Summer break
Arthur wakes up short. He does not like it, but there’s probably a reason, so he puts up with it. He has to, anyway- his resident magic man is not in bed with him. That might be what woke him up, actually, they never did do well sleeping without each other.
Arthur drags himself up with an unhappy huff, determined to find his husband and/or wife and sit on him and/or her for this grievous insult.
It’s dark in their room, but it hasn’t changed in centuries, so it’s not exactly hard to find his way around. Because it’s cold as tits he also locates a dressing gown- who’s it is is of no consequence- and pulls it around himself. Alas, the arms fall well over his hands and the end drags behind him on the floor, longer even than his cape was for royal ceremonies. Arthur’s too small for his own goddamned clothes now. Figures.
His bare feet slap against the floor as he rubs his eyes and sets off in search of his lost love. He better not be lost long if he knows what’s good for him. Arthur’s too tired to even remember his name this decade. He just decides to try a bunch. Statistically one of them will probably be right.
“MAAAAX, COME TO BED!” he yells into the hallway. Ugh, his voice is so squeaky. He grumbles when the stupid sleeves fall down again. He’s drowning in this thing.
“MELODY!” Arthur tries. He has a vague recollection of Merlin in a dress? Maybe she’s a woman? “Millie, where are you? Lynn! Mara!” He racks his brain for more. Ugh, why is he even doing this? He’s in his own home, he’ll call his wifesband what he likes- “MER— “
A bony calloused hand slaps over his mouth, and Arthur knows every callous even in his half-awake state.
“Arthur, the baby!” Merlin hisses. He sounds like a man. Wait, a boy. He’s young like Arthur, that makes sense. Where was that dress memory from, then? That… might’ve been from the sixteen hundreds, actually… wait, what baby?
“You’re pregnant?” Arthur asks behind his hand, so it’s more of a ‘yommm mprehaanm?’ Merlin removes his hand and cuffs him upside the head.
“No, Harry!”
Arthur blinks as it rushes back to him. He’s a bit more awake now, having been cuffed upside the head.
“Oh yeah!”
“Honestly. We have a baby now, Arthur. A sweet child in time. And I’m pretty sure he has insomnia.”
Arthur gruffs something bear-like. “I know, I remember. It’s not the first time we’ve had a baby.”
“A sweet child in time.”
“Sure. You pick them up like stray kittens.”
“You say that like you’ve put up any kind of resistance. You’ve loved every single one of our children.”
“I blame you for that too.”
“Course you do. You blame me for the sun revolving around the earth. I mean the earth- the- fuck,” Merlin- Em, Mirridon or something, Arthur remembers now, stammers.
“Nobel prize winner, everyone.”
Merlin chuckles self-deprecatingly. Arthur feels more than sees him drag a hand down his face tiredly. With a sigh, Arthur realizes it’s about to get light. He just knows. Yeah, there’s no hope of getting Merlin back to bed now.
Arthur gives in. He’s up now too. Might as well get something to eat. He shrugs his stupid long dressing gown off and pulls it around Merlin’s skeletal shoulders- Arthur knows he’s not unhealthy, but he looks just how he did at eleven (unhealthy), so Arthur can’t help but fret- and scoops him up. He’s as light as a feather from his namesake. Maybe two. Merlin’s skinny legs wrap around Arthur’s back automatically, his arms coming to circle around him, and they’re off.
“Do you think he heard? Harry?” Merlin mumbles as Arthur marches them in the direction of the kitchen. He’s playing with something that sounds like a Rubik’s cube over Arthur’s shoulder, propping his chin against the curve of his neck.
“Do you know what my favourite thing about Harry is?” Arthur muses. “He never asks.”
Merlin snorts quietly into Arthur’s hair, bouncing with Arthur’s steps. Arthur focusses on not tripping on the dressing gown.
Harry wakes up slowly. He hasn’t done that in a very long time. It is a gradual, sweet thing, like pooling syrup. Harry slept well.
Still, he cracks his eyes open carefully, just in case. It’s quiet, but you can never be too careful. That’s what Harry tells himself, but he’s been feeling more and more like you can be, and maybe he is. He’s woken up alone every morning, undisturbed, and there’s been no sign that anyone’s entered while he slept. This is his space, after all, that’s what the house elf said.
