Archive of Our Own ^beta

The ad says: “Double room in North London flat. Quiet street, warm kitchen, grumpy flatmate included. Must love tea.”

Arthur reads it twice. He’s seen twenty flats this month — all too expensive, too loud, or too filled with people who think “flat-sharing” means “weekly tarot rituals and shared shower schedules.” This one? It feels like… not a disaster.

He sends a message. 

The flat is smaller than he expected. Cosy. Lived-in. The kind of place that smells like old books and drying herbs and something floral steeping on the stove.

Merlin answers the door in socks, a hoodie too big for him, and an expression that reads as vaguely suspicious of strangers and the concept of renting to them.

“You’re Arthur?” he says, like it’s a crime.

Arthur nods. “You’re Merlin?”

“That’s what it says on my birth certificate. Come in.”

He does. Merlin doesn’t offer tea. Just waves a vague hand toward the living room and says, “Shoes off. Mind the carpet. It’s dramatic.”

Arthur glances down. The carpet is, in fact, horrendous — bright orange, clashing violently with the olive-green curtains and the slightly peeling wallpaper.

Merlin sees him staring. “I inherited it with the lease,” he says. “You’re not allowed to insult it until you’ve lived with it for at least a week.”

“Fair enough.”

“This is the kitchen. The fridge leaks moodily when it’s cold out. Don’t ask why. The kettle’s temperamental, you have to threaten it sometimes.”

Arthur blinks. “Sorry — threaten it?”

“With violence, yes.”

“…Right.”

Merlin points out the bathroom with a gesture like he’s introducing a sworn enemy. “The shower makes that noise. You’ll find out.”

Arthur doesn’t ask what noise. He’s not sure he wants to know.

The spare room is neat, barely furnished — a desk, a small bed, a sagging bookshelf, and a window that overlooks the back garden.

Arthur stands in the doorway and tries to picture it. Not the room — the life. The mornings. The mugs left on counters. The quiet.

He asks, “What happened to the last flatmate?”

Merlin says, “They moved in with their partner. I threw them a party. Then threw them out.”

“Amicably?”

“Mostly.”

They regard each other for a moment. Arthur isn’t sure what Merlin’s looking for. He isn’t sure what he’s offering. He just knows that he wants to stay.

He says, “I make excellent tea.”

Merlin’s mouth twitches. “We’ll see.”

They don’t shake hands. Merlin just says, “Move in Friday?” and Arthur replies, “Yeah. Friday.”

Merlin nods. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I’m not great with people.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Is that a warning?”

Merlin shrugs. “Maybe.”

Arthur smiles — and it surprises him how easy it is. “Lucky for you, I’m excellent with people.”

“You’re not with me yet,” Merlin says.

“We’ll see.”

There’s a rhythm to living with Merlin.

Not a normal one. Not like “Monday is laundry, Friday is bin day.” More like:

Mornings: Merlin pads into the kitchen barefoot, half-asleep, and growls until Arthur gives him tea.

Afternoons: Merlin forgets to eat lunch and Arthur leaves post-its that say things like “Consume calories or perish. I’m not mourning you over quinoa.”

Evenings: They watch terrible films and argue about plot holes like it’s a sport.

Arthur doesn’t know when it started feeling like home. Only that now, he can’t imagine anything else.

They trade insults like currency. They argue over the playlist. Merlin insists on playing weird, ancient folk covers of 90s pop songs. Arthur retaliates with dramatic classical piano.

They mock each other. Relentlessly.

“You look like a haunted Victorian chimney sweep,” Arthur says one morning.

“You look like you ironed your soul,” Merlin fires back.

Arthur snorts into his cereal. “You’re drinking honey-chamomile before 9am. Who hurt you?”

Merlin flips him off without looking up from his mug.

It’s perfect.

Here’s the thing about Merlin: he’s funny.

Not always on purpose. But there’s this brightness to him — sly, sharp, quick. His sarcasm is weaponised. His eye-rolls deserve awards. He’s dramatic in the most subtle ways: dry one-liners, flourishes of his hands, weird little dances he does while waiting for the kettle to boil.

