Fic | Merlin/Arthur | Holiday Fairytale, A
Merlin | Merlin/Arthur | AU | R
a merlin_santa gift for lenyia
I
Through the thin excuse for a wall between their dorm rooms Arthur hears an alarm clock go off, followed by indistinct grumbling; a thud; footsteps moving back and forth. At the muted sound of a lock turning next door, he reaches out to twist open the latch on his own door. The air that hits his arm is frigid. Arthur knows without looking that the window will be steamed and frosted opaque.
His door is pushed open seconds after Arthur withdraws his hand and retreats back under the duvet, and Merlin shuffles in, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and utterly ridiculous hot pink slippers. Arthur bought them to mock Merlin's girliness, and Merlin wears them to claim, in some twisted way, the last word.
Arthur's never pretended to understand how Merlin's mind works, but appreciates how it keeps him on his toes all the same.
Merlin stops next to his bed, bends down, bracing himself on the edge of Arthur's bunk. "Mornin'. And get up. The train won't wait."
Arthur keeps silent for a beat, screws his eyes shut. "Well, there's always the next train."
Merlin snorts. "Sure, and what will Uther say when we miss the plane? No matter, boys, there's always the next flight, huh? You'd manage to make it sound like it was entirely my fault, too."
"It is, a bit."
Merlin raises an eyebrow to show how much he's not impressed with Arthur's reply. With a lightning quick move, Arthur's arm shoots out, grabbing Merlin and tumbling him down on the bed with him. As Merlin is still flailing and squeaking, trying not to squash Arthur (as if he could, Arthur mentally scoffs, an eight-stone weakling like him) under him, Arthur expands, "Now, if I hadn't been so bloody cold all night I'd have been able to sleep better, and getting up wouldn't be the pure impossibility it is at the moment."
"Right," Merlin laughs, "so I should've been here to keep you warm?"
Arthur ignores the twist in the pit of his stomach, the want old and familiar, and repressing it a routine habit, if not completely effortless. "Course you should have," he manages, "that's what minions are for," and Merlin's grin is wide, eyes crinkled at the corners, and Arthur finds it in himself to return with a smile of his own.
+
"Here," Merlin says, and Arthur opens his eyes and sits up straighter, gaze fixating on the take-away coffee with half a dozen napkins wrapped around it. "They didn't have those nifty insulator sleeves," he explains at Arthur's bemused look, and Arthur snorts, taking one of the cups. "Nevermind that. Cheers."
"No problem," Merlin grins. "Least I could do in return for you whisking me off for a romantic holiday get-away in the mountains." And right, it's jokes like that coupled with the cheeky look on Merlin's face that made Arthur fall in the first place and which make sure he'll stay miserably infatuated until the end of time, or thereabouts.
They met the first day of their freshman year, assigned to the same flat, and even though Merlin was so very unlike the people Arthur tended to hang out with, something about him made Arthur stop and think and wonder, and reach out, and before he knew it they were in the comfortable rhythm of a friendship that felt far older and more comfortable than any Arthur had had before.
Merlin was genuine, good in a way Arthur wasn't used to and had never before appreciated or wanted. He gave Arthur his smiles and his loyalty and his wholly carefree affection and care; and as time went on, Arthur often had to wonder what in earth he was giving Merlin back.
Other than a romantic whisk-away sort of thing, apparently.
"You know you're doing me a favour, so cut it out with the false gratitude," he gripes. "You and Hunith both. I should send her a gift basket for finally sparing you."
"I think the email you sent her in November, detailing how you were going to lose you sanity and your will to live if I wasn't there to distract you, might have had something to do with it."
"Your mother always was a wonderful, sensible woman. Thank god it's the last year father can expect me to go along with his choice of a hassle-free Christmas celebration in the Alps."
"And what do you plan to do this time next year, Mr. Bah Humbug, sir?" Merlin's eyes are alit with amusement.
"Preferably work the day away in the glorious job I'll undoubtedly land straight after graduation; take the Tube home to my expensive apartment at the Southbank; and get spectacularly pissed."
Merlin's eyes dim a bit. "That doesn't sound very… Christmas-y." Arthur snorts and says nothing. "You know you'll always be welcome to Ealdor for the holidays."
"Christmas is supposed to be for families," Arthur says. And continues, slowly, uncommonly honest, "I wouldn't wish to intrude."
"Arthur, you prat," Merlin's mouth twists in a combination of exasperation and fondness, "believe it or not, you are part of my family."
Arthur's throat works but he can't say anything without saying too goddamn much; in his haste to avoid having to respond he takes a gulp of the coffee forgotten in his grasp, and burns his tongue.
+
“Well, well, well. The famous Merlin, finally. I was starting to think Arthur was reverting back to childhood behaviour and inventing imaginary friends, since it didn’t seem plausible for anyone to be as perfect as he made you out to be.”
“Morgana, shut your bloody gob.”
