hurrying to the kitchen to put the bottle away. Then he slid his hand into his pocket and took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm as he went to join in shelving books. 

As soon as news of Merlin’s promotion had reached Arthur’s desk, they’d decided to move in together officially. Of course, by then, their relationship was well established—the students had declared them “Cutest Faculty Couple” at the end of spring term, which had led to a ribald pub session among the faculty ending with Gwaine in Leon’s lap insisting on “More PDA, deGrace, I want that title next year!” and Leon turning the colour of a raspberry—and Merlin was already spending more nights at Arthur’s than at Gwen’s. However, Merlin remained sensitive about how badly Arthur had been burned by the situation with Cenred, and he assured Arthur repeatedly that he wasn’t in any rush.

“Even though there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to steal your research, you cabbage-head,” he’d added with a cheeky grin. “I’ve plenty of my own, and besides, you blow me out of the water when it comes to Latin.”

“I rather like blowing other things, but I’m flattered,” Arthur had fired back, and Merlin had doubled over with laughter before pinning him back against the couch and kissing him senseless.

As Arthur stepped into the little extra bedroom they were turning into a library and home office, he felt as though the last missing piece had slotted into place in his life. He’d always been proud of his work, his academic accomplishments, but being able to share that with someone who understood him—who had a similar profound relationship with language—made him feel complete. He cleared his throat and said, “Looks like you’ve finished already.”

Merlin turned, humming a bit in agreement, and Arthur nearly choked on air. Merlin had donned his glasses—thick black frames that made his eyes seem even bluer, his cheekbones even sharper—and held a slim volume of French poetry in his hand. The whole vision had an instantaneous effect on Arthur’s libido, and he had to focus all his concentration for a moment on getting all the blood in his body to return to his brain.

“Couldn’t make you do all the hard work,” Merlin said with a wink. “And I was looking for this, actually.” He waved the book at Arthur and smiled. 

“Oh?”

“Mm-hm. There’s something, well, I wanted to read you.” 

Arthur leant against the doorjamb, frantically ordering his heart to stop rabbiting wildly in his chest. “All right.”

Licking his lips—a habit of his that also drove Arthur wild, calling to mind exactly how talented Merlin was with his tongue, both in the lecture hall and in the bedroom, and Arthur was seriously considering counting backwards from a hundred by thirteens to keep himself in check—Merlin opened to a well-worn page and began.

“Si, de tes lèvres avancées,
Tu prépares pour l’apaiser,
À l’habitant de mes pensées
La nourriture d’un baiser,

Ne hâte pas cet acte tendre,
Douceur d’être et de n’être pas,
Car j’ai vécu de vous attendre,
Et mon coeur n’était que vos pas.”

Blinking, Arthur tried to untangle the words, but Merlin shut the book and took three steps towards him, cupping his cheek to whisper the last two lines again in English. “Because I have lived waiting for you / And my heart was only your footsteps.”

Arthur swallowed, then pulled his hand out of his pocket, holding a small box on his open palm as he said quietly, “Dā mī bāsia mīlle, deinde centum / dein mīlle altera, dein secunda centum / deinde ūsque altera mīlle, deinde centum.” 

Merlin’s eyes went wide, jaw dropping in wonder. “You absolutely wonderful, insufferable arse,” he cried, laughing as he produced a small box of his own and shoved it against Arthur’s sternum. “Three thousand, three hundred kisses won’t even begin to be enough.”

“Best get started then,” Arthur said, and captured Merlin’s lips, pink and plush, with his own, as Merlin’s arms circled his waist. His free hand slid into the curls at Merlin’s nape; he canted his hips forward just a bit so their bodies aligned perfectly head to toe, swallowing the tiny moan Merlin gave at the feeling of such closeness.

“Ahem,” came Morgana’s voice from the doorway, Gwen bouncing on her toes excitedly just behind her. “Does this mean we have something else to celebrate?”

Pulling back just enough to mutter, “Harpy,” Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin’s. He felt Merlin shake with suppressed laughter. 

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” Morgana said, eyebrow raised, and without waiting for an answer, continued, “Fabulous. I’ll open the champagne.” She evaporated, presumably to the kitchen, while Gwen squealed and pulled out her mobile to text Lance.

“So, it is a yes, isn’t it?” Arthur asked, suddenly uncertain. 

“You are such a dollop-head,” Merlin replied, yanking Arthur to him with a fist in his shirt. “It’s a yes in every language, mí amor,” he added, breath hot against Arthur’s ear. “Even the ones that haven’t been invented yet.”

Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine, desire settling hot in his stomach. And later, as they lay in what was now officially their bed, bodies sated and contentment thrumming through their veins, Arthur realised it didn’t matter which language they spoke. He and Merlin were forever.

~oOo~