Score / Merthur

Haze and Hotels

The week that followed was hell.

The days blurred together. Eat, sleep, practice. Arthur ran each morning. As rosy dawn began to lift her head from slumber, he would stumble out of the flat and onto the street. His feet struck the ground at a punishing pace. He was trapped in a dream. The shimmering pavement stretched out endlessly. It devoured time. When the spell broke, he'd find himself staggering up the stairs to the flat, drenched in his own sweat, with no recollection of having made the journey.

Practice, too, was a disaster.

Arthur had scheduled extra sessions to prepare for their upcoming game — in London, of all places — and it was doing the exact opposite of helping. Arthur moved through drills like one in a trace. He kicked over cones, frequently lost the ball, and could hardly keep a decent pace. Five-a-side was no better.

Once, it had gotten so bad that Morgana had benched him.

He hadn't even argued.

Several days later and Arthur had clawed back his coordination. His drills were sharp instead of sloppy, his manoeuvres were precise, and his passes— his passes were so powerful that they kept sailing past people. Even Leon, with whom he was usually so in sync, had struggled to receive them.

Morgana hadn't needed to bench him that time. He'd done it his damn self.  What good was he if he couldn't get his passes right?  Everyone else seemed to be on top form.  He was only disrupting their rhythm. 

Agitation boiled beneath his skin. He wanted to tear it off. He was too hot. His mind was in a haze. His hair, sweat-soaked, seemed to stick in his eyes. It was insufferable. He was loosing his mind.

He threw himself back on the grass, eyes to the sky, and tried to calm his breathing. He had to get out of his head. He was going to suffocate himself. He had to concentrate. To calm the fuck down.

Merlin's presence was not helping.

He was sat, ten metres away, in the shade beneath a tree. He had a book open in his lap. His camera hadn't left its bag.

Arthur should be soothed. 

Merlin was still here. He wasn't avoiding him. It was a mercy. Yet, at the same time, Merlin was a mirage. An image that flickered between blades of bright green grass. He was animatronic. He looked from the book to the pitch and back again. That was all.

Arthur's eyes were drawn to him like light to a black hole.

It was maddening.  He knew, with absolute certainty, that Merlin could feel his gaze. That he was aware of its heat.  That Arthur was practically pleading with him.

But Merlin never once looked back.

Arthur did not exist to him.

~~~

Then Friday came, with its five-hour coach ride.

They'd left early. Arthur had had to skip his morning run. He was far too awake. He could feel his heart trying to dance its way out of his chest. Adrenaline was flooding his system. Threatening to drown him.

No.

He was an athlete. He could control his own body. This had gone far enough. He stood up, abandoning the seat beside Mordred, and made his way further back. He flopped down on an empty set of seats and stretched out, cat-like, before curling back in on himself. He fished the sleeping mask from his pocket and dragged it over his eyes. He made to grab his earplugs too, but his hand froze as he found the packet.