[ the modern age is curiously baffling. despite the fact that arthur grew up in it, there are things that he finds himself particularly inept at. smartphones, namely, are an invention arthur hates, unlike literally everyone else around him who isn't above the age of sixty. he feels like an old (old, old) soul trapped in a young man's body, like he isn't of this era, and yet he knows that he is. he must be. he knows his date of birth, the fifth of april in the year nineteen hundred and ninety, and still -- he doesn't feel like he belongs here, in this time, in this place of modern conveniences and technological marvels. if he didn't know better, if he didn't understand the advances of science and technology, he might call smartphones and televisions and cars the works of some kind of sorcery. but even the thought (the word sorcery) is ridiculous. who does he think he is, some medieval king? ]
[ he's heard the jokes before, was notoriously known as king arthur in college for his reputation of holding round table study sessions and his seemingly innate ability to lead any group project to victory. still, he isn't actually a medieval king, despite how the nickname might have stuck at one point. then again, as the son of the english prime minister, he might as well be royalty -- or the closest thing to it without actually being part of the royal family. a noble, he thinks, if this were anything like the days of yore. which, of course, it isn't. this is the twenty-first century and arthur should really get with it already. all his friends think it's strange how much he dislikes phones and computers despite understanding their necessity. he still uses them, he just wishes people weren't so codependent on the internet or the little voice that talks to them on their phone. whatever happened to human-to-human contact? he knows he sounds like an old fogey, like someone's grandpa, but he likes to think he just appreciates the simpler things in life -- going outdoors, handwriting letters, not relying so heavily on google and apple to dictate his life. ]
[ his friends frequently tell him he should just go live at a renaissance festival, if he enjoys cutting himself off from everything modern so much. (when he can, he prefers candles to electricity, except in the winter when even he admits it's a blessing to have heat.) most of the time, he ignores what his friends have to say -- they mean well, but they don't really understand. arthur doesn't either, to be honest, but he does understand his fondness for the summer home his father owns out in the country, not too far from a small town, where no one knows who he is and doesn't particularly care. sometimes, he feels like he dreamt about something like this, but he can never quite recall when, or if it was a dream at all. it feels almost like a memory, when he spends his days in the gallant halls of his father's newly renovated manor, though arthur wishes it was more like the original, without all the conveniences of electricity and wifi and central air conditioning. ]
[ still, it's nothing without people to fill it, halls too wide and rooms too numerous for just one person -- so arthur invites his friends for the summer, just so the manor won't feel so empty. he doesn't really expect them to come, given how far away it is from anything considered civilization that they're used to. arthur grew up in london, but he's never really been that fond of it -- maybe it's too metropolitan for him, too many people, too much traffic, too many lights. there aren't exactly woods in london, either, which arthur feels like he craves. he's always felt holed up in the city, with hardly a sight to see that wasn't built by man. innovation is certainly something to be marveled, but mountains, forests, rivers, rolling hills and sweeping valleys -- the natural beauties of england seem more like home to him than anywhere else. luckily for his friends, though, there's a major city about an hour away from the manor if they get too bored or restless. ]
[ the third day of the summer, arthur finds himself wandering the town closest to the manor alone, feeling an odd sense of comfort from the barely paved roads and the rustic architecture. maybe they've never had the money to do extensive renovations, or maybe they don't want to pave and build over the ruralness, the historic feel of the town. arthur can't blame them, really. it's probably the sign outside the coffee shop that gets his attention more than the coffee shop itself -- he doesn't really need any coffee in the middle of summer, but he feels almost compelled to go inside. somehow, he thinks, it isn't the sign after all, but the barista himself that truly draws his attention. it's like deja vu, an almost overwhelming sense of familiarity about him -- merlin, reads his nametag. his friends would surely joke they were meant to be, arthur and merlin, and arthur would surely punch them. it's arthur and guinevere, anyway, you prats, he'd tell them. ]
[ and yet -- he can't help but feel drawn to him, like they've known each other for ages and arthur's just forgotten. it doesn't make any sense; arthur never forgets a face. there's only a few other people in the shop, already tended to and satisfied. arthur stands far enough back from the counter to make it look like he's considering something, but mostly he's trying to discreetly figure out where he could possibly know merlin from. eventually, he steps closer, a shrug to his shoulders. he hasn't accepted defeat, but he's accepted that staring isn't going to do him any good. ] You know, I'll leave it to you. Surprise me, Merlin. [ hearing merlin's name in his own voice nearly startles him, frustrates him in a way he can't describe. it's like an itch he can't scratch, the feeling of knowing and not knowing simultaneously. surely, it's nothing. but what if it is? ]
