Beyond the Neon Trees - Part 3 (Big Bang 2011)
Things change after that… except they don’t. They continue to go to school, continue to get helplessly drunk under Gwaine’s instructions (although Merlin has never returned to the tequila). They also continue to get stoned now and then up at the hill, even managing to convince Percy to join them one time, resulting in their burly friend attempting to cartwheel down it before clattering into the now infamous rosebush… He’s not touched the stuff since.
The only thing that has changed is there’s now groping involved - lots of it. Oh, and kissing, plenty of that too. And really, when Arthur does that thing with his fork in the canteen while sending Merlin come-blow-me eyes, who is he to complain? That really is the state of their relationship for the daylight hours, all suggestive glances and wicked comments that teeter just on the edge of fucking dangerous. Where it changes is when the sun gives way to night, when the air cools and the safety of locks and solid doors keep them from the outside world. Here Arthur spends hours spread lazily atop Merlin’s bed, fingers gliding teasingly over the sole of Merlin’s feet as he works flat on his belly doing his homework; when Merlin squeals with laughter as Arthur tackles him to the floor after his stealthy photo-taking skills of Arthur dozing failed spectacularly. There are even the quiet moments when they simply sit back and watch a DVD. They don’t snuggle, not really, but Arthur rests his hand on top of the couch, fingers coming to stroke the back of Merlin’s neck. He leans into it, purses his lips and lets out a deep sigh. They’ve never actually managed to watch a film in its entirety.
They’re careful to not take it out of the security of their flats, rarely even taking it out of the security of their own bedrooms. Chancing it only when they’re sure Hunith’s working the night shift, and even then, it leaves them on edge. Which is why Merlin is so startled when, without warning two weeks later, the thick heavy curtain of the dark room is pulled back and Arthur enters.
Merlin has a brief moment to panic over the exposure to his prints before he turns curious eyes to the door. “What are you doing here?”
The words may have come out harsher than he intended, judging by the brief flicker of hurt on Arthur’s face, but whatever was there is quickly schooled into an easy grin as he raises his hands to clutch at his chest. “You wound me, Merlin.”
“Not that I’m not happy to see you or anything, of course, but… really, why are you here?”
“What? I can’t take an interest in my boyfriend’s work?”
And really, did Arthur expect him to come up with a witty retort after that?
“Boy-boyfriends?”
“Secret boyfriends.”
“Right.”
“I assume you don’t go around blowing Lance or Gwaine, and this is kind of a one-on-one type thing.”
“What!?” Merlin splutters, and suddenly, his mind is full of images of Gwaine, lying back, legs akimbo, arms behind his head with an all ‘It’s not going to suck itself’ look on his face and that was quite more than he ever wanted to envision. “Of course not, no. It’s you, just you.”
Arthur flashes him a toothy smile. “Good.”
“Good,” Merlin repeats, still feeling he’s ten paces off this conversation. “So boyfriends?”
“Secret boyfriends.” Arthur corrects, taking the time to walk around the table towards Merlin, eyeing the photographs that were hanging up to dry.
“You do understand the concept of secret, right?”
“Of course.”
“And accosting me - at school, no less - that seems fine to you?”
“Merlin.” Arthur drawls. His steady steps have brought him right in front of the younger boy. He takes an inch nearer, not touching. Merlin’s head spins as the dim red lights illuminate Arthur’s face, making the contour of his jaw seem more refined than ever. “The whole point of secret relationships is that you sneak around… and I don’t see anyone here, do you?” The last he whispers against Merlin’s ear, the heat of his breath prickling Merlin’s skin.
“Arthur, we can’t…” Merlin’s hissed protest is caught short as Arthur ducks his head and mouths his way down Merlin’s neck, nosing his way past the stubbly jut of his jaw. Merlin really should be pushing him away right now, but when Arthur flicks his tongue over his pulse point and puckers his lips to suck bruising kisses into his flesh, it’s all Merlin can do to not come right there and then. His breath stutters into choked out gasps, fingers gripping tightly in Arthur’s hair, keeping him in place as he burrows closer. He tries to keep his eyes open, cautiously trained on the door but then Arthur brings his teeth down hard and Merlin is powerless to stop as they flutter closed. Arthur’s grinding into his hip, movements jerky as he tries to control the pressure in his jeans. Merlin’s nails scrape over his scalp, and Arthur breaks free for air, panting breathlessly against damp skin. His hands move further along the table, trying to grasp some sort of purchase, pushing and… Shit!
“Fuckity-Fuck-Fuck!” Merlin curses, pushing Arthur away from him as the tray of water sloshes across the table soaking into the back of his jeans and onto the floor. His fingers move quickly, tearing off reams of tissue paper to mop the table before turning his attention to the negatives swimming in the shallow tray. His shoulders slump as he lifts them out, and catches the smear running down the side. He clips them up to dry anyway, just to see what a total disaster he’s made of it.
Arthur is stood to the side, teeth fretting at his lips, looking for all purposes like a naughty school boy about to be scolded. Merlin offers him a deep sigh and a ruthless smile. Arthur’s gaze flits to the floor before tracing up to the little photographic-disaster-zone he’s just created. “Oops?”
“Big fucking oops!” Merlin says, tone meant to be mock-stern but the lilt of affection creeps through.
“No more accosting you, I swear!” He raises his fingers in a Scout’s honour; Merlin’s pretty damn sure Arthur has never spent five minutes in the Scouts. He hums instead, eyes narrowed before turning to finish tidying up the clattered trays of chemicals.
He senses Arthur’s presence behind him before he feels it, heavy arms coming to wrap around his waist. “I genuinely am sorry,” Arthur murmurs against his temple, hands rubbing back and forth against his stomach.
“What happened to no accosting?”
“I can’t help myself when your ass is all wet.”
A rich laugh rumbles through Merlin’s chest as he swats playfully at Arthur’s hands until he’s released.
“I am sorry though… If I’ve fucked up your grade piece.”
Merlin’s eyes soften. “You didn’t. This… this is something else.”
“Oh?” A silence hangs over them as Merlin busies himself around the room, darting from corner to corner, efficiently dodging eye contact; Arthur’s brow furrows.
“Generally an ‘Oh?’ is a hint for you to go on.”
“It’s...” Merlin pauses mid-flurry, arms coming up to try and gesticulate… something. “It’s just this exhibit thing.”
“Exhibit thing?” Arthur pushes.
