Arthur/Merlin - If You Want Closure In Your Relationship... [Part 4B]
Title: If You Want Closure in Your Relationship (start with your legs)Author: tsumetaikaze
Chapter: 4b of 5
Fandom/Pairing: Merlin [Arthur/Merlin, Lance/Gwen, past Gwaine/Merlin, side Leon/Morgana, side Gwaine/Anything willing]
It’s nightfall before they leave, well-fed and satisfied, hunching against the chill breeze. For once Arthur hasn’t got his car, and the ride home on the train is full of touching knees and thighs and shoulders, smiling at old men falling asleep in their beards before jerking awake, and a truly embarrassing few minutes where Arthur declares loudly, “Don’t you hate it when teenagers decide to embrace their exhibitionism on public transport?” and Merlin sinks lower and lower in his seat until his head is level with Arthur’s elbow.
Aside from that, it’s kind of nice to sit in the comfortable, rocking silence next to the very warm, very solid presence that is Arthur. They bump shoulders a lot on the walk back to Merlin’s, share a lot of sideways smiles and Arthur eventually complains so much about the book bag hitting the side of his leg that Merlin snatches it from him with a bitten off, “I’ll carry it then, you bloody princess.”
That of course sparks off a tirade about how strong and manly Arthur is, Merlin raising his eyebrows gradually higher the entire way through and ending with Arthur shoving him into a bush beside the short pathway to his building’s front door. But as far as impromptu dates go, Merlin decides this is definitely one of the best.
And just like that, Merlin realises that Arthur never actually said the word ‘date’ once while asking him to numerous meals, and he has the awful, sinking feeling that he has been making all this up in his head and he really is just going crazy, once and for all. And he has to know. He has to know if Morgana meant it when she said It’s okay, if those looks Arthur’s been giving him for the last couple of weeks aren’t completely unintentional -
So he puts his nerves and embarrassment and sense of self-preservation on hold for one heart-stopping moment, and breathes out in one big rush, “Arthur, when you took me out to dinner the other day, was that a date? How many dates have we been on? Was today a date?”
Arthur is silent for a very long time, just looking, and then he is shuffling his feet and contrasting the movement with his I Am Your Boss tone and saying slowly, “I believed I was treating you to a meal in a potentially romantic setting, yes. And while today was partly an accident, it was… a good one. Certainly a good one.”
“…’partly’?” Merlin repeats.
Arthur purses his lips and looks down at the pavement for a moment. “I overheard you telling Morgana that you might visit the market to find something for Gwen. I might have pushed back today’s meeting at the last minute on the off chance that I’d run into you.”
Merlin’s eyes are wide, bewildered, for all of half a second before his lips are spreading into that grin he’s come to associate with Arthur and his absurdities, and Arthur is taking the necessary steps to invade his personal space.
“I like you, Merlin.” His voice is deep, husky, and Merlin’s sure his knees are about to give way. “I want you. I will pick you up at six o’clock tomorrow night.”
As he nods with an entirely self-assured air, Merlin can’t help but remark, “Is it a trait of all Pendragons to be so bloody forward about everything?”
Arthur stares, then appears to take it in his stride. “Yes, it comes from me growing up with a bitch like Morgana and Morgana growing up with a snob like me - need to cut the crap and get your point across as soon as possible before the other one incriminates you in some horrible mind game.”
“Sounds - lovely.”
“Well, if you like that sort of thing.”
“You’re not aware of the meaning of ‘sarcasm’, are you?”
“Of course I am - what do you take me for? Some uneducated fast-food employee?”
Merlin makes a disbelieving face and can’t quite work out what to say to that, not sure Arthur gets it - but then, he’s not sure Arthur’s so great at the whole ‘people’ thing, so he files it away for further analysis and just leaves it be for now.
Then he realises just what Arthur’s said and feels his mouth go inexplicably dry in a matter of seconds, his palms sweaty and his heart clamouring to escape, and his brain going completely haywire.