They’re meeting at the Starbucks at St. Pancras before being picked up by Uther’s driver, and of course Morgana must insult him before even saying hello. Arthur would despair of the picture this gives of his family if Merlin wasn’t already totally aware of the dysfunctional Pendragon lines.
“Why? Because I told Merlin here that you were a pathetic brat with imaginary friends, or because I told him how much you value him?” The dirty insinuations that Morgana manages to ladle the last part of her sentence with are something else entirely, and Arthur would flush right about now if he were in the habit of doing so.
Merlin, fortunately, is laughing and not bothered in the least by Morgana basically outing Arthur and his Deep Dark Decret ™ (which he never told Morgana, thank you very much, but apparently mentioning Merlin’s name eight times during the occasional phone call to Morgana is enough to make her draw certain conclusions. Go figure.) Possibly he thinks Morgana is exaggerating; Arthur certainly hopes he does.
“Nice to meet you, Morgana,” Merlin says with a hint of a grin, and oh, Arthur can practically see Morgana melting, a genuine smile lighting up her face, and that is just such a bloody typical female reaction to Merlin.
“Likewise. I only pity you for having been saddled with Arthur.”
Also, if Morgana even attempts to monopolise Merlin, Arthur will knock her out and shove into a janitor’s closet at Heathrow, family or not.
+
Merlin nods off ten minutes after take-off, his head lolling and ending up on Arthur’s shoulder. It’s an infinitesimal thing, the contact light and innocent, but something about having Merlin so vulnerable against him makes Arthur’s stomach clench and his palms sweat.
From across the aisle, momentarily breaking from her heated debate with Uther about some current political issue or another, Morgana glances at them, and her initial leer softens at something she sees, Arthur suspects, in his expression.
Arthur can’t even care about that. For a second he leans down, lets his nose brush the soft, soft black fringe falling on Merlin’s forehead, and doesn’t think of anything at all.
II
The first couple of days are fantastic. For the first time ever in one of these forced holidays abroad Arthur is actually enjoying himself, taking in the sights and the culture and appreciating the sweet combination of snow and Glühwein. Arthur can’t even be overly much bothered by the weird tension between Morgana and his father; it’s like there’s some new undercurrent in their discussions and walks together; a fleeting strain in their smiles.
Arthur tries to keep Merlin to himself as much as he can, entertain him with cafes and the slopes and little shops bustling with people in the village. Merlin is abysmal on skis, naturally, but liking it all nonetheless: always laughing, eyes shining and cheeks reddened by the windy flurries of snowflakes. It’s all almost nauseatingly perfect, and Arthur would laugh at the cliché if the portrait didn’t come with Merlin included, and thus transform into a poignant tragedy of still-not-quite-enough.
Then they happen to run into a small group of guys their age and everything starts to go to hell.
They maturely exchange pleasantries, custom and politeness demanding it in the small circles of the visitors at the holiday resort; but Merlin clearly hits it off with one of them, a dark-haired man originally from a town next to Ealdor, falling into a good-humoured reminiscence about the countryside. Perhaps Merlin doesn’t quite see it, but Arthur is achingly aware of the constant small touches Will bestows on Merlin, his arm or shoulder, and the interest in his eyes growing the longer he talks to Merlin.
When he finally visibly gathers his courage and asks Merlin whether he wants to meet up that night for drinks, masking the invitation behind a casual remark, so cool to meet someone from home in a place like this, managing, at the same time, to subtly but unmistakably set himself and Merlin apart from the usual crowd to frequent the resort, Merlin glances at Arthur, who can’t meet Merlin’s eyes for the bubbling anger tightening his throat and making his fingers twitch with the need for violence.
“Yeah, sure,” Merlin agrees finally. Will all but pumps his fist in the air in triumph. Arthur keeps quiet, slightly turned away, and tries to stop himself from imagining the possible end of the little date, Will’s hands and lips on Merlin’s skin.
+
They’ve never really talked about… preferences. Arthur used to date casually; Merlin is the archetypal gentleman to not kiss and tell.
Arthur has hazy memories, a handful of nights during uni when he crossed the line into too hammered and invariably ended up winding his arms around Merlin and slurring in his ear, fucking love you, man.
Only a handful of nights during three years when he absolutely lost the self-restraint that lets him be Merlin’s best friend and happy with just that.
And Merlin never says anything; never looks askance at him; and Arthur doesn’t know whether that’s a blessing or a warning sign.
+
“What’s up with you and dad lately, anyway?”
It’s the morning after Merlin’s… date, and out of spite or consideration or honest belligerence Arthur comes down to breakfast without waking him, instead seeking out Morgana, settled at a table next to a great window showing the sparkling white landscape outside.
“Nothing’s up, you bloody prat, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Except if Morgana does, in fact, know Arthur inside and out, Arthur can read her just as well when he bothers to look for the signs.
Morgana, for all he considers her a sister, only lived with them for about half a dozen years. Her father, Uther’s closest friend, died in a freak accident, and Uther took him in. Morgana was 14, then. It’s a very ordinary story, and most of the time Morgana masks her pain seamlessly.
