[Fic] When the Rains Came - for staraflur
Title: When the Rains Came
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: staraflur
Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: Awkward!sex and a bit o’ cussing
Spoilers: Season 2
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,200-ish
Summary: A series of random meetings in the rain turn into something more than Merlin would have expected. Warning! This fic contains: a string quartet, a damp flat, one black cat and lots of rain.
Author's Note: I can only apologise to staraflur because I don’t think this is what you were expecting… but I shall fling myself at your mercy and hope that you like this anyway. Also, thanks to my friend Beta Girl - you know who you are and you know you rock.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
The first time Merlin saw the man he was drenched from the rain, droplets hanging from his nose and eyelashes. His hair was plastered to his head, dark from the soaking. He looked a bit bedraggled as he stood shivering beside Merlin under the awning of the bookshop, holding a black instrument case. A cellist, Merlin realised.
Merlin had been browsing in the bookshop for so long that he hadn’t realised the weather had taken a turn for the worse. So he’d waited under the brown and red awning for the rain to lose its ferocity. He’d taken out the book he’d just purchased - a hefty tome about the Pre-Raphaelites - and thumbed through the pages. Then suddenly he’d been sharing his space with someone else.
Neither of them said anything and the other man didn’t even glance at him, though Merlin couldn’t help but steal sidelong looks. How could he not? The man was beautiful even in that state. The planes of his face where regular and even, sweeping into a strong jaw line that made Merlin’s fingers fidget. He took his eyes away and stared instead at his book, though he didn’t really see it.
The man shifted, sighed and was gone just as suddenly as he’d arrived, rushing into the rain and around a corner. Merlin stared after him for a long time, watching the space where he’d been.
The second time, Merlin learned his name: Arthur Penn. He was indeed a cellist and a good one if the respectful glances were any indication. He was part of the male string quartet, Avalon. Arthur Penn was clearly the star of the group, drinking in the praise and adoration like a flower drinks the sun. His broad frame looked wholly at ease in his tuxedo (probably not a rental), unlike Merlin who felt rather like a stork dressed as a penguin. And even though he’d scrubbed hard in the shower earlier that evening, Merlin still couldn’t quite get the stains off his hands.
Merlin had been surprised to see the man - dry and very blond - standing amidst the crowd at the charity concert. Merlin himself had been forced to attend by the well meaning and insistent Gwen. It was her job to organise these classy functions where the extremely affluent would swan around a ballroom eating canapés and enjoying fine music. All in aid of some charity or other that helped the low and impoverished. Seemed rather paradoxical to Merlin, but they did at least give generously.
Gwen had insisted that she needed him for ‘moral support’, though Merlin thought she was doing just fine without him. All he seemed able to do was mope by the door, looking as though he’d like to take off running.
“Look happy,” Gwen muttered under her breath. Merlin tried his best.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing nonchalantly toward the blond man. Gwen glanced over and frowned a little.
“Oh. Arthur Penn. Great cellist but rather egotistical.” She’d looked at Merlin then with a keen, far too knowing eye and said, “You be careful of him.”
Merlin feigned innocence at Gwen’s warning, yet he couldn’t help but remain conscious of where exactly the man was the rest of the evening. When Merlin was standing by refreshments, Penn was laughing and sipping his red wine; when Merlin was forced into conversation, Penn was nodding intently under the chandelier, the refracted light dancing on his face. Merlin couldn’t tare his eyes away.
The other men in the quartet were mingling too, albeit with a little less panache than their cellist. All were quite handsome. The violinists were both dark and a little brooding, as Merlin secretly suspected most violinists were. The violist was a surprisingly broad man with red hair who looked as though he’d crush his instrument rather than make it sing. Finding himself a spare programme, Merlin flicked to the violist’s photograph and read that he was Gawain Lot, originally from Scotland.
Burying his nose in the programme again, Merlin avidly read the blurb about Arthur Penn. Mr Penn had come from a musical family it said, his father was the conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra while his mother had been an opera singer before her untimely death. He’d formed Avalon himself three years previously and the quartet were going from strength to strength, packing out theatres in London, Sydney, St Petersburg and New York.
A moment later Merlin and all the guests were herded towards the seating area by ushers, while Penn and the other musicians disappeared to get ready for their performance. Merlin sat at in the last row and waited uncomfortably for the concert to begin, his foot jangling up and down. The woman next to Merlin gave him a pointed, disdainful look. He stopped.
When the musicians appeared everyone clapped politely. The first piece was by the Russian composer Alexander Borodin, gentle and beautifully nuanced. Merlin had always like classical music though he’d never claim to be particularly knowledgeable, yet even he could see the passion and energy with which the Avalon quartet played. They were very much a group, tuned to each other in a way that was almost preternatural. Penn in particular was a marvel to behold, hunched over his Stradivarius with rapt concentration eyes darting from one to the other of his group, holding them together. His face was so expressive, playing out each emotion of the story like he was both actor and playwright.
Merlin’s hand itched to pick up a pencil, to sketch the way Penn’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the cello. He was desperate to paint and paint until he could capture that look which was so tantalising, so majestic, so sad. Merlin shivered and surreptitiously slid his left hand between this crossed thighs, hoping to still their trembling.
The evening continued with several other pieces - a few Vivaldi and Brahms arrangements - before the quartet finally put down their instruments and took their bows. Merlin didn’t hang around afterwards, though Gwen asked him to. He had to get out of the stuffy ballroom, away from the smell of expensive perfume and caviar - the stench of rich people. He wanted to go home and sit in front of his easel and lose himself in the feel of paint on his fingers.
