Sometimes, people ask Merlin how long he and Arthur have been dating.
“Twenty one years,” he’d tell them.
“Wow,” they’d say, “that’s a really long time.”
Merlin just nods.
Then there’s the inevitable silence as they do some frantic calculations.
“Wait- how old are you?”
Merlin just goes back to his food.
“But - that means you started dating when you – you couldn’t have been older than, what?”
“Three,” Arthur says. Usually at his point in the conversation he’d start stealing Merlin’s fries. Merlin would let him, but glare a lot, because that’s what Merlin does. “We got married behind the church.”
“Wait, hold on, you’re married?”
“Nah,” Merlin says, “I don’t think those kinds of marriages are valid.”
“You know, with plastic rings, without witnesses, that stuff. Also, we weren’t of legal age, obviously.”
“We were three,” Arthur repeats, “and Merlin was wearing half a chocolate cake.”
“Was not. And if you hadn’t stolen my plate that wouldn’t–”
“But,” they’d say, a little desperate now, “I know, that’s a childhood thing, but that’s not actual dating. I mean, you guys had other relationships, right?”
Merlin stares, then. “No, why would I?”
Arthur always gets a bit angry at this part. “Merlin was my boyfriend from that day on. What, you think my ceremony was lacking somehow?”
“Wait no, I didn’t mean -”
“Because I got him flowers-”
“Dandelions, he got me dandelion, also roses, they pricked him, he still has a scar there-”
“And there was music-”
“Mum was making more cake, she always sings then-”
“And the cake, obviously.”
“Obviously,” their listener echoes. “And you never broke up? Dated someone else? Had crushes on other people?”
They both just shake their heads. Merlin spies Arthur’s abandoned hot cocoa. It has marshmallows on. Arthur, the heathen, doesn’t even like marshmallows.
“You’re not drinking that, are you?” He’s already grabbing it as he says it.
“Sure, go ahead, take everything I own, strip me down to my last shirt.”
Merlin smirks. “I intend to.”
At this point, the listener is usually defeated by their long, lingering looks and makes a run for it before they can witness some kissing. Or worse.
They probably didn’t get it, but it’s fine. After all, no one but Merlin and Arthur need to.
Off to the left, we see some awkwardness. To the right, we have Nando telling the young’uns that a retirement is just another Sunday for him. And in the back, we can see…what I threw together because too many drivers retired from the race and I ran out of room/ideas.
Yatta! I’ve hit 700 followers! Tbh I wondered if I could even hit 100 followers at the start, so hitting this milestone is really an achievement for me :D Regardless of the reason you chose to follow me, I sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart! ^^ Let’s continue to make the Love Live! community a great one!
Idea inspired by “This week’s Harasho” segment from Nozoeli radio garden!
It started out as itching. Or, come to think of it, maybe it was the deep ache he’d become so used to as to just ignore. It was hard to tell when his whole body spent twenty four hours a day tense and stressed, ready for a fight.
Even if that was the start, though, he dismissed it, and so it was the itching that he first noticed.
It was on his back, right over his shoulder blades, where he could just almost reach, if he used one arm to pull back the other. It wasn’t a single point, either, but two lines, and even if he could stretch to meet the middle of one, he nearly dislocated his arm trying to reach the top and bottom. Eventually he gave up, just rubbing his back against furniture and walls when he thought no one was looking and getting used to sleeping shirtless, on his stomach.
But it kept getting worse. He was never like his mom or Jazz, begging for back scratches from the whole family until someone finally gave in, but his resolve was steadily breaking. It was starting to feel like something was clawing its way out of his back, getting worse and worse until he could barely focus on school behind the itch against his shoulder blades.
When the bell finally rang, he barely made it home before he was locking the bathroom door and tearing off his shirt to look at his back.
He expected it to be irritated, maybe red from the scratching, or some kind of rash, but two tiny, bony, protrusions jutting awkwardly from the edge of his shoulder blades was not what he was expecting.