There was something about Merlin.

There always had been. Something in the way those blue things floating in his eyes flitted inconsistently around a room. Something in the way his cotton sleeves curled around the heels of his hands as if his arms were secrets. Something in the way he walked, like the amoebas in the air swirled around his hips, his thighs; watching his every move. Merlin was delicate, and Arthur, fascinated.

They had both attended the same secondary school for three years now, Arthur having transferred there in year nine when Morgana had been expelled from their previous private school. Uther had been atrociously irate to the point of volatility, his hand swinging too close to Morgana's face one too many times. She had been insistent on attending a grammar school after that – either to simply rebel against their father, or because she was so incredibly impartial when it came to the educational hierarchy – and Arthur had seen it fit to join her, if only to distribute Uther's rage more evenly across the collective area of their backsides.

It was only fitting that Arthur became friends with a group of generic teenage boys, each with their irrationally lithe, pizza-reliant bodies, swilling cheap booze at cheap parties – parties with episodes of partial nudity and the exchanging of bodily fluids. It's cool to be nonchalant, racist, and sexist when you're seventeen years old because often the 'zero-fucks' personality is one that gets plenty of fucks. Don't ask why – Arthur had always thought girls deserved so much more than a drunk Gwaine on a Friday night. But British men are walking juxtapositions; often English scholars brimming with etiquette, but somehow swarming with sarcasm and crudity at the same time. Arthur joined in, of course, with this stereotype, because Arthur was also a generic teenage boy – but there had always been something about Arthur too.

Morgana had become best friends with Guinevere, a girl whose skin looked warm from several desks way, and whose hair liked to curl around her ears affectionately. And despite both being in the year above, they both were friends with Merlin, a quiet boy amongst strangers but generally renowned for his own more tasteful witticisms. Merlin was in Arthur's year, but in sixth form only attended one of Arthur's classes – which was irrelevant, because Merlin learned things on an entirely different platform. Alice, their History teacher, often placed him at the back with some dusty, possibly septic textbook, so he could 'expand his horizons' on some other obscure medieval topic. Because of course, Merlin had already taught himself the entire syllabus, and already knew so much about the Russian revolution that Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he'd actually lived through it.

And that was another thing about Merlin. His mind often did not reside in his body, and his body often did not reside in the norms of modern society – no, Merlin wasn't here. Arthur was certain that Merlin was somewhere else.

But Arthur would find him. That is… if he ever found the courage to break the norms of modern society himself.

It started on a regular Tuesday, during the witching hour.

Arthur's kitchen was dimly lit, mostly by the light above the stove, at 3 AM that morning. At first he almost didn't notice the breeze as the large expanse of the countertop stretched out before him, littered with stray pizza boxes and his current glass of water. But eventually it ghosted over his skin, along with the smell of burning leaves and crushed herbs, and Arthur looked up to see the heavily clothed boy crouched at the opposite end of the kitchen. His feet dipped precariously into the sink as he leaned out of the window, sucking deeply on a newly rolled joint. He turned and smiled. "Hey there Arthur."

The blonde scoffed, swilling his drink around the bottom of the glass. "You're lucky father isn't home." Silence. "Not that he'd recognise the smell of weed anyway."

"But you do?"

"Morgana smokes enough of it."

Merlin nodded, dragging in another euphoric breath and spending the next nine seconds watching the moon waft across the clouds. The smoke curled into the night sky. "Just thirsty?"

Arthur downed the rest of his water. "'S'pose." He licked his lips, his mouth feeling exceptionally dry. "We have school tomorrow – today." Merlin stared, joint dejectedly fuming. "A drug-induced low doesn't sound like a great asset when it comes to calculus, does it?"

The boy at the window laughed. "Neither does sleep deprivation," he said pointedly, stubbing the blunt out in the sink. "It wouldn't be the first time I've sleepwalked through implicit differentiation."

"I don't even know why anyone would do Maths." Arthur cringed, getting up to rinse his glass out in the sink. "Do you enjoy being tortured?"

"I must do, considering I have no other legitimate reason for studying it." Merlin swung his legs round, leaping awkwardly onto the linoleum. "The rest of my subjects aren't exactly compatible."

"I know you do History…"

"As well as Philosophy, English Literature, and Art-"

"Five A levels?" Arthur spluttered. "I mean, I knew people did that, but I thought I'd never met one because they ended up in mental asylums –"

"Hey!" Merlin feigned offence, kicking the blonde in the shins. Then he laughed, snickering into his hands. "God, you're so right though. I don't know what was going through my head."

"Well if you're to keep that head upright tomorrow, I'd hit the hay." The boy nodded, sweeping a hand through his fringe and hunching his shoulders. He took off towards the door, and Arthur watched the way the jumper, two sizes too big, hung cosily from his shoulders. The nape of his neck peeked out of the wool, starkly pale in the dark.