And Arthur… well. He likes it. All of it. A little too much.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud. Gods no. That would ruin everything. But he notices, constantly, how Merlin makes things better just by being in the room. How the flat feels brighter when he’s humming off-key and muttering about cursed kettles and stealing Arthur’s socks.

It’s just— it’s them. A strange, messy, wonderful them.

Which is why Cedric is a problem.

It’s not that Arthur hates Cedric.

Okay. No. That’s a lie.

He hates Cedric.

He hates the way Cedric talks to Merlin like he’s an academic paper he hasn’t finished annotating. He hates that Cedric doesn’t know the difference between when Merlin is joking and when he’s deflecting. Doesn’t understand that Merlin’s silences aren’t blank spaces — they’re echoes of thoughts too sharp to name. He doesn’t know that when Merlin says, “I’m fine,” he’s usually spent three hours staring at a wall, replaying every word he never said. 

Cedric smiles too wide, talks like he’s on stage, touches Merlin like he’s something he’s won. And Merlin… he’s trying. Arthur watches him do it. Watches him lean in when everything in him is pulling back. Watches him laugh when the joke doesn’t land. Watches him say, “No, really, it’s okay,” when it very obviously isn’t.

He tries to be someone easier to keep.

And it kills Arthur.

He hates that the late-night film marathons have stopped, the shared takeaways, the inside jokes whispered over mugs of tea. He hates that Merlin laughs differently around him — this quiet, polite sort of laugh that sounds like an apology. He hates that the weird playlist is gone, and Merlin comes home slower. Dimmer. Like he’s shrinking to fit something. 

And the worst part? Merlin doesn’t even notice.

Arthur wants to shake him. Wants to yell you’re allowed to be strange and messy and stubborn and loud. Wants to say he doesn’t see you — not really, not like I do.

But instead, he makes another cup of tea and pretends not to watch Merlin brush his hair back with a too-tired hand and say, “Sorry. Long day.”

Arthur says, “It’s fine.” But what he means is: I miss you.

Now, Arthur eats toast alone at the breakfast bar, drinks cold tea, and tries not to notice how much space feels empty.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to lose someone you never got to call yours.

Merlin’s in the shower — humming off-key, bless him — and Arthur’s standing in the kitchen staring at the fridge. There’s a stack of Merlin’s notepaper stuck under a magnet: a cartoon dragon with the words “Let’s get fired up!”

Arthur doesn’t mean to write anything, but his hand moves before he decides to stop it.

“You used my mug this morning. You always use it when you're sad.
Also, you left the milk out. Again.
But I forgive you.
…Mostly.”

He draws the worst sun he can manage. Merlin said once they look like sentient eggs. Arthur considers that a compliment.

The next morning, the notepad is back on the fridge, but Arthur didn’t put it there.

“You used my mug yesterday.
Payback.
Also: milk is officially your job.
(Thanks for the ugly sun.)”

And just like that — it becomes a thing.

On the fridge:

“The milk evolved.
It just asked me to pay rent.”

Inside Arthur’s coat pocket:

“I borrowed your gloves.
Not because I was cold.
Because you said they go with everything.
They don’t.”

Tucked under Merlin’s chipped teacup:

“You drink tea like it's a spell.
Also, two sugars. Don’t lie. I’ve seen you.”

Folded into Arthur’s book, page 437:

“You cried in chapter 22.
Don’t deny it. I felt it in the walls.”

On the remote:

“STOP SWITCHING TO DOCUMENTARIES WHEN I LEAVE THE ROOM.
I DON'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE MATING RITUALS OF THE GREATER SAGE GROUSE.”

Inside one of Merlin’s boots (he doesn’t find it for days):

“You stomp like a very offended goose.”

Taped to the kettle:

“I’ve been replacing your fancy tea with the cheap stuff.
You haven’t noticed.
You are now legally my apprentice.”

