Merlin - The Kingdom of the Blaggers (AU, Merlin/Arthur, NC-17, 1/3)
At 22,798 words, this story is officially the longest one-shot I have ever written. ( The Way I Was Made is 21,975 and Semper Fidelis Familia is 22,496), which is kind of mind-boggling for me since I remember when I thought a long story was more than five pages long.
For those of you who are wary of Merlin or Entourage or a bit of RPF/S, I can only say that I hope you'll give it a shot anyway. I don't think you'll be disappointed; well, at least I'm not.
Merlin featuring Entourage and some RPS
Merlin Emrys/Arthur Pendragon
NC-17 / 18
Alternate Universe
Word Count: 22,798
The Kingdom of the Blaggers
The problem with being the son of Uther Pendragon, legend of stage and screen, winner of Emmys (twice), Tonys (once), Oliviers (multiple), BAFTAs (twice), Oscars (once) and People's Sexiest Man (twice) was that nobody was ever going to take Arthur seriously as an actor in his own right.
If Arthur stayed in London, his success was always going to be down to nepotism, name recognition or latent star fucking. At least this was the excuse Arthur gave Merlin when he packed his bags three weeks before he was to finish his Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts course and moved to Los Angeles.
Unfortunately for Merlin, he was sprawled on the bed with his trousers down around his ankles since Arthur had just sucked his brains out through his cock, and thusly he wasn't exactly in the best position to offer a proper argument.
It took Merlin four whole months to realize that Arthur was most certainly not coming back to finish his course or apply to the Royal Shakespeare Company or spends days on end chain-smoking in a dingy flat in Clapham with Merlin. Arthur wasn't going to change his mind about Los Angeles as he had about joining the army or those fencing lessons or running the bloody London Marathon.
In short, Arthur wasn't doing anything that properly trained British actors were supposed to do. It was a little distressing, but it was nothing compared to Arthur ringing him up to announce he was thinking about taking a job on some American version of Eastenders.
"You're doing what?" Merlin yelled into the phone as though Arthur were down the hall and not 6000 miles away. "I thought you went to California to act; how's that acting?"
"It's a job," Arthur protested. "And nobody cares about Uther bloody Pendragon on General Hospital."
Merlin could just imagine the sullen look on Arthur's face right now. "Getting your kit off for some bored housewives isn't a job, Arthur, it's trade."
"Fuck you, Merlin," Arthur retorted. "It's easy for you to say when you're living at home and doing fuck all. Try making a living without anyone to help you."
Merlin eyed the tea kettle in his mum's kitchen. What he really fancied was a biscuit. "So now it's my fault I actually finished university, instead of just fleeing the scene of the crime?"
"A degree is just some words in a book somewhere," Arthur intoned flatly. He sounded like his father. Sometimes Merlin hated Arthur's father. "It has no basis on reality."
"Maybe not your reality," Merlin scoffed while looking for the biscuits. They had to be -- right there on the shelf in front of him. Ah.
"I didn't know HMV paid so handsomely for a double first from UCL."
"You're living with Morgana," Merlin snapped, "it's not exactly selling the Big Issue under Charring Cross, is it?"
"Living with Morgana?" Arthur sputtered. "How much've you been drinking?"
Merlin paused with his hand in a packet of McVitie's. "Staying at your dad's then?"
"Fuck you, Merlin," Arthur repeated.
Merlin'd hit a nerve apparently. Excellent.
"You don't understand," Arthur carried on. "I have to start somewhere."
"You don't start there," Merlin protested with a biscuit halfway to his mouth. "Arthur, if you do that, you'll never leave. You've seen those people on Corrie. They spend their whole lives doing that; it's practically generational. Shows like that are black holes; you're better than that."
Arthur sighed. "It's so easy for you to judge, Merlin. When have you ever taken a risk in your entire life?"
Merlin stared at the phone long after Arthur hung up.
Arse.
Stupid, bloody-minded, arrogant, idiotic, irritating, impossibly independent arse.
Yes, that was his Arthur.
To her credit, when Merlin rang Gwen up twenty minutes later to complain about Arthur being a prat, Gwen let him bitch for five whole minutes before she told him to shut up.
"It's hard out there," Gwen said. "Just because Arthur has talent doesn't mean he's going to succeed, Merlin. Morgana's been there for almost two years and she's only now getting work. And she finished RADA."
"Which is why he needs to come home and finish his degree. Or at least get the hell out of the states," Merlin said triumphantly.
"Which is why he needs you to support his choice," Gwen corrected.
"I completely support his right to be fucking prat," Merlin protested. "I just want him to be a prat here. He's too far away."
"Merlin."
"If this is the part where you tell me I've no right to be upset because, technically, Arthur and I have a 'whatever' as opposed to a proper relationship, I'm going to ring up Lance and tell him you miss him dreadfully and completely forgive him for shagging half our year."
"Merlin!"
Merlin sighed. "Sorry, sorry. I know I've no right to be like this."
"That's not what I was going to say," Gwen replied. "I was going to say that you have every right to be like this, since apparently you're the only one who doesn't think you and Arthur are destined to make each other mad for the rest of your lives."
"I never said anything about destiny," Merlin declared.
