Archive of Our Own

1. the first time’s an accident

So, there’s this old wives tale that no one actually believes.

Barely anyone even mentions it, which is especially strange because even the most ridiculous superstitions are bound to have a few people who entertain them. This one, though, everyone sort of just - ignores. Acts like it doesn’t exist at all.

(Merlin only knows about it because his uncle Gaius got drunk once during christmas dinner and went on a tangent about how it’s utter nonsense and the silliest thing I’ve ever heard to him and his mum. Needless to say, he’d had twelve year old Merlin interested within moments.)

Anyway, there’s this old wives tale that nobody believes, and it goes something like this:

If you write your initials at the very center of a piece of paper, fold that paper into a plane and then throw it, the direction in which it moves is supposed to be the direction your soulmate is in. No matter how far they are, no matter the wind or lack thereof, no matter anything; the plane will always move in the direction that the thrower’s soulmate is in.

So, obviously, it’s not very difficult to guess why no one actually believes it. The instructions are almost ridiculously specific, the whole idea doesn’t even make sense and, anyway - fat lot of good it would do even if it was a thing. There’s no lore claiming that the plane will lead to the soulmate in question, just that they’re in that direction while it’s still moving.

It gives no information as to how far away the soulmate is, where to go if they move after it lands, who’s in your way and who your actual soulmate is, how to know which one your soulmate is, whether it’s leading to a grave - just. Nothing.

And besides - why would a stupid wrinkled piece of paper have any information about people’s soulmates, anyway? It makes no sense. They spend years in history classes being told over and over how precious and sacred soulmates are and suddenly a folded loose leaf is meant to swindle the divine power of the Gods? Please.

The point is, it’s ridiculous and silly and utter nonsense and every other adjective that Gaius used all those years ago and Merlin does not believe in it. Not even a little bit - he wouldn’t even pretend to believe it if a wide-eyed six year old talked to him about it all excitedly. That’s how much he doesn’t believe in it.

Well. Okay. He might indulge a six year old’s whims, but only because his heart is not made of ice (unlike some people he knows) and not at all because deep down some part of him also believes in it. This is something the people who do have ice in place of that one vital organ do not understand. No matter how much time he spends making himself blue explaining that, Will and Morgana still tease, Arthur still tries to condescendingly placate while judging, and Gwen and Lancelot still coo.

And alright, it’s almost hearsay to claim Gwen and Lancelot are heartless, but - still. Merlin stands by it. And until they leave him alone he’ll keep standing by it. He does not believe in that damn superstition.

However.

Sometimes it’s a bit - complicated. Because as much as he doesn’t believe in it at all - and really, truly, he doesn’t - he is twenty-one years old.

Twenty-one and already so tired of the whole dating lark that the idea of cheating his way into getting a hint his soulmate exists and who they are a few years early is - well, it’s not unappealing. Quite appealing, even.

The point is, he is twenty-one and still four years away from getting his soulmark but at the same time he is twenty-one and only four years away so it’s - he’s impatient. Cliche, perhaps, but good god. Whoever lamented about something being so close yet so far really knew what they were talking about.

It was fun, at first, going on all these dates to try and find the person authentically (or, ugh - whatever), but it’s all a bit tired now. Every date either sucks or doesn’t live up to what he imagines it should be - what he wants it to be. Every person is either an arse, a stalker, completely out of their head, or - on the very rare occasion that they’re not any of those things - they’re just not -

Well. It just feels unnecessary and senseless that he should put up with them when he knows that the one, or whatever, exists out there, is all.

The obvious hope is that he’ll end up like Morgana and Gwen, where he’ll agree to a date and accidentally click so well with the person that it’s just obvious they’ll get each other’s initials long before they actually do. That’s sort of what everyone hopes, anyway, and hey - if it can happen to his two best friends, obviously it can happen to him, too.

Though, he’s convincing exactly no one that he’ll be that lucky.

Once, after buying coffee, while he was putting his wallet back in his pocket, he put his coffee down and then left without it; the one time he remembered to take his mittens while going out two months ago, he dropped them into a puddle. He has to live with Arthur Pendragon and deal with all that entails, every day.

With his luck, his soulmark will probably end up coming late.

So, yeah. Sometimes the idea of having the smallest tangible reminder that his soulmate does exist and will be in his life one day is - nice. Exciting, even. So exciting, in fact, that he’ll even entertain silly and nonsense wives tales that no one talks about.

Tonight is one of those times.

He’s in the kitchen, leaning on the counter space between the fridge and the sink, a glass of water half-way raised to his lips. It’s 1:58 am and he’s unbelievably, horrendously, probably toxic levels drunk. Arthur’s asleep in his room, his door firmly shut, and the light’s not as bright as it’s meant to be, because one of the two lightbulbs burnt out three days ago and neither of them has changed it.

Their kitchen isn’t isolated from the rest of the flat, so despite the weak light, he can trace the way it highlights the edges of their furniture and the mess in their living room. It’s all very domestic of them, and Merlin can’t help but grin at it all.

He takes a swig of the water, and hopes that it helps dull the headache and drunkenness. Getting inside and here without waking Arthur had been difficult enough in this state; getting to his room (which shares a wall with Arthur’s) will be near impossible unless he sobers up.