And just inside the doorframe, he slipped.

"Woah!" Arthur exclaimed, holding his hands out uselessly as Merlin's hands clung to the wall. "Are you alright?"

The dark head turned wearily to face him, eyes hooded and mouth slack. "Yeah, sorry," he slurred, yanking himself upright. "Weed is…" He swirled a hand next to his ear, wobbling. "Nice talking to you Arthur."

And he left.

A few days later found Merlin in the Pendragon household again, feet on Gwen's lap and Morgana sprawled in an armchair as they watched some dated horror film. Arthur slipped into the room somewhere around the denouement of the plot, and flashed Merlin a boyish smile. "Do you ever go home, Merlin?"

"Ha ha." He rolled his eyes, gesturing to Morgana and Gwen. "As if they'd survive without me."

"Sleeping over again?" Merlin nodded, pulling the woollen blanket further up his chin. Arthur noted how warm it was, and stared at an absent-minded Merlin, who shivered slightly. "Are you cold?"

"A little." Truthfully, the circulation to Merlin's hands and feet were exceptionally poor. He always found himself perpetually freezing, no matter the time of year. "It's fine though."

Arthur found him a hot water bottle anyway.

Once again, in the small hours of the morning, the two boys came across each other. Merlin shuffled into the kitchen to find Arthur fiddling with the kettle, placing two innocent tea bags into two suspicious mugs. "Tea?" he asked without looking up, and Merlin curled himself atop the counter again without deigning Arthur a reply.

The blonde handed the raven a warm mug, and watched as he leaned, eyes closed, into the steam. "I didn't add sugar…"

"That's fine," Merlin replied, glancing at Arthur with large blue eyes. There was a moment of silence, in which their tea cooled by a single degree. Merlin wrapped his hands wholly around the mug, pressing his knees in either side.

"You look tired," Arthur observed.

"That's because I am."

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

Merlin looked at his hands, brow slightly furrowed and mouth twisted. "For the last two or three years I've hung around this place endlessly. You've never really spoken with me until now."

Arthur blinked. "Uh…"

"I don't mind. I quite like it actually." The paler boy drank deeply from the cup, lips resting gently on the rim. He sighed. "This is good tea."

Arthur took that to mean they might be friends.

Over the next three months Arthur and Merlin had regular conferences in the kitchen, in which cannabis was smoked, blankets warmed on radiators, and the length tea should steep was discussed. Sometimes Merlin would arrive with some kind of hippie tea with a name like "matcha green" or "sanguinello orange and vanilla," and Arthur would drink it, pull faces, and call Merlin an idiot. "Enough of your nonsense brews," he would say, and Merlin would chuckle, and then turn up with "oolong" the next week.

Sometimes, if Arthur was feeling confident enough in his knowledge of the Russian Revolution, he would join Merlin at the back of their History class (to Lance's dismay). They'd laugh about the history of medieval medicine, because lord was it ridiculous, and then Merlin would scold Arthur for not working, because lessons are for learning and not for making jokes about whatever fashion choice Merlin had made that day.

They never did eat together at lunch though. Lunches were always reserved for Arthur's generic teenage boy clique – because who doesn't enjoy the intellectual stimulation that comes with sticking chips into various facial orifices and speaking about football around a mouthful or processed cow. Arthur enjoyed Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot's company, but it often left his brain idle. Merlin liked to paint on the inside of his eyelids with the words he used, and sometimes, just sometimes, the warmth that had begun to fester in his brain became a white, 5th of November sparkler.

The thing is, Merlin never came to lunch anyway. Not even Gwen or Morgana knew where he went that singular hour of the day.

Arthur wasn't very observant but, when it came to Merlin, he noticed everything. The crinkles around his eyes when he smiled, the gentle slope of his eyelashes, the fullness of his lips; along with the hollows those eyes resided in, the brittleness of his hair, and the small, but harsh cracks that had begun to form around his mouth. Arthur wanted to ask, but the witching hour seemed too precious, and History was never appropriate.

So they continued to drink tea, and Arthur breathed secondary smoke, and they all pretended that he wasn't wondering where Merlin was, when his mind wasn't in his body, and his body wasn't walking quietly with the rest of them.

And yet, everything is temporary.

It was a Wednesday – or it could have been a Thursday – when Arthur was crossing from Politics to Sociology and he spotted a dark, wandering head of hair. It was following the current of the rest of the corridor, but every so often it lolled, was pushed, and then faced forward again. Arthur didn't call out – he didn't have to, because he knew that the other boy wouldn't hear him.

Instead, he only shouted incoherently when Merlin eventually fell.