"What about--"
"I'd been drinking, doesn't count." Merlin had also jumped on the table, announced that he could fly and then showed the entire pub his arse. It'd been an interesting night.
"Of course not." Gwen's tone only implied she thought him a complete idiot.
Merlin sighed again. "He's going to make a mess of it, Gwen."
"Then shouldn’t you help him?"
Merlin blinked at the phone as though Gwen could see him. "Help him how?"
"You'll think of something, Merlin."
"I will?"
"Well, unless you want him to run off with some Brad Pitt-clone you will."
The thought of Arthur running off with Brad Pitt made Merlin's blood run cold. Hadn't that non-acting, greasy, home-wrecker-turned-philanthropist done enough damage?
Oh, wait, maybe he was thinking of Angelina Jolie.
Merlin had to ring Gwen from the airport to find out where the hell Arthur was staying since he'd managed to leave that particular bit of information back in London. He then had to spend another twenty minutes convincing her that she didn't have to ring Morgana and ask her to drive down to LAX to pick him up, and then it took him another fifty minutes to sort out customs and collect his bag.
When Merlin stepped out of the international terminal the sun was shining brightly, he then nearly got run over by an enormous car because he looked the wrong way before crossing the street, and the heat nearly knocked him on his backside.
It was arse o-clock on a Thursday in September. It had no business being this nice outside. Fucking California.
In true Pendragon form, what Merlin thought would be a relatively simple flat somewhere in the city turned out to be a lavish gated community in the hills with more security than Buckingham Palace. Merlin wasn't allowed through even though he was Arthur Pendragon's best mate, since, apparently, that didn't count. And of course Arthur wasn't home, so Merlin had to spend most of his funny American money paying the taxi driver just to leave him stranded. Sometimes Merlin hated Arthur so much he couldn't even think straight.
Merlin waited at the guard house for at least an hour under the reproachful eye of a rather scary looking man with biceps the size of melons. Merlin spent the majority of that time telling himself that as soon as Arthur showed up, Merlin was going to smack him in the head and demand that Arthur drive him back to the airport so Merlin could get the hell out of this godforsaken colony.
"This must be quite a large package," a very familiar voice broke through Merlin's thoughts of burning Los Angeles and all its stupid security precautions to the ground.
He stood up as the door to the guard house opened and Arthur walked in.
He was definitely more tanned than the last time Merlin had seen him. His teeth were whiter as well, which looked a bit strange, but it was Arthur without a doubt. Messy blond hair, perfect skin, crooked smile and all.
And, oh, god, he was wearing sunglasses -- perfectly clear and crisp aviator sunglasses -- indoors. Like a fucking movie star.
Clearly, Arthur had completely assimilated to the California way of life.
"Merlin?" Arthur froze in his tracks, a security guard hovering behind him.
Merlin gave his most wounded face. "You were expecting the Queen?"
Arthur's mouth opened and closed, twice, and then he just shook his head. "You're really here?"
Merlin hefted his rucksack onto his back. "I couldn't very well let you ruin your career before it got started, could I?"
Arthur laughed.
And for the first time in months, Merlin felt all right.
Merlin wasn't even entirely through the front door before Arthur was shoving him against the wall and snogging him as though it were going to be outlawed by the U.S. government directly. Naturally, Merlin dropped his rucksack on his feet.
Arthur's mouth was softer than Merlin remembered, his lips not as dry, but Arthur's tongue hadn't changed at all. It licked and stroked, and Merlin groaned as Arthur palmed Merlin's cock through his trousers.
Merlin could feel it when Arthur smiled against his mouth, and then he made these completely undignified noises when Arthur corrected his hand so that the tips of his fingers were rubbing against Merlin's balls and the heel was rubbing against the head of Merlin's cock. Not that Merlin really gave a toss about dignity, because it was Arthur and there was no place for dignity between them. If there had been, then Merlin would still be in Stepney Green with his mum, since he'd been forced to move back in with her after Arthur buggered off.
Arthur groped Merlin relentlessly, biting his lips and pulling at his hair, and in reply Merlin gripped at Arthur's backside and rubbed himself against Arthur's hip. Merlin's eyes unfocused dangerously when Arthur dropped to his knees on the obscenely opulent tiling, his fingers fumbling greedily with Merlin's flies.
Merlin's backside was cold against the wallpaper when Arthur divested him of his trousers and pants, and then his head banged against the wall when Arthur wrapped hot fingers around his cock. When Merlin looked down, there was the golden crown of Arthur's head, bent over him like a prayer or an avenging angel.
Arthur licked Merlin's cock as though it were a particularly tasty ice cream. It was obscene the way Arthur's tongue teased him, but then the slurping started and things went from just obscene to obscene and loud. Merlin cracked his head against the wall, again, his eyes rolling up when Arthur hummed around his cock.
The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was impossibly radiant with crystals and gold; it probably cost more than his mum's entire house. The sun shining through the windows cast prisms all around the room, and Merlin's hands blindly tangled in Arthur's hair as Arthur sucked him off.
Sometimes Merlin forgot how rich Arthur's family really was, if only because when Merlin looked at Arthur he never saw a Pendragon, he just saw Arthur, who belched and scratched himself obscenely and stole the last of the Cadbury's Fruit & Nut, so he was continually surprised by how much extravagance actually surrounded Arthur.