A week later, Merlin gets a message.

I don’t know why you go quiet like this.
I can’t keep guessing what you want.
If you need space, just say that.

Merlin stares at it too long. His thumb hovers over the keyboard. Then lowers. Then curls tight into his palm. He doesn’t reply.

It’s not even a bad message, not really. Not compared to others. Not compared to the voice in his head most days. But it’s been a long week. Work’s been hell. He’s been accused of “not smiling enough.” Someone spilled coffee on his sketchbook. The tube was delayed. It rained sideways. He forgot to eat. Again.

And now Cedric wants answers to questions Merlin doesn’t even know how to ask himself.

He wants to be held. Wants to be left alone. Wants Arthur to sit beside him and know — because Arthur always knows. Wants not to want that. Wants to stop being this tired.

He locks his phone and drops it into his bag like it burned him. He fumbles his keys into the lock with fingers that don’t feel like his own.

When he steps into the flat, the lights are warm, Arthur’s reading on the couch. Merlin doesn’t say hello, just drops his keys into the bowl and disappears into his room without looking back.

Arthur waits. An hour passes. The door doesn’t open again.

He knocks on it once. No reply. 

He whispers, “Merlin?” through the wood.

Still silence. So he slides a note under the door.

“I made your tea. That honey-chamomile blend that tastes like regrets and burnt flowers.
It’s on the table.
Come drink it before I do.
Or don’t. I’ll be here.”

Merlin doesn’t open the door that night. But the next morning, the mug is empty.

And the note’s folded neatly on the kitchen counter.

The night after, they end up on the couch again. Merlin doesn’t quite touch him — not at first — but his foot finds Arthur’s under the blanket. Arthur doesn’t move it, doesn’t say anything when Merlin pulls the throw higher, inching closer like it’s no big deal.

And when Merlin drifts off halfway through the film, curled slightly sideways, fingertips brushing Arthur’s wrist — Arthur doesn’t breathe.

He doesn’t dare. He just watches the rest of the film in silence. And he doesn’t move a muscle.

He doesn’t slam the door. He doesn’t throw anything. He doesn’t cry.

He just stands in the hallway with his keys still in one hand, the other gripping the sleeve of his coat, staring at the skirting board like it might offer a solution.

The flat hums with quiet, the kind that buzzes just behind the ears. A quiet that feels like something missing. Like something just ended and hasn’t been acknowledged yet.

He knows Arthur’s not home. He got a text earlier about some fundraising event in Oxford — something where he has to speak, something “please try not to mock it until I’m back.”

Normally, Merlin would’ve teased him anyway. Said something like, “Is there a sash involved? Do you get to bless the audience with your wisdom, O Glorious Prat?”

He doesn’t feel like teasing anyone right now.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t look at it, he already knows what it says.

I just can’t keep doing this, Merlin. You don’t let people in — not really. Being with you is like dating a fogbank. Or a locked door. Or— I don’t know — a ghost who occasionally makes tea.
I never know what you’re thinking. And honestly? I don’t think you even want to be close to anyone. You act like it, sometimes. But it’s like... it never sticks.
It’s exhausting, Merlin. Trying to guess if you even feel anything at all. You’re just... cold. I don’t think you’re built for love. Not the kind people understand.

Merlin hadn’t replied. What could he say?

He wasn’t in love with Cedric. He’d never claimed to be. But he’d tried. Really. He gave them his mornings. His patience. His best mug. His awkward silences and his half-smiles and his shoulder when they’d felt anxious.

He tried to give what he could.

And apparently, it wasn’t enough.

Merlin drops his keys and coat on the floor, walks to his room like he’s been hit by something blunt and slow. He kicks off his shoes, leaves his hoodie slung over the back of the desk chair and stares at the room for a long moment, like he doesn't recognise it.

There’s a book Arthur lent him on the windowsill. Arthur’s hoodie — the navy one with the fraying sleeves — is folded at the foot of his bed. A worn blanket they fought over during last week’s film night is still crumpled on the chair.