Merlin heaves a heavy sigh; he really didn’t wanted to share this with anyone else, let alone Arthur. Because Arthur gets excited - way too easily, and what is he to tell him when he gets rejected, because, come on, really, his work is nowhere near good enough, but then Arthur’s attempts at puppy dog eyes always manage to wear him down, and before he can help it, he finds himself muttering, “Ms LeFay’s entering my work into this Young British Artist programme. They’re having an exhibit up in Liverpool of the top ten artists under 20 in the country. They’ve asked everyone to compile a photographic portfolio; it’s nothing serious, I won’t even get it anyway…”
The words stumble over each other, quick in their hurry to leave Merlin’s lips. Arthur watches him curiously for a beat before one of his dazzling smiles takes over his face, and he’s back to crowding into Merlin’s space.
“You’re gonna get it. You know that, don’t you?” Arthur says with such assurance and belief, Merlin can’t help but blush, grip his shirt and pull him in for a quick peck on the lips before shoving him away with a hand in the face.
“It’s a wonder, really; how your atrocious levels of hand-eye coordination extend into the virtual world as well.”
“Would you piss off! It’s not my fault you can’t move your fat ass out the way.”
“Now, now boys, we don’t want any domestics!” Leon’s staticky-voice comes through their headphones whilst Arthur shoots Merlin a ‘you-happy-now?’ look, as he promptly gets blown to smithereens on the television screen.
Merlin grits his teeth as he shuffles to get more comfortable at the foot of Arthur’s bed, elbows resting on knees, control in hand, fingers jabbing furiously with more determination than finesse. “There wouldn’t be any domestics if my own bloody teammate stopped getting in the sodding way.”
“Oh sure, blame the one who’s covering your backside, I’m the front line of defence man! I’m already likely to die without you throwing grenades at my back!”
This time, there’s a trio of what Merlin determines as ‘evil-laughs’ crackling through their headsets. He vows to personally jab Lance, Elyan and Percy hard in the arm when he next sees them… well, maybe not Percy.
“Jeez, this is like listening in to an episode of Maury!”
“Nah, this is more on the Jerry Springer level” That’s definitely Leon. A chorus of ‘Jerry, Jerry, Jerry’ echoes through their ears.
Merlin turns to glare at Arthur, who’s lounged on top of his mattress, back propped against the headboard. He raises a questionable eyebrow that has Merlin rolling his eyes heavenwards as he turns back to the screen.
“Alright, lads, pipe down - last game, winner takes all,” says Arthur, who stretches his leg to run the tips of his toes across the dip in Merlin’s spine. He’s promptly shoved off which has him releasing a deep chuckle before turning his game-face on and focusing on taking out his other four friends.
After ten more minutes and a series of “Arthur-right there, just-“
“I can see him, I’m waiting for you to… oh bloody hell, look what you did!”
“Me? You pompous arse, it was-“
“Oh, will you shut up?”
They’ve managed to tune out the laughter flooding into their ears, scowls set deep as they provide endless amusement to their dear friends, who are showing no mercy whatsoever and are thoroughly whipping their butts. It ends as predicted: Elyan and Leon are victors, Percy and Lance finishing a respectable few points short… then of course, there’s Merlin and Arthur. Last… by a long shot. A string of catcalls and insults are heralded down the line followed by a rather genuine ‘Well-played lads’ from Lance, who honestly is far too nice and wholesome to hang out with them. Arthur and Merlin continue to bicker as they log off, Elyan’s snorted, “Oh, just kiss and make up, boys, we’re taking your asses tomorrow” rings through before he’s promptly hung up on.
“Well, that was successful,” says Arthur, standing from the bed to cross over and turn off the console.
Merlin takes the opportunity to push himself further up the mattress, claiming a pillow and tucking it behind his head. “A whole barrel of fun!” he mutters sarcastically.
Arthur throws him a querying look over his shoulder as he powers off the television. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“Sod off.”
Arthur cuts his eyes, slotting the controls back in place. “Someone’s in a good mood.”
“Yeah, well, what do you expect? We finally have your flat to ourselves for four bloody hours, and what do we do? Play Call of fucking Duty…”
A smirk forms on Arthur’s lips as he rises from the floor, coming to stand by the foot of the bed, looking down at Merlin. “Well, aren’t you a horny bastard!”
Merlin shoots him a look. “I’m not a-“
“All because you didn’t get your cock sucked.”
“Ugh, you’re vulgar.” Merlin turns his head, unable to deny the sudden peak of interest said region has taken to Arthur’s words.
“Mmm, and you love it.” His voice is closer now. Merlin can feel the bed dip under the new weight as Arthur comes into view on top of him, legs straddling his hips. “Now Merlin, you know all you have to do is ask.” The grin on Arthur’s face is too self-satisfied, cocky and all-knowing; Merlin tries to squirm away as Arthur makes to catch his lips. Grunting out a futile curse as he’s finally successful, before eventually melting into it like he knew he would.
Merlin’s lungs fill with heat as Arthur bunches his t-shirt up under his arms, mapping the newly-revealed skin with nips and licks as he moves lower down Merlin’s abdomen. “God, you’re a dominating prat,” he breathes, hand coming up to fiddle in his hair regardless.
It’s typical therefore that just as Arthur gets to the trail of hair that dips under his jeans, the front door bangs open loudly, clattering off the wall before being slammed shut.
Arthur is off the bed and by the door in a fraction, Merlin’s body left cold and bereft from the heat of Arthur’s mouth.
“Fuck, that’s my dad.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” says Merlin as he shuffles to pull his t-shirt back down. He could attempt to fix his hair but really, what’s the point?
“Just, just stay in here. He’s probably just looking for some cash for the pub.”
“You mean he hasn’t gone to the pub yet? Where’s he been all this bloody time?”
“The bookie’s, no doubt - look, just stay here; I’ll be right back.”
Merlin flops back on the bed with a ragged sigh. “Hardly gonna jump out the fifth floor window, am I?” but Arthur’s already gone, door pulled firmly shut behind him. The sounds of Uther moving around the living room, yanking drawers and slamming cupboards, reverberate loudly through the paper-thin walls.