I like you, Merlin. I want you.
I want you.
But when he regains the ability to speak Arthur has already kissed the corner of his mouth softly, too soft, and started walking away.
Shit, Merlin thinks, for want of something more eloquent. Shit, he almost says aloud this time, willing his hands steady as he reaches for his pocket and decides that this is one date he can’t brave alone.
It turns out he doesn’t have time to so much as pull out his phone, because the next thing he knows he’s being pushed against the door to his apartment building and kissed like the world is ending. There are strong hands in his hair and an even stronger chest pressed against his own, and the lips kissing him insistently are soft and Christ, even they feel expensive.
Merlin closes his eyes, breathes “Arthur” in a way that is honestly, horrendously filthy but he couldn’t care less because Arthur Pendragon is kissing him against a door in the entrance to his dirty apartment, the desperation in the air is palpable, and it is the most glorious thing in the world. His blood is pumping furiously, his knuckles white as they grip Arthur’s shoulders and tangle in his hair and press against his jaw, not sure where they want to rest - just knowing they need to be everywhere because Arthur could run away at any moment, and Merlin needs him to stay for the sake of his sanity.
They separate for the briefest of pauses, just time enough to share a bewildered, breathless, surprised but simply happy look, before Merlin’s long fingers are curled around Arthur’s stupid ninety pound tie and yanking him forward. Their lips crash together and they breathe against each other, catch each other, breathe in each other, and he can’t help but smile as he gasps out, “Upstairs, shall we?”
Arthur just starts walking backwards, dragging Merlin with him and only pausing long enough to let Merlin kick the door closed with a slam. They wage a battle with the stairs, and Merlin has never been more disappointed with his choice of second floor living in his life. The trip up is long, longer than it needs to be because they can’t keep their hands off each other for more than a nanosecond, and when they get there Merlin’s key sticks and he swears and Arthur shoves him against the door and everything is just so distracting and warm and strong and then they’re tumbling inside, laughing against the other’s lips and kicking off shoes as the door closes behind them.
“Sorry it’s so messy,” Merlin says as he forces Arthur’s tie loose and all but yanks it off his neck.
Arthur looks like he’s about to make a comment about either the state of Merlin’s flat or the treatment of his tie, so Merlin shuts him up with a smile and a kiss and a tug of his hair, beginning the steady retreat to the bedroom. There’s a brief moment where he remembers the loose bolt that makes the bed creak ridiculously loud, then he thinks of the countless nights he’s been kept awake by the couple next door and he decides it’s about bloody time he got some action to torment them with for once, anyway.
Merlin’s being divested of his jacket as Arthur mutters, “How far?”
There’s a short pause while Merlin is too busy being rendered speechless by Arthur’s hands scraping along his spine, his t-shirt being dragged over his head and warm hands everywhere, until he forces out, “Around the corner. Not -“
“Too far,” is all Arthur says, changes course for the sofa, and the neighbours live to sleep another night. Or maybe not, if Arthur curses that loud every time he steps on a rogue book.
His buttons are all the way undone, Merlin kissing his jaw like he’s wanted to for weeks and smiling against it while Arthur mutters about the mess, when Arthur tumbles backwards to land on the sofa. He has just enough time to make a face, say “It’s dirty,” until Merlin is crawling above him, a hand on his belt buckle and a smirk saying, “It certainly will be,” as he covers his lips with his own again and he can’t even remember why they stopped in the first place.
Hands are fighting for buckles and popping buttons, lowering zips and there’s warm skin everywhere, Arthur’s shirt pushed all the way off his shoulders and his perfect hair so messy that Merlin consciously feels himself falling a little harder with each second that passes. Their lips are insistent and forceful, but there’s a gentle - almost longing - sense of need running beneath every touch that Merlin’s heart is aching with the realisation of how much he wants this. How much he doesn’t care that Arthur might be a rich prat with the weirdest understanding of social interactions ever, might believe in dealing out rewards over a simple ‘thanks’ and have an unnecessarily difficult time apologising, might spend insane amounts of money on his clothing, but that’s Arthur, and that’s what Merlin hasn’t been seeing.