The crowd parted for Arthur Pendragon, as it often did, when the muscular blonde stumbled over to where his friend had collapsed. He peered nervously at the awkward angle of his body, the way his head was tilted away from Arthur, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, before hauling the quite frighteningly light boy over his shoulder. Gwen, only a few masses of people away, pressed a hand to her mouth – she, like Arthur, had wondered about Merlin. Yes, she had known him since they were young, and she'd always known he was different – but no, no because –

Something had changed.

Arthur could feel his shallow breathing against his neck, causing his hairs to stand on end; and when he grasped his friend's hand, it was frosted with cold. With each step he took towards the nurse's office, the more apparent it became that something was seriously wrong – Merlin's wrist felt as if it would snap beneath Arthur's fingers, and his eyes were hollow and pale. Arthur wondered if he had been sick recently and they had all failed to notice. He wondered if his mum couldn't pay for food, and they had never thought to ask. He wondered if they were really, truly, in fact terrible friends.

But then again, if Merlin didn't want them to know something, the likelihood is, they wouldn't.

It seemed there had already been a runner when Arthur had taken hold of Merlin, because when Arthur arrived, the nurse was already by the bed. Gaius, a kind old man who doubled as the school counsellor, rushed forward to help the blonde set Merlin down so he was prostate with his hands limply by his sides. Arthur wanted to scream. Gaius, Hunith's oldest friend and Merlin's substitute guardian, hurriedly checked the boy's pulse and temperature. "There's no fever," he said, frowning as he grasped Merlin's hand, "but his pulse is thready." The old man turned to Arthur. "Has he been unwell recently?'

He shrugged, at a loss for words. "I don't think so, but… You know he hides these things."

"Indeed." Gaius checked the back of his head for damage. "There's a big bump, but he should be okay. He'll probably come around in a few minutes."

"Good," Arthur huffed, taking a seat next to the cot. "The bloody fool has a lot to answer for."

When Merlin did come round, it took Arthur several seconds to even notice he was awake. His friend didn't make sound, barely shifted where he lay – simple opened his eyes, and stared.

"Merlin?" Nothing. Arthur looked up at the ceiling and found nothing of particular interest, except perhaps that suspicious seaweed-tinted stain that was spread across the trimming of one corner. He sat back down and frowned at the glassy sheen over Merlin's eyes. "Merlin, are you –"

A single tear slid from the corner of his left eye and crept down the sharp slope of his face. Arthur wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Merlin cry before, but he found himself stiffen when a short, broken gasp shot from Merlin's mouth and he began to truly sob. He brought a shaking hand over his lips and heaved shallow breaths into his palm; eyes squeezed shut as if to trap the saltwater in. Arthur remained motionless as Gaius rushed over and sat the boy up, rubbing his back as he shook like a withered leaf upon the cot, barely able to grasp the air before it came stuttering out again through chattering teeth. Gaius gestured to a blanket with his eyes, and the blonde hurriedly handed it to him, glad to feel useful.

"Hush, Merlin, just breathe," Gaius soothed as he wrapped the woollen material around his narrow shoulders. Merlin pressed his hand to his jaw harder, growing quieter as the minutes drew on but never ceasing his hollow trembling. Not a single man in the room knew what to say. But perhaps one did know what to do. Arthur stood, collecting his blazer from over the chair and jangling his car keys.

"I'll take him home," the blonde said, glancing at the time. "Last period is almost over anyway, and I don't think he should be on the bus."

Merlin glanced up then, eyes wide. "N-No, Arthur don't – it's not even on your way –"

"I think he's right," Gaius interjected. The old man gave the younger a smile. "You don't look well, my boy. Let Arthur drive you home."

Merlin's eyes watered, but he didn't argue. He stood shakily and moved to grab his schoolbag, only for Arthur to move in first and sling it over his shoulder. The raven scowled. "What?" Arthur smirked, shooting him a wink. "I'm doing you a favour."

"Oh, my knight in shining armour," he drawled, voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Merlin?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He smiled, looking down at his scruffy shoes. There was a moment of silence, in which perhaps Gaius' eyebrow grew a notch higher, and Merlin's ears grew a shade redder. Arthur was an ignorant bugger as always. Merlin cleared his throat. "Well, Sir Knight. Lead the way."

The car journey was painfully silent, with nothing but the incessant garble of the radio to break through the tension between the passengers. Merlin spent most of it picking at a loose thread on his winter coat, which he wore in the softly sunny month of April, and Arthur with his eyes on the road and his fingers drumming quietly on the wheel. When they finally did pull up to Merlin's house, the blonde took note of the darkened windows. "Your mum's not home?"

