Brassed Off Calendar Girls Do the Full Monty in Camelot (12/?)
“Merlin,” drawled Arthur. “You really are unique. I think this is the first time I've turned up to pick up a date, only to discover that they have neglected to dress themselves.”
On the day of the date Merlin went to the gym, showered (twice), styled his hair (twice), called Gwaine asking for advice on what to wear, tried and discarded three outfits, called Gwen asking advice what to talk about, called Freya for moral support, shaved, applied after-shave, put on moisturiser, polished his shoes, cleaned his teeth, flossed, primped, fretted and fussed. He looked around his bedsit; every item of clothing he possessed littered the floor. He checked his watch. It was 3pm. Four hours to go until the date. He sighed, and willed himself to tidy up his bedroom (just in case he got lucky). That took him to 3.30pm. Then he had another shower, for good measure, in case he had got himself all sweaty while he vacuumed the floor.
By 4pm he stood in his tidy room, still undecided what to wear, clad in only a “Doctor Who” towel, and sought inspiration from his muse, his beloved flugelhorn. So he set up a music stand, popped his “Arban” on it, and got Gloria out of her case. He lovingly polished her with his instrument cloth, checked all her valves and spit valves, cleaned her mouthpiece, did a few warm-up exercises to get the blood flowing to his lips, and then lost himself for a good hour and a half in some serious technical challenges.
Then, flipping the Arban off the stand, he closed his eyes. Starting with some remembered passages from Arban and a soul that was fused to Muddy Waters, he reached into his heart and played blues to an imaginary inner accompaniment. He might have lost track of time, a bit.
Merlin looked up in horror when he heard a polite cough, and saw an immaculately dressed Arthur leaning against the doorframe of his bedsit, lip curling in a sarcastic grin, eyes accusing. He scrambled to replace Gloria in her case and looked at his watch. It was 7.15pm. Fuck.
“Merlin,” drawled Arthur. “You really are unique. I think this is the first time I've turned up to pick up a date, only to discover that they have neglected to dress themselves.”
“Arthur, fuck, I'm sorry! But don’t you ever knock?” said Merlin at last. “I lost track of the time! Give me a minute, would you?” Fucking shitting bollocks. He’d screwed up the date already and it hadn’t even started yet. Arthur chuckled at his discomfort, eyes softening.
“I did knock, Merlin." he said, trying to sneer, except somehow he couldn't really pull it off, because it looked like he was trying not to laugh at the same time. "Several times. Indeed I pounded. I thumped. I banged. I buzzed, yelled and growled. I almost turned round and went home. However, I knew you were in, because I could hear the sort of music that only an annoyingly talented, long-limbed flugelhorn player makes when he’s being an idiot and forgets that he’s going on a date. Eventually, your terrifyingly terse flat mate got sick of me shouting ‘open up, Merlin, you moron’ at the buzzer, and let me in.”
“Oh, fuck, Arthur, I’m sorry, of course I hadn't forgotten, I just got a bit carried away, I was nearly ready hours ago, I just… ” and Merlin felt so miserable, he wished he could just disappear. Seeing this, Arthur stepped up to him, lifted his chin with a finger, and said, softly, “Hey. Your lips look pretty… erm… tired. You must have been playing for a while.” And planted a gentle kiss on said lips, so swift that Merlin almost felt he’d imagined it, although he could still feel them tingling. He managed to raise a shaky smile, and Arthur smiled back at him, warming him with the tender expression in his eyes.
“Yeah,” confessed Merlin. “I tend to get a bit caught up when I play blues.”
“It sounded good,” acknowledged Arthur. “I’d like to try that style of music some time, but never got the hang of improvising. Never really had an opportunity I suppose.”
“It’s my favourite music,” said Merlin. “We should play blues together. I could teach you! Improvisation’s fun! I’d love to play with you…”
“I’d love to play with you too,” said Arthur huskily; his eyes had drifted south, and Merlin realised that only a cotton simulacrum of Matt Smith screened his nether regions. He blushed beetroot-red under Arthur’s hungry gaze. Arthur smirked and retreated, saying he’d wait in the lounge, while Merlin hastily dressed.
Five minutes later he took a look at himself in the long mirror in the hallway, dissatisfied. He’d settled for a fitted, blue silk shirt (no tie), and his midnight blue velvet suit. His lips had a pink halo from his earlier practice and his hair had gone back to its usual shaggy demeanour. However, they were already late for their dinner appointment, so there would be no time for further alterations to his appearance. He nervously stepped out to the lounge. Arthur rose from the sofa. He looked like the answer to all Merlin’s prayers; he too had opted for a dark suit and shirt with no tie; he looked elegant, broad-shouldered, his startling blue eyes rendered black by the dim night, blond hair glowing. Merlin gaped, stunned, and grinned when Arthur shyly presented him with a bunch of flowers.
“I’m not a girl, you know,” he said, accepting the gift, and blushing to give the lie to his words, “but thanks anyway.” He stepped into the kitchen to put the flowers in some water. Arthur, at his side, didn’t reply at first; instead he watched Merlin appreciatively, as he pottered round the little kitchen, before stepping up to kiss him on the cheek, one hand in Merlin’s hair, lingering to inhale Merlin’s scent, lips parted.