The absurdity of the situation hits him like a sack of bricks, and Merlin suddenly realises that he is in his flat, kissing Arthur, on his sofa - and he has to pull away. It is Arthur sprawled beneath him. It is Arthur’s shirt crumpled in a heap on the floor, Arthur’s unbuttoned dress pants, Arthur’s skin spread out before him, hands on his thighs, lips reddened, cheeks flushed - this is Arthur.
And just how in all buggering hell did that happen?
There’s a couple of seconds while Arthur stares up at him, eyes wide in the glow of the streetlamp through the window, and Merlin thinks fuck it all, because now is certainly not the time to be second-guessing himself. If this is all just a giant mistake and in the morning Arthur will be gone, then his sanity will just have to deal with the consequences. But -
“Merlin,” Arthur is saying, and god doesn’t that sound just go directly southwards. “Merlin,” he says again, voice lower and lower until he’s pushing it out from the depths of his throat, breathy and hoarse, hands tangling in Merlin’s and tugging him forwards, chests flush together, and kissing him over and over and over until Merlin is ready to drown.
“God, Merlin. Look at you,” Arthur is breathing. “Look at you.”
He stretches out as Arthur’s hands rake down his sides, catch on the hem of his trousers and tug, tug and tug until they’re free and the cool air makes Merlin shiver, pressing his cheek to Arthur’s and praying that this never, never ends.
There are hands everywhere, scratching down chests and followed by lip-bitten moans, clothes everywhere and nowhere all at once, and Merlin can feel the rough scrape of the cushions at his back when Arthur flips him, no one sure who’s making what noises anymore and there’s just so much skin. It’s a frightening contrast, the heat of Arthur’s body pressed against his, the delicious friction, the burn of the sofa - and the chill of the apartment air gone too long without heating, the soft light setting Arthur’s hair aglow, the light tickle as Arthur drops his head onto Merlin’s bony shoulder and his hair brushes his skin. Merlin is all angles where Arthur is smooth lines, strong and hard where Merlin is angular and sharp, dark hair against blonde, pale against tan - and it’s beautiful, all of it.
Merlin is gasping, Arthur’s tiny moans in his ear like music, and everything is on fire. His heart, his mind, his skin, everything. All he can feel is Arthur, Arthur, “Arthur”. All he can hear is his own name being whispered over and over in his ear, Arthur’s voice growing steadily more desperate as Merlin pulls his hair with his free hand and crashes their mouths together finally, biting his lips and soothing with his tongue and it’s filthy. It’s filthy and they’re desperate and they need this and Arthur goes still as a statue, a stuttered gasp of “Fuck - Merlin,” on his lips and Merlin is arching, holding his breath, nails biting, toes curling - and they’re both smiling, smiling.
Arthur’s lips press a lingering kiss to the shell of Merlin’s ear, to the curve of his jaw, his cheek, his swollen lips, and Merlin lets a breathy, disbelieving laugh escape.
“Er…” is all he says.
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur groans, catching his breath, and doesn’t move except to raise his head properly, elbow propped beside Merlin’s head, and stare down at him.
Merlin knows how he must look - cheeks red, lips redder, hair a complete shambles and sweat-slicked to his forehead, that horrible flush his chest gets after sex, and a foolish, uncontrollable grin to top it all off - and is just glad that the streetlamp doesn’t provide with such an accurate view of the situation. But Arthur is wearing a similar such expression, hair sticking out in eighteen different directions and so, so far from his usual prim and proper appearance that Merlin can’t help but pull him down for one last, bruising kiss and laugh breathlessly into it.
“What’s so funny?”