Harry was amazed to find there was yet another person living in the castle (that’s what Em and Arthur’s house is called). He was astounded, having never met a house elf, when they were greeted at the door by a short little creature with chubby arms covered in bangles that tinkled when she moved, grinning like a kid at an amusement park. She wore a silky purple slip and big blue eyes the size of tennis balls. Em and Arthur greeted her like family. She squealed when she saw Harry.
“Sir Arthur and Sir Em have brought Hobby a new boy!! A new boy!! He will be so happy here, Hobby will make sure!”
And she had. Harry has never been so doted after, so cared for. Every step of the way he worried that she would change her mind about him, or maybe go the other direction and overstep, coddle him until he couldn’t breathe. That was scary to Harry. He knew he wasn’t like other boys, he had lots of little things about him that he couldn’t explain, and he wouldn’t want to. What if Miss Hobby tried to fix him? He didn’t want to bother her.
“This is your room, if you likes, Sir Harry. Hobby’s boys tells her, they says somewhere close to the kitchen, so Harry can get there when he likeses,” she’d said when she showed him his room. “Somewhere small, oh yes, small is good, good for the brain, very safe here. Lots of things for Sir Harry. But if he likeses, Hobby has lots of rooms for Sir Harry, no, he doesn’t need to like this one.”
But again, Harry wakes up alone and safe. Miss Hobby has done the impossible again, walked the invisible line just right- she’s left him extra food to stash, but she’s left it outside the door. She wouldn’t come in without telling him. Harry smiles.
Maybe this will be the last day he is careful when he opens his eyes, just in case.
The room is the perfect in between as well. Well-furnished, but not too rich for Harry to feel uncomfortable. Everything is well made, but it’s cozy and small so Harry feels at home, like it was a place made to be curled up in the way he likes. There are things from all over, even Harry, who’s never been anywhere further than London before, can tell. Hand-made blankets with exotic designs in strange fabrics, lights that look like they’re out of an old-fashioned movie, talismans, and royal curtain hangings. There’s an origami dragon on one of the shelves, and lots of room for books and things that look like they’ve been cleared out for Harry’s things. But none of the things in this room, none of them are arranged or posed. The blankets fall haphazardly from under pillows. The picture frames are old and worn but well-loved. The wood is old too. Petunia would hate this room. It has life.
Harry wonders most about the pictures. Miss Hobby said they had so many in the house, and she didn’t want the room to be bare, but he could feel free to move them or put his own things up. Harry likes the clutter, actually. But he doesn’t know who the people in the pictures are. They don’t seem like old family heirlooms, but they must be, they’re all old and yellow, some black and white, some barely recognizable through the grain and wear. On a few there’s visible wearing where someone’s fingers ran over them time and time again. But the people in them are too happy to be posing for one of those old solemn historical pictures that you find in family keeps. They’re candid, things friends would take of each other. Thoughtless. Some of them make Harry laugh. Two men sharing a cigarette, a soldier sticking his tongue out and looking silly in his fancy uniform, a pair of women laughing as they push each other into a lake- and Harry’s personal favourite, someone stuck in a tuba.
Harry pulls himself up and into a green shirt that says ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish.’ Arthur thought it was funny. When he and Em found out the reason Harry never had anything that fit him aside from the school uniform was that it was all hand-me-downs from Dudley, they immediately set out to get him a whole new wardrobe. Harry protested, but only on principle. He has clothes that fit him now, clothes he picked in his favourite colours. He never has to wear another of Dudley’s XXXL monstrosities with pasta sauce down the front again, and it makes the world a brighter place. Harry feels lighter, pulls his shoulders back, uses his hands more now that they’re not trapped behind rolls of sleeves. And he smells less, too. Yay.
Harry turns around at a quiet hissing announcing that he’s not alone. He comes face-to-face with a Burmese python twining gracefully around his bannister.
“Good morning,” he says agreeably. She blinks. “Goldie, right?”
“Good morniiiing, Harry,” she responds.
Harry blinks back. This has happened before, he remembers. He hopes this doesn’t go as badly as then. He has a lot more to lose now.
