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When Arthur saw the first canvas leaning against the low wall lining the park, he almost turned on his heel and walked back to the hotel. Art fairs were not his thing, especially street artists who relied on the tourist trade to make rent. That had always been Gwen’s milieu, another of her “causes” to support.
“They pour their hearts and souls into their art,” she’d argued. “All they want is to touch someone with it.”
“No, all they want is the fifty quid they can con you out of,” he’d shot back.
He could still see her stubborn chin as she stared him down. God, but he’d loved her indomitable spirit. “And how long do you think it takes for them to create each one? Hours. Days, even. I hardly think fifty pounds for all that work is very much, do you?”
Perhaps he should’ve taken her constant vigilance about the less fortunate as proof they would never make it in the long run. Blaming the difference in their classes would certainly be convenient. But while Uther still voiced that opinion whenever the subject came up—too often for Arthur’s comfort, to be honest, especially since it had been months since Gwen had left—Arthur didn’t truly believe that.
No, he’d lost Gwen because he’d taken her for granted. He’d assumed his long hours could be overlooked as a temporary measure, that she understood he had to do what Uther demanded if he didn’t want Morgana to worm her way in and steal everything Arthur had always wanted. And she had. To a degree.
She had also grown lonely. And nobody knew how well Lance stepped in to fill that gap better than Arthur.
He ground his teeth together and deliberately headed into the market. Thinking of either of them was the last thing he needed, just like spending more time holed up in his hotel pretending he was enjoying his forced vacation was. The fresh air would do him good. Even if it was French instead of English.
The spring day was surprisingly blue, the sunlight glittering along the walks and off the windows of nearby buildings the sort poetry was written about. The scent of sugar from fresh pastries at a nearby patisserie drew him away from the park and deeper into the streets, joining the other pedestrians as they strolled alongside the covered stalls. His stomach growled. The coffee he’d had for breakfast hadn’t been nearly enough.
After purchasing a chausson aux pommes—yes, it was an apple turnover, but somehow it tasted better calling it by its French name—he wandered back into the market, determined to enjoy the day for what it was. The first bite was light and powdery sweet, the delicacy of the pastry going straight to his head, spurring him into a second and then a third bite. The pastry dulled his earlier nerves, relaxing him so he could enjoy the scenery for a change.
France had always been an escape. When his mother had died, Uther had taken him and Morgana to the Riviera to live for a year as they grieved. When he’d lost his first client, he’d fled to Paris to lick his wounds, only returning once he’d bagged a tech company Uther had been salivating over for years. He’d even chosen the French countryside to hide with his friend Elena after their fathers went on a matchmaking kick.
She’d stayed behind once Uther abandoned the idea. Apparently, French girls were better kissers than those in London. Arthur had been tempted to tell her he thought the same about French boys, too.
So when Morgana started nagging him about how his post-Gwen depression wasn’t doing anyone any good, he’d willingly accepted her suggestion of a vacation. The sanctuary of Paris sounded like a godsend. Now, after four days of watching TV and ordering too much room service, it was finally starting to feel like one.
His fingers were sticky with sugar as he rounded a corner and stepped onto the cobbled street of a wider plaza. More artisans displayed their wares here, and he paused to regard an array of Parisian landmarks done in watercolors as he sucked his left thumb clean. Typical tourist fare, designed to draw a visitor’s eye with promises of memories that wouldn’t fade once he returned home. His gaze skimmed right past them, uninterested in their false bargains. He preferred the shadows and niches the tourists never saw.
Fewer canvases cluttered the next stall. Arthur saw the back of one leaning against an easel, while the frame of a second sat closer to the ground. As he passed, he tilted his head to cast a glance out of the corner of his eye at their depictions. He anticipated more landscapes. What he found instead stole his breath away.
Arthur halted and stared. Each painting exhibited the same model, a young man with angled features that sliced through the rich colors. His dark hair was tousled in both poses, not unkempt but rather the wayward locks of someone who had more important things to worry about than the perfect coif. Blue eyes, keen with intelligence, gazed off to the side past Arthur’s shoulder, so realistic Arthur battled the impulse to turn around and see what the model was looking at. His pale skin was flawless, stretched over his fine bone structure like another canvas awaiting its paint. Somehow, however, the artist had refrained from making it seem constructed, the faintest of color shining high on his cheeks, the slight stippling of shorn whiskers along his jaw and upper lip.
Arthur had never seen a painting look so realistic before. Without thinking, he stepped right up to the canvas and peered closely at it, searching for hints it was a doctored photograph rather than the real thing. Beads of paint rose from the canvas, and he touched a dot of brown on the shoulder to confirm its added dimension.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
The man’s voice startled Arthur into jerking away. He retreated to his original spot, shoving his sticky hands into his jeans pockets to regard the speaker. A weathered blond with piercing eyes and too-long hair now stood between Arthur and the paintings. His accent was English, too. Arthur would’ve pegged him for another customer if it weren’t for the smears of paint along the bottom of his button-down shirt. “You’re very good,” Arthur said.
The man chuckled. “Oh, they’re not mine. My models are always of the female persuasion.”
“Oh.” Mild relief coursed through Arthur. For some reason, he liked the idea that these could be self-portraits. He liked even more that he could meet the artist in person. “Are you just watching his stall then?”
“Mordred never sells his own work. I take care of it for him.” He stuck his hand out. “Name’s Alvarr.”
Arthur returned the greeting. “Arthur.” He left off his surname on purpose. The Pendragon dynasty was well-known beyond English borders. Sellers had a tendency to hike up their prices when they heard it. “How much are they?”
“There isn’t a single artist out here who gets the color Mordred does,” Alvarr said, ignoring Arthur’s question. “Even me, and it kills me to have to admit that. I’d love to see his lighting when he works.”
“He lets you sell his work, and he won’t let you in his studio? He must be afraid you’re going to steal his secrets.”
“I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try.”
“Are these all he has?” Alvarr was obviously trying to justify whatever price he refused to share. Arthur needed to suggest he might not be interested in them if there were others. “Other models, perhaps?”
“Mordred doesn’t use models.”
Arthur’s pulse leapt, but he kept his voice calm. “So this is him?”
“Oh, no.”
His hope deflated. “I don’t understand, then. How does he get this kind of detail?”
“By being brilliant. These are pure figments of his imagination. Which makes them all that more remarkable, don’t you think?”
As well as disappointing. “You never said whether there were more.”
“No, just these two.”
“And they cost…?”
“Three hundred euro.”
Arthur stared at him in disbelief. That was over two hundred pounds for street art. He didn’t care if it was Paris. That was too extravagant. Most tourists would never carry that much. “Three hundred for two paintings.”
“Oh, no. Three hundred apiece.”
Now, he laughed. This Mordred was clearly off his nut. “Good luck with that.”
He didn’t wait for Alvarr to push the sale. He resumed his stroll without a second glance. As intriguing as the not-a-model was, no piece of street art was worth that kind of money.
Except he couldn’t shake the memory of those eyes. They haunted him long after he returned to his hotel, when he’d passed by a dozen men and women far more beautiful than the young man in the painting. He saw the same blue of the not-a-model’s eyes in the darkening line along the horizon when he gazed out the window after his evening meal. He was reminded of the sharp angle of his face when the slender porter came to remove his tray. Even after he retired, when the lights were out and the curtains drawn, Arthur imagined those eyes were still staring past him, fixated on something Arthur needed to see if only he could turn his head fast enough to catch it.
His dreams were a tumult. Lance was in them, but not the Lance of recent years, the one who’d given Gwen a shoulder—and then more—as support. No, this was the Lance from uni, the one who moved in after Arthur’s wanker of a roommate buggered off with half his belongings. The Lance from then had listened when Arthur ranted, got pissed with Arthur when he needed a night out, held Arthur close when they both passed out on the couch.
Dream Lance was all of that and more, but the eyes he kept fixing on Arthur weren’t the gentle brown he was accustomed to. These were the blazing blue from the paintings, of the mystery man Arthur couldn’t shake. The body was slightly wrong, too, thinner, longer, hands groping beneath Arthur’s clothes to tease his tormented flesh into waking from the coma he’d endured since long before Gwen’s departure.
Arthur jolted from sleep with a hard-on that ached, balls heavy with the need for release. When he licked his lips, the salty tang of sweat lingered on his tongue, and he gulped down an entire bottle of water before it ebbed.
His reflection was a mess. Skin blotchy, eyes sunken. He had to wait for the shower to steam over the mirror before he could venture back inside to clean up. And for what? He’d never slept this poorly before, not even the days after he received Lance’s note of apology. The painting couldn’t be at fault. The bloody model wasn’t even real.
But it had to be a sign, and though Arthur hated yielding to such esoteric impulses, he knew what he had to do.
He was back in the market within the hour, steps brisk as he marched through the streets. His urgency stuck in his throat when he reached the spot where he’d found Alvarr the day before. The paintings weren’t there. Neither was Alvarr. In their place was a rosy-cheeked Frenchwoman, hawking pieces of pottery painted in ditsy patterns.
“Pardon me,” he said, putting on his best smile. “I’m looking for the gentleman who was here yesterday. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
She shook her head. “It’s first come, first serve,” she said to him in French. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you know him. Alvarr?”
Another shake of her head.
When she reached for a small vase in an apparent attempt to coax him into a purchase, Arthur cut her off. “What about Mordred?” he tried. “Have you ever heard of him?”
