Mere Mortals, Part II

[srin]

Part I

He needn’t have worried too much - Arthur’s sitting on his stoop fidgeting when he comes home the next day.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Arthur says awkwardly, glaring at the ground.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry I lost my temper. Come in?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents?” Merlin asks once they’re inside.

“Mum says we can talk about it later, Dad and I haven’t spoken.”

“Do you want to talk about it now?”

“Suppose we might as well,” Arthur says, gaze trained on the floor.

“Alright. I just - I want what’s best for you, yeah? University’s important, and it’s only a few years, and then we’ve the rest of our lives-”

“The rest of our lives. Right. Like we had the rest of our lives when I joined up? Like we had the rest of our lives when you got sick? I have memories too, Merlin. We don’t get to have nice peaceful grey-haired retirements.”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond but Arthur just barrels on: “You were in your forties when you died last time and that was old for us. Say I do go away somewhere. You’re thirty-two next year, give it three years for undergrad, I’ll probably do a master’s and that’s at least another year if not two or three - you could be nearly forty before I come back. If you don’t get cancer and I don’t get hit by a bloody lorry and some stupid sodding war doesn’t break out in between.”

Merlin opens his mouth, again; Arthur finally looks him in the eye, his voice softening, and says,

“For once I’ve no great responsibilities, no grand destiny forcing me to do anything, and I want to take advantage of it. I don’t want to waste it halfway across the country when I could be here, with you. Time for all the things we don’t usually have time for, remember?”

“There are other things that matter to you,” Merlin says weakly, overwhelmed by the sentiment.

“I can play rugby and do literature wherever I am.”

“You shouldn’t arrange your whole life around me.”

“Why not? You always arranged yours around me.”

“…That was different. Looking after you was what I was there for, I wanted to-”

“Well now it’s my turn. Honestly, Merlin, it’s not as though there aren’t any good schools here. Why do people go away for uni anyhow? To escape their parents? Mum won’t bother me and if anything Dad’s more likely to drop in randomly if I’m someplace far off where he can do crime.”

“Arthur-”

“And I like this town. It’s not London but I wouldn’t want to do uni in London anyway, everything’s too bloody expensive.”

“At least tell me you’ll look elsewhere. Find out where the best programs are, places you could be happy-”

Arthur snorts, though there’s a bit of a smile there. “You really are an idiot, Merlin.”

“And you’re a stubborn git, your point is?”

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” Arthur says, quietly, sort of shy. “That’s what does it. I don’t care how tricked out the student union is, or how many people are in my lectures. I care about you.”

Oh. Well. It’s such a simple thing to say, and it’s not like Merlin doesn’t know Arthur cares about him, but there’s something about the plain honesty of the statement that hits Merlin like a punch. The way Arthur looks is part of it - the set of his features makes him seem painfully young, open and untried and vulnerable in a way that still drags at Merlin’s heart every time, while the conviction in his eyes and voice is Arthur the unflappable king through and through. The combination is a powerful one, sweet like wine and with the same intoxicating kick.

There’s an ache in Merlin’s chest and something hot prickling behind his eyes and he is, actually, physically as well as emotionally incapable of a verbal response because his throat is far too tight. So instead he pulls Arthur into his arms, winds them firmly around Arthur’s waist and buries his face against Arthur’s neck. And experiences all of that again, only more, when Arthur returns the embrace with equal fervour and mumbles,

“So don’t ask me to leave you, ok?”

“Ok,” Merlin says. Something more would probably be appropriate, but it’s all he can manage.

“I’ll look at other places to appease my parents, but in terms of what I want … it’s just you.”

“Ok,” Merlin says again.

They stand that way for a long time, wrapped up in one another, breathing. Merlin feels a little shaky, a little wrung out, a little (shamefully) relieved that maybe he won’t have to lose Arthur after all, and at the same time there’s a curious euphoria in having it affirmed that Arthur’s as stupidly in love as he is himself. Merlin’s never been insecure about that, not exactly, but it’s one thing to vaguely know it and another to have Arthur spell it out so unquestionably.