Goldie must read something on his face.
“Don’t worryyyyy,” she hums, slipping down the bedpost, tickling the fringe by the old-school light. “It’ssss not a crime for us to sssssspeak.”
“Sorry. You seem very nice. I guess I’m just not used to talking to snakes.”
“It’sssss underssstandabllllle.” Goldie regards him with intelligent amber eyes, flicking her tongue out. “Do you like it heeeeere?”
The question brings a sense of irony to Harry. He feels like he should be asking her. He was the one to ask the last snake he spoke to, and the answer was no. But neither of them are behind glass now. Goldie is as welcome here as he is. They’re both free.
“Yes,” Harry settles on. “What about you?”
Goldie gives him the snake equivalent of a smile. “Very much sssssso. It is the besssst home I will ever finnnnd. I think you will find the sssssaaaame.”
“Oh, I’m just staying for the summer,” Harry refutes.
“If you sssaaaaay sssso,” Goldie purrs knowingly. Harry tries not to let hope leap through his chest too violently.
“Do you know about the pictures?” he asks, partially to change the subject, but partially because he wants to know. He nods at the ones scattered around his room.
“What about theeeemmmmm?”
“Well, just… who are they?”
“An interessstingggg quessstion. Not one sssso ssssimple to ansswwer, eitheeeerr… might I suggessssst, checking the baaack?”
Harry cocks his head. He picks up one of them curiously. This one is tilted and a little blurry with motion. A woman is splayed awkwardly around a man like they’re… wrestling? Her leg is somehow up in the air over his shoulder and her face, barely visible, might be one of panic at the fall she’s about to take, determination to bring the man down with her, or both. They’re both in olden style swimsuits, flopping about on the deck of a jetty overlooking water as far as the eye can see.
Hesitantly, Harry pulls the picture out of its frame, being very careful not to damage it. He flips it over. He can barely read the elegant scribble on the back.
Sunshine Coast 1936
Sunshine Coast? Where is that? It looks sunny enough, anyway. They look very happy. Harry might have a new favourite picture.
He looks up to ask Goldie about it, but she’s gone.
Harry finds Arthur and Em by following the bickering. They don’t notice him for a while, so Harry gets to watch the whole exchange.
Em is wrapped around Arthur like a koala. Arthur is crunching on a piece of toast over Em’s shoulder and cooking bacon in a pan that he’s almost too short to see.
“If you get crumbs on me, I will… eat you.”
“Mm, is that a promise or a threat?”
“Ye- no. No.”
“Morning,” Harry chirps quietly. Both of them turn to look at him, but seeing as Em is at Arthur’s physical whim right now, Arthur turning means Em gets turned away, so he squawks and loses sight of him.
“Morning, shortstack. Nice shirt.”
“Whaddya want for brekkie, Harry?” Em asks brightly, hopping off of Arthur with no warning and nearly sending his bacon flying. Arthur scoffs around his toast.
“Oh, unreal, I carry you around all morning and I get what amounts to dry bread, and Harry gets breakfast?” he protests.
“Toast is breakfast,” Em replies without looking, already peering through cupboards for ingredients.
“No it isn’t.”
“It is.”
“If it doesn’t have an egg in it, it’s not breakfast.”
“Not if you’re an Olympic twat,” Harry hears Em mutter under his breath. He snickers and Em winks at him. “You know who you remind me of?” he asks more loudly so Arthur can hear, “Gaston.”
“Gesundheit.”
“No, it’s a name. From Beauty and the Beast. It’s a light show- what do you call the-? A FILM! It’s a film, you remember, with the pretty yellow dress and the great ugly brute of a prattish prince- yes, Arthur, and the poor little commoner girl who didn’t want a thing to do with him- no, it wasn’t our biography, before you ask. Remember now?”
“Ahhh, yes, where the poor beast got led on. She only liked him for his library. Sad, really, she was quite cruel.”
“She did not only like him for his library, she liked him because she saw through his prattishness and made him better, and she fell in love with him!” Em shoots back hotly. Arthur looks back at him smugly, raising one eyebrow, looking like the cat that got the cream. Em realizes what he said and clicks his mouth shut, sending Arthur a minor glare with a healthy blush. “Well, you’re not getting any pancakes, smart guy.”