Another denial sent Arthur trudging away from the stall, his stomach settling somewhere around his knees. He needed to buy one of the paintings. As mad as it sounded, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it would be the only way to satisfy the obsession. He could stare at it to his full, then ship it home to deal with later. Maybe he’d even give it to Morgana, except the instant he mused on the possibility he knew he’d never follow through on that. If he bought it, he would keep it.
He just had to find the damn thing first.
He spent half his morning querying every artist he found. Mordred remained a mystery, but a few had heard of Alvarr. He was a frequent face in the sprawling street market, though none knew more than that he painted.
“You could try asking at the charcuterie.” A gamine-featured brunette pointed at a narrow shop around the corner. “I’ve seen him go in there once or twice.”
It was the most concrete lead Arthur had got all morning. He bought one of her odd dragon sculptures as a thank you.
His luck was improving. Once the queue inside the shop died down, the clerk answered his question with a quick nod.
“But Alvarr doesn’t come to the market on Wednesdays,” the clerk said. “You won’t find him again until tomorrow.”
It was better than nothing, but Arthur wasn’t sure he could tolerate another night of dreams about the painting. “You don’t happen to know where his studio is, do you? He was showing some work yesterday that belongs to a friend of his—”
“Do you mean Mordred?”
His pulse skipped a beat at the mention of the very man he hoped to find, but he kept his response calm. “That’s the one. I couldn’t remember the name.”
“I’m surprised he gave it to you at all. He never does. Too busy hawking his own work. He must’ve thought you were a serious buyer.”
“I was. Am. I wasn’t expecting to buy anything yesterday, so I didn’t have the money on me when something caught my eye. I told him I’d be back, but he’d already left when I returned yesterday.” He paused. “Of course, it would be better if I could just give the money directly to Mordred…”
He left the thought dangling, in hopes the clerk would catch on. “I can’t tell you where to find Mordred now,” the clerk said. “But if you come back this afternoon around three, he’ll be in to pick up his weekly order. Perhaps you could speak to him then.”
The answer was better than he’d hoped for. After thanking the clerk, Arthur wandered back onto the street, his spirits practically buoyant. He found a café within spying distance of the charcuterie and parked himself at a table outside, drinking cup after cup of French coffee as the hours passed. Eating was impossible. His stomach roiled, barely tolerant of the coffee he kept consuming. When the waiter began giving him dirty looks about occupying a table without ordering lunch, Arthur took out his credit card, paid for everybody’s meal, and left the café behind.
A walk. That was what he needed for his jitters.
He wandered aimlessly, keeping his pace brisk, denying the urges to keep checking his watch. Once, he stopped to listen to a young girl singing classic Edith Piaf songs, her version of “La Vie en Rose” entrancing him before he rounded the corner and caught sight of her. It was romantic nonsense, of course, but the hopeful sadness in her voice kept him rooted in his spot for several more songs.
When he dropped several notes into her guitar case as a tip, she offered to sing whatever he requested.
Arthur turned her down. He’d indulged his whimsy too long already.
At two-forty, he was back at the charcuterie, his cheeks wind-chapped but his body calmer. There was quite a queue when he entered for the second time that day. His hopes sank, however, when he saw a different clerk behind the counter. Had he mistaken what the first clerk had said? What if he’d only said that to get Arthur to leave?
The questions kept coming, compounding his doubts. Then the man from the morning emerged from a back room with a tray of sausages.
Though he met Arthur’s eyes right away, he went straight to the customer he’d obviously been helping, chatting and smiling as he finished the transaction. He made no gesture toward Arthur, no acknowledgement when he moved onto the next customer. The queue grew longer, too, giving Arthur no choice but to step to the side to give people clearance.
What am I doing?
The sudden question nagged at him, taunting him with his ridiculous behavior as he shuffled awkwardly every time he had to get out of someone’s path. It was just a painting, a silly little portrait like hundreds of others scattered throughout the market. He was acting like a virgin about to go on his very first date, all excited skittishness that spelled disaster when the actual deed was underway. A smart man would walk out and leave it behind, just as he had yesterday when he’d heard the exorbitant price tag. Clearly, if this Mordred really wanted sales, he’d find ways to get his work into the market more consistently.
Turning on his heel, Arthur marched for the door, skirting the others waiting their turn. He had to step back at the exit to allow an elderly woman pass by, but when a dark-haired young man came in after her, Arthur hesitated. There was blue paint along the cuff of one of the man’s coat sleeves. It had to be a coincidence. With the market so close, a lot of artists roamed the streets. But he glanced back at the clerk anyway, his heart suddenly pounding against his ribs.
The clerk was watching him. When their eyes met, the clerk gave a brief nod.
Arthur wasn’t sure whether he should shout with relief or grab Mordred by the arm to haul him outside. Both would create a scene, however, which was the last thing he needed to deal with. One person with a smartphone could capture the moment, and then he’d have to deal with the publicity circus it would likely create back in London when it hit the Internet.
He chose instead to step outside, sending a courtesy wave of gratitude back to the clerk as he cleared the doorway. On the pavement, he pretended to examine the window display as he waited for Mordred to inch ahead in the queue. He held his breath when the same clerk who’d helped him greeted Mordred, but not once did either man glance in Arthur’s direction. Mordred made his purchase and left, turning away from Arthur to head deeper into the neighborhood.
Arthur jogged forward to catch up to him. When he reached Mordred’s elbow, he tapped it lightly to get his attention. “Pardon me, but are you Mordred?”
The eyes that turned to him were a pale imitation of those in his paintings. In many ways, Mordred resembled the object of his imagination. Same pale skin, same unruly hair. But where his creation exuded a haunting kindness, Mordred was icy, staring back at Arthur with an obvious disdain he wasn’t accustomed to.
“You’re Arthur Pendragon.” Though Arthur had spoken to him in French, Mordred responded in English, his tone soft, his accent surprisingly educated.
“Yes.” Arthur smiled, hoping to stoke some semblance of warmth in the other man. “I’m glad I found you, actually.”
“Did you?”
The query stumped him. “Pardon?”
Mordred’s features were eerily placid. He’d be an astounding asset during a negotiation if he didn’t creep Arthur out so much. “How did you find me?”
Arthur didn’t want to betray the charcuterie clerk’s trust, so he came up with the best lie he could manage. “Alvarr told me who to look for if I decided to come back.” Mordred didn’t speak, simply gazing at Arthur as if he expected more. “And the paint on your sleeve,” Arthur added, gesturing toward the coat. “I saw the same shade in one of your paintings yesterday.”
It sounded lame even to his ears, but in for a penny…
Of course, the ensuing silence would’ve been far less uncomfortable if Mordred would blink or react in some way.
Nearly a minute passed where the two men just stared at each other. Arthur was beginning to doubt the sanity of what he was doing again when Mordred finally began walking.
“Those paintings are no longer for sale,” he said without looking back.
Gritting his teeth, Arthur double-timed his steps until he matched Mordred’s stride. “That’s a shame. I would’ve bought them yesterday if I’d had the money on me.”
“I can’t imagine Arthur Pendragon not having sufficient funds. Don’t you own half of England?”
“Not quite.”
“A third, then.”
“I wasn’t expecting to want to buy anything in a street fair,” Arthur said. “But when I came back later with the cash for the paintings, Alvarr was gone.”
“He told me you thought they were too expensive.”
“I never said that.” A thought occurred to him. “I never told Alvarr my last name. He didn’t seem to realize who I was.”
“He didn’t. He lives in a world populated by pretty girls and alcohol, where charm is the currency and sincerity is in sad supply.” If Arthur had thought Mordred disdainful of his wealth, it was a pale comparison next to what he thought of Alvarr. “He described you to me, and I, unlike my dissolute friend, am well aware of what devils reside in my native land.”
Arthur chuckled. “You’re mistaking me for my father.”
“And yet, you’re following in his footsteps.”
“Look…” He wasn’t going through all this to be lectured by a penniless artist. Why should he feel guilty about the wealth he’d been born into? It wasn’t like he’d had a choice in the matter. “I’m very interested in your work. If those are gone, you must have others to sell.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“How about I commission one, then? I’ll triple your asking price.”
Mordred came to an abrupt halt. From the look on his face, Arthur had finally said something to get his attention. “You want a self-portrait?” Mordred asked.
“No, nothing like that.” He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous about his request. He must be coming off as a complete nutter, chasing Mordred down like this, but this was his chance. He had to take it. “I was actually hoping for something similar to what I saw yesterday.”
Mordred’s eyes narrowed. “In what way?”
“The bloke you painted. Alvarr told me you made him up?”
Was it his imagination or did Mordred hesitate a moment too long before answering? “Yes.”
“Can you paint another with him? Since you don’t have the other two as a reference anymore, I mean.”
“Of course, I can. But isn’t there someone else you’d rather have a portrait of?”
The query had more edges that a pit full of knives. Arthur had always dated women in the public eye, and though he’d made no secret of his bisexuality to close friends, he’d never given Uther any reason to suspect he was just as comfortable with a cock in his mouth as he was a pretty breast. Then there was the matter of the humiliation regarding Gwen and Lance. Since Mordred had known who he was, he had to have heard the details about Arthur’s last break-up. Arthur had to tread carefully.
“There’s something about what you created,” Arthur said. “I saw it when I stopped. Like I knew the bloke in the painting from somewhere. That’s why I asked Alvarr about who your model was. I thought maybe it’d jog my memory, like perhaps it’d been someone I’d gone to school with who lived here now, or maybe an ex-employee. Imagine my shock when he told me he wasn’t even real, especially since I don’t normally notice art. Not that I don’t appreciate your hard work,” he rushed to add when he heard how that sounded. “But it’s never been a priority for me.”