Merlin doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to first dates at pubs. They have never, not even once, worked out in his favour. He takes another gulp and pretends it’s alcohol this time.

At 2:08 he puts the glass in the sink, not wanting to risk making enough noise to wake Arthur up by rinsing it, and makes his way to turn the light off. All he needs to do is sleep the night off. Tomorrow, he’ll pretend nothing ever happened and glare at whoever (Arthur, probably, because neither of them have been good at keeping boundaries where the other’s involved) tries to pry until they stop. Not that glaring will work on Arthur. It’ll probably encourage him to pry even more.

Ugh - whatever. Merlin will deal with it tomorrow.

It’s only when his hand finds the switch, just as he takes one last look around this odd, cozy, and a little bit lovely shared space of theirs, that his eyes zero in on Arthur’s study notes from the afternoon.

He has a test tomorrow, which is why Merlin even really cares about letting him sleep, and had migrated to the living room for one last study session just as Merlin was leaving.

And see, the thing about Arthur’s study habits is that he likes rewriting important notes a lot. He says it helps him memorize things very well - helps keep them in his head. Which means that wherever Arthur studies, there’s bound to be a few blank loose-leaf pages and a few pens just lying about.

Merlin bites his lip, takes three breaths, and can’t even pretend that he wants to talk himself out of it.

Unfortunately, being drunk doesn’t exactly help him at all - finding the center of the paper, and then folding it into a perfect plane, are difficult enough on their own, let alone while he’s inebriated. For the most part, he manages. Actually, he’s mostly pretending that exactness isn’t all that important (it probably doesn’t even work, anyway, so who cares).

Lifting the pathetic thing to eye level, Merlin scolds himself for the spike of anxiety that shoots through his stomach. Even if it is real (which he really has no way of testing until he finds his soulmate, anyway), it’s hardly going to do much for him. Just point in the direction they’re in, not point them out. Just assert that they are somewhere, even if it’s not with him, yet.

He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and tries to not think of any particular direction as he throws the damning evidence that, if found by any of his friends, will never let him have a moment’s peace (or a gram of respect) ever again.

However, when he opens his eyes, it’s not from the soft rustle of the plane landing, but rather from the heartstopping, “What are you - ow!” in Arthur’s croaky, just-woke-up voice that makes his ears ring.

Oh, god. He’s never living this down.

Slowly opening his eyes, Merlin takes in the sight of Arthur (shirtless, yes, with atrociously adorable bedhead, yes) rubbing his cheek groggily while glaring at something by his feet. His gaze wanders down (Arthur’s long and familiar - but not as familiar as Merlin wants - body, yes) until they land on the crooked tip of the paper airplane.

He stares at it, resigned and a little bit close to crying.

“Merlin, what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

He looks back up, locking eyes with Arthur, and tries to make himself look completely inconspicuous and like he wasn’t just testing out a superstition he always yells about not believing. “Er - I was going to bed?”

Arthur squints at him, and then looks back down at the plane. Merlin holds out some hope that he’ll be as dense about this as he is about certain other embarrassing things in Merlin’s life, but that promptly flies out the window the second he sees Arthur’s lips twitch.

He’s fucked. And not in the way he wants to be, either.

“Don’t,” Merlin warns, trying to sound menacing through gritted teeth.

Arthur gives him a cheshire cat fucking grin, eyes alright with mirth and sadistic amusement. “I see.”

“Arthur -”

“Merlin,” he purrs, “I should have known. Do you even go on dates or was that just code for having arts and crafts sessions to find your one true love?”

Glaring, Merlin flings the pen that’s still in his hand at Arthur’s stupid head. “You are such a prat.”

Arthur, ducking and neatly avoiding getting hit in the face by things Merlin’s thrown for the second time tonight, just snickers. He bends to pluck up the pathetic scrap, and it takes so much effort to pretend he doesn’t wish Arthur’s back was facing him so he could get a glimpse of his arse.

“And you are a foolish, clumsy oaf,” he replies matter of factly, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Merlin wants to say cheers, if only to not feel so much like a scolded child caught throwing his vegetables away, but Arthur doesn’t give him the chance. Typical. “Could you not have done your silly soulmate searching rituals a little quieter? I do have an exam tomorrow.”

“It’s not my fault you’re freakishly alert even while you sleep,” Merlin objects, a little sulkily. He thought he was being quiet.

“Merlin,” Arthur glares, “shut up.”

“Whatever.” It’ll do him no good to argue, anyway. The more time they spend here, the longer Merlin has to keep himself from letting his eyes wander, and he can only be so successful for so long. He also just doesn’t want to keep Arthur from sleep for longer than is necessary. Arthur being an arse aside, Merlin’s actually quite compassionate and caring, thanks, and he knows how important the exam tomorrow is. He doesn’t actually want Arthur to beat himself up over it.

Arthur gives a rather dramatic (if you ask Merlin) put-upon sigh, setting the pen and paper plane down on the counter, and rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

Merlin switches the light off as Arthur goes to double check to make sure he did lock the door, and together they make their way back towards their rooms.

In between the two doors, just before he’s able to reach for the handle, Arthur pauses, turns to look at him. “Just - don’t kill yourself getting into bed, will you? That’ll be a pain to deal with after I get home.”

“I - wait, what? You’d prioritize your exam over my death?” It’s too dark to really make anything out, but Merlin hopes Arthur hears how offended he is in his voice.