It feels like all the warmth in the flat has started gravitating to wherever Arthur last stood.

He sits on the edge of the bed. Breathes. Doesn’t move.

Another message buzzes through.

He isn’t going to look.

He does.

Sorry. I just... I hope you find someone who doesn't mind the way you are. 
Some people don't need much. 
But I do.

The words sit in his chest like ice. He sets the phone down, picks it back up, then slams it face-down on the desk like it can hear his heartbeat. He walks into the living room and stands in the doorway. The room looks exactly the same and nothing like before. 

There’s Arthur’s empty mug on the table. A book on the armrest. His cardigan — the grey one, it’s too big for Merlin but he wears it anyway — is draped over the sofa.

He crosses the room and puts it on like it’s nothing. Then he sits down in the corner of the sofa, curls into himself, sleeves pulled over his hands, and closes his eyes.

Everything aches. The kind of ache you carry in your ribs and behind your eyes and in your palms when they forget how to unclench. He replays the words. Again. And again.

You’re cold.
You don’t let anyone in.
I don’t think you know how to love.

He hates that they’ve stuck. He hates that some part of him — the one that always wonders if he’s too much and never enough — believes them.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe he is better at watching people than loving them. Maybe he is the fogbank. The locked door. Maybe there’s something in him that can’t unlearn the silence, the shielding, the curse of always being a little bit too late.

He looks at his phone again. The message is still there. He skips over Cedric’s name and goes to Arthur’s message thread. He types two words.

> come home

He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he’s never asked for something like this before. He sends it anyway.

Arthur’s reply is almost instantaneous. 

> On my way
> Are you alright? 
> I'll bring tea. 
> Ten minutes. I promise.

Merlin sets his phone on the table and curls further into Arthur’s cardigan, into the corner of the sofa where Arthur usually sits, and breathes deep. It smells like bergamot and wind and safety.

He’s coming home.

Ten minutes later, the lock clicks. The door creaks. There’s a pause. Arthur steps into the room like he doesn’t want to startle anything. His coat is still damp from rain. There’s a paper bag in one hand, tea in the other. He exhales shakily, like he hasn’t breathed since Merlin texted him. He doesn’t speak right away.

Merlin says, “You didn’t have to rush.”

Arthur sets the tea down gently. “You never ask for anything. So when you did — I ran.”

Merlin shrugs. 

Arthur doesn’t move closer, just asks quietly, “Are you okay?”

“I got... a message,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t ask from who. He knows. Merlin uncurls slowly, reaches for his phone, and hands it over. Arthur reads.

The silence stretches. Merlin watches the line of tension in Arthur’s jaw. He waits for the usual — a careful, polite, neutral response he always gets where Cedric is concerned. 

But Arthur just sets the phone down, takes a breath, and says —

“They don’t know you. Not like I do.”

Merlin doesn’t look up.

“I didn’t love them,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“But it still hurts.”

“I know.”

And then finally, Merlin looks up. And it nearly unravels him. Arthur’s eyes aren’t just angry, they’re furious. 

“They called you cold,” Arthur says. “But you’re the warmest thing I’ve ever known.”

Merlin’s eyes go wide. His fingers twitch. Arthur moves a little closer. Slowly. Always slowly. Like he knows Merlin might bolt at the wrong word.

“You feel everything, Merlin. You just don’t show it to people who won’t hold it properly.”

Merlin swallows. His voice is nearly gone. “Then why did they say that?”

“Because they were looking for the kind of love they understand. And you... you love in a language they never learned.”

Merlin doesn’t speak, just leans forward, his head against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur wraps an arm around him and for the first time in hours, Merlin lets go of the breath he’s been holding.

The next morning, Merlin is in the kitchen first.

The kettle is already boiling when Arthur walks in, jumper sliding off one shoulder, hair sleep-mussed. He finds a note on the fridge.

“Don’t be kind to me.
I don’t deserve it.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He pours the tea and the silence stretches like something fragile and glass-thin — he glances toward the window.

