Accidental Memory in the Case of Death

Accidental Memory in the Case of Death

Copyright © 2009 by derryere

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or nonprofit publication.

This work is in no way meant to infringe on any other copyrights and/or trademarks. Any rights to non-original characters and/or scenarios described herein are yielded to previous copyright holders.

Posted at Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582059

First Posted at Live Journal 2009

Smashwords Edition: This edition may be distributed for non-commercial purposes only and provided the book remain in its complete original form.

Inside art by Macca4ever

"Colin Morgan" Copyright © 2012

"Bradley James" Copyright © 2013

"King Arthur" Copyright © 2013

Design by thewaysinwhich

Copyright © 2018 by thewaysinwhich

Cover image Tony [Hawk]’s First Skateboard: http://www.tonyhawk.com/in-the-beginning

The title is taken from An Accidental Memory in the Case of Death

Copyright © 2004 Eluvium

ISBN: 9780463430873

Table of Contents

one

(day one)

two

(day two)

three

(day three)

four

(day four)

five

(day five)

six

(day six)

seven

(day seven)

eight

(a lifetime)

nine

(the beginning)

About the Author

one

He takes whatever sleep he can get. 

On a bench at the station, tightly folding his arms over his chest and holding his chin in the dip of his collar, he manages a few minutes of rest that—in retrospect—won’t contribute anything at all, even if they do feel too crucial to let pass right now. Occasionally, he cracks open one eye to woozily check the hour, vaguely aware of the blurry crowd on the platform: schoolbags, suitcases, sunglasses; heads intermittently jerking up toward to the grand clock hanging above. 

There are pretty faces around—buying coffee, balancing on heels or talking—and he follows them all for a brief moment before giving up, too tired to care as much as he wants to and knowing he’s perhaps still a little drunk, still too close to passing out to chance one of those private glances that get him attention—the good kind—when sober. So instead he remains unmoving, half asleep, until the train rolls in with a whoosh of air and a lot of rumble. For this he wakes, grudgingly obliging to routine, clambering to his feet with maybe one too many grunts. 

The compartments’ low windows angle the morning sun, letting the light through and colouring it a shade of brown in even, rectangular shapes on the platform floor. He blinks and numbly takes notice, wading through the brightness of it, not quite sure what day it is or how to differentiate this morning from any given morning of the past three years. Though it isn’t a necessarily bad thing, just an observation, and he thinks of that and not much more as he hops in and travels the aisles, lazily, flopping into the first window seat he spots. Dumping his bag at his feet, he rests his head against the sill, sinking into a shallow sleep that will last an exact thirty-five minutes. 

Once in the city, the chances of getting longer periods of uninterrupted rest drop drastically. There’s perhaps a minute or five of closed-eyed stillness to be had on campus, outside the lecture hall, head lolling back against the wall as he waits for either classes to commence or for someone to casually tap his cheek with a flat hand and an amused, 

All right, mate? 

To which he squints open one eye and replies, hoarsely, 

Just brilliant, Art. And then, giving the friend a weary look-over, You? 

"I’m fucking hyped, mate! Art says from next to him, adding a shockingly loud whoop of laughter as he arches against the wall—eyes wild, dilated with whatever he’s been taking Still reeling on that shit from last night. That was fucking ace, wunnit? I mean– Art’s back of a hand to his chest, thumping for emphasis, wunnit?" 

And then there’s the two-hour span of classes. In general, these prove harder to sleep through than expected, though sometimes he’s lucky and Art is too spaced out, or simply over his high and suddenly too tired to talk to him. On days like that, they quarantine the back of the hall, splaying themselves over the chairs that weren’t made for sleep at all, dozing off to the sound of lectures they’d attended before in previous years but in which they—every time again—had forgotten to pay attention. 

Most days, however, Art doesn’t show up, and so he ends up sitting with some other people he sort of recognises. They talk, somewhat, but not in the constant, unhinged and whispery manner Art does, so there’s little keeping him from paying attention to the projected presentation below but too much keeping him from simply resting his head on the table and passing out. 

Though even without the excuse of sleep, concentration often comes with difficulty. He stares at the backs of people’s heads sooner than he listens to information coming at him; reads the messages scribbled onto the chair in the row in front of him, adds one of his own, plays a game on his phone, scans the room for Accidental Cleavage and—on finding it—brings it to the attention of his neighbour for a quickly shared leer. 

And if that isn’t enough, as it usually isn’t, aimlessly looking around often does the trick. 