“Why should I fail my exam for you? You’re dead anyway, it’s not like you’ll know,” Arthur reasons, as if it’s obvious.

“Well I know now, you clotpole!” He squacks, “I can’t believe -”

“Just because your life’s over doesn’t mean mine should -”

“This is unbelievable,” Merlin mutters darkly, “You wouldn’t even mourn -”

“Oh, my - this is ridiculous. Will you let me go to bed?”

“You’re the one who -”

“Merlin,” Arthur grits out, and he sighs before shutting up. Alright. So maybe part of him is just prolonging talking to Arthur for a little while longer because it’s been a little while and he’s missed talking to him. A little. Just a little. And only because no one gets annoyed in as funny a way as Arthur does. And maybe also because Merlin quite misses trading insults and teasing him because he can’t quite get that same light-hearted, amusing dynamic right with anyone else.

Not that he would ever tell Arthur this.

There’s also the small fact that he knows the second he gets into bed, the date in all its humiliating details will come rushing back. And Arthur’s always been a very efficient distraction so -

All this, really, to say that he is in fact stalling Arthur on purpose despite not wanting to sabotage how he does on his exam tomorrow.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sheepishly, biting his lip.

A moment passes where they stare a little at each other (his eyes have adjusted just enough to make out the rough shape of Arthur, and they’re close enough for Merlin to be able to trace his eyes, as well).

Then, taking a step forward, Arthur pats his shoulder, squeezing it a little. Merlin’s breath catches, thinking for a second that he’s going for a hug; thinking, embarrassingly, please please please.

“Go to bed, Merlin,” he says, gruffly, stepping into his room.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” he replies, soft as a feather landing, as his shoulders fall. But the only thing that witnesses the momentary disappointment is the still, quiet flat, and Arthur’s already-closed door.

Sometimes, Merlin lets his mind wander too far.

2. the second time’s a coincidence

Whether it’s a miracle or because Arthur just got extremely specific amnesia overnight, Merlin doesn’t know, but Arthur doesn’t actually mention the paper airplane incident to their friends. He never even brings it up again, really, and part of Merlin is so giddy with thankfulness he wants to snog the living daylights out of him for keeping his stupidly lovely mouth shut, for once.

(This is not to be confused with Merlin the rest of the time, who wants to snog the living daylights out of Arthur for a whole number of different things. Sometimes out of anger or frustration; sometimes out of pure joy or excitement; sometimes because Arthur does things or says things that make the fondness Merlin feels for him almost too much to bear - really, Merlin always just wants to snog Arthur and then also sometimes feels emotions on the side.)

Another part of Merlin waits a few weeks, dreadfully anticipating the moment when Arthur will think it’s most beneficial to bring it up and utterly ruin his life. A month passes, though, and then three, and several fights and disagreements where Merlin would have thought, he’s gonna do it now, if he, himself even remembered at that point.

Almost three years later, and they haven’t talked about it once. Most of the time, the incident’s out of Merlin’s head, so he’s pretty certain Arthur doesn’t remember it at all. Merlin was drunk and upset and Arthur was half asleep and stressed for an exam. Of course it wouldn’t stick with either of them and feel like anything important or worth remembering.

It’s fine. They have moved on.

Merlin closes the door to their flat, locking it, and leans back against it, ready for the week to be over.

Tomorrow’s his twenty-fourth birthday, which means that in exactly one year and seven hours (give or take a few minutes), Merlin will get his soulmark.

It’s silly to start counting the days now, and really, he’s not going to try, but there’s just something about it being exactly a year away. He doesn’t know. It’s exciting.

Merlin toes his shoes off, aware that they’re the only pair there, at the moment, and sighs.

Arthur’s not back from work yet, so he’ll have to start setting up on his own. Because of his birthday, and a very unfortunate incident Gwaine had at a pub a few weeks ago, everyone had agreed to have his party tonight (party was a bit of an ambitious word for their group of friends, but whatever) at his and Arthur’s flat, “to be there exactly when you turn twenty-four!” Gwen had explained, grinning at him, and Merlin had smiled back.

He’ll be too busy tomorrow, anyway, so it’s for the best that they do it early (or, well - right on the dot). Arthur’s (though he’d made a big deal of being extremely inconvenienced – but Merlin knows it’s all for show) taking him back to Ealdor so he can celebrate with his mum and Gaius and Will.

He looks around and decides it’s best to wash their dishes from the morning, first.

They both graduated a few years ago, and have moved once since then. This flat isn’t very different from the other one, just maybe a little bigger, and sometimes it’s hard not to miss the first place they lived together. Part of him had assumed they’d never leave. Another part of him had assumed that, when they did, it would not be together.

But Merlin’s pretty sure it didn’t occur to either of them to stop living together when the time to move actually came. At least, it never occurred to Merlin. He just remembers that they sat down one night and started looking for a new place together, and that had been that.

He smiles to himself.

Living with Arthur’s something he’s not sure he could’ve given up very easily, if asked to. It’s this strange sort of thing where, as much as it is a hassle - and, really, it is - having to deal with Arthur’s… Arthur-ness, there’s a strange sort of charm to it, as well.

