Of Bad 80s Music, Cheesy Romance Novels And A Slayer That Saved The World. A Lot.

Arthur used to think that love sort-of equaled to being miserable, a gut-wrenching feeling that required a lot of pining, gazing into nothing and listening to heart-broken love songs on the radio.

He'd read his fair share of Mills & Boon books growing up, those embarrassing ones with covers of a man with his shirt artfully torn open, revealing his tanned muscled chest, clinging desperately to the woman in his arms. They'd been quite useful too, teaching him all he needed to know about pining, meeting the love of your life only to have her torn savagely from your arms and then having to wait years, years, before you could be reunited with her. The men were always harsh and unforgiving, as if their heart had been frozen by some lost love before, and it would be the feisty ladies who taught them how to love again.

For a while, Arthur had tried to follow those men, emulating their arrogant prattishness with just the slightest hint of a vulnerable past, but all that had done was get him into a lot of trouble at school for fighting, and, to his disgust, had not made him any more popular with the girls.

He'd grown a little into his teens then, watching Buffy during the nights when his father stayed late at the office, and wow, had she taught him about gazing into nothing, a sad, desolate look on his face. Season 2 had been especially good with that entire storyline of Buffy having to kill Angel after he'd turn evil, and not that he was ever going to admit this to anyone, but Arthur had cried buckets during the finale. He'd stand in front of the mirror every morning and try out his heart-broken look, and Arthur didn't know if it was because he was a boy and Sarah Michelle Gellar was clearly a pint-sized goddess who could kick his butt, but he didn't think that worked out so well, either.

And then there was the summer of '99.

That was the summer when bored and stuck at home with a case of chicken pox, Arthur had discovered Uther's collection of 80s music. There was Journey, there was Heart, some Michael Jackson thrown in there, but what really caught his eye, was the large collection of Bon Jovi records. He'd had to drag out the old record player, but then finally, alone in a dusty and dank attic, Arthur discovered the power ballad. He'd spent hours listening to the records again and again, loving the fact that they allowed him to wail out his misery to the song, just sing his heart out, and scream that he'd given Kerry Walsh from Maths class his heart and all she had done was give love a bad name.

He'd asked his father one night about the records, catching him on a good day when he'd managed to get home a little early from the office and had spent the afternoon playing basketball with him, asked him why he seemed to own every single record ever released by Bon Jovi - multiple copies, rare copies, copies that looked that they'd never even been played before.

So Uther had sat him down, and told him The Story of Uther Pendragon and Igraine Tint. How they had met during a Bon Jovi concert, a meeting of eyes across a crowd of bodies that had caused Uther, always so stiff, so assured, so confident, to trip and stumble into the guy in front of him. There had been a hospital trip for a minor concussion from the small stampede that the fall had caused, and once released by the doctor, he'd looked up and seen her, standing by his door, a small bandage wrapped around her wrists, but still looking like the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

Arthur had spent the rest of the night listening to Bon Jovi with his father, and when he woke up the next day, blanket tucked warmly around him, surrounded by all the records, he'd packed them up, and with a touch of reverence, placed them in his box of Important Things to Keep.

So, yes, Arthur clearly thought he knew a lot about love, had seen the quiet way his father had mourned his mother for the last twenty years, slowly moving on with life, but never quite living it in the same way again. He never saw the softly shy young man that made the girl from the concert come up to him again that night in the hospital, he never saw the idealistic man that made that woman fall in love with him, and he never saw the gentle, loving Uther that had made his mother decide to have a family with him.

And for that Arthur had always blamed love a little, had treated it with a little mistrust, had only chosen to see the miserable aspect of it.

But then Merlin had come along.

Stupid, idiotic Merlin, with his ridiculous haircut and sticky-out ears. Strangely persistent and insult-resistant Merlin who had continued being his friend, even after Arthur had called him all sorts of names and, that one time, even thrown something at him in a fit of rage. Increasingly endearing Merlin with his multitude of smiles, always there with a quiet word of encouragement or the needed scolding.

Merlin didn't have a nicely muscled chest, and he was as far away from tanned as a person could be. But he was feisty and he was fiery, and if he ever thought that Arthur was treating him badly, he was the first in line to call him out for it.

Arthur had had to grovel for weeks after that throwing incident, forced to pull out every trick he knew to woo Merlin back, because day after endless day of a silent flat greeting him with no cheery message from Merlin on his phone letting him know where he'd gone, had been too much for him to endure. And that was the night, the fourth night that he'd come home to no Merlin, when he'd sat on his couch and heard what I'd give to run my fingers through your hair, touch your lips, to hold you near, when you say your prayers, try to understand, I've made mistakes, I'm just a man. And he did, he wanted all those things, wanted Merlin to come back, wanted them to find their sunshine again. That was the night, that fourth night, when Arthur had realised that he was in love with Merlin, and all that was left for him to do then was pull out his phone and call him.