Merlin just shakes his head, staring up at Arthur with what he knows must be the sappiest expression known to man. “Nothing,” is all he whispers. He can see the shadows of Arthur’s frown, but it only serves to widen his grin. “Just, you - this - us,” he elaborates. Sort of.
Arthur raises one eyebrow and spreads a palm flat on Merlin’s chest, shifting to the side so they slot together more comfortably along the sofa, and mutters, “Yeah. Huh.”
Merlin’s open palm connects with his forehead in a sharp slap, startling Arthur out of his contemplative silence as he groans “Gwaine!” and leans over to find his discarded trousers.
“I’m sorry, I thought -“ Arthur starts, eyes hard.
Merlin looks over his shoulder to give him a disbelieving look. “No, no - I just remembered I was supposed to be at his for dinner tonight.”
Arthur falls to his side in the gap Merlin’s left behind and lets out a breath. “Right, of course. Yes.”
Finding his phone, Merlin stretches out again and tucks himself in beside Arthur with apologetic eyes in the harsh light of the screen. Arthur smiles, returning an open hand to his chest, and Merlin is reduced to a quivering heap all over again as the dial tone sounds in his ear.
“You forgetful bastard,” Gwaine’s voice comes through as soon as he picks up, and Merlin quickly shoves a hand to cover Arthur’s mouth as he hears an intake of breath from that direction.
“Yeah I know, I know. Got tied up with - Gaius. Working, you know.”
“You’ll die of stress, you will.”
“And you’ll be there to say ‘I told you so’ when I do. Listen - can I take a raincheck?”
There’s a short pause, then, “Yeah ‘course - you all right, mate? You sound a little -“
“Yeah, fine. Fine. Never better.” Never mind the hitch in his voice as the hand on his chest lowers to rest on his thigh.
“… Are you -“
“I’ll catch you later, yeah?” Merlin bites out, and doesn’t even wait for a response as he throws his phone to the ground and Arthur wrenches his mouth away from Merlin’s hand.
Temporarily blinded by the white light from his phone, Merlin can only imagine the lopsided grin Arthur must be wearing right now, one hand supporting his head, resting on his elbow, and the other stroking Merlin’s thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re an awful person,” he breathes.
Arthur is just there in the dark all of a sudden, his lips against Merlin’s neck, when the moment is totally ruined by loud, boyish laughter from both parties. Arthur rolls on top of Merlin again, their eyes slowly readjusting in the faint light, and Merlin pushes against his shoulders in a vague, pathetic attempt at shoving him off. Arthur presses their mouths together, softer this time, none of the urgency from earlier, and Merlin delights in the gentle, leisurely pace of the touch.
“I think we should get cleaned up,” Merlin says with a smile and a sharp inhale, and can’t help but laugh all over again when he sees the bright glint of Arthur’s toothy grin and the playful light in his eyes. And it all just feels so surreal that Merlin gives up on trying to explain it.
*~*
The week that follows is one of the strangest of Merlin’s life.
He feels as though he’s been accidentally dating Arthur for the past two weeks, taking life as it’s dealt out, and now he’s doing it on purpose and not sure how to go about it. It’s the strangest feeling in the world to wake up that next morning in his creaky bed with Arthur wrapped around him and not making fun of him. It’s even weirder to share a coffee with him, to see him walk out of the shower with a spare towel wrapped around his waist. To lean against the doorframe to the bathroom and watch him shrug into his rumpled shirt that Merlin’s recovered from the floor with a dubious once-over, and to lend him an obviously too small polo instead because Merlin doesn’t have an iron.
It’s nice to have someone to share a morning with, even if Merlin forgets where to put his feet because he’s running on auto-pilot and isn’t used to the company, and Arthur doesn’t know where anything is so there’s a lot of cross-flat shouting. There are some raised eyebrows over Merlin’s careless decision to wear his brown cardigan again, and he changes it to a less moth-eaten black one without a word.
“Where would you be without me?” Arthur says as he toes his shoes on.