He’s used to Arthur’s habits and schedule, by now, and Arthur’s used to his. They rely on the other to fill the gaps in where they lack. Merlin makes sure Arthur eats before he leaves for work, and Arthur makes sure they do their weekly shopping and don’t just eat ramen for four days a week.

He’s learned to ignore the shrill sound of Arthur’s morning alarm during the weekends, when he goes out for runs, and knows where to look when Arthur forgets where he put his glasses. Arthur no longer stumbles while entering the flat, knowing where to side step Merlin’s thoughtlessly strewn shoes, and always has dinner ready after Merlin’s latest class on Tuesdays.

They just - fit. It’s nice.

Ignoring the way Arthur’s hair looks in the morning, rumpled under the sunlight, is still a bit difficult, but it’s not like Arthur’s ever noticed it, anyway, so he’s not going to start now. He never really notices any of Merlin’s momentary blunders, actually, which is what makes it work in the first place.

Arthur arrives just as he’s finished drying the last cup, and once that’s done, they go out together to buy some food and alcohol. It’s been a long week, so they’re a bit too short on both to entertain a whole group of friends for the entire night.

They bicker about what shapes of pasta to get, which is a new low for them, and talk about Arthur’s work and his increasing frustration with his father’s methods of running a company. Merlin still thinks he should just quit and work somewhere else (because it’s not like Arthur’s short of options, if he’s honest), and tells him so. Arthur only mutters a low, whatever, before grabbing Merlin’s favourite yoghurt cup flavor.

As they walk home, Merlin tells him about his classes and a particular argument that’d gotten him riled up, which does nothing but start a heated debate between them, because of course Arthur’s going to debate him. Before they step back into the flat, Merlin flicks his ear and cheerfully calls him an arse with no taste. Arthur just scowls, calling him a heathen and an idiot (which is so new, Merlin wasn’t expecting it at all), and then holds the door open for him to enter.

No, he wouldn’t have been able to give this up at all, if asked.

Their friends arrive soon after, all with gifts that Merlin had very specifically told them not to get.

“Well sure, but that just means that we absolutely had to get them,” Morgana explains, as if it’s obvious or in any way sane.

“Rather an easy system to manipulate, isn’t it?” He scowls, glaring at her over his wine glass. She smirks at him, shrugging a little, and then turns to face the living room, leaning back on their fridge beside him.

“Maybe the other ones are,” she says, pityingly, and he has no doubt she’s talking specifically about all the boys. Merlin watches as Elyan and Gwaine both try to arm-wrestle Percival at the same time - while Arthur, Leon, and Lancelot place bets - and thinks that she might be onto something.

“Thanks anyway,” he sighs, looking back at the book in resignation. “I guess.”

It’s utterly humiliating, and Merlin’s got to give it to her. He’s also going to murder Arthur in his sleep.

“Make sure to make it a humiliating death,” Morgana requests. He looks back up, glowering at the blond in question.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

She chuckles, pats his arm. “In his defense - as much as it pains me to say - it is very difficult to keep anything from me. Especially since I’ve known him for most of his life.”

As if that makes any difference at all, concerning Merlin’s reputation. “I’m still killing him.”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Morgana nods, before walking away. He watches as she kisses the top of Gwen’s head, pinches Arthur’s waist, smirking when he scowls at her, and then settles into Gwen’s side.

He doesn’t know how long it took her, but Morgana had made him a very detailed, very large book of all the different ways one could fold a paper airplane. Merlin can just imagine her sitting on the floor of her and Gwen’s flat, cackling to herself, as she cut the edges of the paper off and glued the backs together.

Like the evil witch Arthur always accuses her of being.

Sighing again, he settles the book down at the table beside Gwaine’s elbow, and joins in on the bet placing. Arthur accuses him of piggy backing off of Leon when they win, but then he bumps his shoulder while smiling, so Merlin lets it go with a roll of his eyes and grin of his own.

It’s a good night, despite the scare that comes when a drunken Gwaine insists on lighting his one candle and everyone else fails to talk him out of it. Nothing besides the candle catches on fire, though, so it’s fine.

As they all get ready to leave, Merlin gets sloppy kisses on each of his cheeks from Morgana, Gwen, Gwaine and a very drunk Percival and Elyan, a tight, lingering hug from Lancelot, and another, much more traditional hug from Leon. Arthur wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes, but when he pushes a clingy Gwaine out the door, he’s laughing with his head thrown back.

Yes. It’s a rather spectacular night. Despite the mortifying realization that Morgana knows and the fact that he’s going to have to kill Arthur.

He rather likes Arthur a lot. Merlin will be sad to see him go.

“I think it’s only right that you clean this lot up, seeing as it was for you,” Arthur says, with his hands on his hips, as they stand side by side and look at the state of their flat.

On the other hand, Merlin will finally have a moment's peace. He won’t be that sad. “It’s my birthday, you arse.”

Arthur sighs, throws his head back again, though this time it’s in exasperation. Merlin’s too drunk to keep his eyes from following the line of his throat; too drunk to stop himself from thinking that he’d forgive Arthur any amount of prattishness if he’d just let Merlin -

Well. Anyway.

He’s pretty sure neither of them are going to be able to stay upright long enough to clean everything up, but they can at least put some things away and back in their place. It’s only while he’s watching Arthur wipe some spilled wine off the table, where Morgana’s book still rests, that he gets the idea.