The third time Merlin saw Arthur Penn it was unexpected. The whole of Merlin’s world seemed to move slightly to the left (or perhaps to the right?), making the everyday configuration of his life look out of place. Centre was no longer where he thought it was.
Merlin frequented a small, ramshackle café most evenings, always ordering the same cinnamon spiced coffee. The café was called Mightier than the Sword, a desperately pompous name that hardly lived up to its grand aspirations. Yet it had become a favourite haunt of many young artists and the modern beatniks of London.
Merlin always sat at the same table near the back, by a photograph of an old jazz musician. It was black and white and the musician’s eyes were closed tight as he jived to the music he was making. Merlin had sketched the man many times but he never felt he quite got the sense of motion just right. Instead, that particular night, he was half-heartedly doodling studies of the faces around him.
He sighed as he finished the last curl of blond hair belonging to a sad-looking youth two tables away. Everything seemed to remind him of Arthur Penn, even an old photograph and a emo teen. Really, it was quite ridiculous. So when the man himself walked into the dim café, shaking off the rain, Merlin really thought for a moment that his overactive mind had finally made a fool of him.
Penn was dressed in a grey, wool suit-coat which probably cost a fortune. He looked intently at the drinks menu before ordering something strong and sweet. As the waitress made his order, Penn took in his surroundings in such a measured way that it made Merlin think - perhaps a touch romantically - that he looked like a general surveying the lay of the land.
When those perceptive eyes reached him, Merlin wasn’t fast enough to look away but was caught in the beam. The gaze stopped on him for a long time, just looking. At what, Merlin couldn’t even begin to guess.
Finally the contact was broken by the waitress who slid a steaming mug across the high counter and said something in a low voice. Merlin looked down at his sketches, trying to keep his heart steady. A moment later the chair across from Merlin was being pulled out and Arthur Penn was sitting down at his table. Merlin had no idea what to say except for hello, which he did, slowly and uncertainly. The man smiled.
“We keep bumping into each other,” he said in a deep voice before blowing on his steaming drink and taking a sip. So Merlin had been caught staring. He only hoped his cheeks weren’t flaming too red, he wanted some dignity left to get him through this encounter.
“Yes, so it seems,” he said politely, smiling. He decided it was better not to play dumb, not with someone like this.
“Since you were at the charity concert a few weeks ago, I presume you already know my name. Yes? Well, please feel free to introduce yourself anytime. Anytime.” A command.
“I’m Merlin. Merlin Emrys.”
“And what do you do, Merlin? What is your profession besides always being there just at the edge of my eye?”
Merlin shivered at the phrasing, the hairs on his forearms rising in excitement, but kept his voice steady. “Poor, starving artist.”
Arthur laughed loudly at that, eyes crinkling round the edges. It was such an infectious sound that Merlin found his forced smile turning into a real one.
“Is that so?” Arthur took another careful swig from the mug. “How did you find yourself at such an … er, selective event? Or was it the concert ticket that made you penniless?”
“Oh no, an old friend of mine was the event manager. Gwen Smith. She insisted I come along.”
“Gwen Smith? On yes, I remember her. Pretty. Stammers a lot but is surprisingly bossy.”
It was Merlin’s turn to laugh. “You have no idea.” He shook his head with affection. “I’ve known her for years and she’s always been like that, right from the word go.”
“Are you in love with her?”
Merlin’s head jerked up and the smile slid off his face in surprise. Arthur was giving him a strange, penetrating look that Merlin couldn’t make head nor tale of. Before he could say something about privacy and wasn’t this all a bit too personal, the words were forming on his tongue and spilling out.
“I - yes I love her but no, I’m not in love. We’ve never been an item and never will. She’s with my best friend. They’re getting married next spring.”
“Congratulations,” Arthur said with a new smile that was slightly unsettling. He finished his coffee in one long gulp before standing up swiftly. “What do you say to getting out of here? Do you live far?”
No one had ever been this forward with Merlin before but Arthur was a force of nature and saying no to him would have been like trying to hold back the tide. Besides, he didn’t want to say no.
Merlin stood up silently, shuffled his sketches together and stuffed them into his messenger bag. They hurried through the rain in silence as Merlin led Arthur back to his place. It wasn’t far. He lived on the top floor of a brick, Victorian monstrosity that was rather drafty but had wonderful light, a plus which made Merlin choose it out of all the other crumbling, damp-infested flats he’d seen before.
Arthur didn’t seem wholly impressed with the modest surrounding, particularly the plain, frameless mattress lying on the floor in the far corner. Merlin felt himself blush and begin to apologise.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said, almost graciously, as he took off his coat and folded it over a wooden chair. He was wearing an expensive grey suit to match the coat and a red, silk tie. Merlin wondered where Arthur had been, dressed like that.
He turned on all the floor lamps, but left off the spotlights over his easel in the corner he reserved for models. The room glowed orange and made Merlin’s pulse pick up speed.
“Would you… like something to drink, maybe? I haven’t got much, just water and a Magners.”
Arthur quirked a smile. “Thank you, no. I just had a drink.”
“Yes. Of course you did.” He paused. “Sorry.”
Arthur just shrugged and moved around the small room, looking curiously at all the sketches tacked to the walls and half finished painting leaning against all available horizontal surfaces. He stopped to lean towards an unfinished painting which was predominantly midnight blue and rather frantic, angry. Merlin winced. That piece had been started during a bad phase for him, yet he had never quite been able to paint over it and start again. Arthur looked for a long time, eyes roving over the sweep and dip of the brush strokes plainly visible.