So Merlin wasn't his Fabio, wasn't one of those classically handsome men that graced those book covers, but he had made Arthur pine for him, had made him work to get him back, and Arthur figured that was a good enough modern version of those books. Merlin had also muttered no fucking wonder when he'd discovered Arthur's collection of romance novels and told him many a times that he was just as bloody minded as those men from his stupid fucking books, so Arthur thought that maybe all that time spent reading wasn't such a waste after all.

And Merlin had been the only one willing to sit with Arthur through his Buffy marathons, had even been the one to initiate a few of those marathons, till they became a sort-of routine for them, staying in every Friday night and watching a couple of episodes. He loved the lighter episodes, the Halloween to Arthur's Innocence, Dopplegangland as opposed to The Gift, and always always Tabula Rasa instead of Passion, which Arthur argued was a near perfect hour of television, to which Merlin would retort back that Tabula Rasa had comedy and angst. Secretly, Arthur just thought that Merlin harboured a little crush on Jenny and hated the episode when she died. They watched all the episodes together, working their way through the season, and when they'd gotten to The Body, and Merlin had had nightmares the entire night, Arthur had been the one to gently push a pale and sleepy Merlin into the car and driven four hours to Hunith's house.

He'd felt guilty the entire way for forgetting that just that past winter, Hunith had collapsed at home, a minor cold proving hard on her old body, and it had been Merlin who had discovered her there. He remembered how near-catatonic Merlin had been, how he'd seemed to shrink within himself till he was just a shell, and how there had been such a shattered, desolate look on his face that Arthur never ever wanted to see again.

But Merlin, it seemed, had already forgiven him, because upon waking up and finding himself in front of his mother's house, he'd flung himself at Arthur, long legs curling gracefully around Arthur's hips, and kissed him hard, whispering breathily that I am going to marry you one day, Arthur Pendragon. Just you wait and see. I am going to marry you.

And it had been Merlin who, on the day they got married, with a fond twinkle in his eyes had recited, "I, Merlin Emrys, promise to love you, to cherish you, to honour you, but not to obey you, of course because that's anachronistic and misogynistic and who do you think you are, like a sea captain or something?

However, I do entrust you with my heart. Take care of my heart, won't you please. Take care of it because it's all that I have. And if you let me, I'll take care of your heart too. I'll protect it and tend to it like a little stray. Like a little mangy stray that needs a home."

Arthur had stood there, listening to the utter sincerity in Merlin's voice, because of course he hadn't expected Merlin to obey him, not like he would have done anyway. Of course, he would take care of Merlin's heart, would love it and keep it safe. And of course, he knew that Merlin would take care of his heart, because it had been him in the first place, who had believed that Arthur really did indeed have a heart and while it was a little dusty and rusty from lack of use, underneath it all, it was a glorious heart.

Later, hours later, after the reception dinner with the wedding toasts and the dances, long after all the guests had gone home, Arthur had dragged Merlin out with him to the dance floor one last time. Ignoring his protestations, his arguments of there's no music, Arthur, he'd maneuvered Merlin more comfortably into his arms and started to gently sway. And when Merlin had finally relented and put his arms around Arthur's neck, smiling at him dopily like a man who felt like he'd overused his quota of happiness for the rest of his life, Arthur had started to softly sing.

It's hard for me to say the things

I want to say sometime

There's no one here but you and me

And that broken old street light

Lock the doors

We'll leave the world outside

All I've got to give to you

Are these five words when I

Thank you for loving me

And as he laid down to sleep that night, his first night as a husband, as Merlin's husband, Arthur thought that maybe he didn't know love as well as he thought he did. Because for every time that he mocked Arthur for reading ridiculous romance books, Merlin would also make him sit through another one of his fantasy-scifi movies. For every night that they settled in to watch Buffy, there was also a night when they watched Doctor Who because that was the show that Merlin had grown up with. And for every cheesy 80s love ballad that Arthur would sing aloud to, Merlin would counter with anything by The Smiths, as if that solved any and every argument about who had the better taste in music.

Maybe they won't get a happy ending, maybe Arthur will end up as broken as his father, or maybe they will last forever, maybe they'll be that old couple that everybody on the street knows. Right now, they're just at the start of whatever it is they're embarking on, and for now, Arthur is just happy to make the memories.