“None of this explains why you don’t want something original.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He sighed. He’d tried a version of the truth, and it had got him nowhere. “I can’t explain it myself. But there was something about those paintings that spoke to me. Clearly, you have immense talent. How else could you have caught the eye of someone as blind as I am? I can’t help but think that it’s only a matter of time before someone else notices exactly how talented you truly are. Your work will be worth a fortune. I’d like to invest before that happens.”
It was a last ditch effort. Arthur knew that. From the look on Mordred’s face, he knew it, too. But more than the allure of money, he’d played on the one weakness every artist possessed, in hopes that Mordred wouldn’t be the exception there, either.
Pride. The overwhelming desire to show off to an appreciative world. The need for approval. The recognition of brilliance.
The longer Mordred took to respond, the more hopeful Arthur became he’d finally found his way in.
“Paintings take time,” Mordred finally said.
“Of course,” Arthur rushed to agree.
“And commissioned work is more expensive.”
What was money when it came to Arthur’s peace of mind? “My offer to pay triple the price stands.”
“Commissions start at fifteen hundred.”
Arthur shook his head. “It ends at fifteen hundred. I’m not making you paint anything you haven’t already done. And I’m not making any other requests other than what he looks like.”
At this point, he probably would’ve paid more just to get a yes from Mordred, but if he didn’t show a spine in this negotiation now, Mordred would string him along indefinitely.
The technique worked. Mordred gave him a sharp nod. “Fifteen hundred, then.”
Arthur wanted to shout in excitement, but settled for sticking out his hand. “Looks like we have a deal.” Mordred’s grip was cold and hard. “How long will it take?”
Mordred retreated a step when he pulled back, like he couldn’t get away from Arthur fast enough. “How long are you in Paris?”
“For a few more weeks, at least. But I’d prefer to have the painting sooner rather than later so I can ship it back before I go. That way, I’ll have something to look forward to with my return.”
“Find Alvarr in the market next Tuesday. I’ll update him with the progress, and we’ll take it from there.”
He pivoted on his heel and darted across the street before Arthur could stop him. This time, Arthur let him go. He’d done all he could at this point. The rest was up to the temperamental Mordred.
After the bargain was struck, Arthur expected life to return to normal, or at least, as normal as it had been prior to spotting the paintings. But that first night, the dreams returned, this time with the imaginary brunette fully in Lance’s place.
“You’re not real,” Arthur said.
From where he leaned against the doorjamb of his hotel room, the young man cocked his head. “Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because you’re there.”
“So doesn’t that make me real?”
“This is a dream.”
Anguish flickered behind his blue eyes, gone before Arthur could be sure he saw it. “I wish it weren’t.”
Odd words to come from a figment of an egotistical artist’s imagination. “Well, I need to sleep, and if this wasn’t a dream, I’d be awake, so I guess you’re out of luck.”
“You were the one who came looking for me.”
“No, I was looking for Mordred. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
The cryptic response stunned Arthur from speaking. He was helpless to do anything but sprawl in the chair—it was the overstuffed one from uni he’d bought from the charity shop to annoy Uther, so at least not everything about the dream was unlike the previous—watching the young man straighten from his place at the door and saunter closer.
His loose-hipped stride mesmerized Arthur in other ways, dark promises of what those long legs could do without the restriction of clothes. When he came to a stop in front of the chair, he held his hand out until Arthur had no choice but to reach for it with his own.
Carefully, Arthur tugged, and the young man tumbled with an artful grace into the wide cushion, settling around Arthur’s side. His legs draped over Arthur’s, and his free arm slid around the back of the chair so he could pull Arthur into a loose embrace.
As discombobulated as Arthur was, he leaned into the hard body with the need of a starving man suddenly thrust into a banquet hall. Lips brushed across the top of his head, and the surprising strength in the arms around him melted the worst of the uncertainty he’d felt at the start.
“I thought you were here to help me,” the young man murmured. “But I think you need me even more.”
Arthur closed his eyes. He wouldn’t answer that, even if this was just a dream.
His lashes were crusted together when he woke. He didn’t know why. He didn’t care. He could still feel the shelter of that embrace as he stumbled into the bathroom to shower.
When he fell asleep the next night, he didn’t question the brunette’s presence. The other man came to Arthur without a word and found his place in the chair, taking Arthur in his arms with a silent possessiveness. Waking from that dream wasn’t the confusion of the day before. He couldn’t even remember most of it by the time he was dressed to face the day.
But when he lost the plot during an emergency conference call with Morgana because he was too busy trying to piece together the fragments of what he could recall, he began to wonder about his sanity. He couldn’t lie to himself and say this wasn’t obsession. It was. Especially when Morgana insisted on talking to him after the Germans had disconnected.
“Put the video on,” Morgana insisted before he could utter a word.
With a roll of his eyes, he clicked the Skype icon. Her image filled the screen, while his became a tiny box in the corner.
Is that fate? a voice whispered in the back of his head. Considering his obsession with the brunette lately, it wasn’t surprising to hear the voice sounded exactly like Mordred. Maybe it would be better if you just slipped away entirely…
He ignored the sliver of self-doubt. “Happy now?” he asked.
She appeared perfect as always, make-up immaculate, eyes bright. Usually, it was the glitter of competition that lit her up, but right now, he would’ve sworn she looked worried.
“You were supposed to be taking care of yourself this trip, not running yourself further into the ground,” she accused.
“Thank you ever so much for your loving support,” he said with more than a tinge of sarcasm. “For your information, I haven’t given Gwen or Lance a single thought for the past two days.” Because all he’d been thinking about was his mysterious painting man. “I thought that was the whole point of this little getaway.”
“Then what on earth have you been doing that you look so exhausted?”
“Nothing. Wandering around the city.” He’d gone back to the market every day since cornering Mordred. He told himself it was just to get out of the hotel and he knew that area intimately by this point, but that wasn’t true and he knew it. A part of him hoped Alvarr would be there again with more of Mordred’s work. “There’s this little arts and crafts market not too far away, actually. I’ve spent most of my time there.”
“Arts and crafts.” A hard stare accompanied her disbelieving tone. “Have you found a bingo club, too?”
“It’s not like that,” he argued. “Some of these artisans are quite good.”
“What does that matter? You’ve never bothered with art before.”
“Well, when all you have is time, it doesn’t seem quite so bad.”
“If you’re doing it because of Gwen—”
“I told you. I haven’t been thinking about her. I know it’s over. She’s better off with Lance, anyway.”
Her eyes narrowed as she searched his face. The seconds stretched between them, but he’d played enough of these waiting games with her not to fall prey to them now.
Then, her gaze went wide. “You’ve met someone!”
Her exuberant declaration set his nerves on edge. “No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have,” Morgana countered. “That’s why you look like rubbish. You’ve been burning the midnight oil with some pretty little thing, haven’t you?”
“No, and don’t go telling Father I’ve met someone. The last thing I need is him calling me up, asking about her pedigree.”
Her features softened with sympathy. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“You would if it benefited you.”
“Well, it doesn’t in this case, so you don’t have to worry about that. I think you’re lying, though. If you’re not sleeping with someone, you’ve at least met someone. You’ve got that look about you.”
Arthur frowned. “What look?”
“That lost little puppy look. The one you get when you’re pining away. It’s the same you had before you got the nerve to ask Gwen out the first time because you were too afraid of how Father would react.”
He had no idea how Morgana could see straight through to the heart of him sometimes. Few people could. He’d learned early to put up the brave front that the Pendragon name demanded. But it didn’t work on some people. Gwen. Morgana.
Now that he considered it, the young man in his dreams seemed to be part of their ranks. He certainly acted like he knew more about Arthur than was rightfully possible.
“It’s not a person,” he forced himself to say. “Well, not exactly.”
“Is it a cyborg?”
“There’s this artist—”
“Ha! I knew you were in love!”
“Oh, Lord, not with him,” Arthur said with a grimace. “He’s an arrogant, stubborn little brat. Unfortunately, he’s also very talented. I commissioned some work from him.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a painter.”
She didn’t look convinced, but thankfully, didn’t press for details. “I never would’ve picked you for falling for some art,” she mused.
Arthur sighed. “It seems that’s about all I can fall for these days.”
“It’ll happen for you. Some day, you’ll meet someone who makes you forget about everything else, and when that day comes, it’ll be impossible for you to put her second.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Or him, but you’d have to be truly mad to finally stand up to Father like that.”
Arthur laughed, though the partial wisdom in her words struck a little too close to home. With this painting, he had forgotten everything else. If the model had been real, he couldn’t say for sure he might not have been the one to give Arthur to courage to come out to Uther, once and for all.
They disconnected with promises to meet up when he returned to London, as well as Morgana’s assurances that she wouldn’t bother him on his holiday again.
He didn’t care so much about the latter.
It was the prospect of leaving Paris without the one piece of memorabilia he wanted that truly irritated him.
“Tuesday seems so far away.”
The dream had been progressing in its familiar patterns, with Arthur running the palm of his hand up and down the hard line of the brunette’s thigh. As aroused as he was when he woke up, nothing sexual ever happened in the dreams. The first time, he’d been too overwhelmed by it all to even consider it, and the second, it seemed improper. Tonight, he wasn’t as out of sorts as he’d been before, most likely because the conversation with Morgana kept nagging at the back of his mind.
He never would’ve been able to give Gwen the devotion she deserved. He understood that now. And he’d meant it when he’d said Lance could. In so many ways, they were kindred spirits, which was likely why Arthur had fallen for both of them. They belonged with each other.