“Merlin, you look-and smell-simply sensational,” he purred.
“So do you,” gulped Merlin as his partner stepped away and gestured to the door.
“Your carriage awaits, sir!” said Arthur with a small bow. Merlin giggled at Arthur’s mock gallantry, and followed him out of the flat to get in the waiting taxi.
They were en route to a restaurant that they both had been to before with others, but this time it was different, because this time it was a proper *date*. Merlin cleared his throat and tentatively reached his hand towards Arthur’s, threading their fingers together. Their hands slotted together perfectly; warm and comforting, each of them smiling at the other.
“A’right, love,” said the taxi driver. “Where’s it to be tonight then eh?”
Merlin and Arthur strode through the door of the restaurant, and Merlin felt, rather than saw, every eye turning towards them. He hoped that Arthur wouldn’t notice. Arthur however relished the attention. As they walked, hand in hand, past a group of girls, Merlin heard one of them whisper, with broad Yorkshire vowels:
“By ‘eck! That blond bloke’s drop-dead gorgeous,” and he couldn’t help agreeing in his head. But another one was saying, “Aye, but you can keep him, his mate’s lush,” and then, as the girls noticed their entwined hands, disappointed groans. “It’s a crying shame, all the best-looking ones are always gay,” said another.
Arthur smiled at the girls as he walked past but Merlin, blushing, tried not to meet anyone’s eye.
As they sat and perused the menu, Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes upon him.
“What?” he said looking up.
“Nothing,” said Arthur. “I just wondered if you have chosen what you want yet?” and he took a sip of water.
Merlin looked appraisingly at Arthur’s intent blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and iron jaw. His gaze roved across the well-defined muscles in Arthur’s wrists, silver cufflinks in the shape of a dragon, taking in the way close-fitting shirt-sleeves caressed Arthur’s broad, manly shoulders and chest, and hovered around the place at Arthur’s open shirt neck where he could see a sprinkling of chest hairs. He gulped.
“I think so,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward, putting his best smoulder into his gaze as he swivelled his eyes up to meet Arthur’s. “I do believe I have.” And, slipping off his shoe under the table, he extended a besocked foot until his big toe hooked under Arthur’s trouser leg and rubbed against the skin of his calf, just above the sock line.
Arthur coughed and nearly spat out his water.
“But I’m not entirely sure,” continued Merlin, smirking, “I can’t choose between the Arthur carpaccio with a Pendragon jus, or whether to go the whole hog and have the trio of Arthur with Pendragon shavings.”
“Merlin!” Arthur choked. “Have you been taking lessons in shameless flirting from Gwaine? Anyway, I thought you were a vegetarian!”
The two men laughed.
“Seriously, though,” Arthur went on, “I want you to know that I have decided something.” His eyes were still warm but no longer playful.
“What?”
Arthur looked away and took another sip of water before returning thoughtful eyes to Merlin.
“Merlin, I don’t want to lead you on, so I need to tell you this now. I want to take this slowly, Merlin, and I have no intention of…” he huffed, turning pink, and looking away again before resuming. “No intention of sleeping with you tonight.”
Merlin felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He wasn’t good enough for Arthur, he knew that, Arthur didn’t want him. He felt small, embarrassed. He drew in a breath and it sounded a bit like a sob. Arthur sighed and took his hand across the table. Merlin flinched and tried to pull away.
“Don’t look like that, Merlin, I haven’t killed a puppy! Oh God, this is so hard! Merlin, you idiot, I think you are a charming, utterly breathtaking, beautiful man, and I don’t want to take things too fast with you, because I don’t want you to run away from me again. That’s all. And I do want to have sex with you, you silly, silly man, how could I not when you sit there and your eyes are too blue, your ears are too big, your cheekbones are too well defined, you’re too skinny and sarcastic, and you flirt with me one moment and then look like you want to run away the next, and you’re just so perfect, how could I not want you… how can you think that?”
Arthur’s face had gone pink and his hitherto perfectly-coiffed hair was sticking up where he’d rubbed it during this speech. He looked incredibly young and vulnerable. Merlin just wanted to kiss away the pout on his lips.
“Sorry,” whispered Merlin. “I panic.”
“And that, Merlin, is why we’re not going to rush anything. I want… I want to unwrap you one layer at a time, I don’t want to rip you open and tear you apart.”
Merlin smiled slowly, eyes prickling wetly at Arthur’s sweetness.
“OK!” he said. “OK,” he said, and wiped his eye surreptitiously. “In that case… I suppose I’ll have to have the pumpkin and white truffle risotto instead.”
The two men exchanged a serious look for a long moment and then simultaneously burst out laughing as the waiter came to take their order.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversation and laughter. They talked about everything: sport, politics, religion, music, their families, their homes, their friends.
“So, Arthur,” said Merlin seriously at one point. “Morgana is your half-sister?”
Arthur frowned.
“That arch-bitch,” he said. “Yes.”
“It doesn’t sound like you are close?”
Arthur sighed and shook his head.