Arthur holds him close, rubs at his back, and shudders a little when they finally separate. Merlin’s fairly confident there’s a dopy smile on his face, and all he can think is Yes. This.

Later, after supper but before the inevitable make-up sex, something else Arthur said pops back into Merlin’s mind.

“Do you really think your dad would use visiting you as an excuse to go somewhere and steal things?”

“Uh, yes? I’ve an aunt in Blackpool, who he ‘visits’ about six times a year, none of them corresponding to birthdays or holidays. You think my dad’s the sort to ‘spontaneously’ visit his sister six times a year?”

“He seriously does that?”

“Yes. I always thought it was weird. All makes sense now. Lucky me.”

Later still (though not too late, because it is a school night) they head for the bedroom.

Merlin doesn’t make a habit of answering his phone in the middle of sex, which is why he ignores it when his discarded trousers start buzzing while Arthur’s got two fingers in his arse, easing him open.

“Do you need to-” Arthur asks, pausing.

“Absolutely not, carry on,” Merlin hisses, bucking against Arthur’s hand, and Arthur grins and does.

After they’ve finished, though, Merlin checks the messages. Arthur’s laid out beside him, playing with the hair below Merlin’s navel, which is distracting enough that Merlin doesn’t manage to get into his voicemail until the third attempt, but then he does, and -

“Huh.”

“What?”

“That was Roger. Apparently he’s in town for a conference next week, wants to know if we can do dinner or something.”

“Roger?”

“Gaius Roger Grimly, my mate from-”

“Gaius? Like Gaius Gaius?”

“The very same. Didn’t I tell you we were roommates my first year at uni?”

“Possibly? And he’s coming here? Does he-”

“No, he doesn’t remember. I’m sure I’d have heard from him before now if he had. Want to meet him?”

“I don’t know. Do you think I should?”

Merlin shrugs. “Up to you. I feel like we should introduce him to your dad, though.”

“My dad won’t have any idea who he is.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get on. You liked me before you remembered.”

“What would you tell them, though? ‘You two need to meet, I bet you’ll get on brilliantly because you were mates in another life?’”

“…Or I could just invite him and your parents to dinner at mine on the same night.”

“Now there’s an idea. Let them bond over your dreadful cooking.”

“You could help with the cooking, you know.”

“I could, yes, but…”

Dinner with Roger and the Rileys is, surprisingly, a very pleasant and straightforward affair. After all the time Merlin spent fretting about what would happen if Roger and Maurice did remember Gaius and Uther, it’s almost a bit anti-climactic. At Arthur’s request (“What if he does the eyebrow at me? I don’t want him doing the eyebrow at me!”) Merlin introduces Arthur as a friend, and Roger is polite enough but pays him little attention. Instead, he’s utterly charming to Barbara, and spends most of the evening deep in conversation with Maurice about the properties of some sort of laser used in security applications. As predicted, they get on marvellously, and Barbara insists they exchange contact information.

Merlin is relieved; Arthur is vaguely uncomfortable, as he always is when reminded of his father’s occupation, but he doesn’t make a fuss about it. The following day, when Merlin and Roger have lunch together, Roger draws something complicated on a napkin and makes Merlin promise to give the sketch to Maurice.

“Uh, sure. What is it?”

“Merlin, you’re like a brother to me, so understand that I mean it with all the love in the world when I say attempting to explain it to you would not be worth the effort required to move my mouth that much.”

“Ah. Right. But it’ll make sense to Maurice?”

“Oh, yes, I expect so.” Roger smiles serenely and Merlin is somewhat unnerved, but at least the eyebrow isn’t involved.

The next time Merlin goes to one of Arthur’s rugby matches, Mike looks at him warily, Percy looks at him speculatively, Arthur makes a big show of snogging him in full view of everyone during half time, and Arthur’s team wins. The whole thing leaves Merlin a bit off balance, but Arthur is really attractive when he’s all sweaty and flushed with exertion and victory, so Merlin isn’t about to complain about any of it.