Knowing that, the grief over losing them in one fell swoop didn’t sting like it used to. He was more comfortable in his own skin, and the sensation of drifting because it all seemed so pointless was faded.
It gave him focus to get lost in the present, like how aroused he got by the very thought of the man in the painting. He’d been attracted from the start, caught up in the fantasy during the day while the dream version took command at night. No mention was made of Arthur’s touches, but Arthur could neither bring himself to stop nor venture higher as he so desperately wished.
From the way they were wound around each other, he couldn’t even tell if his dream companion was as hard as he was. Until he could be sure one way or another, he needed to keep it simple, lest lose him entirely.
So hearing him speak was a shock, as much as his comment was not. “It’ll come soon enough,” Arthur replied.
“Anything can happen before then. I’m not even sure Mordred’s going to do it for you.”
It was Arthur’s greatest fear. “He will. It’s too much money.”
“You don’t know him like I do.”
“You’re a part of him.”
“That’s what he wants you to believe.”
Arthur’s gaze jumped up to his companion’s face, but the bright eyes were fixed on something beyond them, soft and sad. “He made you up.”
Without looking at him, the young man shook his head. “He just tells that to people so they don’t ask questions.”
The statement left Arthur flabbergasted. He had no more words before dawn separated them again.
On Saturday, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease his dreams had left. The details were sharper this time, mostly because he fought to hold onto them from the moment he woke up. But the more he fixed on why his brain would concoct such a ridiculous possibility, the more he pondered how it was getting to him.
Morgana had seen the ramifications of his obsession. He might fight with her for the upper hand in business matters, but she’d always had his back when it came to his personal life. She wouldn’t express concern if she didn’t mean it.
He needed to get his mind off the young man, but the how of it escaped him. If he left the hotel, he knew his feet would take him back to the art stalls, but he had no desire to play tourist. Shopping could be a pleasant diversion, but that posed the same problem the market did, a constant reminder of the commission he had yet to see.
The answer came to him in the shower. What he needed was to get laid. He spent too much of his dreams hard and frustrated, and he hadn’t had sex since before Gwen left. It had been even longer since he’d been with a guy. Strong hands and a hard cock were all he required to forget about someone who wasn’t even real.
Briefly, he considered hiring a rentboy for the night, someone big and bulky with a prick like that Italian porn star he occasionally wanked to. A professional would know how to obliterate the real world and leave Arthur exhausted until Tuesday, that was for sure.
But he’d be predictable, too, a safe environment when Arthur was suffocating in his own constraints. Wasn’t he alone now because he so rarely took risks? He’d walked the path Uther demanded and lost Gwen—and Lance—in the process. Others had fallen by the wayside, too, the boys he’d never had the nerve to bring home, the girls who’d walked away because they couldn’t break through that Pendragon wall.
Arthur wanted dangerous. He wanted the unknown. A rentboy couldn’t give that to him.
He hadn’t done the Parisian club scene in years, so he got online to check out what was around. Though Les Souffleurs was more his style, quieter and more laid-back, he decided on Le Spyce Bar instead, which promised packed bodies, temperatures through the roof, and music too loud to let himself think. The boys who were encouraged to dance up on the podiums couldn’t hurt, either.
He left the hotel behind at lunchtime, checking in for last minute spa treatments and a quick hunt for suitable attire. Dinner was obtained from street vendors, and rather than take a taxi, he walked the distance to the club.
A large tip got him inside past the protesting queue. From the moment he stepped through the doors, heat and sweat assaulted his senses. The reviews had been spot on. Strobe lights flickered over the writhing bodies already crammed onto the dance floor, and the music was loud enough to make his eardrums hurt. From first glance, he wore more clothes than anyone else but the bartender.
“A pint!” Arthur shouted at the fit young blond behind the bar. He leaned against the edge to allow others to squeeze past him, though more than one wandering hand scoped along his ass. When his drink arrived, he swallowed down half of it in one go to bolster his courage. Now that he was here, he wasn’t convinced this was the smartest idea he’d ever had.
You’re getting laid. Focus on that.
Easier said than done. Dancing wasn’t his strength, and he’d had more than one date tease him about being so awkward. He’d need more than a pint of beer to find the nerve to fight his way onto the floor.
So he turned his attentions to those who weren’t dancing, the lonely bodies around the edges who watched those within with undisguised longing. Few caught him looking. They were too absorbed in the passionate revelries unfolding in front of them. One dark man with a shy smile nodded at Arthur when he caught his eye, but before Arthur break free of the safety of the bar, someone else was dragging his would-be target into the throng.
He slumped against the counter. Since when was hesitating his style? He was Arthur Pendragon, damn it. He could have half of England on its knees if he asked for it. Pulling one pretty Frenchman shouldn’t be this bloody difficult.
At the end of a second pint, he pushed away from his comfort zone and wound through the crowd for the nearest podium. The music throbbed through the soles of his shoes, and the familiar stickiness of sweat plastered his new shirt to his back, but it was good, welcome even, signs that he was alive and ready instead of stagnating in the temperature-controlled sterility of his hotel room.
A ginger who barely looked legal commanded everyone’s attention at the dais. Arthur positioned himself as close as he could get and let the surrounding bodies nudge him into motion. Muscles relaxed, from his legs upward. When someone squeezed his hip, he leaned into the touch rather than knock it away. He even applauded as raucously as the others when the song ended and the ginger collapsed into the arms of a bear who cradled him all the way to the toilets.
The next song that started up was slower than its predecessor, but the bass overpowered any semblance of intimacy. Arthur closed his eyes to let the pulsing sink into his flesh. It was better than any massage, more intimate than hands working their expertise. When he opened his eyes again, he actually felt eager to go on the hunt for his own partner for the night.
Then he saw him.
Not just him.
Them.
They stood near the speakers, not a part of the dancing masses but close enough to the fringe to get sucked into the crowd without the bat of an eyelash. The shorter of the pair had his arm curled possessively around the other, their lower halves pressed so tightly together it was a very good thing they both wore jeans or they’d be the stars of their very own porn shoot. Sweat dampened the ends of his unruly hair, but he seemed oblivious to it, too absorbed in raking his lips up and down the long line of his friend’s neck.
It was the friend Arthur fixed on. Because he knew the eyes that looked over the top of his lover’s head to fix on Arthur’s. After all, he’d been dreaming about them for days.
Without looking away from Arthur, the brunette from the painting bowed down to whisper something at the other man’s ear. The shorter man pulled back enough for Arthur to see it really was Mordred—not that it was a surprise, considering the way he was hanging on him—then went back to nuzzling the brunette’s throat. Whatever had passed between them remained a mystery.
But Arthur didn’t care about that.
He was around the corner of the platform before he realized what he was doing. The words from his dream—He just tells that to people so they don’t ask questions.—kept bouncing around inside his skull, fueling his steps when people got in his way. He’d been right all along. The model was real. The need to know why Mordred would lie, however, was completely surpassed by the desire to confront them.
The only force strong enough to stop him turned out to be an almost infinitesimal shake of a head. The man from the painting’s.
Arthur froze. With his legs and arms locked, he became hyperaware of the sudden thudding of his heart, the way it choked in the back of his throat as he had to watch Mordred slowly disengage from his boyfriend. The smile the man from the painting cast at Mordred was so familiar it made Arthur ache, and he tracked the slow revolution as he turned away from Mordred and shouldered his way to the toilets.
He wants me to come. He had to. There was no other explanation for it, especially when the stasis of his muscles suddenly vanished and he practically fell onto the chubby bear he’d been about to elbow around.
“Pardon me,” Arthur said automatically, but his eyes were elsewhere, his feet catching up a second later. Though it was a longer path, he skirted the men behind Mordred to avoid his line of sight, then darted into the narrow corridor that led to the more private areas.
The ginger from the podium had never made it to the loo and was now pinned against the wall next to it, giggling as the bear groped his ass. Arthur’s cheeks flooded with heat, while the rest of his body decided to join in the fun. By the time he pushed open the toilet door, every inch of him felt like he’d walked through a dozen backyard Bonfire Nights.
Cool fingers wrapped around his wrist as soon as he crossed the threshold. The door flew out of his grip as it was shoved closed behind him, and he turned to find the object of his obsession staring down at him.
“You have no idea how glad I am you didn’t change your mind,” the man said.
Tremors began rippling through Arthur’s body. That voice. It was the same one from his dreams. But that was impossible, he’d made that detail up, just like he’d made his fantasy man English like him. He’d had to, because he’d had zero reference to draw upon, but now here he was, sounding exactly as he had while they’d been curled around each other in the chair, looking just as real as he’d appeared in each of the paintings.
“You’re not mad,” the man said, as if he’d been reading Arthur’s thoughts. “But I don’t have time to explain everything. If I’m gone too long, Mordred will come looking for me.”
Arthur licked his dry lips. “He said you weren’t real.”
The smile that twisted the man’s full mouth wrenched Arthur’s heart. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”
Yes. In Arthur’s dreams, not some shared delusion. The only way for the man to know was…
“How?”
The man shook his head. “That’ll take too long, too. You have to trust me, Arthur. I need you to believe me. If you don’t, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get free.”
“Free? Of what?” Horror dawned, strong enough to douse his earlier shakes. “If Mordred’s holding you against your will—”
“He wasn’t. Not at first. But—” His head suddenly cocked, his gaze shooting beyond Arthur to the door. Arthur found himself holding his breath as he waited for the rest of the explanation.