Merlin flips him the finger. Arthur will learn that he’s not a morning person.
And when Arthur goes off for his Sunday meeting with a grumble and a groan and a goodbye kiss that might go for too long and might make him look more ruffled than he already is, Merlin thinks that quite frankly he doesn’t give a damn how weird this is. It’s definitely the better kind of weird. The unexpectedly wonderful kind.
And so what if he can’t wipe off that dorky grin from the second Arthur steps on his train right up to when he’s knocking on Gaius’s door? So what if an old man gives him a wide berth in the near-empty train carriage? So what if Gaius looks about ready to fall over when Merlin shoves three books in his hands and proclaims, “Good morning!”
He puts the books down by the foot of the staircase and says, curious and worried, “You haven’t said that to me since you were at least twelve, my boy. What’s gotten into you?”
Merlin just looks through the window, eyes bright, and shrugs. “Nothing. Just had a good weekend.”
Gaius raises an eyebrow and shuffles over to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. “Well don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re only halfway through, yet.”
“Aaah, but I know it’s going to be a good one.”
“Do you, now?”
Merlin drops himself into an old rickety chair, says nothing, and ignores Gaius’s concerned gaze as he leans back on two legs.
“Right, well, thank you for the books, Merlin. We can get started right away.” He pauses as Merlin’s face falls. “That is why you came here, isn’t it?”
Merlin’s chair falls back onto all four legs and he grumbles out an affirmative, but not before a whiny, “Can’t we just have some tea first? A bite to eat? It is the weekend, after all.”
Gaius’s eyebrow does its magic and before long there is a plate of biscuits and a teapot before them, but almost lost amongst the files Gaius has brought out and the books spread about like a bomb’s gone off. Merlin feels his good mood slipping away as he tries his damndest to compare texts, find proof to support either the original or replica theory, and eventually gives up with a huff, almost wishing for straight translations again. Truly, he’s only using a quarter of his brain power. For the last two hours the other three quarters have been stuck replaying last night’s events on a never ending loop, rolling over and over in his mind. He can’t escape the feel of Arthur’s hands on him, the burn of the sofa at his back, the force of his kisses -
“Hand me that book there, could you?”
Merlin jolts back to reality and fumbles with the pen in his hands for a moment. “Er - this - this one?”
Gaius just looks at him, holds out his hand, and carries on once he’s got what he wants.
Not five minutes later and Merlin can hear Arthur’s gruff voice in his hear repeating his name, the sharp breaths, the astonished smile when they finally kissed. He’s zoning out, pretending to be writing but really just doodling all over the page
“You’ll be needing this one, I think, Merlin.”
He glances down, sees that his hand has, entirely of its own accord, attempted to write what is obviously Arthur’s name like a crushing ten year old girl, and looks hurriedly back up to Gaius. “Right - yes. Thank you.”
He takes the proffered book, pushes his head into his hands and forces his eyes to focus on the words that insist on slipping away from him. He gets maybe five words written down in favour of ‘original’ before the image of Arthur tugging his creased shirt onto his shoulders, smiling up at Merlin through his damp fringe, and murmuring, “I take it we’re still on for tonight, then?” is plaguing his mind’s eye. And god, if that is not the most perfect mixture of nervous and confident and demanding and hesitant and beautiful all at once then Merlin doesn’t -
“What the devil is wrong with you today?”
Merlin jumps a foot in the air, smashing his knee on the underside of the table and cursing loudly. “Nothing! Nothing. I’m fine. Just - stressed.”
Gaius clearly doesn’t believe him - Merlin was never expecting him to - and he’s starting to develop a perfectly rational fear of those eyebrows seeing into his soul. Suddenly Gaius adopts a very thoughtful air about him and taps at his chin with the butt of his pen, wondering, “How’s that young man you used to complain about until you were blue in the face?” He pretends to think for a moment, staring out the kitchen window. “What was his name?”