The next time Merlin and Arthur discuss university, it’s early November and the conversation is rather less trying than it was the first time. Arthur says,

“I’m applying to Southampton, because it’s right here and it is in fact a very good course. That’s my first choice. Plus Portsmouth, which is close enough, maybe Brighton too, but Mum and Dad want me to apply to at least one other place regardless of where it is.”

“Where are you thinking?” Merlin asks.

“Hull, Bangor, Birmingham. I’ve been to Birmingham and I’m not that keen on the city, but Hull’s very far off and Bangor’s far off and in Wales.”

“What’ve you got against Wales?”

“It’s Wales,” says Arthur, as though this should be obvious. “It’s full of the Welsh.”

“I’ll have you know my gran’s Welsh.”

“Explains a lot,” Arthur mutters. Merlin smacks his arm and Arthur chuckles. “Fine, fine, whatever. I’m really only looking at Bangor to upset Dad, anyway, I’ll probably go with Birmingham.”

“Why would Bangor upset your Dad?”

Arthur smirks. “Apparently the second biggest disaster of his career occurred in Swansea, and he’s refused to set foot anywhere in Wales since.”

“The second biggest?”

“He won’t tell me about the biggest, but I imagine it’s the reason he also refuses to set foot in Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

The next time Merlin sees Morgana in person, it’s late November. She asks if Arthur always moans Merlin’s name in his sleep, or if he reserves that little performance for occasions when he is sleeping on Merlin’s sister’s couch. The noise that Merlin makes in response is halfway between a mortified cough and a smug laugh. At least until Gwen starts doing her impression of Arthur’s moans, at which point mortification takes over entirely. (It’s ok, though, because Morgana’s response to that is to give Gwen good cause to moan her name instead, at which point Merlin quickly excuses himself.)

On 28th December, Merlin finds a bouquet of roses on his front step. The florist’s card is attached, but there’s no note. Merlin can’t imagine who would send him roses; the Rileys are gone visiting friends and family in London, and Gwen and Morgana are visiting Gwen’s parents in Ipswich, and he’s fairly confident that none of his other friends owes him an apology. So he’s mystified.

Still, he puts the flowers in a vase, and settles down to the dreadfully important task of watching telly and eating left-over Christmas biscuits. (Four different batches: One from his mother, one from Barbara, one from his friends Ben and Elaine, and one from Hunith Elkins. Hunith’s brother has lived next door to Merlin’s parents since Merlin was four, so he continued to see Hunith regularly even after she stopped being his teacher. Despite the fact that it’s been at least ten years since he was at his parents’ when she was at her brothers’, he still always sends her a card and a new scarf at Christmas, and she always sends him a card and home-made biscuits.)

And then Merlin sees an advert for a professional mover, and realises: It was a year ago to the day that Arthur’s family moved in across the street. He rings Arthur immediately and says,

“Did you send me-”

and Arthur interrupts with, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Merlin, flowers are for girls,”

so Merlin says, “Must’ve been your mum sent them, then, so tell her thank you for me and that she’s very sweet,”

and Arthur says, “Yeah, alright, I will. Jess says hello, Mum says hello, Dad says do you have Roger’s address, he needs to post him something,”

so Merlin returns the greetings and promises to email Maurice the address and asks, “And what does Arthur say, hmm?”

and Arthur pauses, then says, “Arthur might possibly miss you a bit, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

When they return, Arthur finishes his university applications for Southampton, Portsmouth, and Birmingham. He sends them from his laptop while sitting in Merlin’s lap on the couch.

“Good luck,” Merlin says.

“With any luck, only Southampton will take me and then there won’t have to be an argument about it,” Arthur says, nerves singing through despite his attempted blasé teenager tone.

“Portsmouth isn’t very far, and Birmingham’s not that bad either. I’d drive to the moon if I had to.”

“But would you be able to find parking?” Arthur teases.

The spring passes quickly, a flurry of rugby and A-level revision for Arthur and aggressive marketing of a new book at Merlin’s job. They still see one another several times a week, though it’s not unusual for Arthur to be studying through dinner or for Merlin to spend half the meal on his mobile dealing with work.

Arthur receives conditional offers from all three of his schools, which results in much celebration - especially at the offer from Southampton - followed by increased studiousness, to make sure his exam results meet the conditions.