“They’re… good,” he said at last, moving away from that painting to inspect another leaning against the kitchenette doorway.
“Thank you,” Merlin said nervously. He was beginning to wonder if he’d totally misinterpreted the signals Arthur had hinted - no, hurled - at him in the café. Merlin didn’t really know the etiquette of one-night-stands, but he was sure this wasn’t it. Perhaps Arthur had seen Merlin’s sketches and merely wanted to see more? An amateur art collector? He was still puzzling this when Arthur strode across the room to stand before him, close. His eyes were heavy with, well…
Arthur moved first. Merlin was sure of it because being looked at like that had frozen him completely. Soft, warm lips touched Merlin’s and he could taste the bitter tang of coffee. Arthur sucked at his bottom lip before moving away, only a little. They were both breathing heavily and looking right into the other’s eyes.
The second time they both moved.
Arthur’s tongue was on him, licking hot down Merlin’s neck while Merlin clawed his hands through Arthur’s hair, dragging nails across his scalp. Arthur made a low growling hum and pressed closer. They stood panting for a few heartbeats.
Arthur then began jerking at the hem of Merlin’s shirt and all in one flurry of movement the shirt was ripped off, catching Merlin’s nose painfully on the way. Standing half naked in the chilled air he shivered. Arthur’s eyes tracked the ripple of movement and stopped at Merlin’s puckered nipples.
Losing his inhibitions, Merlin stepped closer and grabbed hold of Arthur’s silk tie and pulled. Arthur stumbled, knocking himself into Merlin with gasp, the line of his erection through his trousers unmistakable. He began to rut frantically against Merlin’s leg his breathing laboured, a sound that made Merlin’s heart pick up speed.
“O… off,” he breathed. His fingers shook as he tried to unbutton Arthur’s dress shirt. Taking too long. Arthur’s hands joined Merlin’s which only confused things. A rip sounded and a button went flying. The shirt was dumped on the floor and Merlin ran his hands around Arthur’s slim waist. The contact was hot but Merlin couldn’t tell whose skin was burning, his or Arthur’s.
Arthur was sucking hard at Merlin’s neck again, teeth biting in a way that was a little bit pain and a whole lot of pleasure. He was pressing forward, rubbing his erect cock against Merlin’s now bare thigh and manoeuvring them over to the mattress. Merlin’s heels hit something and suddenly the world was falling away from him. He landed with a thud on the mattress, breath momentarily lost.
When he got is breath back Merlin saw that Arthur was straddling his hips, sweat gleaming and dripping from his chest. Merlin whined. Without warning Arthur took hold of Merlin’s cock in his strong fingers and began to stroke him, hard. Merlin bucked into the pressure with a strangled cry. Arthur’s cello-callused fingers were rough, divine. He was dragging noises from Merlin that Merlin himself had never been aware he could make. They sounded obscene to his ears but Arthur seemed to like them. He’d renewed the intensity of his strokes, whispering incomprehensible words under his breath.
The litany and the pressure stuttered to an abrupt halt. Merlin peered up at Arthur from narrowed eyes. Arthur wasn’t even looking at him but at something off to the side, eyebrows drawn together in a strange display of shock. Merlin swivelled his head and saw two yellow eyes staring at them from a feline face. Merlin couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his mouth.
“Fuck,” Arthur muttered. “Can’t you make it go away or something?”
“Her name is Freya.”
“Whatever… she’s freaking me out.”
Merlin stifled another giggle. “Ok, gimme a sec.” Merlin twisted awkwardly to reach the large, black cat that had stationed herself at the edge of the mattress, like some great guardian panther.
“Go on girl,” he said quietly, flicking his hand at her. The cat swayed away from his hand slightly, a look of distain clear in her yellow eyes. Otherwise, she didn’t budge. Merlin tried again but with no success.
Freya refused to move for such a long time that Merlin thought he was going to have to get out from under Arthur and take her away himself, but at last she straightened and stepped off the bed. She did it slowly, emphasising that it was entirely of her own accord and had nothing to do with either Merlin or Arthur. She disappeared under a chair, dainty feet almost prancing. Merlin felt Arthur relax.
“Don’t like cats?” he asked, rolling back to smile at Arthur.
“Not watching me fuck someone, no,” he said, voice husky and a little tight. Merlin felt his smile begin to fade as he watched Arthur above him, naked and glistening with sweat. He looked rather dazed, as though he no longer knew what to do once they’d been stopped so suddenly.
Merlin shifted a little, rubbing himself against Arthur. Arthur’s nostrils flared. Merlin did it again, arching his lower back off the mattress and slowly bringing his hips and cock in contact with Arthur’s skin. He took his time coming off the bed, pressing his torso against Arthur’s inch by inch. Merlin brought his arms around Arthur’s neck, draping himself around the other man, sensual and easy. He began to run fingernails down Arthur’s back, not hard enough to break the skin, but teasing.
Arthur said nothing; his head was bowed low and his breathing picking up speed. Merlin continued to scratch with one hand and took the other away, placing it between their bodies. He then took hold of Arthur’s cock, stroking him slowly, curiously. Arthur groaned and let his head fall back, a broad expanse of neck exposed to Merlin’s delight. He liked the reactions he was eliciting for Arthur, and he studied each stutter of breath, each flutter of eyelids. With every little sign, Merlin learned the way of Arthur. Merlin’s fingers tightened and he increased the speed.