But mostly, he didn't give a shit.
Arthur could've been disinherited and destitute, and Merlin wouldn't've cared. In fact, all he really cared about at that moment was fucking Arthur's mouth until it was swollen and red and Arthur was gagging for it.
At least Merlin had the manners to announce when he was about to come; Arthur couldn't even be arsed to do that most of the time.
Apparently, you couldn't just come to Los Angeles, declare yourself an actor and automatically be given an A-List role and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was one of the most shocking things Merlin had ever heard. Except not really. What did shock Merlin was his mother's language when he rang her to announce that he was taking a rather unexpected year to look after Arthur in California and that medical school would probably have to wait. His mother had never referred to Arthur as, "The Bloody Pied Piper of Good Intentions, Buggery and Harlotry," before.
Merlin couldn't figure out if she was upset with his choice or happy he was looking after Arthur; it was possible his mother didn't know either.
It took three weeks for Merlin to realise that Arthur's entire day tended to consist of sleeping late, driving into the city to sit in halls with lots of other incredibly attractive boys for hours on end like cattle, say three lines before a camera and then go back home and do fuck all. If this was acting, no wonder everybody wanted in.
The day Arthur landed the mobile phone commercial, they celebrated by getting terrifically drunk at The Cat and Fiddle in Hollywood, eating exceeding dodgy chicken from the Popeye's three blocks away, and then staggering a mile down the road to The Roosevelt where Arthur accidentally on purpose pushed three people in the pool before jumping in himself and dragging Merlin with him.
They were much more sober when they were escorted out of the hotel by security.
That night they had sex on the steps in the foyer. Really aggressive sex.
Merlin's hands scrabbled for purchase on seamless marble, his fingers catching against the railing haphazardly. The tops of his thighs banging against the edge of a higher step repeatedly rattled his bones, all while Arthur shagged him thoroughly, his fingers leaving bruises on Merlin's hips.
Merlin tried to rest his head on his forearm and almost got a concussion after one particularly fierce thrust from Arthur. Not that Merlin was complaining. The sex was so good that Merlin was going to be spoiled for at least the next week.
Merlin came rather abruptly when Arthur dragged short nails down his back, the sharp sting pushing him over the edge. Arthur followed soon after.
Merlin collapsed on the steps, elbowing Arthur in the ribs. "Fucking hell…"
Arthur bit him on the shoulder. "I left you speechless. I should get a prize."
"Fuck you," Merlin said mildly.
"Maybe. Next time."
Merlin wouldn't have called himself Arthur's manager; he was just the one who kept Arthur on schedule, who made sure Arthur had enough head shots for his auditions and the right copy of the right script from his low-level, uninterested agent.
Merlin was the one who made sure there was loo roll in the house and water in the kettle. And if Arthur gave him money for what he did, well, he wasn't fucking trade. He would've done this even if Arthur wasn't paying him. The money just helped a little. At least it helped him buy his first car. His first used -- very used - car.
Pablo at the gate laughed when the car wheezed up to the community enclosure off of Mulholland. "Hey, English, you pimpin' now, huh?"
Merlin rolled his eyes. "At least it works."
"I can't believe your man is letting you out like this. Damn, son."
Merlin gave Pablo a thin smile as the gates parted and he drove on. This was actually a better car than the first one he'd looked at. Apparently people were just dying to give away cars with manual drive.
The car sputtered up the circular driveway, and Merlin was just closing the door when Arthur came bounding out of the front door.
"What is that?" Arthur gestured toward the car, which Merlin was rather fondly thinking of calling Excalibur, since that was the model name apparently. Arthur's shirt was drenched in sweat; he'd obviously been in the gym. Not that Merlin could blame him for availing himself of the facilities, since Uther's castle also had a sauna, a pool, satellite television and a wine cellar.
Merlin had been in hotels with fewer amenities.
"That is my first car," Merlin said proudly.
"That's not a car, that's a death sentence and an eyesore. You can't leave it there."
"It's my car. I paid for it," Merlin insisted stubbornly.
"Well, you were robbed. Take it back."
"I will not!"
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Merlin, if you wanted a car, you could've just said so. What was wrong with driving one of the cars here?" Arthur gestured to the fully-occupied, four-car garage behind them, which didn't even include the shiny black Porsche that Arthur had acquired at some point.
"I don't need you to give me things," Merlin said flatly. "This is my car. I bought it with my own money."
"Money I paid you," Arthur retorted. Merlin's eyes went wide even as Arthur backtracked. "I didn't - Merlin that's not -"
"Do you really think I'm here for your money?" Merlin's emphasis on the word 'money' made it sound as though it were a terminal disease. "I knew you were a prat, but I had no idea you were a selfish, blind arsehole as well," he said incredulously.
"Merlin!"
"There's not enough money in the fucking world to convince me to move to this soul-sucking crack den of vacuousness!" Merlin spat.
"Nobody asked you to come here!" Arthur retaliated.
"Okay then," Merlin snapped. "I'll just be leaving."
"Merlin, wait!" Arthur called, but Merlin cut him off by getting back in the car and driving off.
At least this time Excalibur started on the first try.