Merlin’s watering the plants on the sill with slow, distracted motions. One hand rests on the windowsill like he needs to steady himself. His eyes are fixed outside, but there’s no focus in them. No fire. Just quiet.

Not his usual kind of quiet — not the soft, humming, words-on-the-tip-of-his-tongue kind of quiet. This one is too heavy, too still. 

Arthur watches him for a moment longer than he means to and something in his chest folds in on itself — something stubborn and unspoken — and he reaches for a pen.

When Merlin gets up later to refill the teapot, there’s a new note where his used to be:

"You never had to deserve it.
You just had to be you.”

He doesn’t comment.

But that night, when they settle on the couch with tea and a film neither of them really watches, Merlin nudges his foot under the blanket.
Arthur doesn’t pull away, and Merlin exhales — soft, slow, and full of something dangerously close to hope.

Cedric texts again.

Merlin doesn’t open it.

He already knows there’s nothing in it he needs to see. Nothing that will undo the things already said — the ones he can’t stop hearing on loop when it’s quiet, when he’s alone, when Arthur’s out and the silence gets too sharp.

You’re cold.
You don’t let anyone in.
I don’t think you can love someone.

The words have burrowed. And it’s not even because they’re true — not really. It’s because some part of him fears they might be.

Arthur still leaves notes. Not every day, and they’re not all funny. Some are barely words at all — half-sentences scribbled on the backs of receipts, on napkins, on the corner of Merlin’s notebook.

“You didn’t eat lunch, don’t forget to eat later.”

“Don’t disappear tonight.”

“You’re not alone. Even if it feels like it.”

Merlin doesn’t always know how to respond, but he keeps every one.

When Gwaine invites him out — something casual, some drinks, some friends — he says yes without thinking.

They meet at their usual bar — low lights, good whiskey. Gwen’s already there, swirling something dark red in a glass, and she waves as Merlin comes through the door. Gwaine orders three shots and slams them down like he’s starting a duel.

“To bad exes,” he says, “and better friends.”

Merlin lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

The drink burns going down. Everything does, lately.

Gwaine says, “I have to say mate, I never liked Cedric. The hair. The opinions. The way he tried to turn you into a character in his tragic novel.”

“Honestly,” Gwen says, “he was just weird about you. Like he couldn’t decide if you were a person or a puzzle.”

“I could throw him out a window?"

Merlin snorts into his drink. “You don’t need to commit crimes on my behalf.”

“I want to,” Gwaine grins. 

Gwen raises her glass and says, smugly, “I know where they work.” 

Later, while Gwaine is distracted threatening the jukebox, Gwen leans across the table.

“They said you don’t feel things,” she says.

Merlin’s shoulders go rigid and he takes a gulp of his drink.

Gwen continues, “But I’ve seen the way you look at Arthur.”

Merlin freezes. “…It’s not like that.”

She arches one perfectly unimpressed brow. “Sure it’s not.”

“I’m serious.”

“You stare at him like he’s gravity.”

“I do not—”

“You do. Like the world shifts when he walks into a room.”

Merlin opens his mouth. Shuts it. Frowns at his drink.

Gwen doesn’t press. She just taps the rim of her glass once and says, “You don’t have to explain it to me. But maybe stop pretending to yourself.”

Merlin goes home earlier than the others. He walks through the rain with his hood up and his hands buried deep in his pockets. He doesn’t feel cold — he just feels… tired.

The flat is quiet when he slips inside. It’s not empty, though.

Arthur’s on the sofa — blanket bunched up under one arm, his jumper half off one shoulder — he’s watching one of their comfort films. He looks up and smiles as Merlin comes in. 

“Hey,” he says.

Merlin lingers in the doorway for a moment, before crossing the room, and sinking onto the couch beside him. He sits closer than usual, lets their legs touch and fidgets with his sleeves.

“I got a message from Cedric,” he says.

Arthur pauses the film and turns slightly towards him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Didn’t read it. Just...” He shrugs.