Arthur was trying not to lose control as he had earlier, but still couldn’t help sinking deep into the sensations. Occasionally, he’d whisper something, usually a command: harder, faster, there. Merlin was a diligent pupil. Brining Arthur off was almost sending Merlin off the edge of his own precipice. It was getting harder to concentrate, to keep the rhythm of his hand steady on Arthur. He had to cling tighter, press his sweaty forehead to the sweaty curve of Arthur’s neck.
With one last jerk and swipe of his thumb, Arthur was coming, growling and shaking over the edge. Merlin held on, riding the waves of Arthur’s undulating body. He was exhausted and still coiled so tight himself. He could feel the pressure of his own erection, desperate to for some release. It was almost painful. Without warning, Arthur was moving, a burst of energy. He was pinning Merlin to the mattress, eyes a little bloodshot and his mouth open and panting.
“My turn,” he said, breathlessly, a feral grin beginning to creep across his face. The rest of the night was a blur of heat and fingers and the sound of rain against the windows.
When Merlin woke he was alone. He wasn’t entirely surprised but he’d… hoped. Slipping a hand across the bed sheets to where Arthur had lain, he thought perhaps he could still feel the warmth of another body. Arthur couldn’t have been gone long. Merlin closed his eyes and balled his hand into a fist. He tried not to think of anything, not of what had happened the previous night, the look in Arthur’s eyes...
As he rolled away he caught sight of a small, rectangular object resting on the pillow by his head. It was Arthur’s business card. Arthur U. Penn - Avalon String Quart. A drawing of a stylised cello wove up one side but there was no number, no address. It wasn’t really a business card, Merlin mused, more of calling card. He frowned.
For the rest of the day he debated what to do with the odd parting gift. He kept it in his wallet for a while, but every now and then he’d take it out and run his fingers over the card’s edges for no real reason other than he needed to touch it.
No matter how many times he inspected the damn thing - with both eyes and fingertips - nothing changed. It was just a piece of paper. Frustrated, Merlin almost threw it into his overflowing bin along with the potato peelings. But he couldn’t do it, much as he despised himself for his weakness. In the end he kept the calling card and pinned it to his corkboard. Right next to a sketch of a fair-haired man curled around a cello.
The next time Merlin saw Arthur he was standing on Merlin’s doorstep, once again drenched by the rain. He looked much as he had when Merlin first saw him that day outside the bookshop. Droplets hanging from his ears like glass, hair plastered to his head. He was beautiful. Merlin honestly thought he’d never see Arthur again.
“Well? Can I come inside?” Arthur asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of a navy jacket. He looked cold and uneasy, hunched in on himself in a defensive manner. Merlin wondered if he was defending himself against the winter elements or Merlin. He scoffed at himself for the latter. Of course it was the rain.
“Sure, I guess,” he said noncommittally. Merlin opened the door wider, and then led Arthur up the communal stairwell. They didn’t say a word until they were both inside Merlin’s flat.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Merlin began, nervously picking up strewn newspapers and socks, a stray paintbrush and some half finished sketches scattered across the floor. He didn’t really want Arthur there, in his space. “Did you forget something?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said. Merlin was surprised. He’d not expected him to say yes. After all, Merlin knew full well there was only one thing that had been left behind.
“Oh. What?”
“Do you still have that card?” Arthur asked, voice even. Merlin’s heart sank. Arthur wanted that back? It wasn’t that he was attached to it exactly, but for Arthur to come all the way over in the rain to ask for it back? That hurt.
“Sure. It’s over on the corkboard.” He said it without thinking. The moment they were out he wanted to grab the words from the air and stuff them back down his throat where they belonged. Arthur would no doubt see that sketch and think Merlin a fool, possibly even love-struck and displaying stalker-like tendencies.
Arthur did indeed pause for a moment at the board but didn’t say anything, just un-tacked the card. To Merlin’s surprise, instead of leaving immediately, Arthur fished into a pocket and took out a pen to write something on the card. When he was done he tacked it back up next the sketch.
“There,” Arthur said. “I forgot to do that.” He moved away, striding towards the front door. Merlin’s heart lurched. He’d added a phone number to the card.
“Arthur!” Merlin called out, whirling around. Arthur stood with his hand on the door handle and looked over his shoulder at Merlin.
Merlin realised he hadn’t had any words planned, he’d just wanted to stop Arthur from disappearing again. An idea hit him. He ripped the sketch of Arthur off the board and scribbled his own number under the image.
“Here, you forgot this, too,” Merlin said shoving the sheet of paper at Arthur. The other man took it carefully and looked down at the number and the sketch with that intensity that had captivated Merlin from the beginning.
“This,” Arthur began at last, “is me, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I know it might seem kind of creepy but I’m an artist,” Merlin tried to explain. “I paint anything that interests me. I mean… um… I’m also interested in clouds and er … umbrellas and rain and stuff, not just you.”
Arthur chuckled. “You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks?”
“No, honestly, I like it.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur nodded slowly, glancing down at the piece of paper in his hand. “You make me look...” he paused. “Good, I guess. Good.”
Merlin didn’t think that good was the word Arthur had been searching for, but didn’t push. Merlin watched Arthur as he traced a tentative line across the sketch, eyes hooded and unreadable.