It never came.
“He’s coming,” the man hissed. With a deft twist, he shoved Arthur toward one of the stalls. “Get in there. If he sees you, that’s it.”
Arthur grazed his knuckles against the edge of the door as he grabbed onto it to find his balance. “You need to call the police.”
His harsh laugh echoed against the barren walls. “He’d eat them up for breakfast and still be hungry.”
As the man went to the sink and began washing his hands, a perfectly natural thing to do if one had actually used the facilities, Arthur watched him in the mirror. The reflection was grainy, the glass spotty from years of disuse, but the vulnerability in the sharp bow of his shoulders, the indomitable fragility in the angle of his jaw, made Arthur yearn to ignore caution and take the man into his arms. “I don’t even know your name.”
When the man looked up, the sadness in his gaze nearly finished Arthur off. “Merlin,” he said, but any softness in his tone was shattered by the sudden creak of the door hinge. Arthur caught a flash of gold, then felt the uncanny pressure of invisible hands against his chest as he fell back into the stall.
The metal door slammed shut the moment he heard Mordred’s voice.
“I thought you’d fallen in,” he said. Though the words were a joke, the intonation was not.
“Just washing up.” The water faucet squeaked as he flipped it off. “I told you I’d only be a sec.”
“I’m getting bored with this place. Let’s go home.”
Clothes rustled. Arthur dared to press his eye to the crack between the door and the stall door to try to see what was going on. All he could make out was the back of Merlin’s shirt and Mordred’s arms coiled around his waist.
“You promised me a night out,” Merlin said.
“And I gave it to you.”
“We only just got here.”
The muscles in the forearms tensed. “What can you get here that you can’t get at home?” He tugged and Merlin’s back bowed with the pressure, though his feet remained in place. “Come on. We can stop at that Indian you like so much. All the samosas you could possibly want.”
Someone sighed. Arthur assumed it was Merlin. “All right,” he acquiesced. They moved out of view, their footfalls quiet on the floor. “Can we come back next week?”
“Let’s see how it goes, hmmm?”
The toilet door opened and closed. Arthur counted to twenty before venturing out of the stall. He wanted to take chase, but Merlin’s warning about the police and the weird thing with the stall made him hesitate.
Mordred was dangerous. Worse, there was something going on between him and Merlin, something that had Merlin terrified, that Arthur couldn’t explain. He needed answers before he went to the authorities with wild stories about mysterious painters and models held hostage.
His only hope was that, somehow, he’d find them after he fell asleep that night.
His first visual in his dream was the same metal stall he’d been locked in at the club. The lock swung free, and Arthur pushed the door open with a careful frown about what he might discover on the other side.
Merlin sat on the edge of the sink, arms folded over his arms, a wry smile on his full mouth. “You’re not the most creative type, are you?” he commented.
The taunt jolted Arthur out of his momentary wariness. “What’re you talking about?”
Merlin jerked his chin toward their antiseptic surroundings. “First, your hotel room. Now, the gents. Would it be so bad to dream about someplace else for a change? Maybe a beach somewhere. With lots of sun.” The smile widened. “You look like you rather enjoy a little sun worship on occasion.”
“And you’d probably turn into a lobster without a boat of sunblock.” He edged nearer. As tempting as it was to return to the physicality of the previous dreams, this one needed to be about answers, and he didn’t trust getting too close to Merlin and still keeping his hands to himself. “Besides, you’re the one doing this, aren’t you?”
“Nope.” Merlin popped the p. As casual as Merlin was, the inflection was oddly endearing. “All I did was find you. You’re the one who’s actually dreaming.”
“What do you mean, find me? I’m the one who saw you first.”
Merlin’s amusement faded. “There’s so much to explain, and I don’t even know if I have the energy to do it anymore. It’s been a miracle just having someone else around for a few hours.”
“You mean, while I’m asleep. In my dreams.”
“Yes.”
“You realize that sounds completely mad, don’t you?”
Merlin’s head cocked. “Not as mad as being held prisoner for the past five years by a man who knows more about dark magic than you could ever imagine.”
Dark magic. He’d really just said those words. But as Arthur opened his mouth to mock him, the possibility that it could feasibly explain what was going on held his tongue.
“Why don’t you tell me what you wanted to back at the club?” Arthur said. “We have all the time in the world now.”
“Well, not quite, but at least we don’t have to worry about interruptions.” Merlin glanced at the door. “Do you think your imagination could come up with a table for us to sit at out there? I don’t really fancy having this conversation in the loo.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Arthur marched to the door and pulled it open, pausing to glance outside. The corridor was deserted, no music blaring from the main floor. When he stepped into the dimmer light, Merlin followed at his heels.
Nobody was in the club, though the sight of strewn clothing and used condoms around the room forced a blush to Arthur’s cheeks.
“I should consider myself lucky you didn’t find anyone before you saw me,” Merlin commented. He turned a chair around at the nearest table and straddled it with his forearms folded across its back. Resting his chin on his arms, he waited until Arthur took the other chair before adding, “I never would’ve picked this for your sort of place, though.”
“It’s not. Not usually. I just…” It seemed like all he could do was smell sex now, too, which didn’t help his discomfort. “How did you even know?”
“Same way I could get into your dreams. You did it when you touched me at the market that first day.”
“But I didn’t see you in person until the club. I didn’t even think you were real.”
Merlin laughed. “You saw the painting. That was enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To make the connection.”
“With this…dark magic?”
An immediate frown wiped away his amusement. “My magic isn’t dark,” he said vehemently. “I would never use it the way Mordred does.”
“But if you have magic, too, why can’t you use that to get away from him?”
“Because he got the upper hand first. I haven’t had anyone to help me. Until you came along.”
“How can I help if you won’t let me go to the police?” Arthur held up a hand before Merlin could respond. “Scratch that. I still don’t understand what it is that’s going on here. Explain that first.”
Merlin looked off to the side, so much like the painting it stole Arthur’s breath. When he spoke again, his voice had softened, the effects of memory winning out over the moment.
“Six years ago, I came to Paris on holiday with some mates from uni. I met Mordred in the market, the same one you saw me at. His work was extraordinary, heartbreaking and beautiful, and when he asked me to go out that night, I jumped at the chance. We spent hours talking about art and being away from England and things I don’t even remember. You know what first dates are like. The time disappears before you even know it, like minutes instead of days. It wasn’t until I went home with him that night that I even realized he had magic. He just seemed to…get me, like nobody else really did.”
“How long have you had magic?” Arthur asked. Only in a dream could that sound normal.
“As long as I can remember. My mother says I was born with it, that it runs in the family. She sent me off to live with my uncle when I was young in hopes that he’d teach me how to use it properly, but I was better than Gaius before I turned fourteen. I never had anyone else to talk to about it.”
“Until Mordred came along.”
Merlin nodded. “I was so wrapped up in the excitement of having someone my age that was just like me, I lost sight of everything else. I stayed behind when all my mates went back to England because I thought I was in love. I thought this was it. And it was, for a while. The sex was great, I had a best friend I didn’t have to hold back on, we were learning about magic together. He even called me his muse.”
Arthur could see that. Merlin had certainly inspired him from the moment he’d laid eyes on the paintings. “So what happened?”
“He started getting possessive. If I went out without him, I had to put up with hours of interrogations. Where did I go, who did I see…that sort of thing. Then he became convinced I was seeing someone else, that I was sneaking out when he was working or asleep so I could meet up with this mystery guy. Nothing I said could convince him otherwise. It got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore, so I told him I was leaving for good.”
Arthur grimaced. “I can’t see that going over well.”
“No, it didn’t.” He straightened, though stayed straddled on the chair. “I was trying to be a grown-up about it, instead of just sneaking out like I wanted to, but that backfired. It gave him the chance to lock me in the wine cellar and block all my magic before I could do anything about it. Except for the odd occasion when we go out together, that’s where I’ve been ever since.”
“Why don’t you try escaping when you go out?”
“I tried the first time. I’d been imprisoned for almost eight months before Mordred finally agreed to even let me out. We went to dinner at his favorite restaurant around the corner from the house, and he made me wear this bracelet—you know, one of those string things the girls were always making for each other at school? Anyway, he’d infused it with a spell that suppressed my magic the same way the cellar did. I couldn’t get rid of him that way. So I tried getting him drunk and then knocking him out after we left.”
Merlin was slim and fit, but Arthur couldn’t see him being strong enough to overpower the sturdier Mordred, especially if Merlin had been a captive for so long first. When he said so out loud, Merlin nodded.
“He didn’t trust me to go out for almost a year after that. The best I could manage was the paintings.” Arthur’s confusion must’ve been written all over his face, because Merlin elaborated. “They’re magic, too. The reason they look so realistic is because I’m connected to them. They’re a window for me to see out into the world. Mordred thought he was being so generous with that compromise.”
“That’s why they’re so expensive,” Arthur suddenly realized. “He’s stopping them from getting sold.”
Another nod. “Alvarr doesn’t taken them out very often, either. Only once a month or so. And frankly, nobody really ever notices. Alvarr is always trying to sell his work first, and if anybody sees me, he steers them away. You’re the very first person I ever heard him quote a price to.”
Except that didn’t gibe with what had happened with Arthur. “I never saw his paintings,” he said.
A sly smile began to curve Merlin’s mouth. “I know. That was my doing.”
“How?”
“I might not get out much, but that doesn’t mean I just sit around, twiddling my thumbs. I enhanced the connection I have with the paintings. I use them as a conduit to do some very rudimentary spells. Like focus Alvarr on selling me to you, rather than letting him distract you.”