Arthur nods. But something in his gaze shifts. He’s looking at Merlin differently. Not in a way that alarms — more like he’s trying to read the room, but the room is a person he knows too well.

Merlin looks down at his hands. Then, softly — like pulling teeth from his own mouth, he asks, “…Do you think I’m hard to love?”

Arthur doesn’t breathe.

Because he knows. He knows that Merlin means it, knows this isn’t a question for reassurance. It’s a confession of fear. And it breaks something in him to know why Merlin is asking.

Arthur turns his whole body to face him and looks him in the eye.

“No,” he says, with the certainty of the sun rising — not questioned, not earned, just as a fact.

Merlin swallows.

Arthur continues, softer now, “I think you’re hard to read. But never hard to love.”

Merlin presses his lips together. “I don’t always say the right thing.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m not good at the… out loud parts.”

Arthur smiles, just a little. “You never have to say things out loud for me to hear you.”

Merlin looks at him, eyes wide, unsure, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Arthur doesn’t let it fall. He stays. He’s still, solid, safe.

And Merlin — gods, Merlin wants to say something back. He wants to name what’s tightening in his chest, what’s blooming and terrifying and already there—

Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded scrap of paper. He hands it to Arthur without a word.

Arthur unfolds it slowly.

“You make it easier to breathe.
Even when I’m drowning.”

Arthur looks up and meets his eyes, something fierce and raw in his gaze. He reaches out, and lets his hand find Merlin’s, wraps his fingers around his like it’s a truth he’s finally allowed to hold.

Merlin lets him. And then — slowly, like it’s a truth of its own — he moves closer. Shoulder to shoulder. Then forehead to shoulder. Then the full weight of him, curling gently against Arthur like the only place he can rest is here.

Arthur wraps his arms around him and holds him. He doesn’t say anything, just lets Merlin be.

And somewhere in that silence, something else breaks loose.

The first piece of hope Merlin has allowed himself to hold in a long, long time.

Arthur leaves on a Thursday. Another charity event, another speech. 

He told Merlin about it a week ago, asked, “Is it alright if I go?” and Merlin had said, “Of course it is.”

Arthur had looked like he wanted to say more. Merlin didn’t let him.

He’s regretting that now.

He’s not even pretending to sleep — just lying on the sofa in the dark, hood pulled up, arms wrapped tight around his middle like pressure might hold him together. He’s staring at the ceiling like it might blink, like it might give him some kind of answer.

He’s not lonely. That’s not quite the word for it. He’s just... aware. Of the spaces Arthur usually fills.

The open door across the hall. The soft clink of his mug against the counter. The scent of bergamot and old books in the air. The kettle’s late-night whistle when Arthur inevitably makes another cup of tea he won’t finish. The way he hands Merlin a mug with both hands and waits — always waits — until Merlin’s fingers warm before letting go.

Merlin doesn’t know when Arthur became the gravity of this place. He just knows that now, without him, the air feels thinner. The tea he makes for himself tastes like paper and obligation. 

He thinks about going to bed. To his own bed. But… he can’t. Not tonight. Not with all that silence. Not with the stillness of a room that never quite feels like home — not unless Arthur’s there, just across the hall, just a breath away.

His room is too clean. Too neat. Too quiet.

Arthur’s is cluttered and warm. Books half-open, clothes slung over the back of his chair, a half-written note on his desk that he’ll finish when he gets back. The sheets are always rumpled from how he never quite settles. The bed always smells like bergamot and something warm and human and Arthur — like parchment and warmth and late nights spent trying to figure out how to help.

It smells like safety.

Merlin hesitates in the hallway, sleeves pulled down over his hands, bare feet pressed to the cool floor. Arthur’s door is slightly ajar. Merlin opens it the rest of the way and goes in.

It’s dark, but familiar. There’s his cardigan — the soft grey one Merlin always steals — folded on the chair. He pulls it on without thinking, then crawls into Arthur’s bed. He lies there, still and silent, breathing in the scent of him. The pillow cradles his head like it’s used to someone else. He curls into it.