Without warning, Arthur was kissing him, free hand cupping Merlin’s face, a callused thumb stroking his cheekbone. Merlin could smell mint on Arthur’s breath but tasted only rain.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: staraflur
Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: Awkward!sex and a bit o’ cussing
Spoilers: Season 2
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,200-ish
Summary: A series of random meetings in the rain turn into something more than Merlin would have expected. Warning! This fic contains: a string quartet, a damp flat, one black cat and lots of rain.
Author's Note: I can only apologise to staraflur because I don’t think this is what you were expecting… but I shall fling myself at your mercy and hope that you like this anyway. Also, thanks to my friend Beta Girl - you know who you are and you know you rock.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
The first time Merlin saw the man he was drenched from the rain, droplets hanging from his nose and eyelashes. His hair was plastered to his head, dark from the soaking. He looked a bit bedraggled as he stood shivering beside Merlin under the awning of the bookshop, holding a black instrument case. A cellist, Merlin realised.
Merlin had been browsing in the bookshop for so long that he hadn’t realised the weather had taken a turn for the worse. So he’d waited under the brown and red awning for the rain to lose its ferocity. He’d taken out the book he’d just purchased - a hefty tome about the Pre-Raphaelites - and thumbed through the pages. Then suddenly he’d been sharing his space with someone else.
Neither of them said anything and the other man didn’t even glance at him, though Merlin couldn’t help but steal sidelong looks. How could he not? The man was beautiful even in that state. The planes of his face where regular and even, sweeping into a strong jaw line that made Merlin’s fingers fidget. He took his eyes away and stared instead at his book, though he didn’t really see it.
The man shifted, sighed and was gone just as suddenly as he’d arrived, rushing into the rain and around a corner. Merlin stared after him for a long time, watching the space where he’d been.
The second time, Merlin learned his name: Arthur Penn. He was indeed a cellist and a good one if the respectful glances were any indication. He was part of the male string quartet, Avalon. Arthur Penn was clearly the star of the group, drinking in the praise and adoration like a flower drinks the sun. His broad frame looked wholly at ease in his tuxedo (probably not a rental), unlike Merlin who felt rather like a stork dressed as a penguin. And even though he’d scrubbed hard in the shower earlier that evening, Merlin still couldn’t quite get the stains off his hands.
Merlin had been surprised to see the man - dry and very blond - standing amidst the crowd at the charity concert. Merlin himself had been forced to attend by the well meaning and insistent Gwen. It was her job to organise these classy functions where the extremely affluent would swan around a ballroom eating canapés and enjoying fine music. All in aid of some charity or other that helped the low and impoverished. Seemed rather paradoxical to Merlin, but they did at least give generously.
Gwen had insisted that she needed him for ‘moral support’, though Merlin thought she was doing just fine without him. All he seemed able to do was mope by the door, looking as though he’d like to take off running.
“Look happy,” Gwen muttered under her breath. Merlin tried his best.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing nonchalantly toward the blond man. Gwen glanced over and frowned a little.
“Oh. Arthur Penn. Great cellist but rather egotistical.” She’d looked at Merlin then with a keen, far too knowing eye and said, “You be careful of him.”
Merlin feigned innocence at Gwen’s warning, yet he couldn’t help but remain conscious of where exactly the man was the rest of the evening. When Merlin was standing by refreshments, Penn was laughing and sipping his red wine; when Merlin was forced into conversation, Penn was nodding intently under the chandelier, the refracted light dancing on his face. Merlin couldn’t tare his eyes away.
The other men in the quartet were mingling too, albeit with a little less panache than their cellist. All were quite handsome. The violinists were both dark and a little brooding, as Merlin secretly suspected most violinists were. The violist was a surprisingly broad man with red hair who looked as though he’d crush his instrument rather than make it sing. Finding himself a spare programme, Merlin flicked to the violist’s photograph and read that he was Gawain Lot, originally from Scotland.
Burying his nose in the programme again, Merlin avidly read the blurb about Arthur Penn. Mr Penn had come from a musical family it said, his father was the conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra while his mother had been an opera singer before her untimely death. He’d formed Avalon himself three years previously and the quartet were going from strength to strength, packing out theatres in London, Sydney, St Petersburg and New York.
A moment later Merlin and all the guests were herded towards the seating area by ushers, while Penn and the other musicians disappeared to get ready for their performance. Merlin sat at in the last row and waited uncomfortably for the concert to begin, his foot jangling up and down. The woman next to Merlin gave him a pointed, disdainful look. He stopped.
When the musicians appeared everyone clapped politely. The first piece was by the Russian composer Alexander Borodin, gentle and beautifully nuanced. Merlin had always like classical music though he’d never claim to be particularly knowledgeable, yet even he could see the passion and energy with which the Avalon quartet played. They were very much a group, tuned to each other in a way that was almost preternatural. Penn in particular was a marvel to behold, hunched over his Stradivarius with rapt concentration eyes darting from one to the other of his group, holding them together. His face was so expressive, playing out each emotion of the story like he was both actor and playwright.
Merlin’s hand itched to pick up a pencil, to sketch the way Penn’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the cello. He was desperate to paint and paint until he could capture that look which was so tantalising, so majestic, so sad. Merlin shivered and surreptitiously slid his left hand between this crossed thighs, hoping to still their trembling.
The evening continued with several other pieces - a few Vivaldi and Brahms arrangements - before the quartet finally put down their instruments and took their bows. Merlin didn’t hang around afterwards, though Gwen asked him to. He had to get out of the stuffy ballroom, away from the smell of expensive perfume and caviar - the stench of rich people. He wanted to go home and sit in front of his easel and lose himself in the feel of paint on his fingers.
