fest fic: Nineteen Years and Counting (pt 1)

[merlinmpreg_mod]

Title: Nineteen Years and Counting
Author/Artist: herbeautifullie
Prompt: #40
Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur
Word Count/Art Medium: 30k(ish)
Rating: NC-17
Contains (Highlight to view): *Modern Magic AU, knotting w/o Alpha/Omega dynamics and (obviously) mpreg.*
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: My amazingly lovely beta (who shall remain anonymous because that would give me away!) really did me a huge favour with this so I’d like to thank her, first and foremost for her excellent job and for pushing me to get it done! I hope I captured the best pieces of your prompt, singlemomsummer, and made it something you’ll enjoy! I’m pretty confident but there’s always room for error - I’m crossing my fingers for very little error here, though!
Summary: Merlin has a lot of reasons to dislike Prince Arthur, even if his mum doesn't understand half of them. He's not going to become Arthur's friend, go to Arthur's birthday gatherings or stop by Clarence House on one of his rare days off to 'say hello' because Arthur is weird, okay? He's weird and Merlin wants nothing to do with him or his strange tendencies.

If only Merlin had listened to his own advice...

He doesn't have anything against the royal family per se. But it's hard to really like the people who run your mum ragged on a regular basis and use things like sending you to a decent school on their bill as a reason to make her keep coming back for more.

He can't blame them either - not really. She's always been damn good at her job. He grows up in Clarence House, peeking his head around the swinging kitchen door and watching her half-run , half-stumble down the corridor to serve tea as a child. He’s even been caught staring and shooed away to 'finish your homework and study hard, Merlin. Don't want to be serving tea for a living, do you?' before she disappears around a corner, only to come back sighing and tired, pressing a kiss to his forehead and reminding him how much she loves him. After, she moves on to the next meal or the list of things Prince Arthur or Lady Morgana needs done by the end of the day and, no matter how tired she obviously is by the time they walk home, she never complains.

Most of his interaction with the family is limited to the moments when he catches Prince Arthur peeking from around the edge of the kitchen door, blue eyes bright and curious, staring at Merlin while he does his homework or has a late afternoon snack before he and his mum go home. For the most part he attempts to ignore the Prince, but there are rare occasions when he glances up at the movement in the corner of his eye and is lost in a sea of royal blue , pale lashes and an entirely too perfect face that screams of the same royalty that his mum runs ragged for, lives and struggles to serve.

He doesn't really understand why she does it until later. When he's six and staring at Prince Arthur's awed expression, lips parting and fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen door he's peeking through for dear life, Merlin doesn't realise that his mum wakes up early, works late and never gets a good night’s sleep because she's taking care of needy, rich people like Prince Arthur to make Merlin's life better. He can only see the little boy his mum dedicates more hours a day to than him and thinks it's just not - fair.

He's even more angry when he's eight and Prince Arthur is ten, flaxen-haired and loud with his demands as he walks past the laundry room and complains about the tea he spilled on his favourite shirt, the stain it'll leave if they don't hurry up and get - it - out.

Merlin doesn't intentionally hit Prince Arthur in the face with his pencil. "Maybe the spy should learn to time his arrivals more strategically," he pouts when his mum points her finger angrily at his face and asks what, exactly, he was thinking when he chucked a pencil at the bloody Prince of Wales.

It's the first time he's heard her curse and, for a second, he's awe-struck and nervous and incapable of forming thoughts, much less words because... Christ, his mum cursed. What was the world coming to?

Again, more slowly and a little less sure of himself, he repeats, "Mum, I threw the pencil at the door; he pushed the door open. He's always doing that - spying. It's his own fault."

She makes him apologise to the red-faced, confused-looking Prince the next day and though Prince Arthur doesn't say much as far as accepting his apology, he does stare stupidly at Merlin's ragged trainers and the loose thread at the edge of his sweatshirt. It makes Merlin's face and neck flush, embarrassment flooding his chest as he looks away and, so quietly that his mum can't hear, mumbles, "you great prat" after his insincere, "I apologise, your Highness, for hitting you in the face with a pencil."

The 'no matter how much you deserved it' is heavily implied, even if his mum did make him scratch that part of his apology out.

A few months later, mid-summer when the air is humid and the clouds sometimes leave them a little sun, his mum returns from her Saturday shopping and, with more enthusiasm than he's ever heard, says, "Prince Arthur asked you to come to his eleventh birthday gathering. Isn't that nice of him, Merlin?"

She's blatantly displeased when he raises a brow, pencil stilling over his maths homework, and replies, "Why would I want to go to a birthday gathering-" He makes air quotes with his fingers, not impressed by the formal title given to a bloody party for royals. "- for Prince Arthur? He's... weird."

She doesn't understand that even if he and the Prince were best mates, he doesn't fit in places like Clarence House's gatherings. He's awkwardly shaped, lanky and long and not yet grown into his over-large feet. Unlike the beautiful boys and girls who parade down the corridor with Arthur, every hair with a specific place on their head and clothes bright and new, he wears faded hoodies and jeans that are already too short despite being bought less than two months ago. His hair never behaves the way theirs does and he’d starve before remembering which fork is for his salad and which is for his meal.

Not to mention his magic, top secret though it may be, flares around Arthur like no one's business. He refuses to tell his mum about that. He only recently started showing her the things he can do when he really focuses - lights flickering to life without a switch, curtains sliding open gracefully with no help at all, laundry folding itself (though she's not well pleased about that). Before, she'd called all the strange goings-on figments of her imagination. Merlin's pram had pushed itself in the park when he was two and she'd told herself it was a gust of wind she'd been too busy to notice and, when Merlin was three, she swore she had a touch too much wine in an effort to dissuade herself from thinking that Merlin's stuffed dragon actually responded to one of his half-babbling questions, saying, "You, young warlock, have a great destiny that will not be achieved should your mother continue to serve you peas."

She hadn't bought peas since then. The wine had really done a number on her.

He can't risk the candles on Arthur's cake lighting themselves or him stopping time to save the Prince from scraping his knee should he trip and fall. Those reasons are serious enough without the fact that he really just can't - stand - Arthur.

