FIC - that fragile line - Bradley/Colin
*bites nails*
Alright, so I wrote a story about Bradley and Colin and then posted it anonymously. People seemed to, erm, not hate it. So, here goes nothing. Oh, and spoilers for Merlin, 3x05.
that fragile line
bradley/colin, ~1300 words
~written for chibirhm from this prompt at hermette's fu-a-thon.
::::
Four drinks in and Bradley's still not over it.
It's one thing to watch Colin onscreen and admire his sheer bloody talent as a fellow actor, but it's another thing all together to watch him fucking fall apart in front of him. On top of him. Beside him. Yeah, Bradley's promised Angel that he'll back all up off the swearing, but tonight it's fucking well not going to happen.
Plus, he never promised a thing about swearing in his mind.
Colin is... well, Colin's not jittery, but he's definitely not himself. He glances around the pub, then down at his pint, to Bradley, towards the loo, then starts the entire pattern again.
Here's the thing about today that Bradley just can't get over: all of it. The whole Merlin and Arthur storyline: the secrets, the bickering, the friendship. Some of it is pretty damn farfetched when you think about it. He's also half convinced that they keep Angel's tits on display in that dress of hers and him shirtless just so the viewers can't complain about everything. But when all is said and done, Merlin and Arthur are friends. And today, with Colin-as-Merlin above him, taunting, chanting, pleading... stroking his fucking back over and over and over again...
God, it was too much.
Not that Bradley hasn't thought about the connection between Arthur and Merlin before. Hell, it's what keeps him interested, to be honest. But he'd never realized quite how fragile it was. How easily dissolved. Bradley's never before considered what it might be like if something happened to Colin. What he would -- what he could -- do if something awful happened to Colin. Sort of makes him want to grab onto Colin and never let go.
Except that's not a line of thought he should entertain after two shots and a couple of pints.
Bradley tries to smile when Colin's glance grazes him again. "Bloody fucking day, yeah?"
"You wanna get outta here?"
"Yeah," Bradley agrees. More than anything.
::::
Bradley’s sitting on the chair in his hotel room, shredding the leftover serviettes that he can’t bear to throw away unused. Colin’s pacing. Neither one of them has said a word since they walked in.
Here's something Bradley doesn't understand: Colin can cry on command, no matter what the situation. The git is soft spoken, polite, and funny as bloody hell, but he doesn't talk about feelings. He’s one of the most even tempered people that Bradley’s ever met. How is it possible that he can just summon up tears like that? Bradley can count the number of times he's cried on one hand.
Well, one hand until today.
In the middle of the forest, in the middle of the day -- in the middle of pretending to be dying -- Colin sodding Morgan made him cry. So many takes. So many different ways of playing it. So many different camera angles. In every one, Colin held him in his arms, pressed his fingers along the planes of his back, and broke his fucking heart.
And now? Now they’re just... here.
“Christ, Colin, will you stop all that fucking pacing,” he growls. “You’re gonnna drive me round the bend.”
Colin stalks over to the bed and sits down, frowning slightly. Bradley leans back in the chair to grab the vodka, but it’s too far away and he overbalances: falling arse over teakettle onto the floor. When the initial surprise subsides he sees Colin standing with his hands awkwardly at his sides, his fingers are clenching and unclenching in loose fists.
Bradley stands up dizzily, reaching for the desk to steady himself, but then someone’s holding him upright. Colin. Holding him and just holding him and here he is around him, he’s Colin. Colin. Bradley grabs him back, clutches at him awkwardly, and holds on. He can feel Colin’s breath on his neck and he shuts his eyes. Moments from the day flash in his mind: staccato images, the rush of the wind, the sting of sweat and gnats, the sound of Colin’s roughened voice above him.
They don’t move for a long time.
He's here and he's not. Colin's heart beats against his chest and he breathes on his neck and Bradley doesn't let go. He doesn't let go and he doesn't stop, doesn't move, doesn't do anything but breathe this breath that keeps him tied in to Colin. He breathes and breathes and imagines every thought inside them spilling out and filling the room until they're drowning in everything they cannot say.
"Colin," he whispers.
Colin sighs heavily and slowly lets go. He steps backward and looks at Bradley.
“How do you do it, Cols?” Bradley asks honestly. “It’s so raw sometimes, y’know? And you just... no matter what... you always--”
His next words don't make it out. He could say they were swallowed, he could say they disappeared, or he could just say 'fuck it' and bloody well kiss back. So he does.
Oh, he does.
Bradley feels everything in his mind shift and doesn't fight it. It's the slowest series of kisses he's ever shared; it feels as though time has slowed down to examine every moment in detail. He feels a click in Colin's jaw and Colin's arms slide over his shoulders. He moves forward and touches Colin's hip, slides his hands down and opens his eyes to the burning desire inside him.
On the bed, now. Bradley has never kissed like this: eyes open, watching. Kisses are closed eye affairs. Or were. Now he watches Colin's jaw move and wonders why he's never opened his eyes before. Kissing is wholly different when you can see what you feel.
With no words and only himself, Colin anesthetizes every wound that the scene in the forest tore open. Bradley couldn't stop this now if Merlin himself appeared and unleashed his bad-ass wizardry upon the two of them.
His mind weaves patterns and poetry around them as Colin's lips slide wetly over his. It's entirely possible they've just invented a brand new color that artists will use to paint the world. Here's a word to describe it: bliss. Two more: rapture, euphoria. Bradley's a thesaurus in trainers and Colin's his polyhymnian muse.
And they have the whole night ahead of them.
Here's what Bradley wants: Colin. Of course, defining 'want' is another thing altogether.