Merlin’s face falls and he knows he’s being strung along, knows he’s probably walked right into it, so he supplies, voice meek, “Uh - Arthur?”
The old man’s face lights up comically. “That’s the one! What’s he up to? Still bothering you?”
Merlin shifts in his seat, awkward. “Erm - he’s -“
“Turned out to be not so bad after all?”
Gaius isn’t looking at him, just raising those eyebrows over some loose pages and looking twelve different kinds of smug. Merlin smiles knowingly, gives it all up because there’s no escaping the fact that Gaius knows everything. He breathes out a short, silent laugh and says simply, “Yes.”
Gaius looks up then, and his eyes have that shining, proud look to them as he nods, “I thought as much.”
Merlin sighs, rolls his eyes, and takes it in his stride like he’s had to many times before. Then Gaius adds, “Your mother will be happy for you,” and the thought of Arthur sitting in their rundown old home drinking tea while his dotty mother pulls out the baby photos again is something he immediately decides he needs to put off for as long as possible, if not forever.
On the train ride home, Merlin toys with his phone in his pocket, thoughtful. Another strange thing is that he doesn’t feel like telling Gwen. He doesn’t feel like telling anyone, but at the same time he wants to shout it from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Shout what he doesn’t know, but shouting with that smile on his face in general seems like an agreeable thing to do at the moment, as an accurate summation of his feelings at the very least. He’s not even sure he’d be able to articulate the previous day’s events in anything other than ‘ngh’ for Gwen to understand anyway, so he decides to keep it to himself.
He knows in the back of his overactive mind he’s still panicking that it was all some cruel, elaborate dream created by his desperate subconscious, and he has for certain lost himself in a self-induced parallel universe - but then he gets a text from Arthur as he throws his jacket on the kitchen bench.
Bored. Hope you are too.
Merlin wonders about that parallel universe theory, because if that is indeed the case, then he’s a little disappointed in his subconscious’s lack of effort to make Arthur a likeable and/or decent person. But he smiles in spite of it all, still ignores the bastard, and carries on through to the bathroom. It’s ten minutes later when he’s just stepping into the shower that he hears his phone go off a second time.
You are entirely at fault for my
inability to concentrate. You
and all your moaning.
Merlin goes red, grins as he stands with one half in the shower to test the temperature and the other half out, texting a reply.
Go away, I’m in the shower.
It’s not until he’s clean and dry that he sees the I hate you message waiting for him, and another strange thing to note is how it makes his insides curl with warmth and a sharp laugh bubble out of his chest.
Everything seems to be coming together, in a weird, unbelievable way.
“God that went for ever,” Arthur groans as he charges through the door right on time. “You look amazing.” And in a matter of seconds Merlin finds himself swept up into a kiss to rival those in fairytales and not quite sure how it came about. It leaves him breathless and bewildered and walking on air regardless, and he barely manages a, “You’re not so bad yourself,” in reply.
Arthur grins, and Merlin is delighted to note that he’s changed out of the formidable suit and tie and gone for something much warmer, more casual - something Merlin doesn’t feel so inadequate when sitting beside. No doubt it’s still absurdly expensive, probably cotton woven from gold-plated… Egyptians or whatever, but at least it’s not so intimidating to look at. In fact it’s very nice to look at. He’s not sure he’ll ever get over Arthur in v-neck shirts. Ever.
“Morgana says hi, by the way,” Arthur says (with an added smirk that reads ‘I saw that’) as Merlin holds the door open for him.
He looks back, closing the wonky door and forcing the key to turn in the sticky lock. “Yeah? Weren’t you at -?”
“And my father wants to meet you.”
Merlin freezes. “… Sorry?”
“Yes. He says you sound very interesting. “
“Oka-ay…?”
“But my father’s use of the word ‘interesting’ usually means he doesn’t - er - doesn’t approve. Wants to know why you shelve books.”