As in Merlin can't stand him at all, much less for four-plus hours at his birthday gathering where he'll be expected to smile and pretend to be enjoying himself while everyone else looks at him with wide eyes and pointing fingers like he's some kind of animal from the zoo, delivered for their entertainment.

He left his fur and stripes in the womb, sorry.

"You're still angry about the crayon incident, aren't you?" She asks, holding the refrigerator open with her hip. She unloads vegetables from the paper bag on the floor and sticks them wherever they'll fit around Merlin's heat-and-eat meals for days when she's at work late or too tired after serving the Prince steak and potatoes to make food for her own son.

Which, Merlin would like to add, is shite considering he hasn't eaten steak in nearly three years. "Mum," he starts firmly, giving her the most serious expression he can manage, "It was a pencil and no, I'm not mad about the bloody pencil incident a year ago; I just don't like him." He could probably continue with a list of reasons why that would include the fact that Arthur doesn't have anything at all to say when his posh mates make jokes about Merlin's ears when they visit, that Merlin's mum spends more time preening over Arthur than she's ever spent even talking to Merlin and, most importantly, he has no reason at all to like Arthur. They've hardly spoken more than twenty words to one another in their entire lives and, for the most part, those words are been limited to 'move', 'stop looking at me' and 'go away'.

He's not going to embarrass himself trying to get the attention of someone like Arthur, Prince of Wales, okay? He'd rather his mum just give him an hour of her time without mentioning Arthur or work or the great long list of things that she needs to get done before she goes to sleep.

To assure she fully understands the situation between he and Arthur, Merlin says, "He's weird, not to mention a royal pain in my --"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence." His mum adds, as an afterthought, "You're not so normal yourself."

Merlin isn't a mum - never will be, ha! - but he's pretty sure you're not supposed to tell your son, who is already awkward enough being magical and all, that he's weird on top of that. Mums are meant to be supportive liars, aren't they? Shouldn't she be nodding and agreeing, telling him she understands?

"Children all over the country - the world, Merlin - would be honoured to be invited to Prince Arthur's birthday party. They'd kill for the opportunity."

"Gathering," Merlin corrects firmly, daring a stern look in his mum's direction, "and let they fight to the death for my spot then - Hunger Games style. I'm - not - going."

*

Merlin skips Arthur's birthday gathering that year. His mum shows everyone in the kitchens his naked baby photos as punishment until the new year and Arthur gives him long, befuddled looks when he peeks through the propped open laundry door or the swinging door in the kitchen for a month or so afterward, as though he can't possibly understand why Merlin wouldn't want to spend time with him.

All the same, Arthur never makes any moves to actually talk to him. He peers around corners when Merlin helps his mum stack china before rolling it back to the kitchen and he always seems to be wherever Merlin is five minutes after he arrives, like he senses Merlin's presence and searches him out in the most common places. It’s strange that, with all the run-ins they have, Arthur doesn’t even bother to say ‘hello’.

Not that Merlin is complaining, mind you. A mute prince is the only bearable kind, in his opinion.

One day, six months after Arthur's birthday, Merlin agrees to help his mum make the beds when some of the help is sick. She sends him ahead to Arthur's room, says, "Just strip the sheets, I'll be there in a moment" and sets to righting Morgana's room, waving him along when he pauses to ask, "Arthur's room?", hoping she'll catch on to the desperation in his voice and tell him 'nevermind', save him from possibly being stuck alone in a room with Arthur.

She pays no mind to his worries as she gathers Morgana's scattered clothing from the floor with one hand while the other waves him off.

He enters cautiously, knocking first to avoid walking in on Arthur starkers or jumping off the edge of his bed in a cape and bright red pants, is slightly surprised (and ridiculously relieved) to find it empty.

While he expected Arthur in some way, shape or form, he didn't expect the warmth of the red paint on the walls of Arthur's room and the Leeds United picture beside Arthur's four-poster bed. There are pencil-drawn sketches on the wall, too - uneven, beautiful knights in shining armour with great, frightening beasts bowing before them that Merlin runs his fingers across, traces before moving toward the bed where he finds the sheets pulled tight, folded over at the top as though someone inexperienced in making a bed attempted to complete the task themselves.

He has a hard time believing Arthur would even attempt to do anything on his own but he's not willing to askto be sure, either.

He pulls the sheets - soft beige cotton, not quite the expensive silk he was expecting - from the bed and throws them in a heap in front of the door. They smell like the coast; cool sea water and warm sand with a hint of musk - of spice that reminds Merlin of the few weeks when Arthur was trying to learn how much cologne was just enough and how much was way - too - much . It's muted here in Arthur's bedroom, enough to arouse the memory but not so much that his head hurts in the way it -

There's a click, a quiet noise Merlin probably would have missed if he hadn't been so guarded in the Prince's bedroom, followed by a mumbled, "Ouch," in a voice Merlin knows all too well.

“You’re spying on me again!” is what Merlin shouts when he yanks to the door of Arthur’s wardrobe open and finds him huddled there, eyes wide and mouth agape. His trousers are wrinkled, creased at the knees from resting on them for too long and Merlin fights the irrational desire to push Arthur back flat onto his arse because it’s rude to stare and, frankly, Merlin is more than a little tired of being stalked.

“I’m not -”

“You’re not what? Spying? You’re camping out in your wardrobe waiting for someone to come change your sheets because you think it’s normal?”

Arthur huffs. His cheeks are flushed, red and stark on his face. Merlin has never seen him as flustered as he is when he says, “Not someone - you.”

Merlin stills, both amazed and disgusted by Arthur’s admittance. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed - it would be impossible not to - but assuming the bloody Prince of Wales is stalking him and hearing from royal lips that actually has been is... off-putting. “You are so weird.”

“I’m not weird!” Arthur protests, breathing heavily through his nose. He stands quickly, shooting up from his position on the floor and, though he’s a touch wider and a touch taller than Merlin, he’s not much to be afraid of no matter how close he gets, how hard he stares down at Merlin’s face. “You can’t say things like that about me!”

