Title: - The Beginning Part 1/?

Author: - Bella

Rating: - PG-13 (this part – R overall)

Pairings: - Arthur/Merlin pre-slash

Warnings: - Slash

A/N: - I have never ever written AU fic before. And very possibly with good reason. And I am aware that I have used a weird technique in this first bit, and God knows if it works but yeah. Please don't hate me 

Prologue

In a small, dingy flat, somewhere in the suburbs of London, a dark-haired man lies asleep, long limbs sprawled out, taking up a large proportion of the small, single bed, and a large amount of air on either side as well. One arm is slung up, and over his eyes, as though protecting himself from the world. Outside, the sun is partially risen, only thin streams of pale yellow light staining the concrete blocks, gum spattered pavements, and graffiti-stained door and walls. It is a peaceful scene, albeit extremely grungy, but peaceful nevertheless.

But then, somewhere else in the block of small, dingy flats, a baby begins to cry, as he does every morning, regular as clockwork. And this is followed swiftly (although not swiftly enough for the other residents) by the sound of footsteps and shushing, crooning songs that no-one actually hears but can imagine perfectly. And then silence reigns, and everyone can pretend they are still asleep. Except ten minutes later, at precisely ten to six, the generator goes on, with a whir and a clank, purring into life with all the smoothness of a arthritic cat, announcing to the residents that it's time to get up. Yet still, somehow everyone manages to pretend it is still night time. And they keep their eyes shut and don't stir, in the vain hope that they can fool time into thinking it's brought the new day around too quickly and, in fact, has time for a cup of tea and a kip before work continues.

Unfortunately, ten minutes after the generator's morning cry, comes the most awful wake-up call of all. At more or less the same minute in almost every flat in the block, whether it be music, radio, or just an endless crackle of static and annoying beeps, each and every alarm clock begins to ring. The response is much the same in every flat, but let us take the scene behind the peeling paint of door number seventeen as an example.

In the bedroom, the scene is no longer peaceful. As opposed to lying sprawled, the dark-haired man has withdrawn all his limbs under the covers, as if trying to protect them from the light of day – although his feet still stick out the end, the bed appears to be at least six inches too short. One arm still lies over his eyes, although his fist is now clenched, and the other is banging around to the left, apparently searching for the alarm clock, desperate to stop the piercing wail. However, his hand misses again and again, failing even to find the alarm clock, let alone the snooze button. This would be because his flat mate, knowing the important day he has, has – unbeknown to him – moved the clock to the top of the wardrobe. Then, the man bangs a little too hard, and crashes his hand hard against the edge of the bedside cabinet. It appears to have been quite painful, at least if the streams of sleep-slurred profanities that follow are anything to go by.

Still, the pain has done the trick, and after a pause, the boy rolls out of bed, with the usual lack of grace a lanky frame belies, and staggers out the door, presumably headed for the bathroom.

X

Several hours later, at a much godlier hour, a similar wake-up scenario is played out in a different London suburb. Well. I say similar, but at the end (or beginning – whichever) of the day, there are several reasonably essential differences. The first being that the scene of this wake-up call is drastically different. Yes, a London suburb, but not an old dingy flat, and most certainly not a dodgy, rundown neighbourhood. No, this is a large country house, with more rooms than there are flats in that block, and a view fit for royalty of the sunrise over Richmond Park.

It's odd we should mention royalty really because this luxurious house is the abode of one Uther Pendragon, business mogul and newly elected Mayor of London, and his son, the now publicly adored Arthur Pendragon, centre of several of his father's election campaigns – it is of popular opinion that Arthur only appears because the opposition had made use of a lady of delectable looks, and sadly Uther Pendragon's charms had not withstood the test of time particularly well. But that's just rumour.

Anyway the identities of the residents of this house bring us to the second and third essential differences. One is obviously the time. No-one on earth would dare wake Arthur Pendragon up any earlier than a time that includes double-figures (except for his father of course, but Uther is currently absent – playing the role of the 'people's Mayor' at the opening of a children's cancer hospital), and so when the dark-haired man in the small dingy flat is staggering around nursing his hand and cursing his room-mate, Arthur is still floating in dreamland, far removed from the pressing duties of the day. The third difference is the manner in which, at almost midday, Arthur is finally woken. There are no yelling infants, no generators on their last legs, and certainly no static-y alarm clocks. Instead there is a tray of bacon, eggs, croissants and coffee (judging from this spread, Pendragon junior has no qualms about his cholesterol level as do so many people in today's world), which are preceded by a gentle knock at the door, and the appearance of a quiet maid of oriental origin.

She lays the tray down with considerable care, draws the curtains as quietly as possible, lays out freshly laundered clothes and towel, and departs as swiftly as she arrived; the perfect house keeper. And then, after another leisurely doze, during which Arthur becomes slowly more aware of the world, the blond young man, swings himself sideways out of bed (with, I might add, infinitely more grace than the clumsy gentleman we met earlier), and proceeds to the heavy wooden table.

His morning then unfolds, a cup of coffee and home-cooked breakfast, a hot shower, clean clothes, already selected for him (if I was not being polite, I would perhaps make a comment relating age and ability to dress yourself – but this is the son of the London Mayor, so I will show some modicum of respect), and a half hour spent perusing the Sports pages of several different newspapers. This devastatingly wearying and absolutely necessary routine is then finally concluded at almost one o'clock, when Arthur Pendragon takes one last look in the mirror, ruffles his hair, pouts at his reflection, and steps out to face the day.