FIC: "And So It Begins," Merlin/Arthur, PG-13
Title: And So It Begins
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: schmoopiness. Brush thoroughly to avoid tooth decay.
Summary: In which there is snogging, mild humiliation, a long car ride, a proposal, and a happily-as-ever-after.
EDIT: I will write a Merlin ficlet on the topic/kink of your choosing for anyone who can tell me just what the FUCK went down re: Bradley James and Facebook and an anon meme that has since been locked. I want DETAILS, people. Or just, you know, for someone to tell me wtf is going on. (But mostly details. Creepy, creepy details. Because now I HAVE to know. GODDAMN IT FANDOM, THIS IS YOUR FAULT.)
When he finally decides to marry Arthur, or ceremonially commit to him, or whatever it is they decide to call it, it is, in the end, stupidly inevitable.
They spend the weekend at Merlin’s mother’s house, out in the country. The first night, after they’ve been out “buying groceries” in the backseat of his mother’s car like teenagers for nearly an hour, Hunith spends exactly four seconds blinking at them with a stunned, somewhat amused expression. Merlin’s shirt is hiked up his chest, and Arthur is laying the cradle of his legs, their mouths rubbed pink and swollen.
Then she smiles and pointedly looks away, turning her attention to the sacks of produce she came outside to fetch from the boot.
"Dinner will be ready in half an hour," she tells them, and goes back into the house.
“That was my mother, man, my mother,” Merlin says with subdued horror. He keeps having post-traumatic flashes of the time she caught him wanking when he was thirteen, and thinks this could, feasibly, be even more mortifying than that once the shock has worn off.
Arthur snorts, and it is not terribly attractive. “Oh, please, as if she didn’t already know. Even if you hadn’t already told her, you own neckerchiefs, Merlin. Plural.”
Merlin glares. “Alright, one, knowing, on an intellectual level, that your son is a poof is quite different from seeing it in your backseat. And two, do we really need to discuss the blatant homoeroticism of fencing?”
“It’s a family tradition. We’ve been over this,” Arthur says, sullenly.
“’Course,” Merlin says, suddenly a little charmed by Arthur’s dour expression, and dear god, isn’t that so very indicative of the way this whole mutual-attraction thing has clearly warped his brain?
Then, all thoughts of his mother’s apparent apathy in the face of her son’s very apparent, very literal shirt-lifting slip right out his ears as Arthur rubs his face against Merlin’s shoulder, restless and tactile, the way he gets when he’s not quite sure how to proceed. Before, when they were just Merlin and Arthur, a "you" and an "I," and not an "us" or a "we," it was always shoulder-punches and manly tussles. Merlin is grateful they've progressed since then, because Arthur is freakishly strong and Merlin does, despite his adamant protests, bruise like a small, anemic girl.
“Besides, your mother adores me,” Arthur says looking up at him with renewed confidence, eyes bright in the orange light of dusk. Merlin threads his fingers idly through Arthur’s hair, twirling it into little spikes at the nape of his neck where it’s sweat-damp in the thick August heat.
“She called you 'boisterous,' once. Coming from her, that’s close to profanity,” Merlin says, releasing Arthur’s hair in favor of tracing the tendons in his neck with gentle, curious fingers. He knows this skin, better than he knows the back of his own hand, probably, but somehow he never tires of exploring it, because he wants to, because he can.
“She told me to call her ‘mum,’” Arthur counters, with raised eyebrows that say now will you please stop being ridiculous.
Merlin rolls his eyes, too content in the moment to work up any real fight. It’s too quiet to argue, anyway, the sort of quiet that’s not really quiet at all, but the white noise of insects and distant traffic, the sounds of summer on the rough edges of suburbia.
When they finally peal themselves off the cracked leather seats of Hunith’s station wagon, their t-shirts stick to their skin where their chests were pressed together. That evening, when Arthur knocks softly at the door to Merlin’s childhood bedroom, it is neither surprising nor particularly sensible that Merlin lets him in. They both seem to have twice the usual number of limbs when crammed into a twin bed. Still, when Merlin wakes up the next morning, the stripes of bright morning sun across Arthur’s cheek and the way his leg is thrown carelessly across Merlin’s hip are worth the cramp in Merlin’s left arm. They’re worth a lot, actually, and it all gives Merlin a strange, vulnerable feeling, like Arthur’s slipped through a membrane, slowly and then all of a sudden.