This is something other than the occasional bout of loneliness and misery that sometimes attacks her, although there’s something similar in the fragility of her expression.
“Sure, okay. If you say so,” he declares.
Morgana scoffs at his fake agreeability, finishing her coffee and leaving the table with a snappy rejoinder. As Arthur cranes his head around to watch her swish her way through the room, his attention is drawn to the still figure standing next to the buffet table with a half-full plate in hand; staring at him, yet frozen into place.
Feeling fond and suddenly missing him fiercely despite having talked to him only the night before, Arthur tips his head toward the newly vacated chair. Slowly, Merlin jolts into movement, his gait familiar to Arthur's eyes as he nears.
Before sitting at the table, Merlin stops next to him, almost catching his eye, but not quite.
“Alright?”
“Sure. Sleep well?”
“Um, yeah. Uh, you left without waking me?”
Merlin’s voice is timid, and Arthur has no idea why.
“Yeah, mate. I thought you’d like to sleep in.”
“No, I… I wasn’t out that late.”
As if Arthur doesn’t know that; having lain faking sleep in the darkness the night before, awake with nerves and muscles tensed tight until he heard the key in the lock and Merlin move into their shared room.
Merlin goes on, “I thought, this morning when you were gone… you might’ve been starting to get sick of me.”
A swell of pure emotion engulfs him at the worry in Merlin’s beloved voice, and if he were able to think of anything but the warmth in his chest, he’d marvel at the ability to open oneself up like that, a ready target for any wound.
“Merlin, you utter idiot,” he chokes, unable to word the rest. “Come on, sit down, stop hovering. And let’s get you some more food, for Christ’s sake. Did you have fun last night?” He slips the query into a barrage of words, with a bit of luck sounding nonchalant and not anxious. Merlin grins wide at his mother-hen act (“if you ever call me that when there are people within earshot, by god, Merlin, I’ll-“) and obediently starts nibbling on the toast and fruit before shrugging.
“Yeah, it was alright,” he says, and there’s no furtiveness in his face or tone, it’s just that simple with Merlin - Arthur can tell nothing happened, Will thwarted either by Merlin’s obliviousness or some subtle unconscious sign.
They’re bantering back and forth, the weird atmosphere nothing but an unpleasant memory; but in the wake of even this momentary quasi-rift Arthur can’t help but realise that the guys and girls will keep on coming, hitting on Merlin, and even if it didn’t happen with Will, one of these days Merlin will be open and responsive and something will happen; someone will kiss Merlin, and palm his jaw, and take him home.
And that-Arthur tries to swallow, tries to think around the mental image, the loss; that will be so fucking-
+
Arthur has a dream that night, of being back on the campus, in his room sharing a wall with Merlin; he hears the tell-tale snick of Merlin’s door being unlocked and waits for Merlin to bound inside without knocking, the way he does a dozen times every day, but instead he hears Merlin greet someone in the hallway, hears heavy boots moving in to the room, hears muffled words and happy laughter; Merlin’s happy, genuine laughter.
(Morgana dreams of big, calloused hands and slow touches, comes while dreaming, softly and easily, and wakes up to mixed feelings of languor and frustration.
Merlin dreams of colours, of blue and gold, and feeling warm and safe for the moment but constantly afraid of being found out and turned away for reaching for something that can’t be his.
Uther dreams of responsibility, of old debts and unspoken promises, and the ethereal vision of a beautiful young woman who demands more than he is allowed to give.)
III
They fly back on the 30th. Hunith has been promised a visit before the beginning of the next term so she’s not too fussed when Merlin rings her to let her know that he’s staying at the Pendragon’s in London for the New Year’s.
For the first time Arthur feels a little guilty for demanding Merlin all to himself at a time he’s used to spending with his family. “Listen, Merlin,” he starts, forcing the words out, “if you’d rather go straight to Ealdor you know it’s totally cool-“ It’s not, but contrary to Morgana’s frequent accusations, Arthur’s not completely selfish. Not when it comes to Merlin.
“Trying to get rid of me after all?” Merlin teases, and Arthur is relieved to see no repetition of the flash of odd insecurity from before.
“I know you miss your mum,” he tries to continue, but Merlin shushes him.
“I’ll see her in a few days. Gaius is there with her. It’s fine, Arthur,” and, well, how is he supposed to keep on pressing when it’s not what he wants anyways.
“Alright, then, Merlin.” They grin at each other like idiots, and if Arthur nudges his shoulder when he passes Merlin by and says, thanks, mate, voice low, Merlin is smart enough to offer only a twist of his lips in return.
+
Fireworks, drunk people, shouts and kisses. Everywhere is filled with cheer, artificial and authentic both.
Arthur stares at Merlin, settled down next to him in the crowd, beanie pulled down tight over ears that feature heavily in most of all daydreams Arthur’s had in the last three-or-so years; inviting licks and bites and, and bloody odes to their insane attraction.