Merlin and Arthur learned to deal with busy schedules lifetimes ago, so their relationship doesn’t suffer for the situation, but it’s still a thrill when, on Easter Monday, they find themselves both free to spend the day together. Merlin switches off his mobile and Arthur leaves his books at home and they eat a lot of chocolate and have a lot of sex. By the evening, Merlin’s mellow and relaxed and thoroughly satisfied, and he thinks Arthur is too, at least until Arthur abruptly hauls him off the bed and insists that he stand up.

Before Merlin’s quite sure what’s going on, Arthur’s on one knee in front of him, holding his hand and clearly trying to restrain a smirk. For a moment, Merlin indulges in sheer blinding panic - yes, he and Arthur have been practically married for, oh, a few centuries now, and he’s sort of figured they’ll have to get a civil union someday just because they finally can make it legal, but Arthur’s only eighteen and not even in university yet and if he’s actually intending to propose- but then Arthur starts talking.

“Merlin, would you do me the great honour of accompanying me to my school formal at the end of term?”

Oh. Ok. Well. That is ... that is actually not such a great idea either, given how Arthur’s peers tend to react to their relationship, but Merlin’s hardly going to say so when Arthur’s asking on bended knee.

“Of course, Arthur, it’d be a pleasure,” Merlin says, and at that Arthur lets the burgeoning smile out to play.

“Brilliant!”

As soon as Arthur goes home, though, Merlin’s on the phone to Gwen and panicking again.

“He wants me to go to his leaver’s do. Can I even do that? When I had mine it was just us, Latika didn’t even bring her boyfriend and he was only a year below us and-”

“Isn’t that a question you should be asking Arthur, not me?” Gwen asks, in a tone which is altogether too reasonable for Merlin’s liking.

“He got down on one bloody knee!”

“Oh,” Gwen sighs, and doesn’t actually say ‘that’s so romantic’, but Merlin gets the implication. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have asked you if it were that sort of thing. They’re different nowadays, I think. My friend Robin at the office has a daughter Arthur’s age, and she’s been talking about renting a limousine, so-”

“A limousine,” Merlin says flatly.

“I’m sure Arthur doesn’t expect a limousine.”

“He bloody well better not! It’s a school formal, not a wedding. Oh god. I’m going to have to wear a dinner jacket, aren’t I?”

“Probably. Do you have one?”

“No, why would I? I haven’t had to wear one since your wedding and even that was hired for the occasion. And - flowers! Am I supposed to bring him flowers? Or does he bring the flowers? Or do we both bring flowers? Christ, he’s probably going to get me a wrist corsage because he’s a little shit like that and-”

“Merlin.”

“Yes?”

“Calm down. When is it happening?”

“I don’t know, sometime in May?”

“Which is weeks away. So relax. You can ask Arthur - and if Arthur isn’t forthcoming, you can ask his mother, I’m sure she’ll know the details. And I’ll help you with the clothes and the flowers and all that, and it will be fine.”

“Gwen?”

“Yes?”

“Please explain to me why I didn’t just marry you, given that you are far better and more wonderful than anyone else I have ever met.”

“Because I’m in love with your sister? And because Arthur would be devastated.”

“Whatever, Gwen.”

“It’s a very flattering thought, though.”

“Seriously, thank you.”

Hiring the dinner suit turns out to be exactly as much of a trial as it was when Merlin did it for Gwen and Morgana’s partnership ceremony. Gwen goes with him as she did then, and they get to explain, no less than four times, that they are not getting married, nor participating in anyone else’s wedding, nor are they a couple. (Oddly enough, they had no such trouble when Merlin went with Gwen to her fittings.)

“Merlin is my brother-in-law,” Gwen says through gritted teeth.

“She is helping me pick out attire for a formal. Which I am attending with my boyfriend.”

“So you aren’t getting married?” the attendant asks.

“NO!”

“Oh. Well, that’s a shame.”

“Gwen, I am so sorry,” Merlin says once they’ve finished and escaped the place. “I should’ve brought Morgana. No one ever thinks I’m with Morgana.”