It’s not the same without you.

He reaches under the second pillow, half-asleep, searching for warmth. What he finds is paper. A note.

“In case you miss me and won’t say it.
(I miss you too.)
P.S. Don’t touch my fancy tea.”

Merlin stares at it.

His throat tightens.

He buries his face in the pillow and lets the warmth of Arthur's cardigan swallow him whole.

The next morning, he sends a message:

> too late 
> it was terrible 
> come home soon

Arthur replies within the hour:

> Already on the train. 
> Missed my flatmate. 
> And my tea.

That evening, when the door clicks open, Arthur steps inside and stops cold.

Merlin is sitting on the sofa. He’s wearing Arthur’s cardigan. Cross-legged. Mug in both hands. The film they both like is paused on the screen. There’s a blanket across his lap and the faint smell of his own tea brewing from the kitchen.

He looks up, eyes soft. “You’re home.”

Arthur sets his bag down slowly. “Didn’t want to stay away long.”

He pauses, looks Merlin over like he’s checking for something he doesn’t know what to name.

“Was it alright?” he asks. “Without me?”

Merlin shrugs. “It was quiet.” A beat. Then, he whispers, “It wasn’t the same without you.”

Arthur’s heart stutters. He crosses the room in silence and sits beside him, a small smile playing on his lips. 

Somewhere between their knees touching and the gentle steam of Merlin’s tea, something soft settles in the room again.

Arthur’s home.

And so is Merlin.

Arthur doesn’t mean to leave the page out.

He’s usually careful. Obsessively so. The real notes — the ones he doesn’t intend to share, the ones he writes when Merlin’s already asleep — those stay hidden. Folded tight and buried between the pages of books. Behind the tins of loose-leaf tea he knows Merlin never touches. 

He never meant for Merlin to see this one.

But last night, when Merlin had asked — soft and unsure and wearing Arthur’s jumper — “Will you sit with me?” — Arthur hadn’t had it in him to say no, could never say no to Merlin, really.

So they’d sat, side by side on Arthur’s bed. Merlin with his knees drawn up, sipping his terrible floral tea. Arthur with his journal still open on the blankets beside him. They hadn’t talked much, Merlin hadn’t needed him to. He’d fallen asleep with his head on Arthur’s shoulder, fingers curled against Arthur’s wrist.

Arthur hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared. But when he had — once Merlin’s breathing had evened out and he was sure he wouldn’t wake him — he didn’t notice that one page had fluttered loose.

Merlin finds it the next morning. He’d only meant to grab the jumper Arthur left on the chair, but the page was there, sticking out from under the bed. He sees his name written at the top.

And then the first line. And then he’s sitting down before he realises it, knees folded under him, breath catching in his chest. He reads the whole thing. Twice. Then again.

Arthur walks in moments later, still towelling his hair, yawning, halfway through a comment about the milk being suspiciously gone again— and stops.

Merlin is sitting on the floor by the bed, in his hands is the note. Arthur freezes. His whole body locks up. His breath vanishes. Merlin looks up with wide eyes. He holds the page out. Arthur doesn’t move. Merlin reads it aloud.

“You are not hard to love.
You are not too cold, too quiet, too anything.
You are the ache in my chest when you smile and the breath I hold when you laugh.
You are the silence that feels like home.
You are every line I’ve never dared to speak aloud.
And I love you more than I’ll ever be brave enough to say.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Arthur exhales, and it’s terror leaving his body.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he says. “I thought you’d… I didn’t think you wanted to hear it. From me.”

Merlin stands and steps closer. His hand is still trembling, the note loose between his fingers. “Why?”

Arthur shrugs. His voice goes smaller. “Because you deserve someone who isn’t scared to say it. Out loud. Every day. And I— I didn’t want to risk what we already had.”

Merlin stares at him. Long and quiet. Then says, simply, “But you already have me.”