But maybe that's a scene for another day.
::::
Alright, so I wrote a story about Bradley and Colin and then posted it anonymously. People seemed to, erm, not hate it. So, here goes nothing. Oh, and spoilers for Merlin, 3x05.
that fragile line
bradley/colin, ~1300 words
~written for chibirhm from this prompt at hermette's fu-a-thon.
::::
Four drinks in and Bradley's still not over it.
It's one thing to watch Colin onscreen and admire his sheer bloody talent as a fellow actor, but it's another thing all together to watch him fucking fall apart in front of him. On top of him. Beside him. Yeah, Bradley's promised Angel that he'll back all up off the swearing, but tonight it's fucking well not going to happen.
Plus, he never promised a thing about swearing in his mind.
Colin is... well, Colin's not jittery, but he's definitely not himself. He glances around the pub, then down at his pint, to Bradley, towards the loo, then starts the entire pattern again.
Here's the thing about today that Bradley just can't get over: all of it. The whole Merlin and Arthur storyline: the secrets, the bickering, the friendship. Some of it is pretty damn farfetched when you think about it. He's also half convinced that they keep Angel's tits on display in that dress of hers and him shirtless just so the viewers can't complain about everything. But when all is said and done, Merlin and Arthur are friends. And today, with Colin-as-Merlin above him, taunting, chanting, pleading... stroking his fucking back over and over and over again...
God, it was too much.
Not that Bradley hasn't thought about the connection between Arthur and Merlin before. Hell, it's what keeps him interested, to be honest. But he'd never realized quite how fragile it was. How easily dissolved. Bradley's never before considered what it might be like if something happened to Colin. What he would -- what he could -- do if something awful happened to Colin. Sort of makes him want to grab onto Colin and never let go.
Except that's not a line of thought he should entertain after two shots and a couple of pints.
Bradley tries to smile when Colin's glance grazes him again. "Bloody fucking day, yeah?"
"You wanna get outta here?"
"Yeah," Bradley agrees. More than anything.
::::
Bradley’s sitting on the chair in his hotel room, shredding the leftover serviettes that he can’t bear to throw away unused. Colin’s pacing. Neither one of them has said a word since they walked in.
Here's something Bradley doesn't understand: Colin can cry on command, no matter what the situation. The git is soft spoken, polite, and funny as bloody hell, but he doesn't talk about feelings. He’s one of the most even tempered people that Bradley’s ever met. How is it possible that he can just summon up tears like that? Bradley can count the number of times he's cried on one hand.
Well, one hand until today.
In the middle of the forest, in the middle of the day -- in the middle of pretending to be dying -- Colin sodding Morgan made him cry. So many takes. So many different ways of playing it. So many different camera angles. In every one, Colin held him in his arms, pressed his fingers along the planes of his back, and broke his fucking heart.
And now? Now they’re just... here.
“Christ, Colin, will you stop all that fucking pacing,” he growls. “You’re gonnna drive me round the bend.”
Colin stalks over to the bed and sits down, frowning slightly. Bradley leans back in the chair to grab the vodka, but it’s too far away and he overbalances: falling arse over teakettle onto the floor. When the initial surprise subsides he sees Colin standing with his hands awkwardly at his sides, his fingers are clenching and unclenching in loose fists.
Bradley stands up dizzily, reaching for the desk to steady himself, but then someone’s holding him upright. Colin. Holding him and just holding him and here he is around him, he’s Colin. Colin. Bradley grabs him back, clutches at him awkwardly, and holds on. He can feel Colin’s breath on his neck and he shuts his eyes. Moments from the day flash in his mind: staccato images, the rush of the wind, the sting of sweat and gnats, the sound of Colin’s roughened voice above him.
They don’t move for a long time.
He's here and he's not. Colin's heart beats against his chest and he breathes on his neck and Bradley doesn't let go. He doesn't let go and he doesn't stop, doesn't move, doesn't do anything but breathe this breath that keeps him tied in to Colin. He breathes and breathes and imagines every thought inside them spilling out and filling the room until they're drowning in everything they cannot say.
"Colin," he whispers.
Colin sighs heavily and slowly lets go. He steps backward and looks at Bradley.
“How do you do it, Cols?” Bradley asks honestly. “It’s so raw sometimes, y’know? And you just... no matter what... you always--”
His next words don't make it out. He could say they were swallowed, he could say they disappeared, or he could just say 'fuck it' and bloody well kiss back. So he does.
Oh, he does.
Bradley feels everything in his mind shift and doesn't fight it. It's the slowest series of kisses he's ever shared; it feels as though time has slowed down to examine every moment in detail. He feels a click in Colin's jaw and Colin's arms slide over his shoulders. He moves forward and touches Colin's hip, slides his hands down and opens his eyes to the burning desire inside him.
On the bed, now. Bradley has never kissed like this: eyes open, watching. Kisses are closed eye affairs. Or were. Now he watches Colin's jaw move and wonders why he's never opened his eyes before. Kissing is wholly different when you can see what you feel.
With no words and only himself, Colin anesthetizes every wound that the scene in the forest tore open. Bradley couldn't stop this now if Merlin himself appeared and unleashed his bad-ass wizardry upon the two of them.
His mind weaves patterns and poetry around them as Colin's lips slide wetly over his. It's entirely possible they've just invented a brand new color that artists will use to paint the world. Here's a word to describe it: bliss. Two more: rapture, euphoria. Bradley's a thesaurus in trainers and Colin's his polyhymnian muse.
And they have the whole night ahead of them.
Here's what Bradley wants: Colin. Of course, defining 'want' is another thing altogether.
But maybe that's a scene for another day.
::::