Merlin’s fortunately not had many encounters with the stern figure Uther Pendragon cuts - a man who was once a successful accountant in the city transformed into a drunken gambling lout whose few pleasures come in a cold glass of Guinness and the opportunity to belittle his son. Merlin has never seen pictures of Arthur’s mother, but then again, neither has Arthur. In one inebriated act of foolishness, Uther had got rid of all traces of Igraine, burning photographs and letters, any memento or token that reminded him of the life he once had. All save her ring - that Arthur found one day buried deep and forgotten in their untouched cabinet - he’s worn it on a chain around his neck every day for the past six years. Merlin imagines Arthur looks like her, for he certainly didn’t get his kind eyes or gentle smile from the bitter old man on the other side of the door, who is currently grunting monosyllabically, the screech of a chair being pushed across the linoleum kitchen floor piercing through the quiet.
“Dad, look, it’s all we have, yeah? I need to get out and do a food shop later in the-“
“Liar!” Uther roars. “You’re keeping money from me, boy; I know it. I bet you got it stashed in your room…”
Merlin’s ears perk up and he stands quickly, ready to throw himself under the bed or in the wardrobe in case a thunderous Uther storms through the door. He’s just cultivated a plan that involves contorting himself to fit in the bedside cabinet when a heavy thud sounds against the wall. Arthur’s hard, broken cries of, “Stop, just calm down” ring out.
“You’re just like your mother, leeching off me, bleeding me dry… a bloody parasite, that’s what you are!”
The words are cruel, but it’s the sickening tone they’re delivered in that has Merlin wanting to wrench open the door and offer Uther some home-truths of his own. He continues to mouth off, the insults slurred as they’re matched with stumbled clatters and curses.
“Just give me that tenner then, better than having to stay here…”
Merlin guesses Arthur hands over the cash by the sound of the front door opening a moment later.
“What time-“
“I’ll be back when I’m back” are Uther’s final words as the slam of the door closing echoes through the walls. Merlin releases a heavy sigh as he sits back on the bed, blood red anger rushing through his veins. The creek of the bedroom door makes Merlin lift his head, watching timidly as Arthur slowly clicks it closed before sinking to the floor, back against the frame. He brings his knees to his chest, head resting atop of folded arms, and looks up, catching Merlin’s eye. Neither makes any attempt to move.
“I hate him,” says Merlin, tone steely and raw.
The side of Arthur’s mouth pulls up slightly in a sad smile. “I know.”
“God, I hate Christmas mass… all that singing.”
“Oh, don’t be such a bah-humbug.” Hunith smiles, patting his hand as they walk arm in arm along the snow slick pavement.
Merlin guides them around a section of hard black-ice before leading them up the concrete stairs. “Really, what’s to be thankful for at winter? It’s bloody freezing, the pathways are like an ice-rink and all the shops ever play is sodding Mariah Carey!”
“Aw, I like that song,” Hunith hums, the tune undoubtedly now caught in her head and sooner or later will also be stuck in Merlin’s. “And I don’t know; you seem to be in a chirpy mood these past few weeks. Maybe you have something to be thankful for that you’re hiding from your dear old mum?”
Merlin nearly trips up the last few steps, thankful for the cold wind to excuse away the fiercely deepening blush sweeping across his face.
“What? No, what would I hide from you?” he stumbles out, not at all happy with the suspiciously knowing smirk on his mother’s face. She seems to drop it at least, well, until they round the corner to their floor.
“Oh, well, isn’t this our very own special Christmas present!” Hunith coos cheerfully. Merlin is so lost in not slipping and falling arse-over-tit that when he finally looks up to where Hunith has now quickened her pace, the sight of Arthur having the life hugged out of him by his mother has him pause in his tracks. Merlin’s face flitters between shock, confusion, then quiet happiness before he asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Dad's already head off to the pub for the day-“
“It’s 11am…on Christmas day!” Merlin states incredulity, receiving a sharp smack round the head from his mother. ”What the- ?” he turns and hisses at her quietly, whilst Arthur chuckles at the pair of them.
“You know him, any excuse for a drink. Anyway, I just-“ He glances down feebly at his hands, a small green packaged present clutched tightly. “I didn’t know if we were doing gifts or…” He stumbles and Merlin’s eyes soften.
Hunith steps in then, a warm hand reaching out to grip his forearm. “You must have Christmas lunch with us.” Arthur begins to protest but Hunith silences him with a gentle squeeze. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Arthur smiles up at her under fanned-out lashes. “Thank you, Ms. Emrys. I’d love to.”
She claps her hands together happily as she slips between them into the flat, reeling off a list of things that need doing before the turkey is cooked. They’re left standing awkwardly in the doorway, Arthur shuffling the present between his hands. Merlin’s fingers reach out to steady them before he halts himself, looking around the deserted floor warily. Instead, he gives Arthur’s ankle a soft kick as he brushes past him. “I’ve got you something too, idiot.” He grins, tongue poking out between his teeth as he skips backward into the flat.
Lunch passes in a flurry of laughter, food and exceedingly competitive games of charades. (Arthur refuses to admit he lost because “Really, Merlin, who is able to guess ‘Shawshank Redemption’ when you’re stood there flapping your arms about?”). They pull crackers, wear the brightly coloured paper hats pulled out of them and snigger at the crappy jokes that come inside. Just when they possibly think they’re burst to completion, Hunith appears with the most scintillating chocolate cake either of them has ever seen, and well, they manage to find room for a small slice. They sit through the Queen’s speech as well as yet another re-run of Only Fools and Horses. By the time the Top of the Pops theme tune thrums out, Hunith is passed out snoring peacefully in her trusted armchair whilst Merlin and Arthur are having a thumb war on the couch. They say that because it’s too hard to admit they like holding the other’s hand - so thumb wars it is.
Arthur’s mid-guffaw during Merlin’s bizarre impression of Florence and the Machine (that’s looking more Kate Bush on steroids than anything else), when his eyes land on the green parcel on the coffee table.
“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning over to pick up the package, placing it in Merlin’ lap. “Merry Christmas.”
Merlin smiles shyly as his fingers run over the shiny wrapping paper. He grabs Arthur’s hand, pulling him up and leading him to his bedroom. He closes the door with a soft click, turning to rummage at the bottom of his wardrobe before pulling out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper. “Sorry, it’s… I couldn’t get wrapping paper.” He shrugs, coming to sit down on the bed. “Unsurprisingly, there’s no good place to hide a roll of that stuff when you’re trying to make a quick getaway!”
“They could have just thought you were very well endowed.” Arthur smirks, drawing his legs up on the mattress facing Merlin. They laugh awkwardly for a moment, neither knowing how to begin.