“Why not?” Merlin asks, genuinely confused for a moment. Since when has the truth been wrong?

“Since I’m a prince, Merlin!”

“You’re a spy is what you are! A bloody weird one, to boot!”

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

It’s not really something Merlin is expecting. He’s generally pretty alright with being taken by surprise - shocked or scared - but when Arthur reaches forward, slams his palms against Merlin’s chest and shoves him back, Merlin isn’t quite sure what to do. He saves himself from falling to the floor through luck (and maybe magic, if he’s honest) alone. It’s a moment of distraction, though, and the curtains slam open, heavy fabric smacking against the wall and light flooding the room as brightly as it can before he realises that he did that.

Arthur looks shocked - nervous, even. But, thankfully, it’s not the curtains that he stares at. Not so thankfully, it’s Merlin.

His eyes are so wide that Merlin would be tempted to laugh any other time but, for now, his chest hurts where Arthur’s hands slammed against him and his breath is caught in his throat, waiting for Arthur to realise that something pulled the curtains open and he’s too busy worrying about all of that to give a damn about how stupid Arthur looks. He gasps, “I’m so sorry” as he reaches for Merlin’s hand, looking wounded when Merlin steps back and says, “Don’t.”

Merlin doesn’t pull away because he’s afraid of Arthur; he pulls away because he’s afraid of his magic and what it might do.For the very first time, he can feel it under his skin, alive, thrumming and powerful. It’s terrifying and suffocating in turns and no matter how many times Arthur steps forward to try again, apologises and swears he didn’t mean it, Merlin steps back and says, “it’s fine, it’s fine" even though he's not sure who he's trying to console - himself or Arthur.

“I accepted your apology when you hit me with a pencil!” Arthur looks defeated, angry. His face is flushed again, infused with colour high over his cheeks and at the collar of his shirt. It had been white in the moments following his hands hitting Merlin’s chest and, though Merlin will never admit it aloud, it’s nice to see him back in his comfortable state of prattish-ness. He’s not stepping forward anymore, though. He’s not chasing Merlin and that’s good - great, even. “I didn’t mean it!”

“It’s fine, I said! I just need a moment is all!” His head is starting to hurt, the tips of his fingers are starting to burn the more he tries to reign everything in, control the urge to slam the windows open or to show Arthur that, though he may not be royalty, he's not your everyday poor kid either and he deserves attention, too; he deserves to be noticed.

“It’s your fault, anyway!” Merlin stills at how high Arthur’s voice gets, magic forgotten in the sudden rush of discomfort he feels when Arthur repeats himself, tone bordering on panicked. He's too loud,confusing, when he yells, “I wouldn’t - If you would just - I hate you!”

Well, since they’re expressing their true feelings... “I hate you, too!” Merlin yells, ignoring the way Arthur stumbles back as though he’s been slapped, the way his angry face drops into one of absolute horror. “You’re weird! Spying on everyone all the time, following people around! My mum -”

"Merlin!” He hadn’t intended to say ‘my mum has awful timing’ but he thinks, now, that it would have been just as fitting. “We apologise, Prince Arthur,” she says, voice soft for Arthur as she reaches for Merlin’s shoulder and tugs him away. “Merlin gets a little over-excited in the summer - too much pent up energy; I’ll keep him out of your room from now on.”

Arthur doesn’t reply;he looks away, nods just once and let’s Merlin’s mum drag Merlin’s out by his bicep, arm trapped tight in her claw-like grip. In the corridor, after Arthur’s door falls shut with a snick, she leans close and says, quiet with a thinly veiled threat, “Stay away from him, Merlin. I won’t have you picking fights with the Prince of Wales all summer.”

Prepared to tell her that that’s what he’s been trying to do, that it’s Arthur who’s been searching him out, Merlin opens his mouth. His mum is quick to pop it shut, hand tight over his bottom jaw when she pushes it up to meet his top. “It doesn’t require a response. Now, go find something productive to do before you get me sacked.”

They give up on assigning him tasks after the first hour, though. He’s hopeless, wandering around and splashing dishwater over the floor and his shirt... He tells his mum that night that he’s tired, that it has nothing to do with “that thing with Arthur” and tries to convince himself that it’s true, that he doesn’t fall asleep wondering what the hell it is about Prince Arthur of Wales that drives him (and his magic) so bloody crazy and why he hates the idea of Arthur hating him as much as he does...

*

Over the next few years - four, to be exact - Arthur gets... Well, fat. It’s not an awful sort of fat, really. His face gets softer though, plump and rounded in a way it hasn’t been since he was a baby (though Merlin has only ever seen that in photos) and he has to buy new trousers every other month or so until he looks a bit like Dudley Dursley in the Harry Potter films and walks with an undeniable waddle. Most of the guests his age stop visiting and those who do still come spend most of their time giggling behind their hands; Merlin doesn’t defend Prince Arthur when he flushes and looks away, pulling at hem of his shirts in an effort to pretend it’s not him they’re laughing at.

He does feel bad for Arthur, though; they are nothing close to friends, that’s for certain, but he knows what it’s like to be stared at - to be thought of as less than based on looks alone and he can only imagine how small it makes Arthur, who had been so proud and mighty aside from his strange tendencies, before.

Merlin’s mum comes home two weeks before Arthur’s sixteenth birthday out of sorts and sour-faced, mumbling so lowly Merlin can just barely hear her over the sound of the Playstation in his hand. He sets it on the table in front of him with a click, watches the screen dim. “What?”

“Nothing, Merlin.”

“What did you say?”

She sighs, falls into the seat across from him and says, louder than before, “King Uther is considering banning cake from Prince Arthur’s birthday gathering this year. He says the prince’s weight is an embarrassment.”

“He is -”

“He’s a growing boy, Merlin,” she interjects, cutting him off before he can finish. Her face is stern, unyielding and Merlin is reminded of how close she is to Arthur. She’s watched him grow much the same way she’s watched her own son grow and, while he tries to keep in mind that Arthur is her job, nothing more, it’s sometimes hard not to feel a little insignificant when she mentions how hard King Uther is or how she wishes she could spoil Arthur just a little, give him some sweets or a pat on the shoulder because “Children grow in their own ways, Merlin” and “It’s just a stage; he’ll look just like his mum soon enough.”