“No. We have never got on. She always resented me, and my mother and father, I suppose, ever since my father left her mother when she was very young, and married my mum. I suppose that, the way she saw it, my mum supplanted her mother in my father’s affections. I understand, now, that it must have hurt, and she could have come to resent me.” Arthur’s gaze was reflective, but hardened as he went on. “But that does not excuse her actions. Morgana wrote to my mum after the rape, stating that it was mum’s own fault she was raped, and that she wasn’t surprised,” Arthur pulled a face. “I found the letter when mum died, along with the suicide note. I was 17.”
Merlin was horrified; his heart was heavy for Arthur, and he didn’t want to pry, but oh God, had Arthur found his mother when she died? And found the incriminating letter from Morgana? Merlin could weep at that.
“How could she do that? Fucking hell, Arthur, that’s seriously twisted.”
Arthur nodded. “I have not spoken a civil word to her since. This latest thing of hers with Mercia Mills Brass Band is another thinly disguised attempt to destroy my father. She doesn't miss any opportunity to stick the boot in.”
Merlin fought back his impulse to declare murderous thoughts about Morgana. Arthur had clearly spent a lot of time working things through since then. He thought about his own small family - his mum, Hunith, struggling to make ends meet on her own in Northern Ireland, and his kind Uncle Gaius. His family may be small, and poor, and in Gaius’s case more than a little bit shabby-looking, but he wouldn't swap it with Arthur’s, not for all the money in the world.
And Arthur, God, poor Arthur. He deserved better than that. Merlin, in the time that he had known him, had discovered that despite his reserve, Arthur was kind and generous to a fault, warm and solicitous of others, honourable and empathetic. He buried his innate sincerity and honesty beneath a veneer of sarcasm and disdain-and hearing about the twisted machinations of Arthur’s extended family, Merlin thought he could understand why.
Merlin had an enormous admiration for his friend, who had somehow managed to work through his feelings and even empathise with the half-sister who had caused him so much hurt. He felt a burning desire to protect Arthur from further pain.
“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” he said. “We’re a right pair, aren't we, you and me!” He entwined Arthur’s fingers in his, and smiled warmly. The conversation turned to lighter topics.
By the time they were washing their dessert down with coffee, the restaurant was emptying and Merlin had a glowing buzz about him. He realised that he’d never felt so relaxed on a first date before. Arthur insisted on acting the gentleman and paying for absolutely everything, and then escorted Merlin home in another taxi, scooting up the steps to Merlin’s flat, to make sure that he got home safely.
Merlin turned to say goodbye.
“Thank you, Arthur,” he said. “I had a wonderful evening with you.”
“And you, Merlin,” said Arthur quietly. He leaned towards Merlin, tugged on Merlin’s hand, drew it up to his cheek and turned into it to kiss Merlin’s palm.
“Your hands,” Arthur said softly, shaking his head. “Evil, teasing hands, drove me insane when you gave me that massage.”
Merlin’s breath hitched and he gathered Arthur’s head into his hands, soft blond hairs like silk between his fingers, pulling him in.
“Arthur,” he breathed, leaning forwards.
“Your lips, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, closing his eyes, surrendering. The kiss was soft and fleeting. Tingles ghosted down Merlin’s spine. He turned his head, trembling, mouth parted, groaning as he let Arthur’s tongue whisper into him, feeling giddy from the heat of Arthur’s body pressed up against his, whining as Arthur withdrew gently, smiling, until only the tips of their fingers touched.
“Goodnight, Merlin,” Arthur said and released Merlin’s hands.
“Wait!” said Merlin as Arthur turned. “Arthur. Would you… I mean to say…” he gulped and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’d like to do this again. Have a date, I mean. Together, not necessarily go to the same restaurant I mean. Although it was a wonderful restaurant. I would like to see you again. That’s what I’m trying to say.” He was gabbling and grateful to Arthur when he interrupted.
“I thought you’d never ask! Of course, I’d love to see you again.” Arthur smiled like he’d won the lottery.
“Okay, my treat this time. Wednesday evening OK? I’ll drop round to pick you up. At 7pm. On the dot.” Merlin grinned back, trying not to look too insanely happy, as Arthur nodded. He’d got the perfect date in mind.
They waved at each other, blowing kisses. He stepped inside and closed the door, tiptoeing into his room, and lay on his bed, Cheshire-cat grin plastered to his face.
He went over the events of the evening, and felt himself starting to harden as he remembered that sizzling, tantalising kiss. Smiling, he rummaged into the drawer at his bedside, pulling out a jar of coconut oil. He freed and palmed his heavy, hard prick for a moment before shucking off his clothes. Excitement building, he slicked up his hands with oil and slathered them around his erection. The smell of coconut oil reminded him of the afternoon he’d spent massaging Arthur; he could picture Arthur’s naked arse tensing under his touch, hear the deep groans he pulled from Arthur when he dug into those taut, tired muscles. He moaned softly as he imagined pressing his cock into the hot, dark crack between Arthur’s buttocks, and with a few fast, slippery strokes he came, panting, into the tangled bedclothes, Arthur’s name on his lips.