Tea, Pray, Love.

It took Arthur a day to break his lent. It took Merlin less than that.

They'd made their pacts together, sat cross-legged in Arthur's room with a high-risk left-over-from-Christmas candle in between them. Crazy Yoga Lady had taught them how to perfect those little circles you're meant to make with your fingers over your knees, and they'd finally managed to hoist their heels up onto their thighs. There was a strange and uncomfortable niggling feeling in a particular part of their body, but for the sake of making this a proper festival, they tried to ignore it. Merlin had slyly opened one eye to watch the concentration on Arthur's face. "Isn't this a bit blasphemous?"

"How would it be blasphemous?"

"Well, lent is for Christians, and this isn't Christian relaxation."

"Shut up and concentrate."

"I am concentrating."

"Yes, but not on the right thing." Arthur too had opened an eye; Merlin had quickly shut his.

Both of them had given up the same things for lent, but Merlin had made Arthur swear that he wouldn't suggest they share them. This had to be a secret. "Why does it have to be a secret? It's only lent." Arthur had raised a suspicious eyebrow, suspecting either something dirty or at least foul play, "Merlin, what exactly are you giving up for lent?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't."

"Tell me." Arthur had thrown a pillow at him at this point, but Merlin was all too used to this by now and didn't move an inch – physically and principally. "Tell me, now," Arthur had repeated, but Merlin had kept his silence. "Oh, brilliant, you've given up talking, haven't you? Well, this is going to be a wonderful 44 days."

Merlin had taken the bait with as little violence as he could muster – throwing the pillow back at Arthur.

Their respective pacts, however similar, were in complete contradiction: Arthur had given up being secretly in love with Merlin, and Merlin had given up secretly being in love with Arthur. They had built a metaphorical wall between themselves, and the day that followed was an uncomfortable one which involved quickly averted gazes and mumbled – sometimes icy – phrases at each other on the way to seminars. That morning, Arthur had passed Merlin his notebook (which had somehow turned up under Arthur's bed a full week after he'd lost it) and their hands had briefly touched; Arthur had told himself that the burning sensation that followed was strictly due to Merlin's hands being too cold – which, as Arthur had begun to hate, they always were; Merlin had put it down to his secretly being in love with Arthur. Lent broken.

Merlin cursed his weakness in the face of what should have been an easy task. To stop being secretly in love with someone, surely you could just do it un-secretly? But no, that wasn't the point of his pact, that wasn't the point at all. Merlin pinched his little finger between the nails of the index finger and thumb of his other hand until he thought he'd been punished enough. The point had been, he knew, to stop being in love with Arthur altogether. To stop wishing their rooms weren't separated by a wall, and to stop letting Arthur pinch his food at meal-times, and to stop buying Arthur chocolate teddy-bears and jelly cubes and rubber-ducks on the way back from work at the weekends. His bank account had suffered a considerable denting since he'd met the boy.

Arthur's lent lasted, as I've said, until that night. Arthur had wished, when his eyes had been closed, and his fingers perfectly circular above his knees, that Merlin wouldn't be so relentless in his gift-giving, and he'd wished that he wasn't always so eager for chocolate teddy-bears and rubber-ducks. He wished that he didn't always want Merlin to stay longer after he'd popped round to watch a film – he could tell you only a few of the films they'd watched together, and even those he wouldn't be a hundred per cent sure of, because, realistically, and Arthur was fond of realism, the film was not the most interesting entity in the room. Arthur hated that.

Sometimes, it felt to both of them that it was little more than a fabric curtain that separated their rooms. The wall let through the sounds of their beds creaking as they rolled over, the sound of their phones vibrating on the desk (usually it was one texting the other, just to hear the noise go off again), even the sound of them typing. Arthur would, when he found himself with nothing to do, post humorous messages under Merlin's door, and then run back into his room to hear the boy laugh as he read it. Merlin would respond with a snarky comment, rather than anything intentionally funny, but Arthur would laugh all the same – knowing with a kind of vain assurance that Merlin, too, would be listening out for it.

But, the next morning, the second day of lent, they both awoke with a distant strange awareness that there was something else they'd given up for lent that they couldn't possibly let go of. It was a simple enough thing, not that either of them saw it that way. It involved getting out of one of their favourite daily activities: they had both given up tea. All kinds of tea. Breakfast; Earl Grey; Camomile; Peppermint; Green tea (not that they really liked that type anyway, but it had to go). Three o'clock, they felt, was optimum tea-drinking time: half way between lunch and dinner, just when you were in the mood for a nibble on a biscuit and a hot drink (because the heating in Halls is terrible). Arthur, or Merlin (depending on who returned last from their lectures), would knock on the other's door, and, almost in a ceremonial fashion, would announce:

"Have you seen the time?"