Merlin says, “Sure, mum” and goes back to his game, already bored with the conversation. He knows as well as any of the help about Arthur’s diets and his daily exercise regimen, about how the cooks have been told to watch the sweets in the house. He also knows that they’ve been doing all of these things for three years and every time Arthur gets a bit taller, he gets a bit wider, too. Arthur seems to hate it just as much as King Uther does. He doesn’t search Merlin out half as often as he used to and though they haven’t said a word to each other since the day they argued in Arthur’s bedroom, Merlin notices that Arthur refuses to meet his eyes sometimes and that in the summer when Arthur is home from Eton, he spends twice as much time working out - trying to get fit.

Of course, Merlin doesn’t have much room to talk. Nearly fourteen and he’s still built like a beanpole, long and thin and fragile looking. His stomach is a flat mass of stark white skin, no muscles to be found and his arms are lanky and seemingly weak; he thinks that he and Arthur are a bit alike that way - too much of one size and not enough of another. If they were closer - friends, maybe - he might consider consoling Arthur with that idea, reminding him that Merlin didn't plan on being too skinny forever so Arthur shouldn't plan on being too fat forever, either.

But, as it is, they're not friends and Merlin has no plans to try and console Arthur.

“He’ll probably invite you to his party again this year, Merlin.” He struggles not to roll his eyes. He really, really does but... it happens anyway. He rolls them, long and hard until his mum says, “He’s invited you since he was ten Merlin and you turn him down every year. You’d rather sit at home on that thing -” she gestures at Merlin’s Playstation like she doesn’t know very well what it’s called “- when you could be celebrating with Prince Arthur?”

“He won’t even be having cake, mum. What kind of party has no cake?”

“A health-conscious one,” she replies. “There will be plenty to nibble on - veg, fruit.”

Merlin gasps. “Fruit? Oh, mum, I have to go to the birthday party.”

“Mind your cheek, Merlin.”

“My cheek is mindful, mum. It’s the rest of me that’s confused.”

She pushes herself away from the table with a sigh. “You,” she starts slowly, pointing a finger at him, “Are going to that party if he invites you. Prince Arthur thinks very highly of you and it hurts his feelings when you ignore him; his friends haven’t been very supportive of him as of late.”

“He told me he hates me.” It’s the first time he’s mentioned it - what Arthur said that day in his room. His mum has asked, of course. She’s been curious and worried and angry and demanded answers he refused to give her but now, looking her dead in the eye and knowing very well that Arthur doesn’t think very highly of him at all - he repeats: “He hates me, mum - said so himself - so stop trying to guilt me into being his mate. We’re not going to be mates; it’s not just my fault.”

She looks old for a moment - tired, weary. He feels bad for being honest; she probably liked the idea of he and Arthur being mates more than finally getting the answer she’s been asking after but... She shakes her head, leans across the table to press a warm kiss to his forehead and her hands are cool over his cheeks, calming when she says, “I sometimes wonder if you boys will ever learn.”

*

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Arthur jumps away from the refrigerator, one hand loaded full of carrots and another with the freshest cherry tomatoes known to man. He looks guilty, even with just veg in his hand until he realises it’s Merlin; he purses his lips and says, “I can do what I want.”

Merlin doesn’t argue . Frankly, he’s not employed with the royal staff and his being allowed in Clarence House at all is an oddity. He’s heard the staff murmur about Arthur's mum and the promise King Uthermade to Merlin’s mum but he doesn’t ask to be certain and the gossip is known to be wrong from time to time. He doesn’t care either way; he’s still not volunteering to be the one to squeal on the Prince of Wales for sneaking veg in the middle of the afternoon.

He tells Arthur as much. Shrugs when Arthur says, unsure, “So... you’re not going to tell your mum?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Tell my mum that you’re stealing carrots and tomatoes? She’ll probably tear up at the reminder of your oppression and sneak you a chocolate orange.” He turns away when he’s done, fully expecting Arthur to take his stolen food and run. Thinking he’s alone, he settles his messenger bag over one of the chairs in the kitchen and rummages through the contents, shoving aside two folded comics and a book he’ll never read in an effort to find his new shorts, ones that actually fit because it’s hard to find them long enough without having to push extra holes in his belt to keep them around his waist..

He votes to change his shirt too, if only because he’s eager to wear something new so he pulls off his old shirt quickly, shoves it in the corner of his bag and then reaches to unbutton his shorts, tugging them down his legs before bending to retrieve them from the floor around his feet. He hears Arthur’s quiet groan then - the soft, bitten-off noise he makes before there are carrots and priceless tomatoes rolling over the floor and Merlin turns, in nothing but his pale blue y-fronts and says, “What a way to waste the veg, mate” as he kicks a tomato away from his toe. It takes him a moment to realise the situation and, when he does, it all comes together very slowly...

First, Arthur is still in the kitchen. He’s just watched Merlin undress and the suspicious noise he made a moment ago sounds a lot like the noises Merlin chokes off when he - Yeah. Okay. No. He’s not relating those sanctioned moments to the bloody Prince of Wales, thanks.

Second, Arthur has dropped over-priced, perfectly ripe food to the floor. The hand previously holding the carrots is now braced against the worktop, fingers clutching the edge to save Arthur from falling over and the other is between his legs, clutching his... “What are you holding onto it like that for?” Merlin asks firmly, waving his hand at the hand Arthur has pressed between his legs, clearly holding down his cock for dear life. It’s terrible, how roughly he’s treating it. Merlin winces just watching it. “You’ll suffocate it - stop. I mean, really, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

Third, Arthur’s face is beet red. It’s not like the times before where his cheeks were rosy and his neck was flushed. He’s crossed the line between embarrassed and mortified and, Merlin isn’t positive why, but he thinks it may have something to do with the way Arthur bites back a pitiful groan when Merlin says, ‘it can’t be that bad, can it?’ because he looks away and bites his lip.