While he was pretty sure Merlin’s explanation was meant to ease his uncertainty, Arthur experienced a growing sense of nausea instead. “So you put a spell on me to get me to obsess over you, just so I’d help you escape?” he asked, afraid of the response.
Alarm flickered in Merlin’s eyes. “It wasn’t like that. The only magic I used on you was to hitch a ride on your subconscious. So when you dreamed, I could slip in and spend some time with you. From the way you’d looked at me, I thought you’d like it, too.”
That didn’t necessarily make him feel better. “How many people have you done that to?”
“Just you.” His vehemence was palpable, his breath quickening in fear as color rose to his cheeks. “I didn’t even put myself into it. I let your dreams guide the way I looked.”
That hadn’t made a difference to Arthur. Echoes of Merlin had clung to dream Lance, making Arthur yearn for more. “It wasn’t like that the second night.”
“Do you have any idea what kind of fury you put Mordred into?” Merlin said. “He came home from the charcuterie, more upset than I’d seen him since I tried to leave. He was ranting about how you stalked him, how you threw so much money at him he couldn’t refuse without making you more suspicious than you already were. I barely convinced him he had to come up with something if he wanted to get rid of you, but it was never going to be like the other paintings, you know. They would just be normal portraits, no magic at all. But seeing him so frustrated…that’s when I knew I had a real chance.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why did you wait until tonight?”
“I thought that was obvious.”
“Not to me.”
Merlin took a moment to reply. “You…needed me, more than I needed you. I couldn’t ask for your help when you so desperately needed mine.”
Arthur’s throat tightened. Merlin’s assessment was true, but he hadn’t expected to hear it said aloud, even here, in the refuge of their subconsciouses. “How much can you see into my head when you’re here?” he asked carefully.
Merlin’s gentle tone softened the truth he uttered. “Enough to know how alone you are. How you’ve always been. I understand what that’s like, Arthur. I couldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not even Mordred.”
Arthur ducked his head, unable to meet Merlin’s gaze. Uther would mock him for his weakness, but as he attempted to gather the nerve to face Merlin again, a hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed.
“There’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable.” Without letting go, Merlin crouched down and forced Arthur to look him in the eye. “It gives you strength, whether you believe it or not.”
He didn’t, but Merlin’s touch was too reassuring to continue retreating. He had no idea what to say, though, especially with Merlin regarding him with such brilliant kindness.
Instead, he acted. He stretched the few inches separating them and pressed his lips to Merlin’s.
The response was slow but immediate, a lingering of mouth to mouth, an inhalation of breath to breath. Arthur kept it simple, never pressing for more, taking the comfort from Merlin he’d craved for days.
When they parted, Merlin ran his tongue over his lower lip. “I’ve wanted you to do that since I saw you on the street.”
“I guess that makes us two of us.”
Merlin started to stretch for another kiss, but stiffened when Arthur leaned back. “What’s wrong?” Merlin said.
Now that he had permission to touch and stare to his heart’s content, Arthur was hesitant to push the boundaries as forcefully as they both desired. “This isn’t the right time.”
“It’s the only time we have.”
“Now,” Arthur agreed. “But we need to get you out of Mordred’s control. That takes precedence.”
Sighing, Merlin nodded and stood to perch on the edge of the table. “You’re right. We won’t have a chance after Tuesday.”
Arthur didn’t want to think about the implications of what Mordred might be planning for Tuesday. Instead, he focused on the prospect of their plan. “What other options do we have if I can’t go to the police? I don’t have magic like you do. I don’t even know where you are.”
“Then you better pay close attention.” The twinkle was back in his eyes. “No forgetting the details like you’re prone to do.”
“I think it’s going to be hard to forget about this one,” Arthur said.
Merlin looked pointedly at Arthur’s crotch and the thick bulge of his growing erection. “You sure you don’t want to find other ways to make it memorable first?”
“No,” Arthur admitted. “But something tells me that just might make me block out all the other parts of the dream as insignificant in comparison.”
Merlin laughed. It might’ve been the most joyous sound Arthur had ever heard. “This is going to be fun.”
“Only if you get started.”
“No,” Merlin said, his tone softening. “Something tells me foreplay with you will be just as good. I’m looking forward to seeing you in the flesh for more than a few stolen minutes, Arthur Pendragon. You’re going to make my life very interesting all over again.”
As Merlin launched into his ideas on his escape, Arthur couldn’t shake the certainty that Merlin was going to have the very same effect on his own life.
Arthur bounded from bed on Sunday morning with energy he hadn’t felt in months. His shower was vigorous, the water cool to help ease the arousal simmering under his skin. His thoughts weren’t on the physical remnants of his dream, though he’d had problems sticking to his own rules as the dream progressed. His mind was too busy ticking over all the facts Merlin had thrown at him that he needed to keep straight, the details necessary to the light of day and the very real business of setting Merlin free of Mordred, once and for all.
Once he was dressed, the first thing he did was get on the phone. It took fifteen minutes of cajoling to convince Merlin’s Uncle Gaius that he was on the up-and-up. Since he’d never contacted them, Merlin’s family had thought he’d written all of them off. Gaius was reluctant to believe anything that nefarious could ever happen to Merlin, let alone involve the famous Arthur Pendragon, but at the end of it, he had Gaius booked on the first flight out of Gatwick in a first-class seat even though the flight itself would last less than an hour and a half.
Second on his to-do list involved local resources. Using the Pendragon name, he found a security firm willing to put in the hours that afternoon to pull all records and information on the address Merlin had given him. None of it would likely prove necessary in the long run, but Arthur didn’t agree with the diving into the deep end methodology Merlin had argued for. They had a greater chance at success if they were fully armed before they made a move against Mordred. For all intents and purposes, Merlin had been cut off from the outside world for years. He had no idea what lengths Mordred might’ve taken to protect himself. Arthur refused to fail because he’d ignored the possibility of more risk.
Though it wasted valuable time, Arthur went to the airport to meet Gaius himself. Sending a driver would’ve afforded him an extra hour or two of preparation, but he wanted to be the one to greet Merlin’s uncle. It felt important he show his commitment, rather than throw money at the problem as Uther liked to do.
Gaius’s shrewd gaze looked Arthur up and down after he introduced himself. “You’re taller than you seem in the papers,” he commented.
Arthur smiled. “I get that a lot.” He held out his hand for the scuffed leather satchel Gaius carried. “May I?”
Gaius passed it over without a word, but the intensity of his regard didn’t waver. “I still can’t believe you wish to help Merlin.”
Arthur began heading for the taxi rank, keeping his pace slow so Gaius could keep up. “Why? Because I’m a Pendragon?”
“Because you don’t know him. These dreams…they’re not real.”
“They’re as real as you or I. How else would I know the details about Merlin’s magic?”
At that, Gaius grunted. Even he couldn’t argue with fact.
“Besides,” Arthur continued, “if people only helped people they knew intimately, this would be a very sad world we live in, don’t you agree?”
Once they were settled in a taxi, Gaius pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it over.
“These are the supplies I’ll need,” he said. “I’ll tell you where to find them, but I trust you’ll take care of payment.”
When he scanned the list, Arthur refrained from asking what some of the ingredients even were. What did it matter if he didn’t recognize them? “What’s important is that we get Merlin out of that house. Cost is irrelevant.”
“On that, we agree.”
They took a detour through the streets of Paris to drive by the address Merlin had given him. The house was not a house per se, but rather an old restaurant that had been remodeled as living quarters. According to Merlin, the main floor was storage and workspaces, while the upper level had been converted into an open loft living arrangement. The cellar Merlin called home had been used mostly for wines, though Mordred allowed him to venture upstairs occasionally.
“How on earth has he not caught sick under those circumstances?” Gaius said when he heard the whole story.
“I don’t know,” Arthur replied. “It’s just lucky for us he hasn’t.”
They circled the neighborhood only once. Arthur was afraid to risk more. He had no idea if Mordred was out, and he couldn’t risk being seen. They needed Mordred distracted, not on the defensive. Their plan didn’t have a terrific chance for success as it was.
At the hotel, he got Gaius settled in the suite next to his, then went to work ordering the supplies he needed. Though he would’ve preferred picking everything up, he arranged for delivery, along with the other elements he required for their plan.
Then, it was just a waiting game. He was half-tempted to take a nap, in hopes a mid-afternoon dream would link him up to Merlin again. Now that they’d had a real conversation, he wanted more. He longed to discover what made Merlin tick, how someone so obviously intelligent had fallen prey to Mordred’s scheming. The magical bond was part of it, Arthur knew, but how could that eclipse common sense?
He had that answer without much consideration. Look at how he had reacted to Merlin’s portraits. There was certainly no common sense involved in stalking the artist to buy them.
Attraction and that imagined connection could denounce everything else when it was strong enough.
The acrid odors emanating from the boiling pan on the portable hob Gaius had asked for churned Arthur’s stomach. “So much for stealth,” he said. “Mordred is going to smell us coming from a hundred meters.”
“It’s not that bad,” Gaius chided. He dropped a pinch of black dust into the pot, and the steam turned blue. “Most of it will have dissipated before you leave.”
Arthur’s gaze jerked away from the ingredients strewn around the room to lock on Gaius. “You mean, before we leave.”
“Hardly. You don’t want an old man holding you back, now do you?”
“But I can’t do…this.” He waved a frustrated hand at the table. “And Merlin won’t be free right away to back me if I muck it up.”