“You first.” Merlin says, pushing the present closer, drawing his thumb into his mouth as he watches Arthur tear the sheet of tissue back, revealing the rich navy ‘Bench’ hoodie underneath.
Arthur’s smile is warm and wide as he pulls the soft cotton jumper from the tresses of ripped shreds, fingers gripping the material as he turns bright shining eyes to Merlin. “I love it,” he says, twisting it in his hands to pull it over his head, leaving his hair skewed so that Merlin reaches across to pet it down. Arthur catches his wrist as he pulls his hand away, pressing his lips to the pulse point delicately. “Thank you,” he mouths against his skin. Merlin flushes, a streak of red gracing his cheeks and tinting his ears.
“Your go.” Arthur grins, releasing his arm to pass across the present. Merlin takes it eagerly, peeling back the corners tenderly, not wanting to rip it. The idea that Arthur actually sat down to carefully wrap this for him flutters something deep in the depths of his stomach. “It’s not much, I couldn’t… Well, it’s just Primark but… anyways…” Arthur babbles, as Merlin finally touches the wool under his fingertips. The scarf is soft to touch, the rich red wool knitted finely into intricate criss-cross patterns. “You’re always so bloody cold so I thought-“
Merlin leans up on his knees, reaching across the shredded bits of paper to press a firm lingering kiss to the side of Arthur’s mouth, sucking his bottom lip between his own before pulling back slowly. “It’s perfect.”
They spend the next few minutes like that, lazily sharing kisses, tongues dancing idly together. Merlin pulls back gradually, lips tingling. Arthur’s clear blue eyes are trained on him for a moment before they reluctantly pull away to glance at the door. “I have to go.”
“Stay,” says Merlin hopefully, fingers twining the toggles on Arthur’s jumper.
Arthur watches him unmoving. “I can’t. Dad will probably be back, wondering where his dinner is.”
Merlin’s face remains sombre. “Does he even know it’s Christmas?”
“He has other priorities.”
“More important than spending time with his son?”
“It would seem.” Arthur offers with a grim pull of his lips, shoulders raised in a ‘what-ya-gonna-do?’ manner. It all feels horribly wrong to Merlin. “I really have to go,” he drawls, shifting off the bed to pull on his trainers. “Thanks for today; your mum is…. amazing. And for the -“ He gestures to the hoodie.
Merlin brings his hands to dust over Arthur’s shoulders, skimming his arms over the blue cotton. “It suits you.”
Arthur smiles, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of Merlin’s jeans and drawing him close. “Does it bring out my eyes?” he asks in falsetto, fluttering his lashes dramatically, face hovering close.
Merlin laughs, palms coming to cup Arthur’s cheeks as he murmurs “Yes” over his lips again and again.
Four days later, as Merlin is busy mapping the contours of Arthur’s nipples, the blonde’s mobile vibrates against the bed sheets, signalling a text. Merlin sighs, resting his chin on Arthur’s chest as he reaches across to retrieve his phone. “It’s from Gwaine,” he mumbles, thumbing across the pad.
‘If you have any plans 4 NYE cancel them, Lances sis is in Brighton, free flat in Bermondsey, B there by 9 for serious drinking - Flt 22b SE16 1JH.’
Arthur reads it out, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Merlin glances down at his own pocket, quiet and still.
“Well, clearly I haven’t been invited,” he says with a pout, rolling onto his back.
Arthur scoffs at his dramatics. *beep beep*
‘Tell Merlin will you. No point wasting a text when he’s probably with you anyway.’
“You happy now, drama queen?” Arthur smirks, showing Merlin the screen as he leans up to snatch it away.
*beep beep*
‘Plus he’s technically impaired’
“Cheeky shit!” Merlin exclaims, pulling out his own mobile and punching out a furious reply, whilst Arthur cackles ruthlessly on the covers.
‘Look at me being so technically IMPAIRED. We’ll be there you bastard’
Merlin sets his phone down besides Arthur’s, resuming his previous position, his body trembling under Arthur’s continued hysterics. Merlin scowls down at him. “Oh, I’m sorry; did you want me to blow you? Maybe I’m impaired at other things too…” He drawls, making to move up and away. He’s yanked back with a growl as Arthur spins, pinning him down on the bed quickly. This time, it’s Merlin who can’t stop giggling.
“Happy fucking New Year, boys!”
The sight that greets them is one that would shock most others, but once you’ve known Gwaine for half your life, his little idiosyncrasies become oddly endearing. Also, rather alarmingly, it’s not the first time Merlin’s seen Gwaine in nothing but a hula skirt with ‘Hello Kitty’ stickers on his nipples. The hair tied back with a marigold glove, however, is new.
“I’d ask, but I think I’d rather not know,” says Merlin, casting his eyes around the rather plush flat. A heavy bass shakes through the floor that’s littered with twenty or so others in various states of intoxication.
“All that’s important my friend is that you brought booze.”
Arthur lifts the heavy crate of beer from behind his back as Gwaine’s eyes dance excitedly. He grabs Merlin’s face and plants a loud wet smack of a kiss on his cheek. “You beauty!” he coos, taking the beer from Arthur’s proffered hand and shuffling them in.
Merlin rubs at his slick cheek, grumbling, “Yeah, trying to steal 24 cans on New Year’s Eve of all nights was no easy task.”
“Well, as I said, you shall be rewarded.” Gwaine grins, pulling from somewhere (he doesn’t like to think where) a rolled-up spliff. “Don’t smoke it all at once now.” He pats him on the head, tucking the cigarette behind Merlin’s ear before flaunting off in a sashay of dry grass - and yup, he was naked underneath there. Wonderful.
For Merlin the evening passes in a mixture of alcohol, weed and an absolutely disgusting bottle of plonk when Big Ben finally strikes twelve. Afterwards Leon calls them all in for a truly horrendous game of truth or dare that Merlin would really rather forget about. By the time 4am rolls around, the majority of the netball team, including Gwen, have decided to call it a night, stumbling drunkenly under the chaperone of Elyan to run for the night bus. Percival and Lance passed out some time ago, both struggling to stay balanced on the bean bags they’d perched themselves on. Only four of them remain up and somewhat close to coherent. Gwaine is sat - sans hula skirt now - butt naked on the ill-advised white sheepskin rug by the coffee table. Leon lounges across the armchair next to him, blowing ringlets of smoke into the air. Arthur and Merlin had claimed the couch for most of the night, sprawled at either end, their legs a tangle of limbs in the middle. Merlin’s eyes are beginning to weigh heavy, lids struggling to keep open as he burrows closer into the cushion under his head. One of Arthur’s sock clad feet is running soothing circles across his ankle, dipping under his jeans. Merlin sneaks glances at him under hooded lashes, body lazy and lax; an easy smile on his lips that lifts higher as he catches Arthur watching. A half empty can of lager hangs loosely in Arthur’s fingers, the flat a quiet hum around them as they continue to stare at each other silently.