Fourth, no matter how fat Prince Arthur may be, he’s still a self-entitled pillock. When Merlin laughs, says, “Christ, you grab it like it’s special or something”, Arthur says, “Fuck off, Merlin” and turns around, hand still clutched between his legs. Nearly naked as he is, Merlin probably shouldn’t be half as loud as he is when he says, teasingly, “It’s alright if it’s distorted, sire; it’s not like anyone will date you for the sex, yeah?” because he’s trying to be funny and cock jokes are always funny... right?

Arthur doesn’t look much like a prince when he bolts from the kitchen, face still bright red and his gait a little awkward with all of his extra weight. Merlin remembers when he was thin and long like a prince is meant to be - when Arthur’s cheekbones were stark and not hidden under layers of the ‘baby fat’ Merlin’s mum claims has suddenly surfaced. He giggles for a couple days under his breath when he catches Arthur, wider than the poles and corners he’s peeking around, staring at him worriedly but he doesn’t realise he’s really done something wrong until Arthur’s birthday comes and goes and he gets no invitation.

His mum gives him dirty looks for a week or so after Arthur’s party and then, the day that Arthur - or, well, the staff really - packs his bags of Eton, she comes home stern-faced and tired as she explains that things are going to change, that Merlin is going to learn to be respectful and focus because she “can’t have this nonsense anymore, Merlin” and he’s become “a danger to himself, if nothing else.”

A week later he leaves for boarding school, fighting down the bursts of magic that seem in opposition to what his mum demands. He packs his bags four times only for his magic to unpack it all, fold it and sort it neatly into its correct drawers until Merlin’s mum gives up packing entirely and hands him a small fist full of money to buy clothes when he gets there. He hopes all the while that her tears and his uncontainable magic might convince her to change her mind and let him stay.

He asks once if she’s punishing him for making fun of Prince Arthur or if it’s his magic, freakish and unheard of. He says, “Mum, it was a joke is all” and “I’ll try to control it, I swear” until his face is red and he’s breathless but she shakes her head, presses a kiss to his forehead and says, “You’re perfect, Merlin... Sometimes, you’re even too perfect for your own good.”

*

Merlin comes home for the summers but doesn’t spend much time at Clarence House. Arthur is gone, too - off doing things that are apparently far away from the eyes of the paps because there are headlines all over the newsstands about Prince Arthur missing key events and how King Uther has only said: “My son needs time to enjoy adolescence out of the eye of the public” even though, technically, Arthur’s only job in the world is to be in the eye of the public. Merlin hears through the grapevine (a grapevine named Hunith, aged forty-one years and currently employed by the King of England) when he comes home for good that Arthur is enrolled at Cambridge, studying political theory and is still “unattached.”

Merlin asked her once in the past if that meant he was still a virgin or if it meant he was fucking people without the ‘girlfriend’ title; she wasn’t very happy with him over that one.

They go another four years without speaking. Not that Merlin is counting, mind you. His mum brings it up at dinner his first day home, along with: “He’ll be home this summer, you know. Now that you’re both older, maybe you could try being friends again?”

“Won’t be spending much time at Clarence House, will I? I have my internship, mum.” It’s nothing difficult - a few days a week at the Children’s Hospital where he’ll work the donations desk and direct people who are confused about where the loo is in the right direction (“Next hallway, on the left”) until fall when he leaves again for his first year of university.

“You’ll have days off every once in awhile, you could stop by and visit everyone. They were talking about baking you a cake to celebrate being done with school; they’ve missed you.”

“Wouldn’t have reason to miss me if you hadn’t sent me off,” he replies, attempting to sound casual as he stabs a bit of broccoli with his fork. He shouldn’t be so petulant after all this time but it’s still more than a bit disconcerting, knowing his mum sent him off to boarding school on King Uther’s dime because it was ‘best’ for him - to hell with what he wanted, really. He wonders, if Arthur had been her son, if she would have been able to ship him off to boarding school without batting a lash.

He thinks it may have had a bit to do with the magic though she refuses to admit it. She’ll never say but he thinks he scares her sometimes - especially in the summer when she makes casual comments about how Arthur is doing and his magic flares under his skin, blows up the vase she bought in Italy or rearranges the furniture in the living room until everything is on the ceiling. He can’t explain those incidents, why his magic behaves the way it does when Arthur is mentioned and, while it might make Merlin nervous, he’s pretty sure it actually terrifies her.

She says, quietly, “When you have children, Merlin, you can judge. Until then, let it rest.”

*

Aiming for a degree in social sciences brought ‘round a few raised brows. The royal family, despite all of their negative qualities, took care of Merlin and his mum - provided them with good Christmases and a warm meal (even if it wasn’t always up to standard) every evening. Merlin didn’t really understand what it was like to struggle or need for much if he was honest but that didn’t stop him from learning about others who had - hearing about how many jobs his mate Will’s mum worked to send him to a first-class school and keep him involved in local activities during the summers. Some laughed, mentioned that though he didn’t always have the best, he always had something and thought it strange for a boy who’d grown up with as much as he did to focus on charity as a career.

“You’ll get paid shite, mate,” the cooks said and Merlin, fifteen and struggling to survive the rest of summer in the kitchens, shrugged as he peeled potatoes and replied, “Yeah, I know.” The summer after his mum woke him up with a tug at his shoulder, murmured, “You’ll never operate a good charity if you don’t learn to get out of bed before noon” and Merlin curled deeper into his blankets, grumbled, “Christ, mum. I’m sixteen, not forty. The more sleep I get now, the less I’ll need when I study my arse off later.”

Nothing dissuaded him, though. He nodded when they tried to warm him off, kept in mind that they were just being supportive of his future, if not his dreams, and focused on proving himself. He buckled down, volunteered at school events and kept track of internships focused on community relations and charitable causes. So, it came as no real surprise when he found the position at the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital because he knew that there was two open every year and he’d mostly been biding his time to take one for himself. It didn’t require much experience and the few things he lacked, he made up for in letters of recommendation from his teachers and cheesy grins that seemed to win over the heart of most of the volunteers.