“The magic’s in the potions,” Gaius said. “All you have to do is use them correctly.”
That didn’t actually make Arthur feel any better, but it was pointless arguing with him. “Can we at least go over this so I know the right order to do everything?”
Once was not enough. Neither was twice. Arthur insisted on half a dozen dry runs before the worst of his nerves had gone.
While Arthur was double-checking he had everything, Gaius rested a careful hand on his arm. “I know Merlin,” Gaius said. “He might trust easily, but he’s fiercely independent. He wouldn’t ask for help from someone he didn’t trust could do it as well he thinks he could.”
“I’m not going to let him down,” Arthur vowed.
Though Gaius nodded, he took a moment of watching him before saying, “You’re a good man. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you from the start like Merlin did.”
It was the confidence booster he needed. With one final check, Arthur left Gaius behind.
In its purest form, the plan was actually deceptively simple. Distract Mordred. Get into the house. Break the enchantment. Let Merlin do the rest.
The details, however, were far more complex. Mordred was too paranoid for a simple diversion, and the house would be secured against every magical egress Merlin could’ve utilized. More finesse was required. Merlin had been correct in that regard.
Night had fallen when Arthur reached Mordred’s street. The neighborhood had once been more commercialized than its current state, but plenty of businesses were still open.
“Can we lure him out with a drink?” Arthur had asked.
Merlin had shaken his head. “Mordred’s social life revolves around his art and me. Mostly me. He only leaves when he absolutely has to.”
Those final words had sparked the debate on how to get Mordred away from the house long enough for Arthur to get in. Every idea Arthur threw out, Merlin shot down as either impossible because of the magic surrounding the house or wouldn’t work with Mordred. Arthur found it hard to believe anybody could be that paranoid, but on the subject of Mordred, he had to trust Merlin.
In the end, he opted for methodology that had worked for him in the past, even though he wasn’t proud of it. He threw money at the problem.
Arthur waited in the doorway of a small store that had closed earlier. Though Gaius claimed the potion he’d made Arthur consume would render him invisible, Arthur didn’t want to take any chances after he made the call that he’d arrived. He kept his eye on the restaurant to the left of Mordred’s house, and as planned, people began exiting, wandering away to catch the train or hail a taxi to get them home. A slight woman was the last one out, but instead of following the stream of customers, she headed straight for Mordred’s front door.
From his distance, Arthur couldn’t hear the conversation that ensued when Mordred finally answered her insistent knock. All he could see was the white of her shirt as it glowed under the streetlights, illuminating the deepening frown on Mordred’s pale face. Mordred glanced more than once at the others who were leaving. Of course, he didn’t want to leave the safety of his home at this hour. But Arthur had paid the restaurant owner three times what she would’ve made in sales for the evening to fake a gas leak nearest the wall that separated their properties.
It wouldn’t be enough to pry Mordred away, but the arrival of the fire department added authority to the owner’s request that he vacate while they checked everything was safe.
When Mordred stood on the pavement across the street, glaring sullenly at the firemen who were checking out the leak, Arthur crept around the edge of the shop to the alley that ran alongside it. According to Merlin, the rear entrance wasn’t visible from the road. The door would be locked, but the old-fashioned deadbolt would be easy to break with the enchanted key Gaius gave him. That was the theory anyway. Arthur had purchased a lock-picking kit, just in case.
He realized his heart was pounding in the back of his throat when he was safely inside the house, the low din of the street blocked out by the heavy walls. He’d done it. The first two steps to their plan were a success. Now he had to move onto step three before Mordred got tired of obeying the firemen’s orders and came back.
The only illumination on the ground level came from the slits around the shutters at the windows. According to Merlin, there were overhead lights, but Arthur didn’t dare use any of them for fear of being caught out. His careful bribery could only go so far. If he was found, he’d be charged with breaking and entering, and Merlin would likely never see the outside world again.
His solution was a small penlight he could aim at the floor. It allowed him to move around carefully without bumping into anything that could create a disturbance. He found the door to the wine cellar right away, but as Merlin claimed, the door was locked.
Arthur knocked once, paused, then rapped three more times in quick succession.
A response came almost immediately. “Arthur?”
His shoulders sagged in unexpected relief. He hadn’t known until the moment he heard Merlin’s voice just how terrified he was that something could’ve gone wrong. “It’s me,” he whispered. “Mordred’s outside, but I’m not sure how much time I have. Where are the paintings?”
“There’s a wardrobe on the north side of the house. Ground level. They’re wrapped in dark material and standing upright against the back so they don’t get damaged.”
The paintings were crucial to their plan. Merlin was convinced he could break the enchantment on the wine cellar if he had enough power to draw upon. His strength had grown over the years, but the paintings Mordred used to allow him access to see beyond his four walls acted both as a dampener on his abilities as well as a conduit.
Arthur scanned the void that was the ground level, trying to determine which way was north. “I have to find the bloody thing first,” he muttered.
“Listen for the dehumidifier,” Merlin instructed. “Mordred uses it to keep the air from getting too damp for his paints and canvases.”
Blocking out the low murmur of what was happening outside, Arthur picked up on an electrical whisper coming from directly in front of him. He aimed his light at the floor and took one careful step after another, ignoring the rising sense that something was about to go wrong. It couldn’t. He’d thought of everything. And Merlin had been adamant this would work.
The wardrobe loomed in front of him, austere and imposing. It was almost disappointing how normal it looked. From the doom Merlin had professed, Arthur had expected arcane symbols or a snarling two-headed dog to protect Mordred’s prized possessions.
No obvious lock held the doors shut. Arthur reached for the tiny knob.
Electricity leapt between him and the worn wood.
With a hiss, he snapped his hand away from it. His fingers stung, but he was more worried about the fact that he shouldn’t have been shocked at all. There was no time to debate the matter, though, so he tried again.
This time, the door swung open easily.
Arthur’s shoulders sagged in relief. The paintings were inside, just as Merlin had said.
After shoving the penlight into his pocket, Arthur pulled out the first of the pair, holding it gingerly at the edges. It wasn’t until it was leaning against the wardrobe and he was reaching for the second that he realized how foolish he was being. The whole point of this was to destroy the paintings and release the magic. Being cautious about denting the canvas was a waste of time he couldn’t spare.
He stripped away the fabric protecting both paintings and knelt in front of them. In spite of the dark, parts of each seemed to glow as if from some internal energy. He could make out a flash of a high cheekbone, the clear aspect of a blue eye, and though he’d seen both up close and in person, he sat there mesmerized by the impressions they left.
Was it the magic? Or was it Merlin? He didn’t know. At that moment, he wasn’t sure he cared.
A creak from a far part of the house startled him from his staring. Arthur ducked behind the wardrobe as a slice of light from the street cut across the floor, blocked immediately by a shadow before the creak echoed throughout the ground level and the light disappeared.
Shit. Mordred hadn’t stayed outside long enough.
Arthur held his breath in hopes that Mordred would go back upstairs. Each groan of a floorboard sent his nerves scattering in a new direction. He wished he’d looked for the stairs. It was harrowing not knowing how much farther Mordred had to go.
“I know you’re there.” Mordred’s cool voice echoed through the dark. “The street is crawling with police. If you don’t come out, I’ll have no choice but to go get one.”
Arthur didn’t move. Go get one. It would buy him valuable time.
Instead, a sudden, brilliant flare shone above him, blinding him for several seconds. He had to blink to get his vision back, but the measure cost him.
“I should’ve guessed it was you,” Mordred sneered. His blurry shape registered only a few feet away. “Of course, Arthur Pendragon doesn’t like being told he can’t have something he wants. You’re a spoiled, entitled prat with no understanding of the real value in art.”
“Oh, I know.” Arthur straightened, though he still couldn’t see well. So much for Gaius’s invisibility potion since Mordred had found him. He kept the paintings behind him, unwilling to concede defeat yet. “But what I don’t understand is why you’d bother creating these if nobody ever sees them. What’s the point?”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to sell them to you.”
Arthur shrugged. “You wouldn’t be the first. But like you said. I don’t appreciate being told no.”
“If you don’t want to be first page news, I suggest you leave, Mr. Pendragon.”
“I have a better solution. Why don’t we go get one of those policemen you claim are outside? Let them settle this matter.”
Mordred’s features were beginning to come into focus. His mouth was pinched so tight, it was practically nonexistent, and his eyes glittered in icy fury. Arthur could’ve sworn he saw gold lights flickering in the irises, but that had to be a trick of whatever spell he’d cast to illuminate the room.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” he warned.
“Funny, but I don’t remember you asking me the first time.”
“Get. Out.”
“Why don’t you make me? Now that would be interesting. I don’t imagine you work out very much. Unless you count moving your little brush around.”
Goading Mordred did exactly as Arthur hoped.
With a snarl, Mordred lifted his hand to face the palm toward Arthur. Just as fire leapt the distance between them, Arthur twisted out of the way, slamming his foot heavily through the canvases next to him.
The flames singed his ear as it shot past, but he tucked his shoulder to protect it before he hit the floor. His foot was stuck in the paintings, though, the heavy frames pinning him down. Yanking his leg free, he noted with satisfaction the two ragged gashes through the middle of both canvases.
That better be enough, Merlin.
Another firebolt skimmed across his exposed shoulder. It burned through his jacket, but Arthur didn’t feel anything against his bare skin. His dive had moved him away from the wall and anything that might hide him. He scrambled to his feet and took off at a run, aimed toward the back door.
He only made it halfway.
“Stop!”