The third time Merlin saw Arthur Penn it was unexpected. The whole of Merlin’s world seemed to move slightly to the left (or perhaps to the right?), making the everyday configuration of his life look out of place. Centre was no longer where he thought it was.
Merlin frequented a small, ramshackle café most evenings, always ordering the same cinnamon spiced coffee. The café was called Mightier than the Sword, a desperately pompous name that hardly lived up to its grand aspirations. Yet it had become a favourite haunt of many young artists and the modern beatniks of London.
Merlin always sat at the same table near the back, by a photograph of an old jazz musician. It was black and white and the musician’s eyes were closed tight as he jived to the music he was making. Merlin had sketched the man many times but he never felt he quite got the sense of motion just right. Instead, that particular night, he was half-heartedly doodling studies of the faces around him.
He sighed as he finished the last curl of blond hair belonging to a sad-looking youth two tables away. Everything seemed to remind him of Arthur Penn, even an old photograph and a emo teen. Really, it was quite ridiculous. So when the man himself walked into the dim café, shaking off the rain, Merlin really thought for a moment that his overactive mind had finally made a fool of him.
Penn was dressed in a grey, wool suit-coat which probably cost a fortune. He looked intently at the drinks menu before ordering something strong and sweet. As the waitress made his order, Penn took in his surroundings in such a measured way that it made Merlin think - perhaps a touch romantically - that he looked like a general surveying the lay of the land.
When those perceptive eyes reached him, Merlin wasn’t fast enough to look away but was caught in the beam. The gaze stopped on him for a long time, just looking. At what, Merlin couldn’t even begin to guess.
Finally the contact was broken by the waitress who slid a steaming mug across the high counter and said something in a low voice. Merlin looked down at his sketches, trying to keep his heart steady. A moment later the chair across from Merlin was being pulled out and Arthur Penn was sitting down at his table. Merlin had no idea what to say except for hello, which he did, slowly and uncertainly. The man smiled.
“We keep bumping into each other,” he said in a deep voice before blowing on his steaming drink and taking a sip. So Merlin had been caught staring. He only hoped his cheeks weren’t flaming too red, he wanted some dignity left to get him through this encounter.
“Yes, so it seems,” he said politely, smiling. He decided it was better not to play dumb, not with someone like this.
“Since you were at the charity concert a few weeks ago, I presume you already know my name. Yes? Well, please feel free to introduce yourself anytime. Anytime.” A command.
“I’m Merlin. Merlin Emrys.”
“And what do you do, Merlin? What is your profession besides always being there just at the edge of my eye?”
Merlin shivered at the phrasing, the hairs on his forearms rising in excitement, but kept his voice steady. “Poor, starving artist.”
Arthur laughed loudly at that, eyes crinkling round the edges. It was such an infectious sound that Merlin found his forced smile turning into a real one.
“Is that so?” Arthur took another careful swig from the mug. “How did you find yourself at such an … er, selective event? Or was it the concert ticket that made you penniless?”
“Oh no, an old friend of mine was the event manager. Gwen Smith. She insisted I come along.”
“Gwen Smith? On yes, I remember her. Pretty. Stammers a lot but is surprisingly bossy.”
It was Merlin’s turn to laugh. “You have no idea.” He shook his head with affection. “I’ve known her for years and she’s always been like that, right from the word go.”
“Are you in love with her?”
Merlin’s head jerked up and the smile slid off his face in surprise. Arthur was giving him a strange, penetrating look that Merlin couldn’t make head nor tale of. Before he could say something about privacy and wasn’t this all a bit too personal, the words were forming on his tongue and spilling out.
“I - yes I love her but no, I’m not in love. We’ve never been an item and never will. She’s with my best friend. They’re getting married next spring.”
“Congratulations,” Arthur said with a new smile that was slightly unsettling. He finished his coffee in one long gulp before standing up swiftly. “What do you say to getting out of here? Do you live far?”
No one had ever been this forward with Merlin before but Arthur was a force of nature and saying no to him would have been like trying to hold back the tide. Besides, he didn’t want to say no.
Merlin stood up silently, shuffled his sketches together and stuffed them into his messenger bag. They hurried through the rain in silence as Merlin led Arthur back to his place. It wasn’t far. He lived on the top floor of a brick, Victorian monstrosity that was rather drafty but had wonderful light, a plus which made Merlin choose it out of all the other crumbling, damp-infested flats he’d seen before.
Arthur didn’t seem wholly impressed with the modest surrounding, particularly the plain, frameless mattress lying on the floor in the far corner. Merlin felt himself blush and begin to apologise.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said, almost graciously, as he took off his coat and folded it over a wooden chair. He was wearing an expensive grey suit to match the coat and a red, silk tie. Merlin wondered where Arthur had been, dressed like that.
He turned on all the floor lamps, but left off the spotlights over his easel in the corner he reserved for models. The room glowed orange and made Merlin’s pulse pick up speed.
“Would you… like something to drink, maybe? I haven’t got much, just water and a Magners.”
Arthur quirked a smile. “Thank you, no. I just had a drink.”
“Yes. Of course you did.” He paused. “Sorry.”
Arthur just shrugged and moved around the small room, looking curiously at all the sketches tacked to the walls and half finished painting leaning against all available horizontal surfaces. He stopped to lean towards an unfinished painting which was predominantly midnight blue and rather frantic, angry. Merlin winced. That piece had been started during a bad phase for him, yet he had never quite been able to paint over it and start again. Arthur looked for a long time, eyes roving over the sweep and dip of the brush strokes plainly visible.