Wednesdays through Fridays and every other Saturday are Merlin’s days. He tells people about medical research, where it is versus where it needs to be and about the cost of medical treatment - how MRI machines often cost between 2 and 3 million pounds and that regular maintenance averages between 300 thousand and 500 thousand pounds a year. He stresses the hospital’s focus on patient and family support, how the hospital offers accommodations for the parents of sick children and how donations make all of that possible. And, when the numbers and the facts and the empowering stories fail, he smiles and wishes them a good day, often surprised when they reconsider and donate something - small, large or otherwise.

He’s most surprised on the second Thursday of May when, idly flipping through a few pages of the first Harry Potter book to keep him occupied through the slow hour, he feels the pull of his magic low in his belly, unwinding and spreading through his chest and into his fingers. The corner of his page folds itself over, marks his place as the sound of footsteps near and Merlin looks up, struggling to reign in his wayward magic as it shuffles around him, pushing notepads and making pens dance around each other in the box near his feet.The bloke in front of the desk is standing a little too close, shifting his weight awkwardly from one side to the other and peeking over his shoulder often, as though someone might come out and bite him at any moment. His sunglasses are dark, expensive if Merlin were to guess but it’s hard to see them properly when the his cap is pulled low over his face, chin tilted downward to his chest and the head of his hoodie is held close to his jaw, shadowing the little bit of him that isn’t protected by his cap.

What Merlin can see are his shoulders, wide and strong and the shadowed line of lips that are full and slightly familiar, as though he knows them. He tries to commit as much of it to memory as possible - red hoodie, dark wash jeans, likely flying fit under all those clothes - because, for a moment, he feels like the bloke in front of him might actually be considering trying to rob him.

“So... Do you want my watch or my money? I think I might have twenty-five cents if you let me reach in my back pocket and find it.”

“What?”

“And I think I have six pounds or so left on my Lush gift card, too,” Merlin adds quickly, attempting to subtly shift in his seat and make sure his wallet is actually stored in his back pocket and not still sitting on his dresser at home. A Lush gift card might be the difference between life and death at this point - what has his life become?

“I don’t need your money,” the bloke says, sounding half-shocked and half-scared. He switches his weight to his opposite hip, looks over his shoulder and then shoves his hands in his pockets. Merlin notices his watch then - expensive, detailed. No, it doesn’t look like he needs Merlin’s Lush gift card after all...

“You’re here to donate, then?”

“This is the donations desk, isn’t it?”

“Yes-” you cheeky fucker “- it is, actually. There are a ton of amazing things your donation supports, you know? Medical research for -” Merlin goes silent as the man pulls his hands free from his pocket, a folded wad of colourful banknotes sliding out with his fingers. He shoves it Merlin’s way, long, tanned fingers pushing it forward while Merlin stumbles over his words. There’s at least five thousand quid in his hand and, tempting though it may be, Merlin shakes his head, pushes his hands against the man’s and struggles to ignore how soft and cool the bloke’s skin is because no. “Mate, honestly, you’re going to want to fill out a form and all with that kind of donation. They send you a thank you letter and some other cool shit - Fuck - I mean, other cool stuff.”

The pens in the box stop dancing, Merlin's book falls shut with a thump that he just barely manages to pretend to make and he feels his magic's urge to pull the bloke closer, to own him just as thoroughly as it apparently owns Merlin.

Merlin hears the bloke's laugh, low and warm and it settles his magic, gives him enough time to to glance away from the money and see if he can catch a bit of the man’s face - enough to pinpoint where he might recognise his lips from or help him rationalise why a stranger would walk in off the street with more than five thousand quid in his pocket, a posh watch on his wrist and a desire to keep his identity secret...

Maybe it’s a test to see if Merlin follows the correct procedures. Fuck if he isn’t tempted to just take the cash and run but... “You really should fill out a donation letter,” he says earnestly, trying to swing the man to do as he says with a smile. “Only takes a minute. We don’t get cash donations that size often and... Well, they like us to try and put a name to the money, yeah?”

“Merlin, just -”

“What?” The man stills; he takes a step back and pulls his money close. For a moment, it looks like he might leave so Merlin struggles to clear the shock fast enough to lean forward, bum rising off his chair and hips pressing hard against the edge of the desk in order to reach the man’s wrist and hold it tight. “How do you know my name?”

“I guessed.”

“You guessed my name was Merlin over - I don’t know, Steve?” Merlin asks in disbelief. The information and donations desk is a long square line, mostly empty space but there’s a computer to Merlin’s left and a bit of paperwork to his right and he thinks that, though he can’t risk letting go long enough to actually come around and figure the bloke out, he could...

“Fuck it,” Merlin mumbles, hand still gripping the man in front of him as he stands, pushes his knee up on the desk and gives himself enough height and leverage to lean over, push the man’s hood down and tug his cap off of his head, clutching it between his fingers while his eyes try to process the entirely of the face before him - capture it, memorise it before he realises exactly what he’s looking and fucks it all up epically. “You’re not fat,” Merlin announces while his knee slides off the desk. His legs feel a bit like jelly, uneasy and uneven so he braces his hands palm down on the desk and leans into the coolness of the wood. All of a sudden, his magic acting out makes perfect sense. “You actually look like a prince.”

Colour rises to Arthur’s cheeks from his neck, tense muscles looking like they might explode under all the pressure as Arthur - older and firmer and fucking gorgeous - looks away. His hair is still light, filtered with darker strands now that add definition to what used to be a solid gold head of hair and his eyes are more stern, set firmly in his face above plump lips Merlin has seen pictures of for ages and a long, straight nose that most plastic surgeons would look at and think: absolute perfection. He’s fit now, too - gone is the baby fat Merlin’s mum swore would drop overnight and what stands before him, though hidden under layers of clothing meant to hide him from view, is a body that Merlin can only imagine built and grew and flourished to envious proportions if Arthur had continued to do half the physical work he’d done when he was chubby.