“What d’ya say we keep this party going, chaps?” Gwaine says enthusiastically, standing a bit too quickly for his intoxicated brain to handle. The others groan, raising their hands to cover their eyes, as Gwaine quite literally lets it all hang out. The situation isn’t helped when he ignores their cat calls and proceeds to turn on them, bending over to dig in the pockets of his jeans.
“Fucking hell, mate, at least put the skirt back on.” Leon calls, closing his eyes and tipping his head further over the armrest.
When Gwaine spins round to face them, he’s shaking a small plastic bag, a thin layer of white powder lined along the bottom. Merlin’s face drops.
“Coke?” he asks, suddenly much too awake to be dealing with this. Gwaine simply grins, returning to his perch on the floor, clearing space on the table in front of him. Merlin casts uncertain eyes towards Arthur, who is rather pointedly not looking at him. Flashbacks to that night a few months ago come flooding back, Myror standing over him, self-satisfied smirk on his face. How can anyone do drugs when you have to deal with people like that? After that night, Arthur’s broken down sobbing confessions - he doesn’t think he can even look at the stuff.
Leon is leant across the table, prodding the powder with a finger as if the bloody thing is going to jump out at him. “Never done coke before,” he murmurs, eyes skittishly flittering between Merlin and Gwaine.
“Me neither, mate, but I bet it’s a proper good kick,” says Gwaine, looking for something to cut lines with.
Arthur has yet to say anything, despite Merlin boring a hole into the side of his head; he gives a sharp kick to Arthur’s shin. The blonde turns to glare at him pointedly, folding his knees up into his chest.
Merlin simply shakes his head. “Lance will fucking kill you - are you crazy?” he says, making to stand.
“Aw, come now, Mer, it’s just a bit of fun.”
“No, it’s not, you cock; it’s fucking cocaine!” Merlin says, exasperated, hoping the actual seriousness of the whole situation will finally sink in to their dead-brained skulls. When none of them offer anything further, Merlin throws his hands in the air, stomping around Gwaine on the floor, heading for the door, “I’m off. You utter prats can snort your brains out without me.”
“Oh, Merlin, you’re no fun.” Gwaine calls; ignoring Merlin’s angry half muttered grumbles of ‘shiny haired pricks’ and ‘idiots with beards’ and ‘stupid fucking blonde ex-dealers’. He’s stopped trying to shove his foot into his unlaced trainer by a solid presence at his back, a warm hand sitting low on his spine.
“Come on, let’s go,” Arthur murmurs close, leaning into Merlin as he reaches to pull his jacket from the hook by the door.
“Now, Wart, where you off to?” asks Gwaine, once again rising to his feet, stumbling disconcertedly towards them. “I know you won’t let me down on this. Hey, hey,” he nudges Arthur's side over enthusiastically, a suspiciously knowing wink and gleam in his eye. Merlin watches them both curiously. He can’t mean? Arthur doesn’t do coke, does he? No… surely not. Arthur stands there silently, flapping at Gwaine’s elbow as he continues to dig it into his ribs. A nervous flush has flared up the side of his neck, staining his cheeks and making his eyelashes flutter swiftly - and well, Fuck, he’s wearing his lying face and that’s pretty much all Merlin needs to effectively storm out the flat.
The first calls of his name barely reach his ears as he hurries to get out of the building. His feet hardly touch the ground as he flies down the stairs, desperately needing to take in a few deep gutfuls of air. His head feels light. A moment of weightlessness shakes his limbs as he pants heavily, having to stop and grab onto the railing for support.
“Merlin… Christ, would you just wait a minute?” yells Arthur, coming to a halt in front of him, hands clutching into his sides as he bends over to catch his breath.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you’d be too busy snorting charlie with your buddy Gwaine there.”
“Fucking hell, I got up to leave with you, didn’t I?”
“Well, what was all that wink-wink-nudge-nudge business about then? Sure looked like he was hinting that you do the stuff!” Merlin spits, wrapping the ends of his jacket tighter around himself, purposely not taking out the warm scarf that’s tucked deep in his pocket.
“And that makes it gospel? If you hadn’t noticed, Gwaine’s off his fucking face right now.”
Arthur reaches out to grab his arm but Merlin shrugs him off coldly, a steely glare warning him off. “You know… after everything that happened with Myror, I thought you’d actually know better not to get messed up in actually taking the darn thing.”
“Hey, hey,” Arthur soothes, grip firm as his fingers curl deep around Merlin’s shoulders, refusing to let the younger man go despite his initial struggles. “I promise you I’ve never taken anything,” says Arthur, bending gently, coaxing Merlin’s startling blue eyes to look at him. He holds his gaze as he continues, quieter, “A bit of weed now and then, like you, that’s it. I may have dealt it… but, actually take it… never have, never will.”
“No more,” says Merlin suddenly, hands burrowing deep in his pockets.
Arthur looks down at him confused. “Huh?”
“Weed, no more weed. We both stop. I don’t want drugs to have anything to do with our lives ever again.”
Merlin looks up hopefully, watching as Arthur’s gaze drops, tongue coming out to run across his bottom lip. The fingers gripping his shoulders go slack on his arms, and a sinking feeling hits Merlin’s stomach at the thought that a bit of hash is clearly more important in Arthur’s life than himself. But then Arthur’s hand lifts to curl around the back of Merlin’s neck, face set firm as he nods. “No more… Okay.”
Merlin’s smile is blinding.
Merlin drops the brush in his hand, sending a sprinkling of red paint dancing across the table.
“You are shitting me.”
Ms LeFay chokes back a laugh, bringing a hand to cover her mouth as she comes to perch on the edge of his desk, careful to avoid the splattering of paint. “I assure you Merlin; I am not… shitting you,” she whispers, her warm smile wide. “In two months’ time, your work will be proudly on display at the Walker Art Gallery.”