“What!”
Harry can’t help it. He bursts into giggles like a five year old girl, doubling over and holding his tummy. His hand comes up to stifle the sounds, but then he remembers he doesn’t have to. He shouldn’t. He’s allowed to be happy here. So he just laughs.
This is how breakfast should be, he thinks. He wants it to be this way every day.
It isn’t like that everyday. Some days, Em grabs Harry from his room with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and leads him off to wake up Arthur by jumping on the bed. Some days the stained-glass knights wake everyone up with their hollering, having gotten stupid drunk on stained-glass mead. Some days Harry wakes up to a cat on him crushing his very sub-par lungs, and some days it's a dog that has no qualms about licking him to death. Or a wolf? Harry’s not sure what Ix is, actually. Harry really likes talking to Goldie. Pandora is lovely, although a bit haughty- she rarely deigns to swoop into Harry’s little room. Every day Harry wakes up to something special, though- a little cinnamon bun for him to keep, or a packet of pretzels outside his door. Non-perishables, usually. It makes him feel safe.
Harry gets on well with the knights and ladies. Hunith is terribly sweet, and Harry is once again terribly curious as to who she was to get put into a window with the knights of the round table, Lady Morgana, and Queen Guinevere. And Gaius, of course- never forget Gaius. He always seems to know and understand, even if he doesn’t say so. Harry likes Leon and Percival and Lancelot and Gwaine a lot, and Em is always saying how much Harry reminds him of Elyan. Morgana is very good to him too, and he likes her- she never treats him like a baby. She’s encouraging of mischief, actually, and terribly graceful about it. Gwen is so nice it makes him want to cry sometimes when no one’s looking.
Harry notices the changes in Em and Arthur too. Em wears his scarf less at home, not worried about his scars showing with his family. Harry does cry a bit when he realises that means him too. Arthur forgets to wear clothes more often than not, he’s rarely seen with a full outfit, usually neglecting to put on a shirt. The ones he does tolerate hardly qualify. They both wear dressing gowns that are clearly for adults three times their size more than anything else. Sometimes Em wears skirts or dresses. Harry tries one on and decides he likes pants better.
Em sticks herbs behind his ears and forgets them there. Arthur boils tea for Em and then forgets to actually make it, so Hobby has to do it. Sometimes he calls Em about six different names before he gets the right one.
One of Harry’s favourite nights of the whole summer, though, is about three-quarters of the way through it.
They’re all sitting around the lounge like they did in the Gryffindor common room, sprawled across the legs of chairs and staring into the fire. The knights and ladies tease each other in the glass windows.
“Lavendre?” Em asks, extending a parcel of something he’s been eating from for a while. Harry doesn’t notice, his eyes wide at the word.
“Em, we’re not supposed to use magic outside of school!”
Em frowns. “‘S not magic, Harry, it’s french candy. D’you want one?”
Oh. Harry takes a purple candy in the shape of a flower. It tastes like soap. He doesn’t hate it.
“Sing us a song, Gwaine!” Percival calls. Immediately the chant is taken up by the hoard. Em leaps up.
“Wait, Harry, can I borrow your pipes?! Hagrid carved you some for Yuletide, right?”
Harry races back to his room to grab them. When he comes back, Arthur’s strumming on his guitar.
“Oh, a sing-along! Yes, yes!” Hobby cries happily, clapping along. Gwen giggles.
“Who wants me to play?” Em demands like a sports player waiting for the roar of the crowd. The crowd cheers its part as if he were. “Do you, d’you want me to play? Gwaine!”
“Ready when you are, love!”
“Go on, then,” Arthur chuckles along, pausing in his plucking. Em gives him a nod though and Arthur picks a tune- something bright and quick and lovely. Em fits right along with it when he starts to play. Harry’s jaw drops. How does he have the breath for it? And he’s still smiling over the reeds, his feet tapping like they want to move.