The likelihood of Arthur's step-sister, Morgana, being home when Merlin called round was about as small as the likelihood of Merlin calling round in the first place, which was probably why he drove down Laurel Canyon towards her flat on Melrose. It would be the last place Arthur would ever think to look for him. Hell, it was the last place he thought to go himself.
He rang the buzzer marked 'M. Fay', and then jumped a foot when a staticky voice said, "Yes?"
"Morgana? It's Merlin."
There was a pause. "Merlin? Arthur's Merlin?"
"Arthur is an ungrateful, insufferable prat, who wouldn't know -"
The front door unlocked with a loud buzz.
Merlin stepped into the entry hall and glanced around until a voice called out, "Flat 9, top floor," and Merlin glanced up. Leaning over the railing, in all her dark-haired glory, was Morgana, and not for the first time Merlin wondered why he couldn't just fancy girls enough to shag them. He could snog them, but the sex was mostly uninteresting. He'd tried enough to be sure of it.
"I brought drinks," Merlin said, waving a brown-paper bag at Morgana. He'd actually bought the vodka for himself, but at least this way he wouldn't get arrested for DUI.
"I would hope so," Morgana laughed.
"And then he said didn't see the point in me working, and that I should stay at home and be barefoot and pregnant and cook dinner all the time," Merlin slurred.
Morgana clapped delightedly, vodka and orange sloshing around in her glass. "Somehow, I doubt the pregnant bit, but I'd buy the rest."
Merlin blinked at her rapidly. "Okay, he didn't say any of that, but he might've done. Arsehole."
"Yes, but Merlin, he's always been an arsehole. You know that."
Merlin scoffed and took a swig from the vodka bottle on the table between them. "It's just a car," Merlin protested. "I bought a car, and he's acting like I've cheated on him with David Beckham, tattooed someone else's name on my forehead and blown half of Arsenal."
"Half of Arsenal. Really?"
"He thinks I want him for his money. I don't want him for his money!" Merlin raged.
Morgana patted him on the hand mildly. "No, he thinks you'll leave him, because you don't want his money."
Merlin deflated just as rapidly. "And go where?"
"Anywhere that's not with him."
"He's the one who came out here to be a fucking actor!" Morgana raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but you're working," Merlin corrected. "He's not working and I'm fucking trying to help, and he's being an ungrateful shit."
Morgana shook her head. "You're a mess, you know. I don't know why you love him so much."
"I don't love him," Merlin muttered to the table top.
"Oh, really? What about that time at the pub?"
"I was pissed!"
"I believe the word 'destiny' was used," Morgana said thoughtfully.
Merlin scowled at his hands. When he glanced up, Morgana was giving him an incredibly amused smirk. "All right, Merlin, even though Arthur clearly doesn't deserve you, I'm going to do something for you -- both of you -- because I like you, even when you're pissed, raving like a loony and a bit of an idiot."
Merlin sniffed. "I'm not drunk."
Morgana laughed loudly. "Oh, yes, you are."
Merlin just sniffed again.
"I'm going to go put on some coffee and you're going to sleep it off, and in the morning you're going to call the miracle worker."
Merlin decided to rest his head on the table for a minute. Just a minute though. "There's no such thing as a miracle worker," he said.
"I used to think that too," Morgana said magnanimously.
Arthur was sitting on the doorstep when Merlin pulled into the driveway the next morning. The front door was wide open, but judging by the state of Arthur's clothing and the haggard look on his face, he'd been waiting quite a long time. Possibly all night. Served him right, the bastard.
He stood up as Merlin climbed out of the car, and Merlin eyed him warily.
"Merlin, I'm --" he began as Merlin walked up the path.
"You're an insufferable shit," Merlin finished for him as he approached.
Arthur's face went dark as Merlin walked past and into the house. "I am not," he replied by rote.
Merlin dropped his keys on the table in the foyer and flipped through the post as though anything with his name on it ever arrived. "Yes, you are," Merlin said lightly, turning only when Arthur appeared in his periphery. "And yet, I'm still here."
Arthur's face softened just as quickly as it had tuned angry. "I'm sorry about what I said."
"Be sorry later," Merlin replied. "We have an appointment with a miracle worker, and if we're late, Morgana will kill you on my behalf."
"So, which one are you? The girlfriend or the no-talent offspring?"
Merlin blinked up at the short, brown-haired man that materialised out of nowhere to slide into their booth at Jerry's Deli. The man wore a suit that spoke of money, but his eyes gleamed with something else. Possibly greed. Or prescription drugs. Merlin had heard the stories.
"I'm nobody's girlfriend," he retorted, just as Arthur protested vehemently he had had talent.
The man laughed and clapped his hands. "I'll be the fucking judge of that, Dumbo. Now which one of you ate Morgana's pussy to get this meeting today?"
Merlin's mouth jaw dropped a little at that, because, uh, no. As fit as Morgana was, that would just be awkward. Incredibly awkward.
"Don't talk about my sister that way," Arthur warned.
"Step-sister," the man corrected. "And in this town I can speak to you like I just clamped shackles on your ass at my plantation and branded your dick."
"Oh, really?" Merlin snapped.
"I'm Ari Gold, you Welsh sheep fucker, who the fuck are you?"