“They’re… good,” he said at last, moving away from that painting to inspect another leaning against the kitchenette doorway.
“Thank you,” Merlin said nervously. He was beginning to wonder if he’d totally misinterpreted the signals Arthur had hinted - no, hurled - at him in the café. Merlin didn’t really know the etiquette of one-night-stands, but he was sure this wasn’t it. Perhaps Arthur had seen Merlin’s sketches and merely wanted to see more? An amateur art collector? He was still puzzling this when Arthur strode across the room to stand before him, close. His eyes were heavy with, well…
Arthur moved first. Merlin was sure of it because being looked at like that had frozen him completely. Soft, warm lips touched Merlin’s and he could taste the bitter tang of coffee. Arthur sucked at his bottom lip before moving away, only a little. They were both breathing heavily and looking right into the other’s eyes.
The second time they both moved.
Arthur’s tongue was on him, licking hot down Merlin’s neck while Merlin clawed his hands through Arthur’s hair, dragging nails across his scalp. Arthur made a low growling hum and pressed closer. They stood panting for a few heartbeats.
Arthur then began jerking at the hem of Merlin’s shirt and all in one flurry of movement the shirt was ripped off, catching Merlin’s nose painfully on the way. Standing half naked in the chilled air he shivered. Arthur’s eyes tracked the ripple of movement and stopped at Merlin’s puckered nipples.
Losing his inhibitions, Merlin stepped closer and grabbed hold of Arthur’s silk tie and pulled. Arthur stumbled, knocking himself into Merlin with gasp, the line of his erection through his trousers unmistakable. He began to rut frantically against Merlin’s leg his breathing laboured, a sound that made Merlin’s heart pick up speed.
“O… off,” he breathed. His fingers shook as he tried to unbutton Arthur’s dress shirt. Taking too long. Arthur’s hands joined Merlin’s which only confused things. A rip sounded and a button went flying. The shirt was dumped on the floor and Merlin ran his hands around Arthur’s slim waist. The contact was hot but Merlin couldn’t tell whose skin was burning, his or Arthur’s.
Arthur was sucking hard at Merlin’s neck again, teeth biting in a way that was a little bit pain and a whole lot of pleasure. He was pressing forward, rubbing his erect cock against Merlin’s now bare thigh and manoeuvring them over to the mattress. Merlin’s heels hit something and suddenly the world was falling away from him. He landed with a thud on the mattress, breath momentarily lost.
When he got is breath back Merlin saw that Arthur was straddling his hips, sweat gleaming and dripping from his chest. Merlin whined. Without warning Arthur took hold of Merlin’s cock in his strong fingers and began to stroke him, hard. Merlin bucked into the pressure with a strangled cry. Arthur’s cello-callused fingers were rough, divine. He was dragging noises from Merlin that Merlin himself had never been aware he could make. They sounded obscene to his ears but Arthur seemed to like them. He’d renewed the intensity of his strokes, whispering incomprehensible words under his breath.
The litany and the pressure stuttered to an abrupt halt. Merlin peered up at Arthur from narrowed eyes. Arthur wasn’t even looking at him but at something off to the side, eyebrows drawn together in a strange display of shock. Merlin swivelled his head and saw two yellow eyes staring at them from a feline face. Merlin couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his mouth.
“Fuck,” Arthur muttered. “Can’t you make it go away or something?”
“Her name is Freya.”
“Whatever… she’s freaking me out.”
Merlin stifled another giggle. “Ok, gimme a sec.” Merlin twisted awkwardly to reach the large, black cat that had stationed herself at the edge of the mattress, like some great guardian panther.
“Go on girl,” he said quietly, flicking his hand at her. The cat swayed away from his hand slightly, a look of distain clear in her yellow eyes. Otherwise, she didn’t budge. Merlin tried again but with no success.
Freya refused to move for such a long time that Merlin thought he was going to have to get out from under Arthur and take her away himself, but at last she straightened and stepped off the bed. She did it slowly, emphasising that it was entirely of her own accord and had nothing to do with either Merlin or Arthur. She disappeared under a chair, dainty feet almost prancing. Merlin felt Arthur relax.
“Don’t like cats?” he asked, rolling back to smile at Arthur.
“Not watching me fuck someone, no,” he said, voice husky and a little tight. Merlin felt his smile begin to fade as he watched Arthur above him, naked and glistening with sweat. He looked rather dazed, as though he no longer knew what to do once they’d been stopped so suddenly.
Merlin shifted a little, rubbing himself against Arthur. Arthur’s nostrils flared. Merlin did it again, arching his lower back off the mattress and slowly bringing his hips and cock in contact with Arthur’s skin. He took his time coming off the bed, pressing his torso against Arthur’s inch by inch. Merlin brought his arms around Arthur’s neck, draping himself around the other man, sensual and easy. He began to run fingernails down Arthur’s back, not hard enough to break the skin, but teasing.
Arthur said nothing; his head was bowed low and his breathing picking up speed. Merlin continued to scratch with one hand and took the other away, placing it between their bodies. He then took hold of Arthur’s cock, stroking him slowly, curiously. Arthur groaned and let his head fall back, a broad expanse of neck exposed to Merlin’s delight. He liked the reactions he was eliciting for Arthur, and he studied each stutter of breath, each flutter of eyelids. With every little sign, Merlin learned the way of Arthur. Merlin’s fingers tightened and he increased the speed.