Since all this mutual insanity began, Merlin’s felt as though the world has been out of focus, blurred by the soppy, punch-drunk filter of whatever he and Arthur are doing. Now, quick as a wide yawn and Arthur’s clear blue eyes blinking up at him, still half-asleep, everything’s thrown back into focus, but it’s all different, somehow. Arthur is a focal point, for one thing. But everything else has shifted, too, because he has this strange, invincible feeling, like as long as he has Arthur’s pleased smiles to guide him, and Arthur’s strong hands to hold him together, they can do anything in the world.
They met their first month at uni in a class on international relations or something equally important and tedious. Arthur, as it turned out, was less interested in diplomacy and more interested in telling people what to do, and he was shuffled into the business school at his father’s behest. Merlin hated memorizing stupid things said by useless old Greco-Roman wankers who were clearly taking the piss. He transferred to computer sciences spring term, and he and Arthur never shared another class. But they still saw each other, hung out occasionally, and eventually started seeing each other. It happened sort of awkwardly, with a good deal of flailing and teeth-clacking, and Arthur’s expensive rug fell victim to a curry that got catapulted by somebody’s knee, though neither claimed responsibility. They try not to talk about it, that first half-giddy, half-mad evening, but Merlin thinks it’ll be a nice story to tell down the road, if anyone should ever ask.
And fuck, that’s the sort of thinking all this readily available sex has fostered.
Merlin gets to spend exactly two days pondering what to do with this newfound wisdom that his perfectly boring life is actually a lot more wonderful than he’d ever expected, and that keeping Arthur in it is probably vital. Then it’s time to throw their bags in the back of Arthur's absolutely embarrassing convertible (with the top up, because it might rain and I’m not sacrificing dry clothing so you can look strategically wind blown when we get home. To our house. Where no one else will see you.) and get back to their lives, which involve more bill-paying and last minute trips to the shop than serious contemplation.
The proposal itself is bourn of a misplaced map, a three hour detour, and Merlin shouting “Dear fuck, Arthur, those are sheep, those are sheep!” as they weave down a dark country road. Arthur snaps “I see the sheep, you idiot,” to which Merlin lies, “Of course. I was just making sure you hadn’t mistaken them for a living obstacle course,” in his most condescending tone.
When Arthur swerves to the side of the road, it isn’t too surprising. Arthur threw him out of the car once before, and while he came back about three minutes later, he’s proven he’s willing to commit to a dramatic gesture. What Merlin does not expect is for Arthur to reach across his lap, yank the glove compartment open, and grab a small, unassuming black box. He takes the box when Arthur throws it into his lap, and the next minute or so is spent with Merlin staring at the ring in confusion and then in stunned confusion. Arthur mostly looks at the steering wheel, as though it’s done something to offend him.
“So?” Arthur says, half-impatient, half-uncertain. It’s tricky to hear, the uncertainty, but Merlin’s had a lot of practice.
Merlin is silent for another moment, just because he can be.
“Well, obviously,” he says, and yes, perhaps it comes out a little breathy, but soon they’re both smiling like lunatics anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter. Arthur mutters something about Merlin being a girl, but Merlin doesn’t have time to formulate a witty retort before Arthur is surging forward, pulling Merlin as close as possible in the cramped space, and kissing him like a crescendo. Arthur’s mouth is soft and familiar and possessive, and Merlin’s whole body feels tingly and light with Arthur anchoring him to the earth.
“You should put it on,” Arthur says after a long moment of shared silence.
Merlin schools his expression, manages to all but suppress his smile as he fumbles with the box and slips the simple silver band onto his finger. It’s bright against his skin, and Merlin’s lungs feel heavy with promise, with all that they will have together, his skin breaking into gooseflesh at the vastness of this, just a piece of metal and a promise. He feels silly and blindly grateful. He feels, somehow, like this is supposed to happen.
At first they’d been almost sick with it, the free-fall, stomach-swoop giddiness of it. They hid out in Arthur’s enormous flat for a week at Christmas, living on take away and whatever strange and inexplicable grocery-like substances Arthur kept on hand. Mostly, he had alcohol and things with which to mix it, but neither of them cared. Four days in, Merlin, in his unremitting prying, found a small plastic pouch, which turned out to contain the remnants of Arthur’s misspent youth (which, incidentally, lasted well into his twenties) in the form of about two-hundred quid worth of spliff. Despite the questionable state of it, and no doubt thanks to Arthur’s meticulous air-tight storage methods, neither of them fully remembers the following day or so, only waking up with digestive-hangovers and a series of increasingly bizarre playlists programmed into Arthur’s iTunes.