"Indeed, I have; I believe it's tea time?"

Today, neither boy knocked. Merlin sat at his desk, duvet pulled snugly around his shoulders, a gummy bear wedged between his front teeth wiggling back and forth, glancing at the clock as it slowly ticked past three o'clock. He drummed his fingers on his desk, knowing that Arthur would hear; in the next room, Arthur unconsciously drummed in return. A fluffy red cushion was squished between him and his desk chair (because Merlin hadn't wanted his "persnickety royal arse to be uncomfortable" – he also enjoyed winding the boy up), which Arthur had become incredibly fond of, for reasons that he hadn't really divulged. He popped a chocolate button into his mouth and watched the minute hand pass five past three. He wondered where Merlin was; even though he knew exactly where the boy was. He meant that he wondered why the boy wasn't here, or at his door, or at least shouting through the peep-hole. The absence, and cold sensation in his stomach, was beginning to take on new connotations. Connotations that rendered Merlin 'off-Arthur,' or chatting to a new best friend - a new best friend that didn't appreciate him as much as Arthur did. Or any of the rest.

Merlin was considering the million things that Arthur might now prefer to do over drinking tea with him – watching action films or chick-flicks (Merlin knew Arthur enjoyed both… but usually only when Merlin was around); feasting on chocolates moulded into shapes that definitely weren't teddy-bears; talking to desperate girls on the internet… Merlin had been watching that girl who sat opposite Arthur on Tuesday mornings – the way she didn't seem to have a clue what was going on in the actual seminar, but could trace every one of Arthur's movements. It was creepy, to say the least: only Merlin should be able to do that. He drummed his fingers once more, and didn't even notice the drumming that came as a response; he was so used to hearing it. He chewed and swallowed the gummy bear and put another in his mouth.

With a painful lack of urgency, the Thomas the Tank Engine clock on Merlin's wall (because Merlin thinks "trains are just so much more incredible when they can talk") ticked past half past three.

Arthur's clock – a slightly less exciting Buffy the Vampire Slayer one – was a second or two behind Merlin's, but it was still at this time that Arthur decided that action needed to be taken. His palms, sticky with an anxious cold sweat, were practically welded to his keyboard, typing nothing in particular (or nothing of any relevance to this story, anyway). He prised them off and bolted towards his door.

The corridor, as per usual, was quiet. Only, this time, there was not the muffled murmur of two boys enjoying their second or third cup of tea, just the faint crackle of a film being watched a few doors down. Arthur stood; ready to knock – closed fist raised, feet shoulder-width apart, and mouth hanging open as he began to frame the words he wanted to say.

On the other side of the door, Merlin heard Arthur's door slam. He tiptoed over the rough green carpet and balanced himself behind the door – if the door moved as he leant on it, his cover would be blown – and placed his eye to the peep-hole. The circular view was almost entirely comprised of Arthur's nose, bulbous and suddenly far too big for his face. His eyes were small ovals on either side, and his mouth disappeared somewhere under his chin. Merlin had never seen Arthur ugly before; he'd certainly never taken the time to think about it either. Arthur had always been a perfect example of animate Greek sculpture. He noticed, curving around the peripherals, a fist raised ready to knock. Why didn't he just knock? Merlin thought he should just knock. Knock, for god's sake, don't just stand there. But Arthur just stood there. The only proof that this was a living, breathing man and not simply a picture that someone had stuck over the lens, was the fact that Arthur would occasionally blink. His fist twitched, and Merlin waited for the knock of the collision. But no sound came. The hand retreated to his side.

Merlin swore and flung the door open.

"Arthur?"

"Merlin?"

"What are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"I was eating gummy bears and then I was wondering why you were just stood outside my door. You know there are more efficient ways to spy on me, right?" He smirked, because Arthur's face was crumpling with childish annoyance.

"I wasn't spying on you, I was wondering why you hadn't asked if I knew what time it was."

"Oh… I was also wondering a similar thing…"

"Oh."

So the conversation stopped for a moment, both of them doing the maths and working out how late they were for tea time. "What do we say now, then?"

"I don't know. Maybe we have to miss tea time today?"

"Maybe. Actually, yes, good idea."

Neither boy moved.

"Did you give tea up for lent?"

"Arthur! I told you not to ask me."

"So did I."

"Oh."

"Well, it was a stupid idea."

"Yeah."

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

"I'd love one." Merlin grinned, and went to grab his key. It was strange, really, how tea came to be much more than just a hot drink in a Spiderman mug. It was a routine; it was a comfort; it meant time together, which meant too much eye contact and sitting too close to each other on the bed. It meant really trying very hard to pretend to really try very hard to read Arthur's diary, even though all he really wanted was Arthur to have to wrestle it off him. It meant sharing the last dregs of the milk out between each of their third cups, and breaking the last biscuit in half and sharing out the chocolate chips.