“It’s fine, Merlin, really. And you should not have brought Morgana, because she has been going on and on about Arthur being prom king and speculating as to whether you’ll get a hotel to shag in after or do it in the car park before, and I expect she would have asked that woman with the measuring tape for an opinion on the matter.”

“What.”

“Don’t ask me, she’s been watching those films where twenty-five-year-old Americans play seventeen and make it seem as though secondary school consists entirely of gym class, lunch, and wandering about in the hallways.”

“Why would we get a hotel? I have a house!”

“Again: ask your sister. Now, about flowers…”

According to Barbara, the students are allowed to bring whomever they like as a guest, so there’s no reason to expect any official trouble over Merlin’s presence. Still, he can’t help worrying about it. As with every other time their relationship has been made known to Arthur’s acquaintances, Merlin doesn’t care what’s said to him or thought about him, he’s just concerned about how it will affect Arthur. While there haven’t - as far as Merlin knows - been any other incidents like the one at the rugby match, Arthur still goes on the defensive whenever someone expresses disapproval, and odds are good there will be at least a few comments about Arthur’s clearly older date. And Merlin wants him to enjoy the evening, not spend it being angry with any of his peers.

On the more reassuring side, though, Barbara concurs with Merlin’s stance on limousines.

“I don’t know what the other kids’ parents are thinking, but I know where I stand,” Barbara tells him. “It’s only a leavers’ ball, and for goodness sakes, they’re holding it in the school hall. I think the organizing committee intends to stick crepe paper streamers to the ceiling. Hardly an occasion to hire a limo. The dinner suit is madness enough! In my day we just ate crisps and gave each other silly awards, and we did it all in our school clothes! Arthur is taking it quite seriously and I am willing to indulge him, but only within reason.”

The day of the event, Morgana comes round to help Merlin dress. (Gwen can’t make it because she’s stuck at a construction site that’s halfway to London, though she does send instructions for Morgana to take many pictures.)

“Merlin, relax,” Morgana admonishes while doing up his bow tie. “You’ll look pretty, we’ll take some embarrassing photos for Gwen and Arthur’s parents, at least one of you will dribble sauce on your shirt during dinner, and by the time you get to the school half the students and most of the chaperones will probably be pissed. They’ll play some rubbish top 40 music that you can’t actually dance to, you’ll have sex in an inappropriate location, and everything will be fine.”

“Can I be pissed too?” Merlin asks plaintively. The cuffs of his shirt feel funny around his wrists - it’s his own shirt, but he’s only worn it two or three times previously and it’s bothered him every time - and he feels like an idiot with the cummerbund and the braces - he never wears braces, why couldn’t the bloody trousers have bloody belt loops - and he rather suspects that he looks like a penguin and Arthur will only laugh at him.

“Aren’t you driving?” Morgana asks.

“We can always get a taxi,” Merlin says hopefully.

“No, Merlin, you cannot be pissed,” Morgana says, with an air of finality. She finishes with the bow tie and steps back to appraise her work.

“Oh, that’s lovely. You really do clean up quite well. Just stop fidgeting with your cuffs, and take some deep breaths.”

Merlin does take the breaths, though he doesn’t stop fidgeting, not until the doorbell rings and Merlin darts off to answer it while Morgana readies the camera.

When Merlin opens the door, he forgets all about the cuffs, and the cummerbund, the bowtie, the prospect of drunken belligerent teenagers, all of it. Because there’s Arthur, in a sleek fitted dinner jacket and a dark crimson waistcoat and shoes polished to gleam like silver, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, his hair shining in the evening light, his face full of barely concealed excitement. There’s Arthur, whose eyes go wide and awed at the sight of Merlin, who grins at him and says,

“And here I thought I’d have to wrestle you into whatever old suit we could find in the closet.”

“Whereas I am perpetually astonished when you manage to put your own trousers on, not to mention doing up all those buttons,” Merlin shoots back, returning the grin.

“Yes, yes, you’re both very clever and handsome, now get in here so I can do the pictures before you cock it all up,” Morgana interrupts.