“Don’t you have people to do all of your charity work for you?” Merlin asks when he manages to look away from the line of Arthur’s biceps under his hoodie. Christ, being that fucking gorgeous should be illegal... Why couldn’t Merlin just have half of that? “Or do you enjoy living on the edge? Is dressing up like you’re prepared to rob a bank and then donating more than most people earn in a month to a children’s hospital some kind of attempt at normalcy?”

Arthur says, “You still have no respect, do you?” and doesn’t look the least bit surprised when Merlin raises a brow and replies, “Plenty of respect for people who matter, Arthur. Ghandi, Mother Teresa...”

“How about someone who’s still alive, Merlin?”

“My mum?”

“Point taken.” Arthur stares at Merlin, considering. Merlin struggles to recount whether he took the time to properly brush his hair this morning and if he’d managed to get out most of the ketchup he’d spilled on his shirt during lunch. There’s something about Arthur - always pristine, even in his awkward stage - that never ceases to remind Merlin of his place in the world, how tiny he is in comparison. Arthur’s eyes aren’t strict, though; they’re warm, friendly... And, if Merlin were anyone else, he might say the prince looks awe-struck. And then Arthur says, “Your mum told me you work here during breakfast and I thought...” and Merlin remembers exactly who Arthur is - deeper than just an achingly gorgeous shell.

" I wanted to -”

“Flaunt the fact that the amount of money you carry around in your pocket on a regular basis to spend on nice shoes and posh polos could be the difference between a working MRI machine and a big, useless chunk of metal?” Arthur looks down at his polo as if he’s disgusted with it and Merlin feels a little throb of pleasure for having made a point.

“Your mum told me you work here,” Arthur tries again, holding a hand up when Merlin goes to speak. Shockingly enough, just seeing that little bit of power being used against him (for the first time ever, Merlin notes) keeps him silent. “I thought you’d be able to take a lunch if you had enough donations -”

“No. You don’t raise five thousand quid and then go off for lunch; that isn’t how it works, Arthur.”

Arthur’s face flushes, cheeks tinting with embarrassment; it reminds Merlin of their rare but memorable arguments over the years - when Arthur had sputtered and yelled and pouted and Merlin had made him feel small, felt powerful for once after succeeding in making someone with everything feel like they had nothing at all, making Arthur feel as small as Merlin felt on a daily basis.

“And even if that was how it worked, I wouldn’t go to lunch with you,” Merlin says.

Arthur looks away, nods and says, “Yeah, alright then - good to see you, Merlin."

The rush of pride Merlin expects to feel never comes. Instead, he spends the rest of the night mulling over the regret that chews at his insides and reminds him that it’s really not Arthur’s fault that Arthur has everything... It’s the fault of the rest of the world.

*

"The Prince of Wales wanted to buy you lunch and you turned him down?" Gwaine whistles, leans back in the driver's seat and adds, “Go on then, tell t he story!”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “There’s no story to tell; he asked, I told him no.” There is a bit more to the story to tell - years worth of angst and childish antics - but Merlin isn’t about to drudge all of that up when he’s only got a few minutes left before Gwaine leaves, anyway. They spent the day in London, stopping in random shops and picking up little things along the way and it isn’t like Gwaine doesn’t already know how Merlin feels about Arthur, he’s just looking for another funny Arthur story to take home and Merlin isn’t willing to provide this time; he’s still too unsure of what exactly happened - it’s all still too fresh, too different.

He and Gwaine have been friends for a few years; they met at school, visited each other a few times over their summers apart and when Merlin was sixteen and decided to just admit he was gay and quit pretending to pine over girls he really had no interest in, Gwaine was all for helping him in any way he could.

Of course, ‘any way he could’ included at least a blowjob a day and a month's worth of sex in a single week but Merlin appreciated it all the same. There weren’t feelings to complicate things and Gwaine didn’t promise Merlin anything more than a good time so it kept things simple, easy and just the way someone like Merlin - who had magic and a closeness to the royal family that made most seek him out just for the chance to spend a week in Prince Arthur’s presence - needed them.

“Was he angry?”

“No.” Merlin shrugs. “Disappointed, I guess? A little.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Frowning, Merlin asks, “Why?”

Gwaine leans forward in his seat, taps his fingers against the wheel without any sort of pattern (so like Gwaine to not make anything harmonious) and says, “Well, I don’t know much about the Prince of Wales but I will say that, from what I’ve heard, he’s probably got a bit of a hard on for you.”

“That’s disgusting.” Merlin can’t even hide his disgust. It floods through his words, comes out harsher than he means for it to and then he has to turn away from Gwaine’s amused gaze because he can feel the flush crawling up his neck and he’s not thinking about Arthur’s hand over his crotch in the kitchen that day and wondering if that’s what happened. “He’s the fucking Prince of Wales, Gwaine; he can’t be gay.”

“He can be gay,” Gwaine corrects, “he can’t act gay. It’s all okay with the world if they don’t know it’s happening, yeah? He used to follow you everywhere, Merlin, and he practically admitted it when you cornered him in his room.”

“No, he didn’t,” Merlin argues simply. He pushes open the car’s door, throws one leg out and says, “He said he hated me, not that he wanted to fuck me -”

“I would hope he didn’t ask to fuck you when he was eleven; prime blokes like that are limited - to me, mostly.”

“- and I have never thought of Arthur as more than a nuisance.”

“Even when he came to donate to the Children’s Hospital just to say hello and invite you for sushi?”

No. Yes. Of course - not. Of course not. “Especially when he came to the hospital,” replies Merlin. He presses a firm, perfunctory kiss to Gwaine’s lips just to keep him from whinging before he steps out of the car and lets the door fall shut behind him. He waves over his shoulder while he walks away, marching up the walk to Clarence House and nodding his thanks when Alfie throws the gate open for him, welcoming him back and hoping he had a good day out.

Gwaine yells, “See you around, Merlin!” as he pulls away but Merlin is too annoyed with him to answer. He’ll text later, when he’s not still considering strangling Gwaine for his stupid ideas and he ridiculous assumptions.