Today, it meant something new, as well.

Merlin's mug of steaming tea was waiting for him when he entered Arthur's room, poised nicely on his favourite purple coaster, with four biscuits on a piece of kitchen roll. He smiled his appreciation and sat beside his friend on his bed.

"Merlin, did you give anything else up for lent?"

"You're not allowed to ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because I made a rule about it."

Arthur laughed in the condescending way he'd made a habit of. "Your rules are stupid."

"Yeah, well, your Mum's stupid."

Arthur rolled his eyes and doffed him round the head with the Monkey-shaped hot water bottle.

"Careful…" Merlin hissed. "You'll spill my tea."

"Tell me what else you gave up for lent then."

"No."

"Just tell me." Arthur considered, watching the way Merlin's lips puckered to sip the top layer of tea from his mug, "was it chocolate? Everyone always gives up chocolate. Should have known it'd be something boring like that, Merlin. You're such a boring bum. Be more imaginative next year, alright? Give me something to actually laugh about. Chocolate is so boring. People could live without chocolate every day; by giving it up, their just saying, 'I'll just make myself a bit healthier for the next while'-"

"-It wasn't chocolate, okay?!"

"Alright, blimey, calm down."

A moment passed in which Arthur too sucked the top layer of tea from his mug.

"So what did you give up?"

"What did you give up?"

"That's not what I asked."

"If you don't tell me, I won't tell you."

"That's not fair."

"How is that not fair?"

"I asked first,"

"So?"

"Just tell me."

"Alien films, I gave up alien films."

"Liar."

"What?! You asked what I gave up, and I told you, and you're still not happy."

"I know you, Merlin, you take things like lent far too seriously to give up alien films."

"Tell me what you gave up then."

"Biscuits."

"You're eating biscuits now!"

"Well, I've clearly just broken my lent then, haven't I?"

"You're so annoying."

Silence took over again.

"What did you actually give up?"

"Oh, the tables have turned now, haven't they? Merlin, I'm not telling you unless you tell me."

"What's the point, I've already broken it."

"I've already broken mine too. Even more reason for you to tell me – so I know what it is you fail in."

"That's just mean."

Arthur winked, and Merlin had to quickly look away, his face flaring up.

"Why do you always blush?" Arthur took time with the words, letting them leave his mouth in little more than a whisper.

"… Excuse me?" Merlin coughed through a mouthful of scalding tea.

"You always blush when I wink at you."

"Do I? This tea is quite hot. It's probably the heat."

"Why don't you ever just answer my questions?"

"Why do you always flatter yourself?"

"I feel like we're arguing."

"We're not. This isn't arguing. If we were arguing, I would have bitten you by now." It is true that Arthur had suffered under the cruel pressure of Merlin's canines more times than he'd care to remember: on his hand, on his arm, and once Merlin had gone for his neck, but they'd both snapped away from each other, suddenly confused by what was happening.

"Bite me then." Arthur could feel the bravery gurgling in his stomach, it felt like curdling milk and too many biscuits.

Merlin stared at him, his eyes a little wider than usual. "You want me to bite you?"

Arthur said nothing, seeing how far this would eventually go. He had to put his tea down on the chest of drawers to try and hide the fact his hands were shaking.

Merlin sipped his tea, as if trying to hide the throbbing that seemed to be occurring inside his skull. Mist had spread across his eyes, and he couldn't really see anything other than the images in his mind. "I can't bite you."

"Bite me."

The violence of the word caught his attention again, giving his blurry mind a kind of focus. He felt, in some way, a compulsion to follow orders, to relent to Arthur's suggestion and fulfil this request. He placed his tea on Arthur's bedside table, on the purple coaster, but not central. He wanted to ask if Arthur was sure, but then, evident in Arthur's expression was his attempt to grasp some stability in his own thoughts. Merlin placed one hand beside Arthur's left knee, and one on the outside of his right, leaning in until their faces were but inches apart. Arthur didn't try to hide his quivering breath, knowing that somehow it would give Merlin reassurance that this was actually what he wanted.

Merlin took note of how his friend didn't move, or pull away or try to shove him off; and, in a moment of courage that the likes of Merlin rarely mustered, he didn't go for the neck, but, instead, brought their lips together. He didn't bite – not until a few days later, anyway – but rather interpreted Arthur's request for what it really was.

"So what did you give up for lent, Merlin?"

"Being secretly in love with you."

"Well, I guess it isn't a secret anymore." And Arthur pulled the boy towards him once more.