No one quite like Merlin. No other such an unlikely combination of odds and ends that together create a soul and body to spell sweet allure of imperfection. Not flawless, but exactly what he needs.
The countdown has started, people laughing and screaming the numbers; and Arthur knows the legend of the first seconds of the New Year dictating all the rest. He doesn’t really care about the seconds, per se - Merlin is right by his side, and whichever way the rest of the night goes… Arthur doesn’t think he will lose Merlin.
“Hey,” he says, getting Merlin’s attention by moving closer, chest to Merlin’s shoulder, “hey, I need to talk to you. You mind getting back already?”
Merlin stares at him a while, dark blue eyes fixed in his face; “Sure,” he says, okay with anything Arthur requires from him, from day one.
For the last time, his chest is filled with terror of the unknown. He grabs Merlin’s hand and tugs him along.
+
“Merlin,” he breathes, back at the mansion. “Merlin,” and can’t go on for a moment.
They haven’t really been drinking much after all, which Arthur is glad of; but the act of laying oneself bare - it doesn’t come naturally to him, and the words, they’re imprecise and altogether not enough.
“I-Merlin, if I-“ he whispers, “would you-if I did this,” his palm smoothing down Merlin’s arm and catching his hand.
Arthur, Merlin says, or thinks. His eyes are so blue and steady.
Arthur is pretty sure he’s shivering. The risk is too much, the risk of-
That’s when Merlin says, god, or an approximation of thereof, and kisses Arthur. His lips are-they fit, their lips and their bodies press together and there is no risk, no fear, no insecurity, no other choice.
+
I never thought you’d, and god, only since forever, and if I’d just known and you know now; please.
The bed is too fantastic a concept, and too far away besides; Arthur has Merlin pinned against the wall in the hallway on the way to the bedroom, the slight body very nearly immobile between the cool tapestry and Arthur’s solid heat. Merlin’s mouth is watering, feeling the hardness desperately pressed against his hip.
“Come on-I want,” Arthur groans and doesn’t get any further before Merlin moans and jerks, fingers twisting in Arthur’s sweater, pulling him down on the carpet with him as he slides down the wall.
“If you really,” he says, mouth busy with attacking Arthur’s jaw, neck, earlobe; Arthur shudders and tries to hear the rest; “please, show me; right here,” and something comes unhinged, some last vestige of control; Arthur tears open the buttons on Merlin’s jeans, his hand sneaking inside, finding Merlin’s cock, warm skin wet with excitement. Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head and he must be too rough, but Merlin bucks against him, whispering into his mouth with hitched breath, Arthur, Arthur, and yes.
+
They manage to get into the bed eventually, supporting one another, distracted by long kisses and wandering hands.
“Not nearly enough,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur’s chest pulses with painful extra beats. “Fuck me,” he continues, and Arthur buries his head in Merlin’s shoulder, gasps helplessly, mouths the tendons in Merlin’s neck.
Having laid Merlin out on the bed, Arthur keeps kissing the back of his neck and his spine until Merlin is hot and impatient with it. Teasing the first finger inside Merlin makes both of them pant; the second one almost undoes Merlin as Arthur crooks it and strokes Merlin’s belly at the same time.
Yes and now are the extent of Merlin’s vocabulary, until Arthur angles himself and bottoms out with one measured slide. Merlin chokes, and Arthur’s heart is hammering; their tongues twine sloppily together, no coordination skills for elegant kissing. Sweat slicks the slide of Arthur’s chest and stomach to Merlin’s back. When Merlin spasms and tightens around him, Arthur is gone.
There is no word for pleasure that is outdone by intimacy.
+
The street is covered with freshly fallen snow; quiet; empty.
The ballroom of the great mansion is dark except for a single lamp giving off a faint orange glow, and in the middle of the formidable space a small figure is enveloped in the arms of a tall man.
Morgana’s lips are quivering with fear and anticipation as she tilts her head up, to trace a strong vein; to ask; to stir and to heat up. Uther is still pained with inner conflict, yet no ordinary rules apply when it comes to Morgana - this fey spirit, this threat. Uther tightens her arms around her; prays for strength, for luck, for absolution.
It’s like they’ve been here before.
+
In the pre-dawn non-light, Arthur scoots down the bed, lips tracing warmth down Merlin’s shoulders, sides, hips, the swell of his ass. When Arthur’s tongue slips to trace his opening, Merlin keens, warm and almost too sensitive, and still instantly aching with want.
“You weren’t joking, then,” he says, gulping heavily as pleasure hums in his body, and Arthur pauses, his silence a question. “When you bitched at me for not being there to warm your bed.”
The joke is a weak one, the attempt that of trying to prove they won’t be swallowed up by this new thing, that they will still be Merlin and Arthur, the idiotic, inseparable duo. Arthur chuckles, the light vibration of his throat translating into a needy twitch of Merlin’s thighs and ass.