Or, worse, before he starts to think Gwaine might be fucking right for the first time in his life. Impossible, he knows, but that doesn’t help him push the thoughts out of his head.

The corridors are mostly empty; there’s the occasional employee passing, a gaggle of women with white linens piled high in their arms the closer he gets to the laundry and he pauses to say hello to the familiar faces but doesn’t pay much mind to his surroundings beyond them. He knows this house better than his own, could guide a blind man through to every one of the rooms from memory alone so he’s not exactly surprised when he bumps into someone because he’s not paying attention, moving without watching.

“Who was that?”

Arthur’s hands are on his arms, fingers just tight enough around his biceps to help him balance himself but he shakes them off anyway, mindful of the way his magic had surged to reach the place where Arthur's skin, for a moment, had been pressed tightly to his. He takes a step back and says, “What are you talking about?”

“The person in the car,” Arthur explains, lips set in a thin line, “that dropped you off.”

“Gwaine?” Merlin asks. A beat later, fingers clutching at his sides, he says, “Christ, you were spying again, weren’t you? Did you really never grow out of that?”

Arthur huffs, looks away. “I was looking outside -”

“Of course you were, you... spy.”

“- when you pulled up.” Arthur bites, “I wasn’t spying.”

“But you watched us.”

Arthur’s face is flushed, his eyes are wide and his hands shake at his sides, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. He looks strangely vulnerable for a Prince even when he’s angry, frustrated. “What makes going to lunch with him better than going with me?”

“The fact that he isn’t you,” Merlin answers promptly. It’s a little cruel to say it just like that - to announce it so firmly, without hesitation. But, to be fair, it was the first thing that came to his mind and... “Gwaine is a friend; we went to school together.”

“You kissed him.”

No, duh.

But it’s not posed as a question and Merlin isn’t sure how he’s meant to respond to a statement like that. Is this when the Prince of Wales announces that he hates gays? Should he pull out his mobile and try to record this? Sell it to the news rags for more money than he’ll spend in his entire life and run away to a foreign country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK?

...Belize? Singapore? Christ, he really should have paid more attention in school.

“On the lips,” Arthur adds slowly, as though waiting for Merlin to deny it. When Merlin is quiet, his response nothing more than a raised eyebrow that says, ‘Yes, and?’ rather than, ‘Oh, no!’, Arthur looks like he might be ready to fall over.

Or kill something, Merlin amends when he realises that Arthur isn’t stepping away from Merlin, he’s stepping toward him - crowding him against the wall, breathing just a little more heavily and staring with such blatant bitterness that Merlin can’t even think of something witty or biting to say to get him out of the situation except, “Christ, when did you get so tall?” because... Well, what else is he meant to say when his eyes are level with Arthurs’ for the first time in forever and his breath is warm across Merlin’s face, against his lips until said lips are pressed - against - Merlin’s.

Holy fuck.

It’s not soft; it’s not comfortable or welcoming, it’s demanding and forceful and Merlin can hardly breathe around Arthur’s tongue pressed inside his mouth and Arthur’s fingers tight in his hair and the way his magic flares inside of him, struggling to press as close to his skin as it can and reaching out for everything - the frames on the walls, the curtains pulled tight over the windows - to distract itself, and Merlin, from the way Arthur is holding Merlin so close their chests press together and their hips slide against one another/

Then Arthur pushes Merlin back against the wall, tilting his face in the process to get even closer and controlling his magic is a lost cause; it's gone, dancing around the room and making a mess of nearly everything in the corridor.

It takes a moment to respond because... Well, what the fuck? Really? Merlin probably couldn’t count the number of teenage boys and girls around the world who dreamed of the Prince of Wales shoving them up against the wall and having their wicked way with them on a billion and one hands but he never wanted to be one of them and Arthur isn’t a great kisser and this is all a mess and...

“Stop, stop.” Okay so maybe Arthur’s kissing was pretty shite because his lips hurt and apparently the lack of response does nothing to turn Arthur off but his chest under Merlin’s palms is really not so bad and... No. No, it’s bad. So bad. Wanting the Prince of Wales that Merlin has hated since (he assumes) birth is wrong. “What are you doing?” Merlin asks, ignoring the unsteady beat of Arthur’s heart under his hand and the way Arthur’s eyes are wide, eager and embarrassed and angry all at once and how it shouldn't be half as sexy as it is. “You can’t just- You’re not allowed- You’re not even gay!”

Arthur sounds confused, unsure when he says, “I was kissing you" as though maybe he's already forgotten what exactly he was doing seconds before.

“Right. Again: what are you doing?”

“You let him do it,” Arthur says, looking just like the petulant child Merlin always assumed he’d grow up to be. He wants to say, ‘it sucks not being allowed to have things someone else does, doesn’t it?’ but holds his tongue, listens to Arthur when he adds, “He shouldn’t have.”

“Because he’s a bloke?”

“Because you’re not his.”

Merlin laughs, lets his hands fall to his side when Arthur steps back in surprise. Merlin’s back is still against the wall, steadying him when he shakes his head. “Well, if anyone gets claim to me it would be Gwaine; he’s-”

And this time it’s just as unexpected as the last but it’s softer, easier - better. There’s care in Arthur’s fingers when he presses his thumbs to Merlin’s cheeks, tilts their heads so their noses don’t mash up the way they had before and lets his lips linger against Merlin’s, tongue asking instead of demanding and just as eager but clearly more restrained when Merlin thinks, ‘fuck it’ and let’s him in, let’s their breath mingle between their open mouths before Arthur’s tongue slides against his, over the roof of his mouth before he pulls away to grant the breath Merlin most definitely needs because his vision is getting a little fuzzy and his mind is starting to think about crazy, fucked up things like pulling Arthur closer, Arthur’s tongue pressing just as deliciously to the head of Merlin’s cock and- Arthur’s pulling away, stepping back and breathing heavily, shaking his head and then turning away, storming down the corridor while Merlin stands still, chest heaving and wondering, over and over again, what the hell just happened and how the hell Arthur hadn't noticed the fact that there's no wallpaper left on the wall.

On to part 2