"I'm not Welsh!" Merlin spat, but he couldn't help but notice the way that Arthur's face went from red with rage to rather pale.
"Arthur Pendragon," Arthur said, ignoring Merlin's indignation.
"So you're the no-talent, walking sperm donation. Got it. Who's your girlfriend with the ears like fucking boat sails, and why's she gaping like she's been working the glory hole?"
"Who the fuck're you to-" Merlin's words were muffled by Arthur's hand over his mouth.
"What do I have to do to convince you to sign me, Mr. Gold?" Arthur said. Merlin bit him. "OW!"
"I don't care if you're bloody King Midas himself!" Merlin snapped over Arthur. "You don’t speak to people that way unless you want someone to bash your head in."
"And who's going to do that, princess, you?"
Merlin rose up. "I might do, yes," he said, resolutely not letting Arthur pull him back down. "Just because you're a small-dicked waste of space is no reason to insult people who are actually really fucking good at what they do. Just because his surname is Pendragon doesn't mean he's anything like his father; he's better, and you'd be fucking blessed if Arthur signed with you. Unlike most of these vapid rent boys and pneumatic whores prancing about without a brain in their heads, he's actually got fucking talent!"
Ari sat back in the booth, his hands folded in front of him, his face impassive. Merlin only sat down when he realised Arthur's nails were digging so hard into his wrist that they'd drawn blood and people were staring. But people were always staring at Arthur, so bollocks to that.
And then Ari grinned. "So, your girlfriend has balls," he said. "You know that usually costs extra in this town, Arthur, right?"
Merlin just stared.
This was Morgana's fucking miracle worker? The next time Merlin saw Morgana they were going to have to talk extensively about what exactly she thought a miracle was.
"Ari Gold, Merlin," Arthur repeated for the fourth time as they waited in traffic on Crescent Heights. "Ari fucking Gold."
"I've got that part down," Merlin said through clenched teeth. "The part that keeps escaping me is why the hell you want an arse-licking prick like that as your agent."
"Ari Gold represents everyone," Arthur said as though Ari were the second coming.
"Everyone like who?"
"Vincent Chase."
"Who?"
"Aquaman!"
"Oh, him. Right. Is that the only one?"
"Sharon Stone."
"Isn't she a bit mad?"
"Jake Gyllenhaal."
"He's all right I suppose, if you go for that."
Merlin laughed when Arthur smacked him on the arm.
"Mary J Blige," Arthur carried on. "Mark Wahlberg. Don Cheadle. Shia LaBeouf. Kerry Washington. Matt Damon. Jeffrey Wright. Robert Downey Jr. George fucking Clooney."
Merlin sighed. "You want this, don't you?"
When Arthur looked at him, his face was so hopeful it made Merlin's chest hurt. "Yes."
Merlin sighed and rubbed his forehead.
The Porsche moved five feet forward in afternoon traffic.
Now that was Merlin's idea of a miracle.
It took Ari three days to ring Arthur back. Three days of Arthur sulking and nearly killing himself with workouts and runs and sex. Well, Merlin didn't mind that last one per se, but his dick was starting to chafe and he had work to do. He had been trying to get Arthur in to see the casting director at DreamWorks, which would be somewhere between a miracle and the second coming of the Messiah, but he was trying. And then Ari rang, and when Merlin picked up the phone their conversation went a lot like this:
"Hello."
"Arthur?"
"No, it's Merlin, who's speaking?"
"Merlin, my favourite trannie with the handle bar ears for driving, it's Ari Gold. Where's our boy?"
"Our boy?"
"Are you slow? Why am I asking? You're English; I should be glad you've got all your teeth. Our boy. What's mine is mine, and now, what's yours in mine. Which means Arthur is mine. Put him on the fucking phone, Rapunzel, before I lock your ass away where Arthur can't fuck it anymore."
"Ari, I'm going to come down there and-"
"It's Ari?" Merlin spun around, and there, in the doorway, was Arthur, practically vibrating with excitement.
Merlin shook his head and handed over the phone. "Congratulations," he said dryly. "I think you just bought yourself a short, vulgar American."
The good thing about Arthur signing with the Miller Gold Agency was -- no, as far as Merlin could tell there was no good thing about Arthur signing with MGA. Arthur just kept on going to cattle call after cattle call and not getting any work, including commercials, because Ari said those were for no-talent hacks and he wasn't investing in Arthur's tight ass just to waste him on selling laundry detergent and Zoloft ads. Allegedly, Ari Gold made stars not fucking stand-ins, which was bullshit, because Ari wasn't making anything except a headache for Merlin. Instead, Ari started sending Arthur to events: mobile phone launches and special screenings at the DGA. Events where there were press who wanted to know Arthur's name, and what he was wearing and was he really Uther Pendragon's son? What did his dad think of Arthur's career choice?
Merlin stayed away from those, not just because he wanted to, but because Ari had said there would be a lot of questions about him and them and their relationship, and for once, Merlin agreed.
He wasn't ashamed of whatever he had with Arthur, but it wasn't to be shared. Fuck the public's right to anything.