“Now he realises this,” he chides, while beginning to stroke Merlin’s hole again with newly lubed fingers. Merlin fists the sheet, barely in place by now; arcs his back.
a merlin_santa gift for lenyia
I
Through the thin excuse for a wall between their dorm rooms Arthur hears an alarm clock go off, followed by indistinct grumbling; a thud; footsteps moving back and forth. At the muted sound of a lock turning next door, he reaches out to twist open the latch on his own door. The air that hits his arm is frigid. Arthur knows without looking that the window will be steamed and frosted opaque.
His door is pushed open seconds after Arthur withdraws his hand and retreats back under the duvet, and Merlin shuffles in, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and utterly ridiculous hot pink slippers. Arthur bought them to mock Merlin's girliness, and Merlin wears them to claim, in some twisted way, the last word.
Arthur's never pretended to understand how Merlin's mind works, but appreciates how it keeps him on his toes all the same.
Merlin stops next to his bed, bends down, bracing himself on the edge of Arthur's bunk. "Mornin'. And get up. The train won't wait."
Arthur keeps silent for a beat, screws his eyes shut. "Well, there's always the next train."
Merlin snorts. "Sure, and what will Uther say when we miss the plane? No matter, boys, there's always the next flight, huh? You'd manage to make it sound like it was entirely my fault, too."
"It is, a bit."
Merlin raises an eyebrow to show how much he's not impressed with Arthur's reply. With a lightning quick move, Arthur's arm shoots out, grabbing Merlin and tumbling him down on the bed with him. As Merlin is still flailing and squeaking, trying not to squash Arthur (as if he could, Arthur mentally scoffs, an eight-stone weakling like him) under him, Arthur expands, "Now, if I hadn't been so bloody cold all night I'd have been able to sleep better, and getting up wouldn't be the pure impossibility it is at the moment."
"Right," Merlin laughs, "so I should've been here to keep you warm?"
Arthur ignores the twist in the pit of his stomach, the want old and familiar, and repressing it a routine habit, if not completely effortless. "Course you should have," he manages, "that's what minions are for," and Merlin's grin is wide, eyes crinkled at the corners, and Arthur finds it in himself to return with a smile of his own.
+
"Here," Merlin says, and Arthur opens his eyes and sits up straighter, gaze fixating on the take-away coffee with half a dozen napkins wrapped around it. "They didn't have those nifty insulator sleeves," he explains at Arthur's bemused look, and Arthur snorts, taking one of the cups. "Nevermind that. Cheers."
"No problem," Merlin grins. "Least I could do in return for you whisking me off for a romantic holiday get-away in the mountains." And right, it's jokes like that coupled with the cheeky look on Merlin's face that made Arthur fall in the first place and which make sure he'll stay miserably infatuated until the end of time, or thereabouts.
They met the first day of their freshman year, assigned to the same flat, and even though Merlin was so very unlike the people Arthur tended to hang out with, something about him made Arthur stop and think and wonder, and reach out, and before he knew it they were in the comfortable rhythm of a friendship that felt far older and more comfortable than any Arthur had had before.
Merlin was genuine, good in a way Arthur wasn't used to and had never before appreciated or wanted. He gave Arthur his smiles and his loyalty and his wholly carefree affection and care; and as time went on, Arthur often had to wonder what in earth he was giving Merlin back.
Other than a romantic whisk-away sort of thing, apparently.
"You know you're doing me a favour, so cut it out with the false gratitude," he gripes. "You and Hunith both. I should send her a gift basket for finally sparing you."
"I think the email you sent her in November, detailing how you were going to lose you sanity and your will to live if I wasn't there to distract you, might have had something to do with it."
"Your mother always was a wonderful, sensible woman. Thank god it's the last year father can expect me to go along with his choice of a hassle-free Christmas celebration in the Alps."
"And what do you plan to do this time next year, Mr. Bah Humbug, sir?" Merlin's eyes are alit with amusement.
"Preferably work the day away in the glorious job I'll undoubtedly land straight after graduation; take the Tube home to my expensive apartment at the Southbank; and get spectacularly pissed."
Merlin's eyes dim a bit. "That doesn't sound very… Christmas-y." Arthur snorts and says nothing. "You know you'll always be welcome to Ealdor for the holidays."
"Christmas is supposed to be for families," Arthur says. And continues, slowly, uncommonly honest, "I wouldn't wish to intrude."
"Arthur, you prat," Merlin's mouth twists in a combination of exasperation and fondness, "believe it or not, you are part of my family."
Arthur's throat works but he can't say anything without saying too goddamn much; in his haste to avoid having to respond he takes a gulp of the coffee forgotten in his grasp, and burns his tongue.
+
“Well, well, well. The famous Merlin, finally. I was starting to think Arthur was reverting back to childhood behaviour and inventing imaginary friends, since it didn’t seem plausible for anyone to be as perfect as he made you out to be.”
“Morgana, shut your bloody gob.”
They’re meeting at the Starbucks at St. Pancras before being picked up by Uther’s driver, and of course Morgana must insult him before even saying hello. Arthur would despair of the picture this gives of his family if Merlin wasn’t already totally aware of the dysfunctional Pendragon lines.