She makes them pose on the stairs and in the back garden, and then someone remembers the flowers. Merlin fetches the corsage from the refrigerator and pins it on Arthur’s lapel; to everyone’s surprise, he somehow manages to avoid stabbing either himself or Arthur in the process. Then Arthur produces a box from his inner jacket pocket - how it didn’t show from the outside is a mystery to Merlin - and makes a show of trying to put it on Merlin’s wrist, smirking wickedly, before relenting and placing it appropriately. Then Morgana takes more pictures, and then she tries to stuff a condom into Merlin’s back pocket, at which point he thanks her for her help and shoos her away while Arthur looks embarrassed.

Arthur has a dinner reservation at a Italian restaurant, where they draw a few stares (it’s a nice place, but the usual dress-code is hardly black tie) and try very hard to avoid dribbling sauce on themselves, an effort which is astonishingly successful despite the fact that they keep getting distracted by staring at one another. Arthur actually blushes at one point, and Merlin briefly wonders whether they could get away with shagging in the car before going in to the school. Then he reminds himself that he’s far too old for that sort of nonsense, and also that Arthur’s sex hair is unmistakable and they should probably at least be decent going in.

He has no qualms about snogging Arthur to within an inch of his life, though. Arthur doesn’t seem to have any qualms there either.

Barbara turns out to be right about the crepe paper streamers, and Morgana turns out to be right about the bad top 40 music, though Merlin honestly can’t tell if some of the students are drunk or just eighteen. The chaperones are sober enough to look at Merlin sideways, but no one says anything to them, and that’s a relief. Arthur’s friends already know about Merlin, so he gets a few brief introductions when they run into someone who hasn’t met him yet, but otherwise they’re mostly left alone. Which is just fine with Merlin.

He and Arthur dance a few times, maintaining a respectable distance between their bodies even though many of the other couples display no such interest in propriety. It’s not that Merlin doesn’t want to get closer, not at all. More that he doesn’t trust himself to keep his hands in appropriate places when Arthur looks as he does now.

When Arthur’s swept off by the other rugby players to do some sort of weird dance to a Britney Spears song, Merlin chats with an English teacher for a bit, then stations himself at the refreshments table and picks all the pineapple off the fruit tray. After a few pieces, the acidic bite on his tongue helps to take his mind off what the red waistcoat does for Arthur’s complexion, and what the dress trousers do for his arse, and - Arthur returns just as Merlin’s about to run out of pineapple and move on to the few remaining grapes that actually look edible.

“They’re doing some sort of class awards thing at midnight which we ought to stay for, but it’s only after eleven now and you look - I can’t wait that long, yeah?” Arthur says, taking Merlin’s arm and steering him towards the door.

“What did you have in mind?” Merlin asks, following him readily.

“Girls’ toilets by the library. It’s the other side of the school, well out of the way, and there’s not even a mirror so we should be safe from interruption,” Arthur murmurs while waving politely at the teacher Merlin was speaking to.

“Why do you know about the mirror in the girls’ toilets?” Merlin whispers.

“Long story, tell you later,” Arthur says.

Once they’re out of the hall, Arthur takes his hand and they dash through darkened hallways, past a couple making out in front of the headmaster’s office, down another darkened hallway, and into the restroom in question. Arthur flips on the light, Merlin drags him into a stall, and as soon as the lock’s clicked they’re kissing like they haven’t seen each other in months.

“You’re gorgeous,” Arthur hisses, “And you taste like pineapple,” and pulls Merlin’s jacket off his shoulders, tossing it over the wall of the stall, “And - god - you-” and he breaks off after Merlin opens his tie and the top few shirt buttons so he can lick down Arthur’s neck. Merlin groans low in his throat, runs his hands up under Arthur’s jacket, hauling him closer while Arthur fumbles for the closure of Merlin’s cummerbund. Arthur’s a little sweaty under his clothes, the thin material of his shirt sticking to his back, but his hair still smells fresh like shampoo and there’s a bit of cologne on him and Merlin inhales deeply, enjoying it.