“Two months?” Merlin repeats softly, eyes scanning over the unfinished canvas laid out in front of him.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, reaching to place a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “They don’t expect any new pieces. They’ve already selected the five works they’re going to host. All you have to do is attend, which the school will fund by the way,” she adds reassuringly. Merlin silently thanks her with a nod for not drawing out the whole ‘I-know-you’re-a-poor-little-arts boy-that-needs-government-funding’.
Instead, he offers her a nervous smile. His hand is still slightly shaking at the thought of anyone else bar his teachers seeing his work. He very rarely even shows his mother his art, always shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile and an ’It’s not really finished yet’ before shuffling off to his room and closing the door. But now his paintings are going to be on full view for the whole of Liverpool to see.
“Oh, and there’s going to be a feature of all ten of you in ‘Art Review’ magazine,” she adds. And suddenly Merlin is definitely getting the feeling he’s going to throw up.
“You are… pleased, aren’t you, Merlin?” Ms LeFay asks, pulling back slightly to meet his eye. “It’s just… you’re looking a bit pale.”
He turns wild eyes to her, pupils blown wide. “Yes, yes... I mean, of course I’m happy. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all… You sure they didn’t make a mistake?”
Ms Lefay laughs softly, swishing her long raven hair over her shoulder. “I’m quite sure,” she says, standing to retrieve a piece of paper off her desk before placing it in front of Merlin. “You should be really proud of yourself… I’m sure the subject of your paintings will be happy too,” she winks, light twinkling behind her heavily-mascaraed lashes; Merlin promptly feels his face flushing an awful shade of red.
All he can do is flash her another awkward smile as well as a soft muttering of ‘thanks’ as she gathers a few supplies and heads out the room, leaving him to gaze over the letter of acceptance in his hand.
His fingers trace over the black lettering carefully. “Dear Ms LeFay, It is with great pleasure that we wish to inform you that your application of Mr. M. Emrys into the Young British Artist of the year programme has been successful…”
...
..
.
“We look forward to seeing you, him and his works on May the 5th. Sincerely, S.D. Kilgharrah. Oh my god, honey, that is incredible!” Hunith coos, waving the sheet of paper in the air before pulling Merlin tightly to her chest. “I am so proud of you, my boy,” she sighs into his hair, arms rubbing comfortingly between his shoulders.
“Thanks, mum.” He says softly. “And the school is going to pay for me and Ms LeFay to go up there - they’re even forking out to put us up in a hotel the night before. Train fares, food, everything - all covered.” He smiles, sitting back down at the kitchen table as Hunith turns to flip the kettle on.
“Oh, isn’t this all so exciting.”
“It all seems a bit surreal to me.”
Hunith pulls out the chair beside him, hand covering her son’s, giving it a soft squeeze. “Never doubt your talents love; keep faith in yourself and your dreams and you’ll go far. I just know it.” She sucks her lips in over her teeth, biting on them gently as she brings a finger up to run under her eye.
“No, no, no, don’t get teary on me, mum, you know you’re going to set me off too.” Merlin says, shaking his head, as if that will wish away the warm liquid gathered in the pool of his eyes.
Hunith chuckles lightly to herself as she bats at her lashes furiously. “Sorry, my boy, but oh… I love you, sweetheart.” She leans over, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, before standing to pour two mugs of tea. “Oh, we should celebrate!” She exclaims, flashing Merlin a toothy grin.
“With tea?” asks Merlin. “At least whack out the hobnobs as well.”
“Hah, hah.” Hunith sticks her tongue out, but nevertheless opens the cupboard beside her and pulls out the biscuit tin with a flourish. “I’m serious though; I’d like to take you for a nice proper dinner uptown.”
Merlin stops mid chew, oat crumbs trickling down the side of his mouth. “Mum, you don’t have to do that; don’t be silly.”
“Nonsense, I want to. This is a big thing-“
A knock at the door halts Hunith mid speech, Merlin pushes back his chair to get up and answer it. A rain soaked Arthur greets him, droplets hanging from his shaggy blonde fringe.
“Hey,” he breathes, breath misting in the cold March air.
“Hey yourself, didn’t see you at school today,” Merlin perches himself gangly across the door.
“Yeah, I-uh, had a couple things I had to sort out… Are you busy?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Arthur,” Hunith calls, pulling the door wider as she slots in the gap under Merlin’s arm. “Perfect timing; we were just sorting out a celebratory dinner for this Friday, we’d love if you could come, wouldn’t we, Merlin?” she nudges him with her hip.
Merlin flushes as Arthur looks between the two of them, confused. “Uh… celebratory?”
“Oh, hasn’t Merlin told you? He got accepted for that art exhibit! He’s going be the next Michelangelo!”
“Mum!” Merlin cries, blush escaping to the tips of his ears as he feels Arthur’s eyes bore into him.
“What - I can’t be proud of my boy?”
“You really got it?” asks Arthur; the quiet smile on his lips tugs at Merlin’s heart: it’s genuine and soft and shy, and it’s all for him.
“Yeah.” He breathes, biting his lip.
“That’s… That’s brilliant mate, really. Congratulations.”
“What? You two too manly for a hug?” Hunith laughs, turning her back to return to the kitchen, pulling out another mug from the top shelf.
Merlin chokes out a sound that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a snort, nervously looking at his feet. When he cautiously casts his gaze upwards Arthur’s much too close, especially with his mother in the next room. But his eyes are focused solely on Merlin as he steps forward further still and closes the door behind him with a click. His arms come to enfold Merlin’s waist, snugly fit there like his body has done for the past five months, like it belongs. Arthur nuzzles his nose against the side of Merlin’s neck as he wraps his hands around Arthur’s shoulders, melting into the hold. “So proud of you, baby” and that’s the first time Arthur has ever called him that. The first time Arthur has used any pet name in any context. The words trickle down his skin like honey, flowing through his veins and pooling hot and deep and low in his belly. If Hunith hears the soft moan that escapes his lips, or witnesses the way Merlin presses firmer against his best friend, she doesn’t say.
Just hollers at them that tea is up and they pull back smiling and head into the kitchen.
“Honestly, Ms. Emrys, I don’t think I could eat another thing,” says Arthur, leaning back on his chair, bringing a hand to rub soothingly over his belly. The platter of buffalo wings to start and the huge steak he’s had for mains sits heavy in his stomach and for the first time in ages, he feels full.
“Poppycock,” says Hunith. “There’s always room for dessert, and really, how many times must I tell you it’s Hunith?” She smacks his hand lightly.