“Why I - oh my god. He’s -“
“He’s not me. I’m not him.” And his eyes are so desperately earnest and trying to hide it that Merlin has to rest a soft hand on his arm to reassure him. Reassure him of what he’s not entirely sure, and he might even be reassuring himself in some convoluted fashion - but it seems like the right thing to do when Arthur relaxes the tiniest amount at his touch.
Merlin gives him a small, exasperated smile. “Morgana’s a sneaky one, isn’t she?”
Arthur breathes a barely audible sigh of relief and starts off down the stairs, Merlin close behind, and shrugs, “She never forgets a shirt.”
Merlin snorts in amusement at Arthur’s quick smile thrown over his shoulder - then has a very sobering thought. “We’re not - we’re not going to have dinner with him tonight, are we? Your father? Because -”
“Good lord, no,” Arthur interrupts, looking well and truly disgusted as they reach the landing. “Had enough of him today, thank you very much.”
“Oh good, good,” Merlin breathes, following Arthur out the front door and into the cool sunset. “Because you can’t - you can’t spring that on me.” The attempt at not sounding pathetic doesn’t really pay off.
Arthur stops and turns to face him, a hand softly resting against his chest. Despite the height advantage Merlin feels so small under that gaze, suddenly all too serious, and he cowers in on himself regardless of his best efforts to put up the strong front that Arthur seems to be drawing out of him lately.
“I wouldn’t, ever, surprise you like that,” is all the explanation Arthur gives, but the way he says it makes Merlin think that either one of his friends has warned him against unwelcome surprises, or he’s not as blind to others as previously believed and has worked out that Merlin doesn’t just get panic attacks in bathrooms at expensive Japanese restaurants. He bets it’s the former, but has a sneaking suspicion that Arthur is more perceptive and considerate than anyone thinks.
Merlin’s not quite sure what to say in response either way, so he smiles a hesitant, nervous smile that he hopes is more reassuring than it feels, nudges Arthur with his shoulder and lets it take the place of the very sincere thank you he wants to say.
“Didn’t you have a meeting this morning?” he asks instead, stepping into the waiting car and feeling that familiar certainty that he doesn’t belong in something so expensive.
Arthur looks across at him, expression grim. “Yes indeed. I feel it’s the most accurate way to describe breakfast with my father and Morgana. In work meetings I spend a lot of time telling people what to do, Morgana spends a lot of time arguing and everyone tries to calm us down. When we meet with my father, he spends a lot of time telling us what to do, Morgana argues, and I act as the mediator between the two hot-headed idiots.”
Merlin doesn’t think it polite to mention how any meal with his mother or Gaius or both is always full of laughter and jokes, light-hearted banter and probably a bit too much toilet humour for the dinner table, much to his mother’s disgust. So he settles with a non-committal “Fair enough,” and leaves it as something Arthur will, given time, share when he’s ready.
While there are no panic attacks in expensive bathrooms this time (possibly because Arthur has a very firm grip on his hand and keeps shooting him concerned looks), there is a minor one when Merlin finally gets a chance to see Arthur’s house, because he is way in over his head and what could he possibly have that Arthur wants? He couldn’t see the townhouse properly from the outside, but now that Arthur has flicked on the entrance light and it’s spilling out into the sitting room, Merlin feels so inadequate he’s not sure he’ll ever recover. It’s not glass and white and stainless steel - not what he was expecting - but it’s classic. It’s clean lines and polished floorboards and high ceilings and paintings in every room. It’s leather sofas and hardwood coffee tables, an enormous fireplace and a kitchen the size of Merlin’s entire flat - even though he’s positive Arthur’s never cooked a day in his life. There are so many books on the walls Merlin feels his jaw dropping in surprise, one corner of the sitting room is absolutely covered in photographs and papers and books and notes that it reminds Merlin of his times with Gaius, and everything has a warm, deep, earthen feel. There are photos on dressers and mantelpieces and deformed, artistic tables, photos of children that can only be Arthur and Morgana, a few with someone who must be a younger Lance, and one or two with a bunch of beefy looking boys in football jerseys who look as though they’ve just rolled around in the dirt and had a thoroughly good time.