“Why? Because I told Merlin here that you were a pathetic brat with imaginary friends, or because I told him how much you value him?” The dirty insinuations that Morgana manages to ladle the last part of her sentence with are something else entirely, and Arthur would flush right about now if he were in the habit of doing so.
Merlin, fortunately, is laughing and not bothered in the least by Morgana basically outing Arthur and his Deep Dark Decret ™ (which he never told Morgana, thank you very much, but apparently mentioning Merlin’s name eight times during the occasional phone call to Morgana is enough to make her draw certain conclusions. Go figure.) Possibly he thinks Morgana is exaggerating; Arthur certainly hopes he does.
“Nice to meet you, Morgana,” Merlin says with a hint of a grin, and oh, Arthur can practically see Morgana melting, a genuine smile lighting up her face, and that is just such a bloody typical female reaction to Merlin.
“Likewise. I only pity you for having been saddled with Arthur.”
Also, if Morgana even attempts to monopolise Merlin, Arthur will knock her out and shove into a janitor’s closet at Heathrow, family or not.
+
Merlin nods off ten minutes after take-off, his head lolling and ending up on Arthur’s shoulder. It’s an infinitesimal thing, the contact light and innocent, but something about having Merlin so vulnerable against him makes Arthur’s stomach clench and his palms sweat.
From across the aisle, momentarily breaking from her heated debate with Uther about some current political issue or another, Morgana glances at them, and her initial leer softens at something she sees, Arthur suspects, in his expression.
Arthur can’t even care about that. For a second he leans down, lets his nose brush the soft, soft black fringe falling on Merlin’s forehead, and doesn’t think of anything at all.
II
The first couple of days are fantastic. For the first time ever in one of these forced holidays abroad Arthur is actually enjoying himself, taking in the sights and the culture and appreciating the sweet combination of snow and Glühwein. Arthur can’t even be overly much bothered by the weird tension between Morgana and his father; it’s like there’s some new undercurrent in their discussions and walks together; a fleeting strain in their smiles.
Arthur tries to keep Merlin to himself as much as he can, entertain him with cafes and the slopes and little shops bustling with people in the village. Merlin is abysmal on skis, naturally, but liking it all nonetheless: always laughing, eyes shining and cheeks reddened by the windy flurries of snowflakes. It’s all almost nauseatingly perfect, and Arthur would laugh at the cliché if the portrait didn’t come with Merlin included, and thus transform into a poignant tragedy of still-not-quite-enough.
Then they happen to run into a small group of guys their age and everything starts to go to hell.
They maturely exchange pleasantries, custom and politeness demanding it in the small circles of the visitors at the holiday resort; but Merlin clearly hits it off with one of them, a dark-haired man originally from a town next to Ealdor, falling into a good-humoured reminiscence about the countryside. Perhaps Merlin doesn’t quite see it, but Arthur is achingly aware of the constant small touches Will bestows on Merlin, his arm or shoulder, and the interest in his eyes growing the longer he talks to Merlin.
When he finally visibly gathers his courage and asks Merlin whether he wants to meet up that night for drinks, masking the invitation behind a casual remark, so cool to meet someone from home in a place like this, managing, at the same time, to subtly but unmistakably set himself and Merlin apart from the usual crowd to frequent the resort, Merlin glances at Arthur, who can’t meet Merlin’s eyes for the bubbling anger tightening his throat and making his fingers twitch with the need for violence.
“Yeah, sure,” Merlin agrees finally. Will all but pumps his fist in the air in triumph. Arthur keeps quiet, slightly turned away, and tries to stop himself from imagining the possible end of the little date, Will’s hands and lips on Merlin’s skin.
+
They’ve never really talked about… preferences. Arthur used to date casually; Merlin is the archetypal gentleman to not kiss and tell.
Arthur has hazy memories, a handful of nights during uni when he crossed the line into too hammered and invariably ended up winding his arms around Merlin and slurring in his ear, fucking love you, man.
Only a handful of nights during three years when he absolutely lost the self-restraint that lets him be Merlin’s best friend and happy with just that.
And Merlin never says anything; never looks askance at him; and Arthur doesn’t know whether that’s a blessing or a warning sign.
+
“What’s up with you and dad lately, anyway?”
It’s the morning after Merlin’s… date, and out of spite or consideration or honest belligerence Arthur comes down to breakfast without waking him, instead seeking out Morgana, settled at a table next to a great window showing the sparkling white landscape outside.
“Nothing’s up, you bloody prat, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Except if Morgana does, in fact, know Arthur inside and out, Arthur can read her just as well when he bothers to look for the signs.
Morgana, for all he considers her a sister, only lived with them for about half a dozen years. Her father, Uther’s closest friend, died in a freak accident, and Uther took him in. Morgana was 14, then. It’s a very ordinary story, and most of the time Morgana masks her pain seamlessly.