Merlin looked blandly up at their cramped, semi-detached townhouse. "She's working a late shift at the hospice," he muttered to the polished Bentley window. Arthur frowned, scratching at the shadow on his chin, before cutting the engine and clambering out of the car. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Arthur walked round the vehicle and opened the front passenger door, meeting Merlin's puzzled look with an eye roll. "I'm staying here with you until Hunith gets back."

"Why?"

He grinned. "I guess I'm just that sort of guy."

Merlin closed his eyes, not even meeting Arthur's words with a quip of his own. "You don't have to worry about me. I was just tired earlier. I'll grab a cup of tea and get an early night."

"Well I hope you're having a biscuit with that tea because god Merlin, you look half-starved." His blue eyes darkened with concern at this friend's pale face. "Come on now. At least let me fix you something to eat."

Merlin scoffed, pushing himself out of the car and towards the house. "I am not putting anything you make me into my mouth. The best meal I've received from any Pendragon was two burnt slices of toast."

The shorter boy feigned hurt. "There was marmalade on that toast."

"No, Arthur, marmalade is made with oranges. You spread mango chutney on that toast."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"If you put marmalade on your pork, then yes." Merlin fiddled with his keys before finding the right one and sliding it into the door. "I don't think you've ever been inside my house before."

"Nope…" Arthur stared at the walls, his mouth slightly ajar. Almost every single one was adorned with a board or canvas, glorious paintings garbed with a whole world of colours on each one. There was a muted scene of a castle beyond a field hanging crooked, in water colour, above the sofa; an impressionist lake at the base of a mountain painted thickly in oils next to the small kitchen table; and then a dragon, painted with what must have been fire and gold, flying magnificently above their little wooden mantelpiece. There was not a single syllable Arthur could use that would describe the incredibility of the artwork he was witnessing – he felt transported to another time, perhaps even another universe, and yet felt at home.

"Jesus," he muttered, moving further into the living room to observe the brushstrokes further. "These are incredible."

"Thank you," Merlin said, smirking. "I take requests."

Arthur turned to stare at his mysterious friend. "You painted these?" Merlin rolled his eyes. "Mate, I know you study art, but I didn't have you tagged as an artiste."

"I get it from my dad, apparently," the teen replied sombrely, moving past some shirts hung in the doorway and into the kitchen. "I'm making tea. Want some?"

"Stupid question." Merlin chuckled and set aside two chipped mugs. Arthur loved them as soon as he saw them – they were large enough to hold soup. As the kettle whistled, Arthur sat at the little table and observed the room. Saw the three browning bananas in the fruit bowl. Saw the emptiness of the cupboards as Merlin hunted for a spoonful of sugar. He was aware that Hunith worked long-shifts if only to pay the bills for their little townhouse, but he didn't realise that she was never there to supply food. Or could she afford it? Arthur frowned.

"Here." Merlin placed a large milky cup in front of him, and the blonde inhaled the sweet steam as it hit his chin. He looked over at Merlin's greenish looking tea. "Peppermint and fennel," Merlin answered before he could ask.

"Merlin…" The pale boy looked up at him with hooded eyes. "Is there bread to make toast?"

Merlin cringed. "No."

"Eggs?" Merlin shook his head. "Crackers?"

The brunette gestured to the bowl. "There're bananas."

"You can't live off bananas Merlin," Arthur exhaled exasperatedly, drumming his fingers on the table.

Merlin's mouth quirked up into a smile. "No," he said, looking down at the surface of his tea. "Especially not those ones. Those look positively disgusting."

He grunted in agreement. "Seriously though Merlin, why is there no food?"

His long pale fingers gripped the ceramic tighter at the question, turning the tips of his skin pink. Merlin pressed his dark eyelashes against his cheeks several times, lower lip receding into his mouth. "Mum usually gets all her food at work. There's cereal and milk for her breakfast though."

"Okay – but what about you?"

He set his mug down. "She gives me money for grocery shopping."

"Which you've spent on what, exactly?"

Merlin's chair scraped back on the linoleum as he stood, fists against the table. "What does it matter?" he snapped, shooting Arthur an angry glare. He migrated over to the cupboards, flinging them open. "Look, there's rice, and canned tomatoes, and –" he pulled out two long green plants. "Leeks. See, I bought leeks."

"How appetising," Arthur drawled sarcastically, standing himself. "When was the last time you had a proper meal?"

The taller boy opened his mouth as if to answer with gusto, held his hand halfway up, and then snapped his lips shut again. He narrowed his eyes, turning away. "Please leave me."

"Merlin –"

"Get out!" he shouted, and if Arthur didn't know any better, it was tearfully. "I don't need you telling me how to eat. I don't need anyone telling me how to eat. Please just… go."

Arthur sighed deeply, taking his keys out of his blazer. He left his eyes upon Merlin just a second longer, before turning to let himself out.

Merlin waited for door to hit frame before he fell to his knees and wailed.