Ari's answer phone message went something like this:
Attention all Aryan-looking speakers of the Queen's fucking English, which makes you all sound even more like the pussies you already are. Some fucking dick smoker named Arthur Pendragon just got his limey ass a supporting role in this indie film that this friend of mine named Matt fucking DAMON is shooting. It's got some lines beyond 'bend over and cough' and 'yes, I'll suck your dick if you pay me $20.' Pack your motherfucking bags, kiddo, because you're going to fucking Argentina for a month. Don't drink the water and double wrap your cock when you fuck the bitches; I don't need you coming back with your dick in a baggie or a baby mama on your arm."
Arthur played the message fifteen times before Merlin physically unplugged the answer phone and threatened to drop it in the pool.
The night before Arthur left for Buenos Aires, Merlin tied him to the bed and sucked him off until Arthur nearly broke himself in the process.
The bed frame creaked dangerously as Arthur tried to free himself, or at the very least tried to fuck Merlin's mouth without any leverage to help him along.
Merlin sucked and licked, and once, even hummed a bit of a Blur song around Arthur's prick, until Arthur almost choked himself between laughing and moaning. Merlin paid particular attention to the sensitive area right under the crown that made Arthur whimper, and in payment, Arthur made the most gloriously-addictive, pleased noises.
Merlin brought Arthur to the edge once, twice, more than twice, but he stopped counting after Arthur started promising to buy him his own island.
"I don’t want your money," Merlin intoned against the hot skin of Arthur's thigh.
Arthur twisted underneath him. "I know... I know..." he panted, trying fruitlessly to fuck himself on Merlin's fingers.
"Never wanted your stupid fucking money." Merlin mouthed Arthur's balls wetly. Messily.
Arthur made a noise that sounded a lot like, "Yurrrrrr."
"I don't care about your fucking surname either."
Merlin scissored his fingers viciously, and Arthur arched as far off the bed as his restraints would allow. His indecipherable cry spoke volumes.
"I want you," Merlin said, before his mouth descended on Arthur's cock again.
"Fuck, Merlin!" which was a pretty accurate description of what Merlin was doing between his mouth on Arthur's cock and the three fingers he had inside of Arthur. Every time one of Merlin's fingers brushed against Arthur's prostate (which was quite often), he tried to jerk away, until he was clearly too exhausted to make the effort.
Eventually the over stimulation dissolved Arthur's cries into raspy whimpers.
And then, when Arthur was finally quiet and still, Merlin untied his legs and fucked him, hard. Arthur watched with wide eyes and bitten lips, his only vocalization hoarse grunts and groans, his hands opening and closing fruitlessly where they were tied to the headboard.
Merlin could feel Arthur shake with every thrust. The muscles in Arthur's thighs quivered under Merlin's fingers as his cock slapped heavily against his stomach, leaving spatters of wetness everywhere.
Far too soon it was over, and Merlin's orgasm turned him into a boneless puddle. It was only Arthur's gasping noises that reminded Merlin that he still needed to finish the job. He wrapped sweaty fingers around Arthur's cock, and with a few quick turns of his wrist Arthur was coming all over Merlin's fingers and his own stomach.
Arthur made a muted noise of approval, and Merlin climbed up and untied his wrists, rubbing them softly as Arthur lay beside him, drowsy and sated.
Merlin knew there would be bruises for days to come. Bruises for the make-up people to contend with in Argentina. He didn’t care.
Arthur's tilted his head back and gazed at Merlin, his eyes glassy. Merlin just chuckled and leaned down to kiss him. Arthur's lips tasted a lot like surrender.
Merlin was satisfied.
A car arrived at the arse crack of dawn to take Arthur to the airport. It took every fibre of Merlin's will not to run around checking to make sure Arthur had got his passport and his ticket and the latest copy of the script and his fucking iPhone and his laptop and whatever else he might need. He wasn't Arthur's mum and this wasn't the first day of school, so instead he lounged in the bed, sheets tangled around his legs as he watched Arthur from underneath his lashes.
"I think that's it," Arthur said, grabbing the last of his things.
Merlin smiled benignly. His chest hurt. "All right then."
Arthur paused in the doorway. "It would be much easier for me to leave, if you could look less like a porn star for a few minutes."
Merlin flushed and Arthur smiled. And then Arthur turned away, and Merlin could feel his face fall. This was it; the beginning of something. Something he wasn't going along for. He missed it when Arthur turned back, but then Arthur was scrambling onto the bed, his dirty trainers all over the duvet.
"Arthur, your shoes," Merlin scolded just before Arthur grabbed him by the hair and kissed him deeply, his mouth as warm as the Los Angeles sun. Merlin's brain scrambled as Arthur moved away just as quickly.
"I'll see you in a month," Arthur called over his shoulder.
Merlin flopped back on the bed and stared at the crown moulding along the edges of the ceiling. There was no way he was going back to sleep now. He'd best have a shower and a wank. Maybe not in that order.
It took Merlin approximately one week to lose the plot. Okay, more like ten days. It wasn't that Arthur was gone. Arthur'd been gone for four months before Merlin caved and come to Hell Ay, but this, this was different. Not this he missed him - actually, that was a lie. A whopping great lie, and one that Morgana laughed at outrageously over several bottles of wine and one exceptionally long What Not to Wear marathon.