And it’s - stupid, probably, because catching him once was one thing, but being there while he attempts it will surely mean Arthur will never let him live it down but -

But once the thought comes, he can’t stop himself.

Arthur takes a few glasses to the kitchen, and Merlin bites his lip before he rips a page from the back of Morgana’s book, where she’d very kindly provided a few blank ones to satisfy all his paper airplane folding desires. Apparently, she was completely justified in this.

“Could you bring the rest of the dishes, or is that more weightlifting than you can handle,” Arthur snipes, back turned to him and voice muffled from the running tap.

“Yeah, just give me a second,” he replies, distractedly, after putting the cap back on the pen he found under their couch. Given the time limit, he has no choice but to fold it into the most basic shape he knows - and not very well, either.

Just like that one night all those years ago, Merlin closes his eyes and takes a breath. He doesn’t know if he should turn around to disorient himself a little, just to truly make the direction random, but settles on just twisting his torso and throwing the plane mid twist.

“Merlin, how long - fuck -”

Merlin feels his shoulders slump, and almost convinces himself to just not open his eyes. Arthur’s still cursing, though, and it’s better to keep an eye on Arthur when he’s angry, just in case.

“One day, you’re going to take my bloody eye out!” He yells, rubbing his forehead, and Merlin winces at the volume.

“Er - sorry?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, I hardly meant to do it!”

“Merlin,” Arthur says dangerously, “I thought you were past this.”

Scowling, he picks the book up and waves it in his face. “Well maybe if you hadn’t told Morgana -!”

“You can’t blame me for telling Morgana things! You told Morgana your phone passcode thirty minutes after meeting her!”

“I -” Well, alright. Unfortunately he has a point there. “Still, Arthur! What did you expect me to do?”

“Well, let’s see,” Arthur pretends to think (which is very impressive, because Merlin knows for a fact he doesn’t do it often enough to know how to replicate it), “you could have just ignored it like a normal person.”

Scoffing, Merlin starts stacking the plates. “It’s not like it even matters, anyway. You keep getting in the way.”

“I am doing no such thing. I think you’re just trying to injure me on purpose.”

“You got me there,” Merlin agrees, leading Arthur to huff out a breath in offense.

He turns to him after setting the plates down in the kitchen sink, and doesn’t let himself think before thumbing the red circle on his forehead, just above his left eyebrow. Arthur’s technically shorter than him, but usually it’s hard to tell unless Merlin’s lording it over him.

This close, though, it’s difficult not to notice.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, a little breathlessly.

Arthur stares at him for a beat, clears his throat, and then steps back, leaving Merlin’s hand to hover for a moment before dropping. “Just - get to bed, will you? We’ll have to leave early tomorrow to avoid most of the traffic and you always manage to wake up late.”

“I didn’t oversleep during christmas!” Merlin objects, a little too offended to not at least try to defend himself.

Arthur just rolls his eyes, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him towards the bathroom. “No, that time you just forgot to pack until the morning we were leaving. At least no one could accuse you of being predictable.”

He winces. Damn, he’d forgotten that bit of it. “Whatever.”

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

Just as he’s about to close the door, he hears a quiet, “happy birthday” and feels warmth trickle through his whole body, slow and thick like honey. It’s completely ridiculous how he can be such a prat and so lovely in the same breath.

“Goodnight, your highness!” He cheers back, just to make the heaviness of the thing in his stomach go away, but laughs genuinely when he hears Arthur’s groan.

Once the bathroom door closes, with nothing left to do, Merlin has no choice but to face himself. In the mirror and pale bathroom light, he looks ill. That might have something to do with the alcohol, too, but mostly the observation just makes him cringe. He bites his lip.

He never has believed in the old wives’ tale - really, he hasn’t, no matter the fact that he’s tested it twice, now, or how much Arthur and Morgana (and, honestly, probably Gwen at this point) will probably disagree. He hasn’t.

But, it is a little difficult to think nothing of the way that both times he did entertain the superstition, the plane hit Arthur. Especially when all he’s wanted these last few years was for it to be -

Well. It’s just difficult, is all.

He wonders if Arthur will think about it, too.

3. the third time’s (the charm) a pattern

Ridiculously, the closer his twenty-fifth birthday gets, the more he wishes he was back to being twenty-one.

At least at twenty-one he had the freedom of hoping someone specific was his soulmate, no matter how much heartache it might cost his future self. Now, as his future self, not only does he have no such luxury, he also has to deal with that postponed heartache.

Now, he knows that the person he’d wanted as - had genuinely believed might actually be - his soulmate, is in fact not his soulmate at all. The universe really could not have made a joke more unfunny and cruel than that.

Arthur got his soulmark six months ago. He insists upon not telling any of them who it is - even Morgana doesn’t know, which is almost worrying - but assures them that he knows exactly who they are. It’s not much information, but it’s enough to recognize that it’s no one in the friend group (because, otherwise, there’d be no reason to keep quiet) (not that Merlin understands the reason now, either, but still).

It’s just a little disconcerting, because Merlin hadn’t even realized he’d been genuinely expecting it to be him until he found out it wasn’t.