He hooks an arm over the back of his seat, casually glancing back and going through the faces: Penny, up in fifth row, who got famously drunk last term and flashed everyone at a faculty party. A couple of second years, some unfamiliar characters furiously taking notes—clearly not from here, he concludes. 

The Twins, whose facial reactions always eerily match and whose names he never remembers being told. Ben, only two rows up, whose earpiece-extension forever dangles from the tangle of his hair and who always gives him a jerky nod of hello—one which he’ll imitate, later, with his friends in a pub somewhere and have a laugh over. 

Then that particular group of girls who always sit together—and out of all there’s only one he thinks is hot but she never looks up at the right time—sitting next to Heineken, a broody kid who takes his skateboard to class, and whose real name is forever lost due to a supposed incident during first year introduction that involved a beer bottle, an unsavoury way of putting it to use and a partner too drunk to care. 

He holds out, though, until catching a glimpse of Rose—usually in the back, fiddling with her phone. Lovely, lovely Rose, who replies to his slow grins with a long-nailed middle finger and who’d sometimes blow him in the coatrooms of parties. 

Someone calls him, a mate or someone’s mate, a sharp, Oi, Tony, usually toward the end of the lecture or maybe even after it, as they saunter their way towards the cafeteria. You up for it, tonight? 

To this he thinks for a moment, tries to calculate the amount of times he’s closed his eyes for longer than five minutes over the past twenty-four hours, but quickly gives up and complies with a sighing chuckle and a, Sure. Why not. 

He gets another total of two hours after that: starting with thirty minutes on the way back, in the train. He dumps his things at home and says, Hi, mum, and, Classes were insanely fascinating as usual, mum, and Yes, I’m going out with the blokes, mum, and Check up with you later, yeah? and All right, bye, mum—I’ll—yes, bye! I’m going! I’m—no, I’m sure, but—no, bye! Bye! 

Then another thirty on the way back to the city, whether in the train or in the passenger’s seat of Art’s mini. The extra hour only comes early in the morning, when he leaves the city and his friends with boisterous laughter, briefly gripping their shoulders before taking off. He strolls down the somewhat deserted streets in the lingering summer heat, hands in his pockets all the way back to the train station. Another trip back home. He takes a shower, inspects the kitchen and grabs a handful of cereal on which he munches—loudly—as he sits at his mother’s bedside and says, 

No, got back a while ago. Yeah, just on my way out. What? Oh, yeah, sure. Was fun. Dunno, some seminar, I think. No—no. I’m eating, see? You just go back to sleep. I’ll see you this afternoon, all right? Yes, I—yeah, love you too, mum. Now go back to sleep. Bye. Have a nice—yeah. You too. 

(day one)

The sun, if they stare at it for long enough, is more like a hole than anything else: a small circle letting in the light from an impossibly bright backdrop, as though the sky is just a thin sheet stretched over the atmosphere, keeping everyone from going blind. 

It’s a good day, they decide. One of the better ones they’ve seen so far. It’s quiet and summer, and even though they call it sneaking out there is really no one who seems to mind their absence in the slightest. They had plans of swimming, of seeking the cooler grounds of the forest, but never made it past the grassy incline behind the castle—collapsing halfway up, sweaty and out of breath. Only for a second, Arthur had said, and kept on saying so even an hour later, when they hadn’t moved an inch. Merlin just hummed in muffled agreement, having untied his scarf and draped it over his face, the bridge of his nose already too deep a shade of red, his skin agreeing to the sun’s insistence much more easily than Arthur’s. 

So, Merlin says. 

What? Arthur replies, voice deep with the angle of his neck. 

Merlin folds back a corner of the scarf to squint at Arthur through one eye. Was wondering, yeah, d’you ever think about … when you’ll get to be king, and all? I mean—as in, what you’ll do. Or plan to do. Or … something. 

Arthur, eyes still closed—head propped on his folded arms—lazily smiles up at the sky. He doesn’t need to turn to Merlin as he replies, I’d have to be pretty bloody stupid, not to be thinking about that by now, wouldn’t I? 

Merlin silently looks at him for a while longer, the blue fabric covering the rest of his face muddling with Arthur’s profile. Well, he says at length. What’s the wildest thing you think you’ll do? As king? 

Arthur’s eyebrows slightly pull together. He tries to blink open his eyes, to give Merlin a glance, but can’t for the brightness of the day. 

For yourself, I mean, Merlin clarifies. Something you’d do for yourself. 

Arthur’s frown doesn’t go away as he untangles an arm from under his head, brings a hand up for shadow—lifting his head to give Merlin a proper look. Whatever he thinks to find in the small triangle visible of Merlin’s face, he doesn’t, and sinks back into the grass. 