"Oh God, Merlin, you're such a girl," Morgana laughed. "I don’t know how you can miss my step-brother the way you do, I can only assume it has to do with the sex."
Merlin didn't even have to pretend to be scandalised. "Morgana."
Morgana snickered. "Well, you better think of some reason for your faffing about like Graham Norton, or Gwen's going to blame me."
Merlin brightened considerably. "Gwen's coming? She didn't tell me she was coming!"
"She doesn't know yet," Morgana said. "I've just been offered a lead in this new Showtime series; I sent her the ticket as a surprise. I don't see why Arthur should be the only one with his best mate out here to keep him sane."
Merlin sighed dramatically. "Oh thank god, finally someone not on the game."
"I'm not on the game!" Morgana objected hotly.
Merlin grabbed one of several Varietys from Morgana's coffee table and waved it in her face. "You read Variety, The Hollywood Reporter and Defamer religiously every day. You've got Deadline Hollywood updates on your Blackberry, and I reckon you could navigate IMDB Pro in your sleep, tell me again how this isn't your life?"
Morgana pouted. "Well, it's not all I talk about."
Merlin smiled. "No, it's not."
"And my 'game' as you put it, got you Ari."
"And don't think I'll be thanking you for that ever," Merlin said wryly. Morgana rolled her eyes. "So, what's it called then, your show?"
Morgana's face went slightly pink. "Incubus/Succubus."
Merlin raised an eyebrow.
"I'm the lead," Morgana reiterated. "And I get to talk like myself."
Not being required to use an American accent was a huge deal; Merlin couldn't argue with that. Instead he held up his glass. "Cheers."
Morgana and Merlin met Gwen at LAX, and despite her protestations about jet lag and needing a lie down and a cup of tea, they were having none of it. Instead they whisked her off to The Standard on Sunset where they spent Gwen's first afternoon in Los Angeles, drinking too sweet drinks by the pool, eating impossibly decadent American comfort food and ogling the out-of-work actors hovering around the periphery.
"Is this what you do all day long?" Gwen asked after her third outrageously blue drink in a martini glass. "No wonder I can't get anyone to come back for a visit."
Morgana adjusted her shirt so her tan would be even. "Not every day, just most days."
Merlin grinned from behind his sunglasses. "Yes, Gwen, we've been holding out on you."
"And you," Gwen said, turning on Merlin, "with your la-di-da California sunglasses. You've actually got colour, or is that spray-on tan?"
Morgana patted Gwen's arm. "It's called Mystic Tan out here."
Merlin sputtered, his gin and tonic going all over everything. "I don't Mystic Tan!"
Morgana laughed. "He's a kept man, now, Gwen, he can focus on his tan."
"I am not a kept man!" Merlin declared loudly.
It was Gwen's turn to pat Merlin's arm. "She's winding you up, Merlin, calm down."
"You see what I've been saying about his co-dependency with Arthur?" Morgana's voice was entirely too triumphant.
"I've told you to stop watching Dr. Phil," Merlin sulked.
"You two need a hobby besides shagging," Morgana said loftily.
Merlin just sputtered. Although, Morgana did have a point. Sort of.
Morgana was still chuckling when Merlin's mobile rang. Merlin lifted up his sunglasses. Arthur. It must be around two. Argentina was six hours ahead of California, and Arthur generally rang after he'd finished for the day.
"Tell Arthur we said hello," Gwen called as Merlin climbed out of his lounger to take the call.
Merlin just flashed them a 'v.'
Christmas came and went with Arthur in Argentina and Merlin in Los Angeles.
It was mostly crap; Merlin couldn't even be bothered to buy a tree.
He rang his mum first thing to ask if she got the presents he sent, but it was strange to think of the holidays without her. And while Merlin was moping about, his mum hurried him off the phone as she was having dinner with Merlin's Uncle Gaius, which made Merlin even more bitter. He wanted to be getting pissed with his Uncle Gaius, not skulking around Arthur's lair.
He tried to ring Arthur, but there was no answer. He was probably working, since Merlin couldn't imagine a studio just giving people a day off with pay ever. Merlin had never hated Hollywood more than he did at that very moment. Stupid, bloody productions in other countries were ruining his life.
In the afternoon, Merlin had dinner with Morgana and Gwen, who'd visited one of the British groceries in Santa Monica and picked up some Christmas crackers. They spent a few hours listening to a podcast of the Queen's speech, watching reruns of Are You Being Served and Torchwood on BBC America and getting completely smashed.
At around ten at night, they went for a walk along Melrose, with Morgana and Gwen ogling the shop windows and giggling and pushing each other off the kerb over and over again.
It was at least 28 degrees Celsius outside, which was obscene. Merlin was in a tee shirt and jeans, and there was sweat in the small of his back on bloody Christmas Day. Los Angeles was so fucking strange. Where were the grey skies? Where was the rain? Where was the fucking cold wintery weather in December?
Clearly, not in Southern California.
When Merlin got home, there were three messages from Arthur on the answer phone.
Merlin hadn't even realised his mobile was off.
Arthur's voice was scratchy with sleep when Merlin rang. "Happy Christmas," Merlin said, fumbling with the security system before climbing up the stairs. Uther's lair was entirely too big for him alone.