But if he’s going to be honest, Merlin barely gets ten seconds to take all of it in before he’s being bodily removed and dragged upstairs into Arthur’s enormous bedroom, the bedside lamp throwing a pale glow over their skin and hair and Arthur’s eyelashes as their breaths mingle and fingers tangle together on the bedspread. But it’s gentle, soft, less desperate than before because they know the other isn’t running away now. They have all the time in the world to walk their fingers from the other’s neck to the small of their back, to press light, delicate kisses to every inch of skin they uncover with slow, deliberate movements. And they don’t need to rush their kisses, exploring instead of demanding, giving more and more all the time, nor do they skim on the details.
There is so much detail that Merlin aches. He aches to count every dark fleck in Arthur’s blue eyes, to record the seconds it takes for him to release the breath he’s been holding ever since Merlin began kissing down his chest, and to imprint the image of Arthur’s face, flushed cheeks and bitten lips, into his memory without fault. He takes note of every sensitive point he can find and learns just how much he loves to hear Arthur’s moans, starting out as a deep rumble in the depths of his chest and rolling upwards to escape in a quiet breath of raw sound.
And Merlin discovers how intensely he loves Arthur’s hands when they dance down his thighs, how much he loves, loves Arthur’s smile when it comes from overhead, bewildered but so unmistakably pleased, like he’s wondering how on earth Merlin got there but certainly happier for it.
And how did Merlin get here? How did Merlin end up tangled with Arthur a second night in a row, after a day of wanting nothing but this warmth? He has a vague memory of a painting being involved, and perhaps there were some girls who thought they knew what was best and a handsome man reciting poetry on a deck but it’s all fuzzy, all being forgotten in a haze of it doesn’t matter because Arthur’s mouth is the centre of Merlin’s world now and he can’t spare thought for anything other than now and yes and Arthur. Fingers getting lost in golden hair and tugging, tugging hard and nails digging into thighs and then - and then - and then - nothing.
Nothing but Arthur’s smile and his lips breathing against his own and then looking down at him, looking down at the most beautiful man he has ever seen and knowing, loud and clear, that Arthur is his. However they ended up here, whatever happened along the way, the fact is that they’re here again and they will be many times over. Merlin will watch Arthur’s face twist in pleasure and feel those strong hands gripping his shoulders tight. Merlin will feel smooth skin beneath his palms and know just when to twist and when to let go, when to breathe in and when to lean down and nip at that strong, exposed neck.
There will always be hands grappling for a condom and Arthur’s gravelly voice whispering, “Please, can I -?” among their loud, short breaths and Merlin will always nod. Merlin will always agree and arch in pleasure and wrap his long legs around Arthur’s waist because this is where he belongs now. He belongs in this twisted embrace of bodies, lips insistent and fingers bruising and smooth hot skin so vast they almost don’t know what to do with it all. This place of deep sighs and hitching breaths, of God, Merlin, you - and Arthur, Arth- oh and yes.
And there will always be that moment where they look at each other, smile like the fools they feel and Arthur will go to say something like “Well that was a step up from last time,” or “I’d high five that.” And Merlin will most likely interrupt with a shrug and an “Eh, eight out of ten,” and laugh hysterically as Arthur looks at him like he’s completely deranged. He might be, Merlin thinks, just a little bit, because for someone so afraid of intimacy and all its possible side effects, he couldn’t be more comfortable than he is now, lying on Arthur’s bed, naked in the dim light, limbs stretched out and skin touching everywhere it can, catching their breath and being generally very pleased with themselves and unable to look away.
It’s a giant step forward, Merlin acknowledges, but he just shakes his head in disbelieving delight at who he’s walking with.
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[Part 5]