I don’t know, he says. Allow sparring indoors? Always wanted to do that. Like a sparring room, where you can, sort of … jump on the tables, and all, with the swords and—I don’t know. I’ll cut down on the dances, probably. He thinks about this for a moment, and then, I hate dancing. 

Merlin laughs, short and lightly. That’s the craziest you can come up with? he wants to know. Fewer dances?

What? It’s—I can’t just do whatever! There are– he stops, makes a bit of a face, but sounds less certain all the same when he adds, duties. Then, as a hurried counter-attack, Why, what would you do? 

If I were king? Merlin pushes his scarf off his face, giving Arthur a deadpan look. 

Yes, Arthur says. If you’re so clever. 

I’d …. Merlin considers, thoughtfully shifting a on the grass. One crazy thing? he asks for confirmation, worries his lip, and, Probably paint the castle. Green, I think. 

Arthur’s head slowly turns to blankly stare for a long, long moment. He blinks, once, and Merlin can’t help the bark of laughter that Arthur’s unimpressed face pulls out of him. 

What! he says, smiling. To shake things up. It’s not like—It’s hypothetical. And besides, ‘s still better than your banning of all dances. He raises his eyebrows to this, underlining his point and perhaps challenging a little, but Arthur won’t go for it. He just snorts, shaking his head, and turns to the sky again—arms folding back, propping him up and he closes his eyes. But Merlin keeps his gaze level on Arthur, quietly watching the slightest movements of his features, and he is comfortable in realising how familiar they are. 

It’s weird, you know, he continues after a while. Thinking of you as king. Ruling and stuff. 

Arthur gives a soft huff of amusement, murmuring, And stuff. 

Merlin looks away, settling more easily on his back. Guess you’ll have to get married and everything, he says. 

That’s the general gist of it, yeah. 

Do you … do you think you’ll. You know. Merlin tugs at a tuft of grass by his hand, piling the loose blades on a pile next to it. Like her? Your … wife? Or– 

Arthur sighs, loud and sharp. What’s with the questions, Merlin? 

I’m just curious, is all. I mean, I’m thinking …. It’s just, if I ever, you know. Another fistful of grass, yanked out with the dirt still clinging to the roots. Settle down or whatever. I’d want it to be with someone I … you know. But when you’re king, I guess—It’s just not fair, is it? That you don’t get the chance to– 

You don’t know that, Arthur interjects, suddenly losing the joking edge to his tone. You don’t know what’ll happen. 

Merlin is a bit wary for a moment. He’s unsure of his boundaries, constantly, and attempts what he thinks is a respectful step back by saying, No. And, I suppose I don’t. Yet can’t help himself, no more than three heartbeats later, and blurts out a quick, Have you ever even been—? 

Yes, is Arthur’s reply, immediate and shameless. 

At once, Merlin wants to ask more. Who? Where? When? Before I—Do I know—How was— 

But he doesn’t. Something incomprehensible settles at his throat and he flushes, unnoticeable in the heat of the early afternoon. He glances at Arthur, quickly, hoping to see something of embarrassment—or explanation, or anything—but Arthur is lying still, closed-eyed and mellow in the sun. So Merlin turns his head to the other side, seeing only a long stretch of faintly swaying grass. 

"How about you then, Merlin? Arthur says after a while, now with a smile in his voice, foot lightly nudging Merlin’s leg. You ever had it bad?" he enunciates every word separately, clearly, making fun already. 

Well. Merlin tries to think about it, but, Yeah, I guess. Or. No. I don’t know. How do you know, anyway, when you’re in …. He grimaces at the sky. Yeah. You can’t, not really, not– 

Oh, Arthur interrupts with a small, haughty chuckle. You’d know. 

With an instinctive reaction, Merlin turns to look at him again—sharply and in question. Arthur turns too, a wry little smile on his lips as he repeats, again, 

You’d know. 

Oh, is all Merlin has. That and an awkward grin, nervous eyes that suddenly can’t look away from the crease of his sleeve. 

Yep, Arthur says, lightly, and Merlin can see the widening smile dancing just outside his vision. 

An inevitable silence settles in, and they both return to squinting up at the scatter of two or three clouds. It’s companionable enough, though, each left to his own thoughts—flittering and vague as they may be. It’s such an easy moment, and so unforced when Arthur calmly rolls over and briefly presses his mouth to Merlin’s—that it almost isn’t shocking at all. 

Though it is. A little. 

Arthur doesn’t seem bothered. He just laughs, pushes himself to his feet, claps his hands free of dirt and says, 

C’mon, idiot. Race you to the castle. 