And it’s ridiculous, truly, that he should be so upset about it. So what if Arthur’s not his soulmate? They’re still best friends and they still live together (even though Merlin had offered to leave - Arthur had just rolled his eyes and told him not to be an idiot, so that’d gone nowhere) and - anyway. It shouldn’t matter. When he finds his soulmate, it won’t matter.

He’ll be with his soulmate, and that’ll erase any lingering hopes or wishes or feelings he has for Arthur. All of this will just - be a thing of the past. Something to laugh about one day, even. It won’t matter at all, and he knows this, and some part of him is almost close to convincing himself that he believes it, too.

Still, though. They don’t feel like things easily erased or left in the past, his feelings for Arthur. They feel overwhelming and addictive and right; natural and big and insurmountable. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to feel this way, let alone more, for anyone else again. He doesn’t know how feelings this big and important and heart-wrenching can ever just be things of the past.

They feel neverending.

So it’s become quite hard, being excited about soulmarks in the last few months. It’s been quite easy wanting to reject the idea all together, actually.

But, of course, Merlin tells his friends exactly nothing about this, because it’s a little embarrassing admitting that he no longer cares for the one thing that everyone (including himself, up until six months ago) reveres so much, just because he isn’t going to get exactly what he wants now out of it. Sure, the whole idea of a soulmate is that when he does find the person, they will be all he wants in a soulmate, whether he knows it or not but -

Well. The idea of Arthur is just not a very easy one fathom letting go of.

“We’ll celebrate properly with a night out,” Gwaine proclaims, probably already with an itinerary in mind. “Get you good and drunk before you embark on your quest of finding the one.”

Gwaine likes to think he sounds wise and mysterious. Morgana rolls her eyes at his dramatics, and that just about sums up what everyone else thinks Gwaine sounds like.

“How about on the Saturday?” Gwen suggests, taking a sip of her drink.

It’s a well practiced tradition to be alone when getting your soulmark, and Merlin’s never been happier about it. It would’ve been extremely embarrassing, otherwise, being disappointed in a soulmark in front of people.

“Yeah,” he agrees, stealing a chip from Arthur’s plate. “That sounds good.”

Arthur gives him an annoyed look, rolling his eyes when Merlin gives him his biggest, most obvious I’m-trying-to-look-innocent-even-though-I’m-definitely-trying-to-annoy-you grin. He kicks Merlin’s foot under the table in retaliation, but otherwise does nothing to protect the rest of his chips.

His birthday isn’t until tomorrow, but tomorrow’s a Sunday, so they can’t actually celebrate properly (as Gwaine calls it, the getting smashed bit) until the week’s over. This quick dinner is just a bit of a cheat, a small celebration (and something to get his mind off of what’s to come, really) as close to the day as possible, before the actual party, or whatever.

Mostly, he’s just glad to be out with his friends.

“It’s set then,” Lancelot nods, and Merlin presses his arm just a bit harder against Arthur’s.

When they get home that night, after Gwen’s excited parting hugs and Morgana’s ominous parting smirk, Arthur pats his shoulder, letting the touch linger, and begins to head towards his room.

This is it then.

Alright, well - obviously he’s being a bit dramatic. It’s not like it’s the end of anything, per se, except for maybe the end of a delusion. His mother would say it’s a beginning, or some rubbish, and while Merlin had expected his excitement to return as midnight approached, it’s still nowhere to be found.

He’s not even really nervous, at this point. Just a little weary.

My soulmate’s going to think I’m a real catch, Merlin sighs to himself. He doesn’t know why it matters what his soulmate thinks, anyway. They’re going to be perfect for each other and end up together, anyway, so. It’s all sort of pointless.

“There’s still half an hour left, you know,” Merlin calls out, before he hears any doors shutting. “You can stay for a little longer.”

“And deal with your pacing?” Arthur asks, incredulous, and goes to sit down on the couch anyway.

Merlin collapses down next to him, unsure whether their thighs touching was an accident or not, but unwilling to move away regardless. He’s not nervous enough to need to pace, anyway. The only word for it, right now, is resigned.

“Why haven’t you told anyone who your soulmate is if you know them? Aren’t we going to find out eventually anyway?”

Arthur hums distractedly, too lost in thought to look over at him. “Eventually,” he agrees.

Merlin bites his lip, sighs. He throws his head back and lets the side of it brush against Arthur’s shoulder. Logically, he knows nothing has to change after tonight between them, but part of him thinks it’s going to, anyway. They’ll both have their own soulmates, and it’ll be real for both of them, and Merlin’s just - he knows it won’t be the way it is right now; won’t be so simple, anymore. So natural.

They sit on the couch, sides pressed together in silence. Time moves too fast but in slow motion. He’s aware of every second they spend, just in each other’s company, and still gets disoriented when Arthur stands at 11:55 to leave.

He looks down at Merlin, shoulders relaxed and eyes bright. Merlin wants to beg him to just stay; to just damn the tradition of being alone, and maybe the whole soulmate lark, too, because nothing’s going to beat this, anyway. He wants Arthur to look back at him with wonder, or consideration, or whatever, and agree.

But Arthur’s looked more content than ever since getting his soulmark six months ago. He looks happy whenever people bring up the mysterious soulmate of his - smiling secretly to himself and good naturedly (which is something he never is, otherwise) brushing them off. There’s no way Merlin could take that away from him.