Gwaine chimes in with some instrument Harry doesn’t even recognise. It must be from his time. They all keep up with each other though, bright and fast and bouncy. The ladies start to move together, and then the knights, moving to some old dance forgotten by time and Harry wants to join them. Elyan claps along and Gaius twirls Gwen around. Hunith does a funny tap twirl thing, holding the end of her dress out and smiling, brightening up the whole room.
Still playing, Em offers Harry a hand up. Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, but he takes his hand. Em looks at him over the pipes, nodding encouragingly down at their feet. Watch me. So Harry does. His feet tap in time in a lively way, barely touching the floor before they leap up again like they can’t stop themselves. Still, it’s an easy step, as happy as Em makes it look, so Harry follows along. Right foot, tap tap, up, back, tap, turn. Em almost breaks out of his song he’s so elated when Harry gets it, but he keeps up with the merciless pace he set himself somehow. Arthur laughs delightedly.
And off they go, trading partners and flying through the choruses at Merlin’s breakneck speed. Hunith teaches Harry the traditional step dance she did so he can join her. Percival picks Lancelot entirely up off the ground and swings him around like a ragdoll in what might be an attempt at a hearty waltz. Em jumps around like a grasshopper, sparkling. Hobby leaps around doing an impressive bellydance, bangles tinkling. Gwaine wolf-whistles for her. Arthur strums the guitar with more and more passion, laughing himself stupid. Gwaine takes over for a bit so he can dance with Em, and it’s like only the two of them exist as they circle each other in the firelight, matching each other step for step.
Harry doesn’t manage to keep track of when one song bleeds into another, and he has no idea how many they go through, but by the end they’ve exhausted themselves. Harry can hardly keep his eyes open, slumped back by the fire with a sleepy smile on his face and a warm feeling filling him up like he’s never known.
When Hobby takes Harry to bed, scooping him up in her stubby arms like a fair maiden with no trouble, things settle into an age-old familiarity. Quieter than the tavern music. They’re all tired.
Arthur doesn’t realise the sad, sweet tune he’s picking until people’s heads start to lift up to watch and listen with reverence.
“One more time, then?” Gwaine asks the same as he always does. “For old time’s sake.”
No one argues. No one really can once that tune starts playing. So on Arthur plays. Merlin sits back to listen. Arthur takes them through the first bit.
“I don’t know if you can see, the changes that have come over me. In these last few days I’ve been afraid, that I might drift away,” Arthur rumbles gently. Merlin picks it up from there.
“So I’ve been telling old stories, singing songs, that make me think about where I came from. That’s the reason why I seem so far away today…”
“Oh, but let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.
Camelot, you're calling me, and now I'm going home.
If I should become a stranger, know that it would make me more than sad.
Camelot’s been everything I've ever had,” they sing together.
Arthur takes them through the strumming again, and then Elyan pipes up in his quiet gentle voice..
“Oh and I have moved and I've kept on moving.
Proved the points that I needed proving, lost the friends that I needed losing, found others on the way…” he looks to Gwaine next.
“Oh and I have tried and kept on trying. Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have traveled far with conscience flying,
Somewhere with the wind…”
The rest of the knights sing the chorus with him.
“Oh, but let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.
Camelot, you're calling me, and now I'm going home.
If I should become a stranger, know that it would make me more than sad.
Camelot's been everything I've ever had.”
Arthur takes them through the strumming, and he sings the next part alone, because they all just want to listen to him. In an ineffable way, he is Camelot, and he still sings.
“Now I'm sitting here before the fire… the empty room, the forest choir,
The flames that could not get any higher-
They've withered now they've gone...
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear, and I know what I will do tomorrow,
When the hands are shaken and the kisses flow,
Then I will disappear…”
Then everyone sings. The ladies, the knights, Hunith, Gaius, they all sway together, sad smiles on their faces, remembering.
“Oh, but let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.
Camelot, you're calling me, and now I'm going home.
If I should become a stranger, you know that it would make me more than sad.
Camelot's been everything I've ever had.”
Arthur keeps strumming until the song is done, until the last sad and beautiful notes have been played, and then it’s just them and the fire. Merlin lays his head on Arthur’s shoulder, looking into it. Arthur sets his instrument aside.
That night, Merlin and Arthur fall asleep with their family around the fire, like nothing’s changed at all.