Merlin frowns at him, propping himself on his elbows, the sun making it hard to see what Arthur is looking at—what kind of expression he has to go with it, too. Though, when Arthur extends a hand to help him up, Merlin takes it, unthinkingly, and pays for it when Arthur uses the leverage to suddenly push him down again. He takes off in a backward jog, laughing, calling— 

Come on, then! 

So Merlin comes on, then. Arthur is fast, but not so much today, and when Merlin passes him he shoves at Arthur’s shoulder, liking it when the man stumbles a bit. Arthur just seems to enjoy the prospect of losing to Merlin even more, grinningly catching up and shoving back—sending Merlin toppling to the grass, willingly going down with him and making a half-hearted attempt to pin him to the ground. Merlin doesn’t feel the gifted victory is any less of a victory when he rolls them over in a bit of a scuffle and ends up on top—straddling Arthur, holding his hands to the ground over his head. Arthur is beaming up at him, eyes bright with the playfulness of the game, and he wordlessly laces his fingers with Merlin’s—sending both their hearts skidding and sliding and falling all over themselves within their chests. 

Merlin fills up and then runs over with it, with the goofy grins and wide eyes, and leans down in a brief, quick movement—lightly kissing Arthur, for just a moment. 

It’s then that the first deep and low ripple flows through the ground beneath them. Through the field and further, under the city and the line of earth it follows. It’s the most unusual occurrence, the rarest, and yet goes by without the slightest notice. Merlin feels it and thinks that’s just what it always feels like, the pressing of lips and everything that comes with it. Arthur doesn’t note any of it, not a thing at all, his eyes fixed on Merlin as the boy clambers off him—as they get to their feet and laugh for no discernable reason, shove at each other some more, running and racing and smiling, newly oblivious to the world around them in a wonderfully incurable manner.

two

 He stuffs his jacket behind his head, in the nook of his neck, trying to get comfortable between the seat’s upholstery and the window sill. The day had once again proved too hot, and he’d ended up walking with the jacket in hand—then slung over a shoulder, then stuffed into his bag, then back into his hand again, annoyed with the lightness of it, that didn’t balance out with how much space it took up. Now, however, it proves to be rather useful, cushioning his half-hearted attempt at rest and catching the shakes and jumps of the train as it races over the tracks. 

Settling like that, arms crossed high over his chest, he lazily peers at the pathway—the compartment, at the scattered crowd of people, squinting at windows, illuminated in flashes of light skidding along the trees whooshing past outside. 

When he sees a familiar face he stops for a moment and realises, quietly, that it must be Friday. He knows of a few people from the old school who moved to the city and now make the short trip back only on the odd weekends, looking strangely troubled for people who are supposedly going back home. Sometimes he would cross paths with one of them at the station, or end up sitting in the same compartment, and the thirty minutes would be filled with stunted talk of what they used to be like when they were seventeen, and how silly they were, and how much they’ve changed. That would hang in the air for a while as they looked around, thinking about how little they have changed after all. 

But the train is long, has enough coaches and departs often enough for this to be the exception rather than the rule. Usually, Anthony has no one’s company to resent but his own. 

The bloke with the face he almost sort-of-knows slumps a bit lower in his seat while anxiously fiddling with a lighter, opposite Anthony himself only a few good rows back. In the back of his mind, he is vaguely relieved at never having spoken to the guy, not having to look up in recognition. He’s rather sure they didn’t go to the same school, the only comprehensive in town, but has seen him here often enough to be certain that they’re always heading in the same direction. His gaze, wary with the late hour of day, shifts lazily to the weekend bag at the guy’s feet, next to the propped up skateboard, and he grapples uselessly for a name—convinced he’s must’ve heard it before—but gets no further than what he knows. Heineken. 

Anthony wonders, Why Heineken again?, then remembers the story someone (Art, probably, the sole source of most repulsive tales on campus) once told him of where the nickname came from and feels his interest dissipate into a thin conviction of, ugh, sick. 

The train stops. Some people get off, and Anthony closes his eyes for a while, waiting for the movement to resume with a jerk and a hum that easily travels through the fibreglass body of the compartment. When he next looks about it’s because the train has stopped again. He tiredly glances out, sees nothing but farmlands, empty fields, and assumes another train has to pass—or maybe they hit a small animal on the way, which happens sometimes and they always have to stop, check, make sure it’s nothing bigger than a deer. The light outside has lowered into pinks and the seats around him are mostly empty. There’s just him and that kid, still flicking his lighter and blankly staring out the window. 

Anthony sighs,