This is something other than the occasional bout of loneliness and misery that sometimes attacks her, although there’s something similar in the fragility of her expression.
“Sure, okay. If you say so,” he declares.
Morgana scoffs at his fake agreeability, finishing her coffee and leaving the table with a snappy rejoinder. As Arthur cranes his head around to watch her swish her way through the room, his attention is drawn to the still figure standing next to the buffet table with a half-full plate in hand; staring at him, yet frozen into place.
Feeling fond and suddenly missing him fiercely despite having talked to him only the night before, Arthur tips his head toward the newly vacated chair. Slowly, Merlin jolts into movement, his gait familiar to Arthur's eyes as he nears.
Before sitting at the table, Merlin stops next to him, almost catching his eye, but not quite.
“Alright?”
“Sure. Sleep well?”
“Um, yeah. Uh, you left without waking me?”
Merlin’s voice is timid, and Arthur has no idea why.
“Yeah, mate. I thought you’d like to sleep in.”
“No, I… I wasn’t out that late.”
As if Arthur doesn’t know that; having lain faking sleep in the darkness the night before, awake with nerves and muscles tensed tight until he heard the key in the lock and Merlin move into their shared room.
Merlin goes on, “I thought, this morning when you were gone… you might’ve been starting to get sick of me.”
A swell of pure emotion engulfs him at the worry in Merlin’s beloved voice, and if he were able to think of anything but the warmth in his chest, he’d marvel at the ability to open oneself up like that, a ready target for any wound.
“Merlin, you utter idiot,” he chokes, unable to word the rest. “Come on, sit down, stop hovering. And let’s get you some more food, for Christ’s sake. Did you have fun last night?” He slips the query into a barrage of words, with a bit of luck sounding nonchalant and not anxious. Merlin grins wide at his mother-hen act (“if you ever call me that when there are people within earshot, by god, Merlin, I’ll-“) and obediently starts nibbling on the toast and fruit before shrugging.
“Yeah, it was alright,” he says, and there’s no furtiveness in his face or tone, it’s just that simple with Merlin - Arthur can tell nothing happened, Will thwarted either by Merlin’s obliviousness or some subtle unconscious sign.
They’re bantering back and forth, the weird atmosphere nothing but an unpleasant memory; but in the wake of even this momentary quasi-rift Arthur can’t help but realise that the guys and girls will keep on coming, hitting on Merlin, and even if it didn’t happen with Will, one of these days Merlin will be open and responsive and something will happen; someone will kiss Merlin, and palm his jaw, and take him home.
And that-Arthur tries to swallow, tries to think around the mental image, the loss; that will be so fucking-
+
Arthur has a dream that night, of being back on the campus, in his room sharing a wall with Merlin; he hears the tell-tale snick of Merlin’s door being unlocked and waits for Merlin to bound inside without knocking, the way he does a dozen times every day, but instead he hears Merlin greet someone in the hallway, hears heavy boots moving in to the room, hears muffled words and happy laughter; Merlin’s happy, genuine laughter.
(Morgana dreams of big, calloused hands and slow touches, comes while dreaming, softly and easily, and wakes up to mixed feelings of languor and frustration.
Merlin dreams of colours, of blue and gold, and feeling warm and safe for the moment but constantly afraid of being found out and turned away for reaching for something that can’t be his.
Uther dreams of responsibility, of old debts and unspoken promises, and the ethereal vision of a beautiful young woman who demands more than he is allowed to give.)
III
They fly back on the 30th. Hunith has been promised a visit before the beginning of the next term so she’s not too fussed when Merlin rings her to let her know that he’s staying at the Pendragon’s in London for the New Year’s.
For the first time Arthur feels a little guilty for demanding Merlin all to himself at a time he’s used to spending with his family. “Listen, Merlin,” he starts, forcing the words out, “if you’d rather go straight to Ealdor you know it’s totally cool-“ It’s not, but contrary to Morgana’s frequent accusations, Arthur’s not completely selfish. Not when it comes to Merlin.
“Trying to get rid of me after all?” Merlin teases, and Arthur is relieved to see no repetition of the flash of odd insecurity from before.
“I know you miss your mum,” he tries to continue, but Merlin shushes him.
“I’ll see her in a few days. Gaius is there with her. It’s fine, Arthur,” and, well, how is he supposed to keep on pressing when it’s not what he wants anyways.
“Alright, then, Merlin.” They grin at each other like idiots, and if Arthur nudges his shoulder when he passes Merlin by and says, thanks, mate, voice low, Merlin is smart enough to offer only a twist of his lips in return.
+
Fireworks, drunk people, shouts and kisses. Everywhere is filled with cheer, artificial and authentic both.
Arthur stares at Merlin, settled down next to him in the crowd, beanie pulled down tight over ears that feature heavily in most of all daydreams Arthur’s had in the last three-or-so years; inviting licks and bites and, and bloody odes to their insane attraction.