Arthur forgets how to stand, forgets how to breathe. Merlin steps closer again. Now they’re inches apart. Arthur’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You love me,” Merlin says.

Not a question.

Arthur nods. “I have for a long time.”

There’s a moment. A heartbeat.

Then Merlin reaches up — slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid the magic will break — and touches Arthur’s cheek.

“I don’t know when it started for me,” he says. “But it hasn’t stopped.”

And then he kisses him.

It’s the kind of kiss that says I’ve loved you through the silences and I will love you through the storm.

Arthur’s hands hover at first — not quite touching, like he still can’t believe it. Then Merlin leans in harder and Arthur wraps around him like he was made to.

They kiss like a truth finally named, like a secret finally spoken, like a thousand notes folded between them finally found a voice.

When they break apart, their foreheads touch.

“You’re shaking.”

Arthur lets out a breathless laugh. “You just rewrote my entire life in ten seconds. Give me a moment.”

Merlin huffs — almost a laugh, almost a sob. He brushes his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

“I didn’t rewrite anything,” he says. “I just… read what you left behind.” 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a worn, folded scrap of paper..

“I made your tea. That honey-chamomile blend that tastes like regrets and burnt flowers.
It’s on the table.
Come drink it before I do.
Or don’t. I’ll be here.”

Arthur’s voice breaks on the inhale. “I didn’t think you’d keep them.”

“I kept all of them.”

Arthur reads it again like it might undo him. Merlin presses it into his hand. 

“You were always still here,” he whispers. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want you to be.”

That night, they sit on the couch just like always. Film on. Mugs half-full. Blankets shared. Feet tangled.

But this time, Merlin’s head rests on Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s arms wrap around him without hesitation. Merlin tucks his feet under Arthur’s legs.

Their tea goes cold. They don’t care.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to.

But just before Merlin drifts off — just as his breathing slows, just as his fingers curl loosely around Arthur’s hoodie —

Arthur presses a kiss to his temple and whispers, “I love you.”

And Merlin, voice slurred with sleep, whispers back, “I love you, too. Just… stay.”

Arthur closes his eyes. Smiles into Merlin’s hair and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The flat is warmer now. Not just in temperature — though Merlin has finally stopped turning the radiators down — but in feel. The kind of warmth that soaks into the walls. The kind that lingers.

There are still notes, of course, but they’re different now. Folded into shoes and coat pockets and the book Merlin’s halfway through. Scrawled on the bathroom mirror in condensation. Left on the fridge with magnets shaped like stars.

“I made the tea. Don’t let it go cold again, that’s a crime.”

“You said ‘I love you’ in your sleep. Just thought you should know.”

"Your hair is cursed and I love it.”

Arthur walks in from the shop, juggling groceries and a bag that definitely doesn’t just contain tea, and finds Merlin sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to teach the new spider plant not to die.

He looks up, grins. “Did you get the nice biscuits?”

Arthur tosses the packet over. “The obscenely expensive ones? Of course.”

Merlin holds the biscuits to his chest like a prize. “I knew I kept you around for something.”

“You also keep me around for my exceptional cuddling abilities.”

“And your eyebrows.”

That night, Merlin’s curled into Arthur’s side, feet tangled, blanket shared, watching Howl’s Moving Castle for the hundredth time, and it happens without ceremony.

Arthur presses a kiss to his temple and says, low and easy, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Merlin glances up and smiles, “You already do.”

Arthur nudges him. “No, I mean— not the couch. With you.”

Merlin’s expression shifts, like something just clicked. He nods.

“Yeah. You can stay.”

Arthur exhales. “Okay.”

So they brush their teeth shoulder to shoulder. Fight over the toothpaste. Merlin steals Arthur’s pyjama top. Arthur doesn’t complain.

And then — after the lights are out, the tea cups are cooling on the bedside table, and Merlin is lying half-buried in Arthur’s arms — Arthur murmurs:

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

Merlin, already drifting, hums. “You say that every day now.”

Arthur pulls him in closer. “Still true.”