“This is it then,” he says instead, because it’s the vaguest way he can say a dramatic goodbye. Arthur will probably just think he means it’s finally time to reveal what he’s been embarrassing himself for for the last couple of years, anyway.

“What you’ve been waiting for,” he agrees. He bends down to ruffle Merlin’s hair, and leaves before Merlin can say anything else. The soft click of Arthur’s bedroom door shutting makes him sigh. Well. It sure feels final, now.

Looking around, he tries to find something to distract himself with. There’s little to no light in the flat, which is probably not the smartest idea since he’ll need to see his soulmark, but. Well, it’s not like he cares much.

Merlin sighs and rubs his hands down his face, pausing suddenly when his eyes land on the book Morgana made for him last year, left to collect dust in the last place he put it.

He hasn’t tried testing the damn theory out ever since the last time, seeing as both times he has tried it, they’ve failed (and well, at least he knows for certain now that they did fail). He was a bit wary too, because besides the book, neither Morgana nor Gwen (there’s no way Morgana didn’t tell her) had mentioned it again (almost like they’d both agreed it was too embarrassing to use against him), and he wasn’t willing to push his luck.

Now, though, with two minutes left, he thinks it’s only right that he tries one last time. It’s basically tradition at this point, and, anyway - this time, he knows Arhur won’t get in the way and ruin it.

(And, actually, the more he thinks about it, how symbolic is that? That Arthur would get in the way of his search for his soulmate, ridiculous and utter nonsense tactics aside. Merlin knows not everything means something, but that’s almost like if the Gods wanted to laugh right in his face, specifically.)

Besides, everyone always says that the third time’s the charm, so. Merlin thinks he’d actually regret it more if he doesn’t do it, than if he does and gets caught and humiliated (or disappointed once nothing happens, because of course it’s ridiculous). This is his last chance, after all, before it becomes redundant in more ways other than the fact that it’s a complete myth.

He groans while getting up, finds a pen, and starts flipping through Morgana’s book to find the most extravagant paper airplane design he can find. The longer it takes to fold and throw it, the longer he’ll be able to put off searching for the soulmark.

The thing with soulmarks is that they appear on the part of the body where your soulmate touches you for the first time, so it’s said to be a bit of a hunt before people actually find theirs.

All his life, even when he was vibrating out of his skin in excitement at one day knowing the name of his soulmate, Merlin has only ever been extremely concerned over one thing, and that is the placement.

Like, what if his soulmate’s first touch is him ruffling his hair (the overfamiliarity being unlikely aside, because it’s still a possibility)? Then he’d have to shave his head to see the mark and - well. Let's just say, with his ears, Merlin is not willing to do that. For anyone. There’s also the possibility that a person’s face could be the first place their soulmate touches. Merlin shudders even thinking about having someone’s name across his cheek.

Just - the privacy issues and difficulty finding the mark used to put him off a lot. Still do, if he’s honest.

Ugh. Whatever. He’ll deal with that later if he finds that he needs to. Mostly, he’s trying to not find even more reasons to be less than excited for tonight.

Merlin shakes his head while folding. It’s ridiculous that one single night - that wasn’t even about him, god - six months ago should completely ruin a thing he’s been waiting for his whole life. It’s not fair that Arthur can just disillusion him with the concept of soulmates so thoroughly without even meaning to, just by being happy with someone else.

Merlin clenches his jaw and takes the bottom of the damn thing between his thumb and pointer finger. He closes his eyes, for traditions sake, spins a couple of times, and throws it a little too aggressively, perhaps, because -

“Fucking ow! Merlin, you idiot, why the hell are you -”

There’s no possible way this is happening again. Opening his eyes slowly, he stares at Arthur with a slack jaw, feeling a bit hysterical. Unsure if he wants to punch Arthur for being such a git and ruining it again, or if he wants to laugh himself silly and kiss his stupid face because of course he did.

“What.”

“You’ve already gotten your soulmark, there is literally no reason -”

“Arthur, what are you doing here?”

Arthur stares back at him, and Merlin knows that look. It’s the one where Arthur’s sure he’s insanely dense and has no compunctions about making it known. Merlin scowls.

“It’s 12:03,” he replies slowly, as if it’s obvious.

“Yeah, which means you’re supposed to leave me to find my soulmark alone,” Merlin says, equally as slowly just to spite him.

“Didn’t look to be searching for it very hard to me,” Arthur mutters back, rubbing his shoulder as he walks towards Merlin. “Besides, I thought you’d already found -”

When they’re only inches away, Arthur’s eyes wander down, landing somewhere along Merlin’s torso or arm. After a second, he sighs, Merlin guesses as realization dawns on him, and then looks back up to give him a flat, slightly exasperated look.

“You were too busy making that damned plane to look for it, weren’t you?” He accuses.

“Wh - I -” Merlin sputters in protest. “Hang on! You’re changing the subject! I’m meant to be doing this -”

Arthur rolls his eyes, cuts him off. “Merlin, would you just look at your bloody soulmark, already?”

There’s no possible way to answer that. The utter - the sheer entitlement and - and complete disregard for privacy and -

And Arthur is such a prat.

He makes sure to get his anger across by glaring, though that doesn’t seem to phase Arthur one bit, and cursing him under his breath as he shoves his sleeves up to check his arms, first, doesn’t phase him either. This is meant to be -

Oh.

