[ there's something in the way merlin looks at him, surprised and terrified and joyous all at once, that slams into him like a train at full speed. it nearly takes the breath out of him, makes his heart race in wonder of why it seems like merlin is staring at him like he's a ghost. it doesn't really make sense, of course, the way merlin looks at him as if he's someone else, or maybe someone who once was -- they're still strangers, aren't they? except, some part of arthur knows they aren't, they can't be, not when he feels his chest tightening, his heart swelling, like he's just been reunited with someone he hasn't seen in a very, very long time. the sound of merlin's voice drags him back to reality, and arthur has to laugh off the absurdity of the whole situation. ]
You don't want my number instead? [ it's a joke, of course, though arthur gets the distinct feeling he wouldn't mind giving his number to merlin, anyway. he shakes his head, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. maybe it's just warm in here, even for a day in the middle of summer, or maybe it's merlin making him feel warm, like he's home somehow. the atmosphere of the shop surely reminds him of the places he sees in his dreams sometimes, places he feels existed in some distant time. they're tangible, almost, like they're more than just dreams, like he knows these places. it's absurd, really; dreams always feel real while they're happening, don't they? and yet -- it's that same feeling of nostalgia, of familiarity that arthur gets now, observing the smaller details of the shop: the books, the candles; the air of sorcery, if he had to give a name to the subtle hint of magic sending a chill down his spine and keeping his hair standing on end. then again, maybe merlin is just going for a harry potter vibe and everything arthur might be feeling is just misinterpretation. ]
[ he still can't shake the feeling that they know each other, somehow, from somewhere -- somewhere that isn't here (or london, for that matter), though that doesn't make much sense, either. maybe he's from camelot, he jokes to himself, inside the safety of his own head. it would sound ridiculous to say out loud, even as a joke. camelot doesn't actually exist -- it's all just stories, myths, legends. the fact that they're named arthur and merlin has to be a coincidence. arthur knows for a fact he wasn't named after the legendary king, anyway; it's a family name, passed down the line from his grandfather to him. my father's name was arthur, he can hear his father saying. he would've been proud to know you, son. he can't imagine merlin was named after the legendary sorcerer, not unless his parents hated him. it has to be some kind of nickname, right? an inside joke that stuck for far too long. surely, there's a reasonable explanation for all of this. ]
Arthur. [ he says, finally, and it sounds odd to him to say it when it feels like merlin already knows. it could just be he's heard about him in the news -- to hell with paparazzi, honestly -- but it feels like more than that, like there's a side of arthur, a secret side, that only merlin knows, because arthur hasn't even figured it out yet. ] My name, I mean. For the cup. [ there's a silence that follows while arthur waits, filled only by the the busy noises of the espresso machine. he notices the cat, then, and wonders why he hadn't noticed before. that can't be sanitary, he thinks, but he doesn't say anything about it, just exchanges a glance with the animal that seems to convince him his suspicions are correct. why he feels validated by a cat, he isn't sure, but -- ]
Sorry, this might sound a bit mad, but... [ he gives merlin another once over, wishing he could explain the sense of deja vu he gets every time he looks at him. ] Do we know each other? I mean -- I feel like we've met before... [ the problem is, arthur meets so many people so often, he can't always keep them straight. maybe merlin is the son of one of his father's friends, or a friend of their friend. there's no telling, really. they could have met anywhere, probably years ago, since arthur hasn't been to this part of the country in years. ]
[ it's just -- with a name like merlin ... arthur would remember that, wouldn't he? surely, he'd remember merlin's face, too, his eyes especially. he would know those eyes anywhere, such a piercing and brilliant blue, like a lake he can't put a name to or the sky on a clear spring morning. but it's more than just the name, the face -- it's a place ... a time, almost. ] ... somewhere. [ it's mostly an afterthought, almost a question, as vague images of things that were or will be or have been float through the back of his mind, too distant to be tangible. maybe, he thinks, he should leave after this, but there's something about merlin keeping him here, rooted to this coffee shop, too curious about who merlin is to leave it alone. ]
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You don't want my number instead? [ it's a joke, of course, though arthur gets the distinct feeling he wouldn't mind giving his number to merlin, anyway. he shakes his head, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. maybe it's just warm in here, even for a day in the middle of summer, or maybe it's merlin making him feel warm, like he's home somehow. the atmosphere of the shop surely reminds him of the places he sees in his dreams sometimes, places he feels existed in some distant time. they're tangible, almost, like they're more than just dreams, like he knows these places. it's absurd, really; dreams always feel real while they're happening, don't they? and yet -- it's that same feeling of nostalgia, of familiarity that arthur gets now, observing the smaller details of the shop: the books, the candles; the air of sorcery, if he had to give a name to the subtle hint of magic sending a chill down his spine and keeping his hair standing on end. then again, maybe merlin is just going for a harry potter vibe and everything arthur might be feeling is just misinterpretation. ]
[ he still can't shake the feeling that they know each other, somehow, from somewhere -- somewhere that isn't here (or london, for that matter), though that doesn't make much sense, either. maybe he's from camelot, he jokes to himself, inside the safety of his own head. it would sound ridiculous to say out loud, even as a joke. camelot doesn't actually exist -- it's all just stories, myths, legends. the fact that they're named arthur and merlin has to be a coincidence. arthur knows for a fact he wasn't named after the legendary king, anyway; it's a family name, passed down the line from his grandfather to him. my father's name was arthur, he can hear his father saying. he would've been proud to know you, son. he can't imagine merlin was named after the legendary sorcerer, not unless his parents hated him. it has to be some kind of nickname, right? an inside joke that stuck for far too long. surely, there's a reasonable explanation for all of this. ]
Arthur. [ he says, finally, and it sounds odd to him to say it when it feels like merlin already knows. it could just be he's heard about him in the news -- to hell with paparazzi, honestly -- but it feels like more than that, like there's a side of arthur, a secret side, that only merlin knows, because arthur hasn't even figured it out yet. ] My name, I mean. For the cup. [ there's a silence that follows while arthur waits, filled only by the the busy noises of the espresso machine. he notices the cat, then, and wonders why he hadn't noticed before. that can't be sanitary, he thinks, but he doesn't say anything about it, just exchanges a glance with the animal that seems to convince him his suspicions are correct. why he feels validated by a cat, he isn't sure, but -- ]
Sorry, this might sound a bit mad, but... [ he gives merlin another once over, wishing he could explain the sense of deja vu he gets every time he looks at him. ] Do we know each other? I mean -- I feel like we've met before... [ the problem is, arthur meets so many people so often, he can't always keep them straight. maybe merlin is the son of one of his father's friends, or a friend of their friend. there's no telling, really. they could have met anywhere, probably years ago, since arthur hasn't been to this part of the country in years. ]
[ it's just -- with a name like merlin ... arthur would remember that, wouldn't he? surely, he'd remember merlin's face, too, his eyes especially. he would know those eyes anywhere, such a piercing and brilliant blue, like a lake he can't put a name to or the sky on a clear spring morning. but it's more than just the name, the face -- it's a place ... a time, almost. ] ... somewhere. [ it's mostly an afterthought, almost a question, as vague images of things that were or will be or have been float through the back of his mind, too distant to be tangible. maybe, he thinks, he should leave after this, but there's something about merlin keeping him here, rooted to this coffee shop, too curious about who merlin is to leave it alone. ]