Even later, after they’d gotten used to one another and Arthur started leaving his dirty clothes all over Merlin's flat and stocking his freezer with Merlin's favourite ice-cream instead of his own, there were still moments when Arthur would smile and Merlin would realize to his absolute terror that he was probably biologically incapable of loving anyone quite the way he loved Arthur Pendragon, God help them both.
So, really, it's been a long time coming. Six years, in fact. But that doesn't make it any less overwhelming, this tingling beneath Merlin’s skin that says this is it.
Arthur wrote him a list once, during the Epic Argument That Was Not a Fight of 2007, outlining the pros and cons of their "continued association." Under “Reasons to tell you to fuck off and go shag your thesis,” he made mention of Merlin's messiness, his ill-temper in the mornings, his bony everything, and his clothes, in general. The “Reasons to let you stay” column said, "I love you, you pretentious fucking wanker." Merlin still keeps it in his wallet, creased and worn at the edges. Now, it seems, Arthur loves him enough to marry his sharp elbows and inability to clean.
"You know, we're going to have to tell your father. Someday," Merlin says after a minute.
"Yes, I am aware," Arthur replies, stretching his big arms behind him despite the lack of head space. "I thought I might send him some sort of memo. A fax, perhaps. That way he'll be sure to get it, and I won't be in the room for him to yell at me."
"'Dear father, please find attached: one invitation to my big queer wedding. Hope you can make it. Love, Arthur,'' Merlin says.
"Don't be ridiculous. If I sign it 'love' he'll assume it's a forgery. Besides, it's not like we're doing this tonight. There'll be plenty of time for informing all concerned parties while you're picking out flower arrangements or linen colors or something."
Merlin elbows him from across the car, soft and prodding, trying to convey offense and not amusement. He suspects it doesn’t work.
A few seconds later, a car horn blaring past reminds them they're barely off the road, so Arthur shifts into gear and drives away, hand resting on Merlin's thigh the whole way.
When they get home, they take a nap. When they wake up an hour later, Arthur pins Merlin to the bed and whispers terrible, lovely things into his ear, hot and close, while Merlin sighs and shivers and feels the rest of their lives begin.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: schmoopiness. Brush thoroughly to avoid tooth decay.
Summary: In which there is snogging, mild humiliation, a long car ride, a proposal, and a happily-as-ever-after.
EDIT: I will write a Merlin ficlet on the topic/kink of your choosing for anyone who can tell me just what the FUCK went down re: Bradley James and Facebook and an anon meme that has since been locked. I want DETAILS, people. Or just, you know, for someone to tell me wtf is going on. (But mostly details. Creepy, creepy details. Because now I HAVE to know. GODDAMN IT FANDOM, THIS IS YOUR FAULT.)
When he finally decides to marry Arthur, or ceremonially commit to him, or whatever it is they decide to call it, it is, in the end, stupidly inevitable.
They spend the weekend at Merlin’s mother’s house, out in the country. The first night, after they’ve been out “buying groceries” in the backseat of his mother’s car like teenagers for nearly an hour, Hunith spends exactly four seconds blinking at them with a stunned, somewhat amused expression. Merlin’s shirt is hiked up his chest, and Arthur is laying the cradle of his legs, their mouths rubbed pink and swollen.
Then she smiles and pointedly looks away, turning her attention to the sacks of produce she came outside to fetch from the boot.
"Dinner will be ready in half an hour," she tells them, and goes back into the house.
“That was my mother, man, my mother,” Merlin says with subdued horror. He keeps having post-traumatic flashes of the time she caught him wanking when he was thirteen, and thinks this could, feasibly, be even more mortifying than that once the shock has worn off.
Arthur snorts, and it is not terribly attractive. “Oh, please, as if she didn’t already know. Even if you hadn’t already told her, you own neckerchiefs, Merlin. Plural.”
Merlin glares. “Alright, one, knowing, on an intellectual level, that your son is a poof is quite different from seeing it in your backseat. And two, do we really need to discuss the blatant homoeroticism of fencing?”
“It’s a family tradition. We’ve been over this,” Arthur says, sullenly.
“’Course,” Merlin says, suddenly a little charmed by Arthur’s dour expression, and dear god, isn’t that so very indicative of the way this whole mutual-attraction thing has clearly warped his brain?