Oh.

“But -”

Holding his right arm out in front of him to stare at the name on his wrist, it almost feels like a dream. Like his head is filled with cotton and real time has paused long enough for his delusions to catch up and surpass reality just to deceive him.

He looks back up, and Arthur is looking at him so softly, with such warmth, that he knows it can’t be fake, because even he couldn’t have imagined Arthur looking at him like that. He’d never have let himself.

Merlin looks back down at his wrist and takes a shaky, slightly wet (oh god, that’s embarrassing - not as embarrassing as the way Arthur’s looking at him though, so it’s okay) breath. Well, that sort of makes up for every doubt he’s been having, then.

“Oh.”

In small, black writing, Arthur P. is written across the thin skin of the inside of his wrist.

When they’d met and he’d tried to punch him, only for Arthur to catch it. It’s really not as romantic as people usually hope it will be, but Merlin laughs anyway, because it’s strangely perfect.

“Disappointed?” Arthur asks, but his voice is light, and his lips twitch at the edges. Merlin loves him.

He sniffles, chuckling again. “Damn. You’ve no idea. I’ve landed with the world’s biggest prat.”

Arthur snorts. “Well, that’s alright, then, because I’ve landed with the world’s biggest idiot.”

Grinning at him, Merlin grabs his shoulders, knowing that’s where his name is. He rubs his thumb across the sleeve’s seam and bites his lip. Ridiculous how one night six months ago could ruin something he’s been waiting for his whole life; even worse how three seconds could fully restore the giddiness and add to it tenfold.

“I didn’t think it would be you after - after you didn’t say anything,” Merlin tells him, after a moment, voice hushed. “I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself.”

Arthur grabs his face and kisses him, and stupidly, it feels like a triumph. He doesn’t really know of what, exactly, but still. Merlin’s hands find Arthur’s face in return, pulling him as close as he’ll get. He feels his shoulders fall and his knees start to buckle, and sighs.

“Do you usually cope by making ugly paper planes?” Arthur asks, once they pull away. He’s too close to actually see Arthur’s eyes, even if he does open his own; so close that a single deep breath would make their lips touch again. Merlin exhales and feels Arthur shiver in response.

“Don’t ruin it by being an arse,” he hushes, stealing another kiss. Merlin feels Arthur laugh into it; feels it trickle over his skin and wrap all around him.

Knowing it’s Arthur, having Arthur, after all these years of thinking and hoping and wishing, is overwhelming. They’ve perhaps never been good with personal space around each other, more tactile than they are with other people, but they’ve also only rarely hugged.

Holding Arthur in his arms is novel in and of itself. But holding him, knowing he’ll be able to from now on, knowing that he was right and they are soulmates - it’s something entirely apart.

Breaking the kiss again, he slips his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulls him the rest of the way into himself; buries his nose in the crook of his neck and doesn’t dare open his eyes. The hand that finds its way to his head is large and warm and familiar, and it makes him hold Arthur tighter.

“You know what this means, though,” Merlin says, voice muffled from the shoulder it’s buried in, after a few seconds. Neither of them have loosened their hold, yet.

Arthur hums in question, rubbing his back a little awkwardly. Merlin knows he’s not really used to hugs.

“Those old wives were onto something.”

“Oh, good lord,” Arthur groans, pulling away. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in that damn thing, now.”

“Wha - how can you just ignore the evidence?”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

Merlin stares at him. “I’ve thrown a paper airplane three times over a four year period, and each and every single time, it has hit you. What else would you call it?”

“I’d call it you having a penchant to hurt me and trying to blame it on supernatural powers beyond your control,” Arthur replies, voice flat. Merlin slaps him.

“Shut up,” he glares.

Arthur glares back, rubbing his arm. “Exhibit A.”

“The only supernatural power I blame that one on is your supernatural ability to be an exceedingly large prat.”

“Merlin -”

“You know, I can prove to you that it works.”

Arthur looks at him, unimpressed. “I’d ask how, but I don’t actually want to know.”

“No, look, it’s easy. I’ll just make another one and throw it in the opposite direction to where you’re standing.”

“Merlin, please -”

Merlin pecks him on the lips and picks Morgana’s book back up, ready to fold another one. He’ll be damned if he lets this go, giving Arthur the last word.

Besides. He is a little curiously excited, himself.

Before he can do that, though, Arthur takes his hand and tugs him in the direction of his room. Merlin tries protesting, but in all honesty it’s mostly to keep up appearances sake.

“Tomorrow,” Arthur mutters, pushing him against the now closed door. “Make me regret the whole concept of soulmates tomorrow.”

They’re kissing again, fast and desperate and lush, before Merlin can reply. He shoves Arthur onto the bed, crawling between his legs, and thinks that he might not get to it tomorrow, either. Skin tingling with possibility, excitement from all he can do to him now thrumming in his veins, Merlin smiles into Arthur’s neck as he sucks kisses into it. Just like he’s wanted to all these years.

It’s okay though, even if he doesn’t get to it tomorrow, or the day after, or even for a couple of years after that.

They lose their shirts, and then also where Merlin ends and Arthur begins soon thereafter. Merlin traces the endless expanse of golden skin that’s right under his fingertips - just a little bit like magic - and thinks, yes. It’s more than okay.

They have all the time in the world, anyway.