They’ve found themselves in a Garfunkel’s restaurant off Leicester Square. The bustle of Friday night tourists mixing with boys and girls dolled up for a night out, trotting over the cobbled streets in ridiculous heels, to pay ridiculous prices to dance to some truly ridiculous music for a few hours. Merlin watches them all lazily through the window, happy and sated as he tries to take it all in. For a few moments, he’s able to forget the dreary grey building of home, the cold, dank walls of his room. Right now, he feels like any other teenage boy, out for dinner in a nice restaurant with the two people he cares for most in the world at his side. It’s what he wants every day to feel like: Arthur’s knee pressed tight against his own whilst his mum regales them with the tale of some hilariously tragic A&E patient who stumbled in half-cut last night. It is only when both sets of eyes turn to him that he realises he’s been daydreaming.
“Huh?” he offers rather inarticulately. Arthur snorts beside him; Merlin makes a point to stamp on his foot in retaliation.
“I was asking what you’d like for dessert,” says Hunith, battling to hide a smirk of her own.
“Oh right... Um, you choose - toilet!” he answers quickly, jumping to race to the restroom.
Arthur watches him go bemusedly, eyebrow raised he turns back to Hunith. “I have to say, that is one strange son you have.”
“Hmmm, and yet you put up with him anyway,” she muses from behind her wine glass.
“What can I say, I’m a saint.” Arthur smiles, taking a long sip from his glass of Coke. He can feel a silence beginning to fall between them and is anxious to break it. He knows how this goes, how the long drawn-out pauses are followed by awkward smiles and stilted laughs as they finally, finally breach it by bringing up something mundane like the weather of all things.
He smiles tightly before taking another long drink from his glass. “So… a lot of rain we’re having, huh?”
Hunith’s eyes twinkle in what Arthur can only describe as a ‘bewitching’ way. Everything about her character is warm to him. Crinkle-cut eyes, plump rosy cheeks, all sweet smiles and soft round the edges; it’s what he’s always pictured a mum to be.
“You know, I’m glad he has someone like you looking out for him,” Hunith says suddenly, drawing Arthur’s attention. “I try my best but I sometimes wonder if he’s missing out on a male influence in his life.”
“Trust me, he’s not.” Arthur answers quickly, fingers tracing the cool drop of condensation running down the edge of his glass. “Having a dad ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“I know your father loves you a lot.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so somehow.”
“Of course he does; why wouldn’t he? Look at you. You have grown into a wonderful young man, Arthur… and I know my son; he doesn’t hang around with idiots.”
Arthur laughs quietly, fingers now drumming a steady beat against his glass, “I don’t know about idiots but he does have the habit of calling me a prat every now and then.”
“Well, prats, maybe.” Hunith winks, a mischievous lilt to her tone that wraps Arthur in fuzzy warm feelings he’d never experienced when speaking with Uther. Hell, he can’t even remember the last time the two of them had a conversation that lasted this long. Hunith steals his internal monologue with the solid clasp of his hand; she’s looking at him with all the gentleness of a mother to her son, and it causes something large and heavy to stick at the back of Arthur’s throat.
“He cares for you a great deal…” She whispers out, eyes tired and haggard but still wide with earnest.
Arthur finds himself nodding slightly. “He’s my best friend” are the only words he can find inside himself to say.
The answer seems to please Hunith, who answers with a kind smile and a ‘Good, I’m glad’ before giving his hand a tight squeeze and promptly returning to her menu.
Merlin sits down a beat later, barely glancing at the dessert list in front of him, before he declares that the apple pie is the one for him. “Think of that in the loo?” Arthur teases, letting out an over exaggerated ‘Ow!’ as Merlin jabs an elbow in his ribs.
“Prat,” Merlin mutters.
Hunith catches Arthur’s eye across the table and smiles.
When Arthur pushed Merlin to share the news with the rest of the group, they all smiled encouragingly with firm pats on the back and warm words of congratulations. Gwaine, however, insisted that a proper night out was in order, for ‘our boy wonder here’, capturing Merlin in a headlock. Which is how Merlin now finds himself back in Leicester Square a week after his quiet dinner with Hunith and Arthur; dressed in a crisp black shirt, dark jeans and his worn-out old school shoes from when he was 15. A heavy drinking session took place at Leon’s flat earlier that evening, cheap Tesco’s own brand vodka going down with ease until Percy emerged from the kitchen an hour later; one arm full with a bowl of limes, the other with a rather large bottle of Tequila. Merlin’s stomach is still not feeling right as he sways unsteadily into Lance’s side. The tall tanned man smiles down at him, the model of sobriety as he chucks a steady arm across Merlin’s back with a, ”You alright there, mate?”
The heavy thump-a-thump of bass music spills out of the club’s doors as people enter and leave. The thrumming beat makes Merlin want to dance. He begins jiggling his hips about, knocking into Lance completely out of time with the music. His frantic hip thrusting comes to a halt as a hot hand slides possessively round his bicep, dragging Merlin up to stand to full attention. It’s no surprise that when he tilts his head, it’s Arthur’s big blue eyes that greet him.
“Act sober!” He hisses in Merlin’s ear. The bouncer, who Gwaine spent the past ten minutes chatting to, casts a quick glance around all seven of them, before pulling the rope back, ushering them quickly inside.
“He didn’t check if we had ID!” Merlin exclaims drunkenly loud as they manoeuvre down the sticky corridor. Much to Arthur’s dismay, Elyan beats him to his emphatic reply by cuffing Merlin round the back of the head.
He scowls at Elyan purposefully before turning doe-eyed and pouty to Arthur, who just sighs as he runs his fingers through Merlin’s dark locks, pushing him forward to the main room. “Bloody tequila.” Arthur curses under his breath.
“Oh, I love this song!”
“You love every song!” Arthur yells, arms resting over the metal barrier balcony, his fingers cradling the neck of the bottle in his hands, thumb picking absently at the label. Merlin is bouncing beside him, using the bar in front as his make shift drum-kit, fists pounding along to the steady beat of the latest Rihanna track blasting from the dance floor below. Somehow over the course of the night, Arthur was lumbered with babysitting duty, making sure Merlin stays upright and doesn’t put his fingers anywhere inappropriate. He hasn’t seen the others in over an hour; with the club spread across three floors, he’s beginning to wonder if he ever will again before the night is out.