No one quite like Merlin. No other such an unlikely combination of odds and ends that together create a soul and body to spell sweet allure of imperfection. Not flawless, but exactly what he needs.
The countdown has started, people laughing and screaming the numbers; and Arthur knows the legend of the first seconds of the New Year dictating all the rest. He doesn’t really care about the seconds, per se - Merlin is right by his side, and whichever way the rest of the night goes… Arthur doesn’t think he will lose Merlin.
“Hey,” he says, getting Merlin’s attention by moving closer, chest to Merlin’s shoulder, “hey, I need to talk to you. You mind getting back already?”
Merlin stares at him a while, dark blue eyes fixed in his face; “Sure,” he says, okay with anything Arthur requires from him, from day one.
For the last time, his chest is filled with terror of the unknown. He grabs Merlin’s hand and tugs him along.
+
“Merlin,” he breathes, back at the mansion. “Merlin,” and can’t go on for a moment.
They haven’t really been drinking much after all, which Arthur is glad of; but the act of laying oneself bare - it doesn’t come naturally to him, and the words, they’re imprecise and altogether not enough.
“I-Merlin, if I-“ he whispers, “would you-if I did this,” his palm smoothing down Merlin’s arm and catching his hand.
Arthur, Merlin says, or thinks. His eyes are so blue and steady.
Arthur is pretty sure he’s shivering. The risk is too much, the risk of-
That’s when Merlin says, god, or an approximation of thereof, and kisses Arthur. His lips are-they fit, their lips and their bodies press together and there is no risk, no fear, no insecurity, no other choice.
+
I never thought you’d, and god, only since forever, and if I’d just known and you know now; please.
The bed is too fantastic a concept, and too far away besides; Arthur has Merlin pinned against the wall in the hallway on the way to the bedroom, the slight body very nearly immobile between the cool tapestry and Arthur’s solid heat. Merlin’s mouth is watering, feeling the hardness desperately pressed against his hip.
“Come on-I want,” Arthur groans and doesn’t get any further before Merlin moans and jerks, fingers twisting in Arthur’s sweater, pulling him down on the carpet with him as he slides down the wall.
“If you really,” he says, mouth busy with attacking Arthur’s jaw, neck, earlobe; Arthur shudders and tries to hear the rest; “please, show me; right here,” and something comes unhinged, some last vestige of control; Arthur tears open the buttons on Merlin’s jeans, his hand sneaking inside, finding Merlin’s cock, warm skin wet with excitement. Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head and he must be too rough, but Merlin bucks against him, whispering into his mouth with hitched breath, Arthur, Arthur, and yes.
+
They manage to get into the bed eventually, supporting one another, distracted by long kisses and wandering hands.
“Not nearly enough,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur’s chest pulses with painful extra beats. “Fuck me,” he continues, and Arthur buries his head in Merlin’s shoulder, gasps helplessly, mouths the tendons in Merlin’s neck.
Having laid Merlin out on the bed, Arthur keeps kissing the back of his neck and his spine until Merlin is hot and impatient with it. Teasing the first finger inside Merlin makes both of them pant; the second one almost undoes Merlin as Arthur crooks it and strokes Merlin’s belly at the same time.
Yes and now are the extent of Merlin’s vocabulary, until Arthur angles himself and bottoms out with one measured slide. Merlin chokes, and Arthur’s heart is hammering; their tongues twine sloppily together, no coordination skills for elegant kissing. Sweat slicks the slide of Arthur’s chest and stomach to Merlin’s back. When Merlin spasms and tightens around him, Arthur is gone.
There is no word for pleasure that is outdone by intimacy.
+
The street is covered with freshly fallen snow; quiet; empty.
The ballroom of the great mansion is dark except for a single lamp giving off a faint orange glow, and in the middle of the formidable space a small figure is enveloped in the arms of a tall man.
Morgana’s lips are quivering with fear and anticipation as she tilts her head up, to trace a strong vein; to ask; to stir and to heat up. Uther is still pained with inner conflict, yet no ordinary rules apply when it comes to Morgana - this fey spirit, this threat. Uther tightens her arms around her; prays for strength, for luck, for absolution.
It’s like they’ve been here before.
+
In the pre-dawn non-light, Arthur scoots down the bed, lips tracing warmth down Merlin’s shoulders, sides, hips, the swell of his ass. When Arthur’s tongue slips to trace his opening, Merlin keens, warm and almost too sensitive, and still instantly aching with want.
“You weren’t joking, then,” he says, gulping heavily as pleasure hums in his body, and Arthur pauses, his silence a question. “When you bitched at me for not being there to warm your bed.”
The joke is a weak one, the attempt that of trying to prove they won’t be swallowed up by this new thing, that they will still be Merlin and Arthur, the idiotic, inseparable duo. Arthur chuckles, the light vibration of his throat translating into a needy twitch of Merlin’s thighs and ass.
“Now he realises this,” he chides, while beginning to stroke Merlin’s hole again with newly lubed fingers. Merlin fists the sheet, barely in place by now; arcs his back.