The order would’ve been funny if Arthur’s muscles didn’t seize up the second after Mordred yelled it. He fell against a heavy bookcase laden with paints, wincing when he slammed his temple against the hard edge. He couldn’t move. Anything. Legs that a moment ago had been propelling him toward his escape now refused to answer his brain’s commands.
His head spun from the impact with the bookcase. Stars danced in front of his eyes as a distinct ringing began in his ears. He was helpless to do anything but lie there as Mordred stalked to his side.
“I should’ve taken care of you when you cornered me on the street.” Mordred’s nostrils flared from the anger he was no longer bothering to contain. For the first time, Arthur was scared about what he might actually do. “But trust me. It’s going to be a true pleasure to ship you back to England in a thousand little boxes.”
“Back off, Mordred.”
Neither of them had heard the cellar door open. Arthur couldn’t look when Mordred’s gaze snapped toward Merlin’s voice, but from the way Mordred reacted, Merlin was the threat he’d promised Arthur he could be.
“What have you done?” Mordred asked. “Where’s your bracelet?”
“Gone. Just like I begged you to do years ago.” Merlin sighed. “It didn’t have to be this way, you know. We might’ve been able to figure out how to make us work if you hadn’t locked me up.”
The anger on Mordred’s features morphed into a desperate pleading. “You were trying to leave.”
“Because I missed my home. My friends, my family. You took all of that away from me.”
“I’m your family.”
“You’re the only one who ever believed that.”
Merlin must’ve been getting too close because Mordred suddenly stiffened and threw up a hand. “Stop, or I’ll kill him. I swear I will.”
“Why?” Merlin said softly. “It won’t change anything. All it will do is get you into trouble with the police when his father goes on the warpath to find his son’s murderer. If you don’t end up in jail, you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. You don’t want that.” He appeared at the corner of Arthur’s vision, a tall, pale wraith. His hands hung loose at his sides, but Arthur didn’t believe for a second he was as harmless as he presented himself. “I don’t want that.”
“Liar,” Mordred spat.
Merlin shook his head. “I can’t help that you don’t believe me. But I don’t have to live in your skewed worldview anymore, either.”
Arthur couldn’t discern the words Merlin whispered then. He only saw the effect.
Mordred gasped. Just once. Then his eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped to the side.
The stasis locking Arthur in place disappeared, but he didn’t move right away. He kept an eye on Mordred to make sure this wasn’t a trick. Though he looked unconscious, he could be playing possum.
Merlin blocked his view by crouching at his side. “Come on.” He scooped his arms beneath Arthur’s, dragging him to his feet. “We need to get out of here before he wakes up.”
Arthur’s feet kept getting in his way as they lurched toward the back door. He managed to regain his balance on the other side of the threshold, like a veil had been lifted from his awareness.
“What about your things?” Arthur asked when Merlin attempted to keep going. “Shouldn’t we get those while we can?”
“Nothing’s worth going back into that house.”
“You need ID.”
“Gaius will help me with that.” He met Arthur’s eyes with such longing, Arthur’s heart swelled. “Please. Let’s just get out of here. If he comes at us again, I won’t be able to hold him off. I’ve used everything I’ve got.”
Arthur nodded, but as he took the first step toward the street, he was stopped by a tentative touch to his hand. He glanced back to see the question on Merlin’s face.
It wasn’t a question for him. He laced their fingers together and started walking again.
When Gaius swept Merlin into a hug, Arthur slipped out of the suite to give the two privacy. The past twenty-four hours might’ve been the most exhausting in his life, and he had a feeling Merlin wouldn’t be going to sleep any time soon. Arthur needed to recharge before he faced him again.
He was in the shower, head bent as he let the scalding water sluice its way over his shoulders to soften the tense muscles, when he heard the knock at the door. Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and gave himself a quick rubdown, shouting out, “Just a minute!”
He answered the door with the towel around his neck and his sleep sweats hanging low off his hips. Merlin stood on the other side. “How’s the reunion going?” Arthur asked.
“Good,” Merlin said automatically, but his gaze roamed down Arthur’s half-naked body, the color rising in his cheeks. “Gaius is ordering a late dinner for me, so I thought I’d come over and check on you.”
“I’m not the one who’s been locked away for the past five years.” But he held the door wider anyway, glad Merlin wasn’t shying away from his company now that he’d got what he wanted. “Did you want to come in?”
The corner of Merlin’s mouth quirked. “That depends on whether or not you mind me ogling you.”
No games. Thank God. Arthur was so tired of those. Merlin’s upfront manner was more refreshing than the shower had been. “If I minded, I would’ve put a shirt on. Get in here.”
Merlin passed him and went straight to the wide windows that afforded Arthur one of the best views in the city. “It all seems so far away,” he mused. “Like it’s been one awful dream or something.”
Closing the door, Arthur debated between keeping his distance or joining him. The desire to stay as close to Merlin as possible won.
“Do you think he’s going to try and follow you?” His arm brushed against Merlin’s as they looked out over Paris together. “Considering the lengths he’s gone to, it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’m more worried about you. You can’t defend yourself against his magic.”
“Maybe I should hire you as a bodyguard.” Arthur meant it as a joke, but as the words slipped out, he realized how much he actually liked the idea. He’d have more reason to keep Merlin around that way, though the last thing he wanted was to tie Merlin down. Merlin probably wanted to see the world, find out everything he’d missed in the last five years. Arthur couldn’t fault him that.
“Who’d believe I could protect you?” Merlin said with a small smile. “They’re more likely to think I’d blow over in a stiff wind first.”
Arthur shrugged. “Who cares what people think?”
“Something tells me anybody with the last name of Pendragon does.”
He had a point. Uther would certainly have an opinion on the matter. But the more Arthur thought about it, the more he wanted it to be real. If it meant having Merlin around, he’d tell Uther to bugger off on the subject or risk losing Arthur altogether.
“What are your plans?” It was pointless daydreaming about the impossible when Merlin likely already had ideas about what he wanted to do.
“See my mum, for starters.”
“Is she going to let you out of her sight after everything that’s happened?”
Merlin chuckled. “Probably not. But she’ll have to. I didn’t even get to finish uni. I’d like to get back to that.”
“How close are you to being done?”
“Depends on whether or not they’ve changed the criteria. When I left, I was about a year out from graduating.” He leaned his forehead against the glass, his shoulders bowed under an unseen weight. “I didn’t expect to be so overwhelmed with the choices,” he said softly. “When I couldn’t get out except when Mordred said so, all I did was fantasize about everything I was missing. Now that I have them back, I’m not sure how to pick one from the next.”
“But you have,” Arthur said, matching Merlin’s tone. “You’re starting with going home. You just take it one step at a time from there.”
“People are going to ask questions about where I’ve been. I have to come up with some kind of story that doesn’t make me look like the village idiot.” He tilted his head sideways to look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. “You’re the only one who knows the whole story.”
“Gaius knows,” Arthur reminded.
But Merlin didn’t appear to be mollified by that particular detail. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you just want to forget this entire escapade ever happened. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Did you not hear me offer you a job to protect me?” Arthur tried to keep it light, but the prospect that Merlin was writing him off so casually annoyed him. “I would’ve thought you’d be glad to see the back of me. Move on with your life without the reminder of Paris.”
“You’re forgetting one thing.”
“What?”
“I actually like you.” A smile began to play on his lips, dispelling some of his wistfulness. “You’re stubborn and a tad bossy, but after what I’ve been through, I can work with that.”
“I’m not—” Arthur cut himself off when he realized how he’d played straight into Merlin’s description. “So neither one of us is going anywhere,” he said instead. “What exactly does that mean?”
“I really am worried Mordred might want a little revenge. If we stay friends, it’ll be easier to protect you.”
“Is friends what you want for us?”
“Not really. But I think friends is where we need to start.” Straightening, he faced off with Arthur as he stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Merlin Emrys. I hear you might be in need of a little magical assistance.”
With a short laugh, Arthur shook his head. “Arthur Pendragon. And you heard right. You think you’re up to the task?”
Rather than pull away like anyone else might, Merlin tugged gently until Arthur stumbled into his personal space. “I do my best.” His eyes blazed with humor and hope. Arthur thought he just might be able to drown in a gaze like that. “If you give me a chance, I’ll prove I’m exactly what you need.”
Arthur wanted to tell him he’d done more than that already. Mordred had fallen prey to his own insecurities, losing sight of the person he professed to love. While Arthur had lost Gwen and Lance because of negligence rather than malice, he didn’t want to risk losing sight of what was important, how the people in your life mattered as much, if not more, than anything else. Now, with Merlin to guide him, he could finally find a way out.
Because the fact of the matter was, Merlin brought light back into Arthur’s world, a reason to anticipate the days and nights to come with something other than dejection. By trusting Arthur with his secrets, Merlin had opened the doors to possibilities Arthur had turned his back on long ago.
Life was about living in color, embracing each nuance and vibrant shade without judgment or fear. Arthur wouldn’t go back to that man who was buried in his work to the detriment of not only himself, but everyone else around him, too.
Merlin’s courage had shown him what he could possibly be missing. The choices could be overwhelming, but they were real and his to make.
Loosening his grip, he twisted his hand enough to entwine his fingers with Merlin’s, just as they had walking out of Mordred’s house. Then, they’d both needed the support, to break free from the past and escape together. Now, Arthur chose it, to have that someone at his side to face everything together.
When Merlin tightened the clasp of their hands, Arthur smiled. “To me, you’ve already proved that.”
The promise of a brilliant tomorrow shone in Merlin’s eyes.
No painting could ever compare to the real thing.