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[ he's heard the jokes before, was notoriously known as king arthur in college for his reputation of holding round table study sessions and his seemingly innate ability to lead any group project to victory. still, he isn't actually a medieval king, despite how the nickname might have stuck at one point. then again, as the son of the english prime minister, he might as well be royalty -- or the closest thing to it without actually being part of the royal family. a noble, he thinks, if this were anything like the days of yore. which, of course, it isn't. this is the twenty-first century and arthur should really get with it already. all his friends think it's strange how much he dislikes phones and computers despite understanding their necessity. he still uses them, he just wishes people weren't so codependent on the internet or the little voice that talks to them on their phone. whatever happened to human-to-human contact? he knows he sounds like an old fogey, like someone's grandpa, but he likes to think he just appreciates the simpler things in life -- going outdoors, handwriting letters, not relying so heavily on google and apple to dictate his life. ]
[ his friends frequently tell him he should just go live at a renaissance festival, if he enjoys cutting himself off from everything modern so much. (when he can, he prefers candles to electricity, except in the winter when even he admits it's a blessing to have heat.) most of the time, he ignores what his friends have to say -- they mean well, but they don't really understand. arthur doesn't either, to be honest, but he does understand his fondness for the summer home his father owns out in the country, not too far from a small town, where no one knows who he is and doesn't particularly care. sometimes, he feels like he dreamt about something like this, but he can never quite recall when, or if it was a dream at all. it feels almost like a memory, when he spends his days in the gallant halls of his father's newly renovated manor, though arthur wishes it was more like the original, without all the conveniences of electricity and wifi and central air conditioning. ]
[ still, it's nothing without people to fill it, halls too wide and rooms too numerous for just one person -- so arthur invites his friends for the summer, just so the manor won't feel so empty. he doesn't really expect them to come, given how far away it is from anything considered civilization that they're used to. arthur grew up in london, but he's never really been that fond of it -- maybe it's too metropolitan for him, too many people, too much traffic, too many lights. there aren't exactly woods in london, either, which arthur feels like he craves. he's always felt holed up in the city, with hardly a sight to see that wasn't built by man. innovation is certainly something to be marveled, but mountains, forests, rivers, rolling hills and sweeping valleys -- the natural beauties of england seem more like home to him than anywhere else. luckily for his friends, though, there's a major city about an hour away from the manor if they get too bored or restless. ]
[ the third day of the summer, arthur finds himself wandering the town closest to the manor alone, feeling an odd sense of comfort from the barely paved roads and the rustic architecture. maybe they've never had the money to do extensive renovations, or maybe they don't want to pave and build over the ruralness, the historic feel of the town. arthur can't blame them, really. it's probably the sign outside the coffee shop that gets his attention more than the coffee shop itself -- he doesn't really need any coffee in the middle of summer, but he feels almost compelled to go inside. somehow, he thinks, it isn't the sign after all, but the barista himself that truly draws his attention. it's like deja vu, an almost overwhelming sense of familiarity about him -- merlin, reads his nametag. his friends would surely joke they were meant to be, arthur and merlin, and arthur would surely punch them. it's arthur and guinevere, anyway, you prats, he'd tell them. ]
[ and yet -- he can't help but feel drawn to him, like they've known each other for ages and arthur's just forgotten. it doesn't make any sense; arthur never forgets a face. there's only a few other people in the shop, already tended to and satisfied. arthur stands far enough back from the counter to make it look like he's considering something, but mostly he's trying to discreetly figure out where he could possibly know merlin from. eventually, he steps closer, a shrug to his shoulders. he hasn't accepted defeat, but he's accepted that staring isn't going to do him any good. ] You know, I'll leave it to you. Surprise me, Merlin. [ hearing merlin's name in his own voice nearly startles him, frustrates him in a way he can't describe. it's like an itch he can't scratch, the feeling of knowing and not knowing simultaneously. surely, it's nothing. but what if it is? ]