His thoughts are turned back to Merlin, as the tall limbed boy presses firmer against his side. “Dance with me,” he purrs; mouth intoxicatingly close to Arthur’s ear.
“Are you crazy? No way.”
“Oh, come on, one dance.”
Arthur casts him a sideway glance. “And if anyone sees us, recognises us, we’re fucked.”
Merlin’s heaved out sigh curves hotly against the side of his jaw. “Arthur, look down there, look,” he insists, smushing his hand in Arthur’s face, directing it to take in the throng of dancing bodies below. “It’s a struggle to make out who’s male and who’s female, let alone anyone’s faces; it’s packed, we’ll move right into the centre. No-one will see.”
Arthur takes a deciding sip of his beer, as the heat from Merlin’s body sears against his skin. Merlin is right though. The dusky strobes of light do little to offer any clear view of the crowd below; just a sea of arms as the heavy thump of the bass reverberates through the walls directly against their chests. Merlin’s hip bumps Arthur’s once, teasing. That seems to do it, if the deep growl that rolls off Arthur’s tongue as he slaps his now empty bottle down on the table is anything to go by. The next moment he’s stalking off for the stairs a grinning Merlin scurrying quickly after him.
They weave their way through the mass of bodies as the whirrs of a smoke machine pumps more dry air into the muggy room making their shirts cling damp against their skin. Merlin finally reaches the spot he wants, allows the music to wash over him as he closes his eyes, tips his head back and lets the pulse of people’s limbs hug him. Arthur barely manages to stay in front of Merlin. He’s pretty sure some girl has her boobs pressed into his back, the steady thump of some random guy’s arse bumping into his side. He allows himself to sink into the flow of the room, hips swivelling to the beat pulsating through the speakers. Merlin hums contentedly, arms hooked above his head as he feels Arthur’s hands snake around his waist, drawing him closer, till their groins are pressed firmly together. They stay like that for a couple of songs. Arthur’s fingers hooked in the curve of Merlin’s back pocket as their hips slide in an easy tango under the shroud of darkness. Arthur brings his forehead to rest against Merlin’s, droplets of sweat beading off his fringe before sliding down his cheek.
“See the world hasn’t ended,” says Merlin, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth with a cheeky grin.
Arthur tracks the plump flesh as it turns from dusty pink to white under the pressure.
“God, the things I want to do to you.” The words are hushed out in a hot breath, much too soft to carry over the thrum of music. But then Merlin’s eyes are staring straight into Arthur’s as their bodies come to a stop, moving gently against the tide of the crowd.
“So do them,” whispers Merlin, and there is no point pretending to act shy or unsure or curious because they both know what they’re talking about. Sex. The places Merlin’s mind has gone every time Arthur has laid him down on his bed, discovering and learning every contour of his body, every taste of his skin. The mere thought of it has made him come like nothing before, shaking under the spray of the shower as his hand flies over his cock with alarming speed. They’ve spent the past five months practically doing everything else. Merlin discovered a love for the heat of Arthur’s mouth wrapped around his member, whilst Arthur himself has become pretty enamoured by Merlin’s tongue up his ass. The act of anything further has never been breached; the idea of… doing that seeming more intimate, more definitive of what they are than they’re comfortable enough discussing… because they don’t.
Discuss things, that is. Not anything.
The one time Merlin tried, Arthur moaned about titles and labels, and really, wasn’t it much better that his mouth got on to more important things than talking - and at the time Merlin couldn’t help but agree. So the subject of sex, the conversation of who would top and how they’d lead into it and where it’d be and who’d buy the damn stuff, has never entered their world but instead burrowed away quietly at the back of their minds.
Arthur’s jaw twitches as his eyes flutter shut, fingers flexing nervously, lifting across Merlin’s ass to trace patterns against the damp skin above his jeans. “Fuck. Yeah, okay, let’s…”
“I’ve got stuff,” says Merlin, battling to keep the nerves from showing on his face. Arthur’s pupils blow wide, a needy whine spills from his lips as the hand at Merlin’s back grips the sweat soaked fabric of his shirt, tightly pulling him across the floor in the direction of the loos.
They’re laughing, giggling like bloody schoolgirls, as they playfully nudge into each other’s side, thankful that the toilets appear empty as they bustle through. A line of urinals present themselves across one side of the wall opposite two stalls. Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist loosely as he pushes back the door to the stall on the left and promptly let’s go. Merlin bumps into Arthur’s static form, eyes turning and catching… and…
“Shit! Fucking Christ!” cries Merlin, dropping to his knees on the cool tiled floor. The sight that greets him stops his heart cold. Gwaine lies limply atop of the toilet seat, neck rolled forward as the shaggy mane of his hair hangs across his face. Merlin scuttles closer. “Gwaine, Gwaine… Can you hear me? Fuck.” He brushes the dark tresses of hair off his friend’s face, the fear coursing through his blood sobering him instantly. Merlin watches as Gwaine’s eyes flicker fleetingly, a sliver of drool hanging from his parted lips. He turns worried eyes to Arthur, who has remained rooted to the spot; the blood has drained from his face leaving him pale. Merlin gives him a few slaps to the leg to draw him back.
“Arthur, look at me. I need you to go get help; go to the guys on the door, say we need an ambulance immediately, try and find the others too, Go!”
Arthur’s gaze flitters from Merlin to Gwaine then back again before the urgency to move finally kicks in, his legs shaking as he flees from the room.
Merlin’s fingers run over Gwaine’s face, pulling the lower lid of his eye gently only to see stark white. “You fucking idiot,” he whispers, checking the pulse point on his wrist. The beat is strong and loud and impossibly quick, and Merlin curses under his breath yet again. He doesn’t have much time to panic further as Arthur returns clattering through the door, two burly men flanking him; as they try to usher Merlin out of the stall.
“What’s his name?” One of them asks, running through a few vital checks whilst the other busies himself on a walkie-talkie.
Merlin stammers, unsure - shit - they’re underage - “Uh… Gwaine… Gwaine Anderson.”
“What’s he taken?”
Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t -“
“Cocaine,” Arthur supplies, hand running shakily through his hair; pulling slightly as he ducks to avoid Merlin’s gaze. “He had about 500 milligrams on him; I don’t… don’t know if he took the lot.”
Merlin stands there numb, unshed tears pooling in his eyes as he watches the two men furiously moving around Gwaine.
“I’ll go look for Lance,” Arthur offers quietly, slipping out the room; Merlin can only watch him go silently.
Part 4