Arthur was trying not to lose control as he had earlier, but still couldn’t help sinking deep into the sensations. Occasionally, he’d whisper something, usually a command: harder, faster, there. Merlin was a diligent pupil. Brining Arthur off was almost sending Merlin off the edge of his own precipice. It was getting harder to concentrate, to keep the rhythm of his hand steady on Arthur. He had to cling tighter, press his sweaty forehead to the sweaty curve of Arthur’s neck.
With one last jerk and swipe of his thumb, Arthur was coming, growling and shaking over the edge. Merlin held on, riding the waves of Arthur’s undulating body. He was exhausted and still coiled so tight himself. He could feel the pressure of his own erection, desperate to for some release. It was almost painful. Without warning, Arthur was moving, a burst of energy. He was pinning Merlin to the mattress, eyes a little bloodshot and his mouth open and panting.
“My turn,” he said, breathlessly, a feral grin beginning to creep across his face. The rest of the night was a blur of heat and fingers and the sound of rain against the windows.
When Merlin woke he was alone. He wasn’t entirely surprised but he’d… hoped. Slipping a hand across the bed sheets to where Arthur had lain, he thought perhaps he could still feel the warmth of another body. Arthur couldn’t have been gone long. Merlin closed his eyes and balled his hand into a fist. He tried not to think of anything, not of what had happened the previous night, the look in Arthur’s eyes...
As he rolled away he caught sight of a small, rectangular object resting on the pillow by his head. It was Arthur’s business card. Arthur U. Penn - Avalon String Quart. A drawing of a stylised cello wove up one side but there was no number, no address. It wasn’t really a business card, Merlin mused, more of calling card. He frowned.
For the rest of the day he debated what to do with the odd parting gift. He kept it in his wallet for a while, but every now and then he’d take it out and run his fingers over the card’s edges for no real reason other than he needed to touch it.
No matter how many times he inspected the damn thing - with both eyes and fingertips - nothing changed. It was just a piece of paper. Frustrated, Merlin almost threw it into his overflowing bin along with the potato peelings. But he couldn’t do it, much as he despised himself for his weakness. In the end he kept the calling card and pinned it to his corkboard. Right next to a sketch of a fair-haired man curled around a cello.
The next time Merlin saw Arthur he was standing on Merlin’s doorstep, once again drenched by the rain. He looked much as he had when Merlin first saw him that day outside the bookshop. Droplets hanging from his ears like glass, hair plastered to his head. He was beautiful. Merlin honestly thought he’d never see Arthur again.
“Well? Can I come inside?” Arthur asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of a navy jacket. He looked cold and uneasy, hunched in on himself in a defensive manner. Merlin wondered if he was defending himself against the winter elements or Merlin. He scoffed at himself for the latter. Of course it was the rain.
“Sure, I guess,” he said noncommittally. Merlin opened the door wider, and then led Arthur up the communal stairwell. They didn’t say a word until they were both inside Merlin’s flat.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Merlin began, nervously picking up strewn newspapers and socks, a stray paintbrush and some half finished sketches scattered across the floor. He didn’t really want Arthur there, in his space. “Did you forget something?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said. Merlin was surprised. He’d not expected him to say yes. After all, Merlin knew full well there was only one thing that had been left behind.
“Oh. What?”
“Do you still have that card?” Arthur asked, voice even. Merlin’s heart sank. Arthur wanted that back? It wasn’t that he was attached to it exactly, but for Arthur to come all the way over in the rain to ask for it back? That hurt.
“Sure. It’s over on the corkboard.” He said it without thinking. The moment they were out he wanted to grab the words from the air and stuff them back down his throat where they belonged. Arthur would no doubt see that sketch and think Merlin a fool, possibly even love-struck and displaying stalker-like tendencies.
Arthur did indeed pause for a moment at the board but didn’t say anything, just un-tacked the card. To Merlin’s surprise, instead of leaving immediately, Arthur fished into a pocket and took out a pen to write something on the card. When he was done he tacked it back up next the sketch.
“There,” Arthur said. “I forgot to do that.” He moved away, striding towards the front door. Merlin’s heart lurched. He’d added a phone number to the card.
“Arthur!” Merlin called out, whirling around. Arthur stood with his hand on the door handle and looked over his shoulder at Merlin.
Merlin realised he hadn’t had any words planned, he’d just wanted to stop Arthur from disappearing again. An idea hit him. He ripped the sketch of Arthur off the board and scribbled his own number under the image.
“Here, you forgot this, too,” Merlin said shoving the sheet of paper at Arthur. The other man took it carefully and looked down at the number and the sketch with that intensity that had captivated Merlin from the beginning.
“This,” Arthur began at last, “is me, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I know it might seem kind of creepy but I’m an artist,” Merlin tried to explain. “I paint anything that interests me. I mean… um… I’m also interested in clouds and er … umbrellas and rain and stuff, not just you.”
Arthur chuckled. “You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks?”
“No, honestly, I like it.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur nodded slowly, glancing down at the piece of paper in his hand. “You make me look...” he paused. “Good, I guess. Good.”
Merlin didn’t think that good was the word Arthur had been searching for, but didn’t push. Merlin watched Arthur as he traced a tentative line across the sketch, eyes hooded and unreadable.
Without warning, Arthur was kissing him, free hand cupping Merlin’s face, a callused thumb stroking his cheekbone. Merlin could smell mint on Arthur’s breath but tasted only rain.