Then, all thoughts of his mother’s apparent apathy in the face of her son’s very apparent, very literal shirt-lifting slip right out his ears as Arthur rubs his face against Merlin’s shoulder, restless and tactile, the way he gets when he’s not quite sure how to proceed. Before, when they were just Merlin and Arthur, a "you" and an "I," and not an "us" or a "we," it was always shoulder-punches and manly tussles. Merlin is grateful they've progressed since then, because Arthur is freakishly strong and Merlin does, despite his adamant protests, bruise like a small, anemic girl.
“Besides, your mother adores me,” Arthur says looking up at him with renewed confidence, eyes bright in the orange light of dusk. Merlin threads his fingers idly through Arthur’s hair, twirling it into little spikes at the nape of his neck where it’s sweat-damp in the thick August heat.
“She called you 'boisterous,' once. Coming from her, that’s close to profanity,” Merlin says, releasing Arthur’s hair in favor of tracing the tendons in his neck with gentle, curious fingers. He knows this skin, better than he knows the back of his own hand, probably, but somehow he never tires of exploring it, because he wants to, because he can.
“She told me to call her ‘mum,’” Arthur counters, with raised eyebrows that say now will you please stop being ridiculous.
Merlin rolls his eyes, too content in the moment to work up any real fight. It’s too quiet to argue, anyway, the sort of quiet that’s not really quiet at all, but the white noise of insects and distant traffic, the sounds of summer on the rough edges of suburbia.
When they finally peal themselves off the cracked leather seats of Hunith’s station wagon, their t-shirts stick to their skin where their chests were pressed together. That evening, when Arthur knocks softly at the door to Merlin’s childhood bedroom, it is neither surprising nor particularly sensible that Merlin lets him in. They both seem to have twice the usual number of limbs when crammed into a twin bed. Still, when Merlin wakes up the next morning, the stripes of bright morning sun across Arthur’s cheek and the way his leg is thrown carelessly across Merlin’s hip are worth the cramp in Merlin’s left arm. They’re worth a lot, actually, and it all gives Merlin a strange, vulnerable feeling, like Arthur’s slipped through a membrane, slowly and then all of a sudden.
Since all this mutual insanity began, Merlin’s felt as though the world has been out of focus, blurred by the soppy, punch-drunk filter of whatever he and Arthur are doing. Now, quick as a wide yawn and Arthur’s clear blue eyes blinking up at him, still half-asleep, everything’s thrown back into focus, but it’s all different, somehow. Arthur is a focal point, for one thing. But everything else has shifted, too, because he has this strange, invincible feeling, like as long as he has Arthur’s pleased smiles to guide him, and Arthur’s strong hands to hold him together, they can do anything in the world.
They met their first month at uni in a class on international relations or something equally important and tedious. Arthur, as it turned out, was less interested in diplomacy and more interested in telling people what to do, and he was shuffled into the business school at his father’s behest. Merlin hated memorizing stupid things said by useless old Greco-Roman wankers who were clearly taking the piss. He transferred to computer sciences spring term, and he and Arthur never shared another class. But they still saw each other, hung out occasionally, and eventually started seeing each other. It happened sort of awkwardly, with a good deal of flailing and teeth-clacking, and Arthur’s expensive rug fell victim to a curry that got catapulted by somebody’s knee, though neither claimed responsibility. They try not to talk about it, that first half-giddy, half-mad evening, but Merlin thinks it’ll be a nice story to tell down the road, if anyone should ever ask.
And fuck, that’s the sort of thinking all this readily available sex has fostered.
Merlin gets to spend exactly two days pondering what to do with this newfound wisdom that his perfectly boring life is actually a lot more wonderful than he’d ever expected, and that keeping Arthur in it is probably vital. Then it’s time to throw their bags in the back of Arthur's absolutely embarrassing convertible (with the top up, because it might rain and I’m not sacrificing dry clothing so you can look strategically wind blown when we get home. To our house. Where no one else will see you.) and get back to their lives, which involve more bill-paying and last minute trips to the shop than serious contemplation.
The proposal itself is bourn of a misplaced map, a three hour detour, and Merlin shouting “Dear fuck, Arthur, those are sheep, those are sheep!” as they weave down a dark country road. Arthur snaps “I see the sheep, you idiot,” to which Merlin lies, “Of course. I was just making sure you hadn’t mistaken them for a living obstacle course,” in his most condescending tone.