(Sometimes after a match or practice, when Arthur’s all sweaty and worn out, Merlin thinks of peeling his armour off him after a tournament, or kissing him when he came home from India drenched in sunlight and exertion, or any number of other similar occasions throughout their history. Right now, he thinks of nothing but this, the here and now and Arthur’s ragged breathing in his ear.)

Merlin’s cummerbund joins his jacket over the stall, and Merlin unbuttons Arthur’s waistcoat and the rest of his shirt so he can run his fingers down Arthur’s chest, making him shudder. Arthur’s kissing his jaw and neck and mouth, when he can, and grinding their hips together and making all sorts of obscene, desperate little noises.

“How do you - what should we-” Merlin tries to get the question out and it doesn’t quite work but Arthur seems to get it anyway, says between kisses,

“Just - wanna touch you, just-”

So Merlin unclips Arthur’s braces, and shoves his trousers and boxers down together, all the way down to pool around his shiny, shiny shoes.

“Careful, those’re hired,” Arthur pants, though it doesn’t stop him moving to unbutton Merlin’s shirt while Merlin shrugs off his braces and drops his own trousers and says,

“Mine too, you wanna explain the come stains?”

“Fuck, good point, just-”

The picture they must make in this moment: Trousers at their ankles, shirts open, ties dangling, Arthur with his waistcoat and jacket still hanging off his shoulders, both of them flushed and clutching at each other and thrusting their erections together. Arthur staggers against the stall wall, bringing Merlin with him, and his hands roam over Merlin’s hair and neck and shoulders while Merlin uses one hand to jerk at both their cocks and the other to steady himself against the wall. They move like that, rocking and bucking and punctuating their moans with wet messy kisses and broken endearments.

“God, you-”

“-so beautiful-”

“-love - like that - yeah-”

“-please - fuck, I - yessss-”

“-best - just the-”

“perfect - so - need you- oh god-”

Arthur comes first, keening into Merlin’s mouth, and Merlin follows before he’s stopped shaking. If not for the wall and one another’s support, they’d be on the floor, but as it is they prop each other up, breathing hard and kissing gently, unhurried now, until Arthur catches sight of his watch.

“Oh bugger,” he says, “it’s five of midnight, we should-”

“Right, yeah, of course-”

“-And after we can go home, and I can undress you all over again,” he finishes, the twist of his mouth lewd and the light in his eyes full of promise.

Later, Merlin will remember two things about the awards: That he realizes he did up his shirt wrong, with an extra button at the top and an extra buttonhole at the bottom, and that Arthur is given - well, some award, Merlin has no idea what it actually is because he’s far too distracted by Arthur’s blatant sex hair when Arthur goes up to the DJ table to collect the thing.

And Merlin will remember three things about the ride home: That he runs a red light in his haste, that Morgana was wrong about the car park and the hotel but, unsurprisingly, not the sex, and that Arthur has his hand on Merlin’s thigh, rubbing soft circles with his thumb, for the entire trip.

(They wind up having to explain come stains on the dinner suits after all.)

Most of the pictures Morgana took before Arthur’s formal were posed shots, but there are also a few that she snapped while they weren’t paying attention. Three of the latter are tacked to the wall in Arthur’s room at Southampton University when Merlin first comes to visit him there.

In one, taken on the stairs, Arthur is peering at Merlin with his chin tilted down, his expression one of mock severity belied by the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, while Merlin’s head is thrown back in unabashed laughter.

In another, Arthur’s doing an exaggerated pout and fiddling with the cuff of his jacket, and Merlin is watching him with a look of such unconcealed affection that, seeing it now, Merlin feels at once warm and incredibly exposed.

In the third, taken in the garden, they’re jockeying for position, each trying to shoulder the other out of the way. Merlin’s face is caught halfway between a grin and a laugh, and Arthur’s peering at him out of the corner of his eye. His face is unlined, young, but there’s a hint of the knight in his stance, a hint of the king in his bearing, and centuries’ worth of devotion shining in his eyes, and nothing but joy in his smile. He looks like an eighteen-year-old in love, and he also looks like forever, and Merlin wouldn’t change a thing.