When Arthur swerves to the side of the road, it isn’t too surprising. Arthur threw him out of the car once before, and while he came back about three minutes later, he’s proven he’s willing to commit to a dramatic gesture. What Merlin does not expect is for Arthur to reach across his lap, yank the glove compartment open, and grab a small, unassuming black box. He takes the box when Arthur throws it into his lap, and the next minute or so is spent with Merlin staring at the ring in confusion and then in stunned confusion. Arthur mostly looks at the steering wheel, as though it’s done something to offend him.
“So?” Arthur says, half-impatient, half-uncertain. It’s tricky to hear, the uncertainty, but Merlin’s had a lot of practice.
Merlin is silent for another moment, just because he can be.
“Well, obviously,” he says, and yes, perhaps it comes out a little breathy, but soon they’re both smiling like lunatics anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter. Arthur mutters something about Merlin being a girl, but Merlin doesn’t have time to formulate a witty retort before Arthur is surging forward, pulling Merlin as close as possible in the cramped space, and kissing him like a crescendo. Arthur’s mouth is soft and familiar and possessive, and Merlin’s whole body feels tingly and light with Arthur anchoring him to the earth.
“You should put it on,” Arthur says after a long moment of shared silence.
Merlin schools his expression, manages to all but suppress his smile as he fumbles with the box and slips the simple silver band onto his finger. It’s bright against his skin, and Merlin’s lungs feel heavy with promise, with all that they will have together, his skin breaking into gooseflesh at the vastness of this, just a piece of metal and a promise. He feels silly and blindly grateful. He feels, somehow, like this is supposed to happen.
At first they’d been almost sick with it, the free-fall, stomach-swoop giddiness of it. They hid out in Arthur’s enormous flat for a week at Christmas, living on take away and whatever strange and inexplicable grocery-like substances Arthur kept on hand. Mostly, he had alcohol and things with which to mix it, but neither of them cared. Four days in, Merlin, in his unremitting prying, found a small plastic pouch, which turned out to contain the remnants of Arthur’s misspent youth (which, incidentally, lasted well into his twenties) in the form of about two-hundred quid worth of spliff. Despite the questionable state of it, and no doubt thanks to Arthur’s meticulous air-tight storage methods, neither of them fully remembers the following day or so, only waking up with digestive-hangovers and a series of increasingly bizarre playlists programmed into Arthur’s iTunes.
Even later, after they’d gotten used to one another and Arthur started leaving his dirty clothes all over Merlin's flat and stocking his freezer with Merlin's favourite ice-cream instead of his own, there were still moments when Arthur would smile and Merlin would realize to his absolute terror that he was probably biologically incapable of loving anyone quite the way he loved Arthur Pendragon, God help them both.
So, really, it's been a long time coming. Six years, in fact. But that doesn't make it any less overwhelming, this tingling beneath Merlin’s skin that says this is it.
Arthur wrote him a list once, during the Epic Argument That Was Not a Fight of 2007, outlining the pros and cons of their "continued association." Under “Reasons to tell you to fuck off and go shag your thesis,” he made mention of Merlin's messiness, his ill-temper in the mornings, his bony everything, and his clothes, in general. The “Reasons to let you stay” column said, "I love you, you pretentious fucking wanker." Merlin still keeps it in his wallet, creased and worn at the edges. Now, it seems, Arthur loves him enough to marry his sharp elbows and inability to clean.
"You know, we're going to have to tell your father. Someday," Merlin says after a minute.
"Yes, I am aware," Arthur replies, stretching his big arms behind him despite the lack of head space. "I thought I might send him some sort of memo. A fax, perhaps. That way he'll be sure to get it, and I won't be in the room for him to yell at me."
"'Dear father, please find attached: one invitation to my big queer wedding. Hope you can make it. Love, Arthur,'' Merlin says.
"Don't be ridiculous. If I sign it 'love' he'll assume it's a forgery. Besides, it's not like we're doing this tonight. There'll be plenty of time for informing all concerned parties while you're picking out flower arrangements or linen colors or something."
Merlin elbows him from across the car, soft and prodding, trying to convey offense and not amusement. He suspects it doesn’t work.
A few seconds later, a car horn blaring past reminds them they're barely off the road, so Arthur shifts into gear and drives away, hand resting on Merlin's thigh the whole way.
When they get home, they take a nap. When they wake up an hour later, Arthur pins Merlin to the bed and whispers terrible, lovely things into his ear, hot and close, while Merlin sighs and shivers and feels the rest of their lives begin.