"More like happy day after Christmas," Arthur mocked.
"Sorry, I didn't realize my phone was off."
"Having that much fun without me?" Arthur's tone was light.
"Not really."
"Out with your other boyfriend?"
Merlin scoffed. "Obviously. You know Californians love pasty, skinny Brits with crooked teeth."
Arthur went quiet. "Everything all right then?"
"Christmas in California is horrible," Merlin said flatly. "It's too hot."
Arthur was quiet for a minute. "We'll go somewhere cold next year."
Merlin sighed as he turned on the bedroom light and was greeted with an empty room. "Yeah, all right."
Arthur was supposed to wrap filming on January 5th, which left Merlin with an enormous wine cellar and no plans on New Year's Eve.
Morgana and Gwen were off to some fancy dress party in the hills, which Gwen had begged Merlin to come to, but he couldn't be arsed. His exact words being along the lines of, "As much as I love you in a completely platonic and non-sexual way, there's no way on God's green fucking earth that I'm ringing in the New Year with a bunch of fucking actors and their sycophants."
Gwen pursed her lips. "Morgana's an actor, and so's Arthur, so does that make us their sycophants or had you just forgotten that bit?"
Merlin covered his eyes. "Actually, I hoped I'd hit my head and would wake up in an episode of Life on Mars just in time to shag John Simm."
Gwen shook her head. "All right, Merlin, if that's what you want."
It was most certainly not what Merlin wanted, but he wanted to do the industry dance even less, which was obviously why he was sprawled out on the sofa in the sitting room at 11:31 p.m., watching a Deadwood marathon with a bottle of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild clutched in his fist.
"You are a sad, sad man, Merlin Emrys," Merlin hiccupped. "Useless degree in Literature. Abandoned for Jason Bourne in Buenos Aires. Calluses from too much wanking. Watching fucking Deadwood to ring in the New Year. You could be at some swish party doing coke off of Lindsey Lohan's tits and instead -"
"And instead you're talking to yourself," a droll voice finished for him. "You know that's never a sign of good mental health."
The bottle of wine slipped from Merlin's fingers, bounced off the sofa and fell on the carpet as he whirled around. He didn't give the wine much thought when he saw Arthur standing in the doorway.
Merlin stood up fast enough that he saw spots, and for a moment he forgot how to speak.
Arthur smirked at him and dropped his carry-on on the floor. "You're all right then?" he asked as he took the three steps into the room.
Merlin just stared. He'd picked a fine time to come over all shy.
Arthur paused awkwardly. "Merlin?"
Merlin blinked. "Hi."
Arthur's grin was blinding. "I'm away for a month, and all I get is 'hi'?"
Merlin scrambled over the sofa, landing in front of Arthur with a stumble. "Were you expecting something more like this?" he asked, right before he grabbed Arthur by the shirt and hauled him into a jaw-aching kiss.
Arthur tasted like peanuts and gin and that horrible American chocolate that was like chalk. Merlin's tongue flittered everywhere, remembering, memorizing and cataloguing for potential change.
Arthur's eyes were still closed when Merlin finally pulled back to breathe. He pressed his forehead against Arthur's, and Arthur finally opened his eyes.
"I missed you too," Arthur said.
Merlin smiled.
Part II
For those of you who are wary of Merlin or Entourage or a bit of RPF/S, I can only say that I hope you'll give it a shot anyway. I don't think you'll be disappointed; well, at least I'm not.
Merlin featuring Entourage and some RPS
Merlin Emrys/Arthur Pendragon
NC-17 / 18
Alternate Universe
Word Count: 22,798
The Kingdom of the Blaggers
The problem with being the son of Uther Pendragon, legend of stage and screen, winner of Emmys (twice), Tonys (once), Oliviers (multiple), BAFTAs (twice), Oscars (once) and People's Sexiest Man (twice) was that nobody was ever going to take Arthur seriously as an actor in his own right.
If Arthur stayed in London, his success was always going to be down to nepotism, name recognition or latent star fucking. At least this was the excuse Arthur gave Merlin when he packed his bags three weeks before he was to finish his Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts course and moved to Los Angeles.
Unfortunately for Merlin, he was sprawled on the bed with his trousers down around his ankles since Arthur had just sucked his brains out through his cock, and thusly he wasn't exactly in the best position to offer a proper argument.
It took Merlin four whole months to realize that Arthur was most certainly not coming back to finish his course or apply to the Royal Shakespeare Company or spends days on end chain-smoking in a dingy flat in Clapham with Merlin. Arthur wasn't going to change his mind about Los Angeles as he had about joining the army or those fencing lessons or running the bloody London Marathon.
In short, Arthur wasn't doing anything that properly trained British actors were supposed to do. It was a little distressing, but it was nothing compared to Arthur ringing him up to announce he was thinking about taking a job on some American version of Eastenders.
"You're doing what?" Merlin yelled into the phone as though Arthur were down the hall and not 6000 miles away. "I thought you went to California to act; how's that acting?"
"It's a job," Arthur protested. "And nobody cares about Uther bloody Pendragon on General Hospital."
Merlin could just imagine the sullen look on Arthur's face right now. "Getting your kit off for some bored housewives isn't a job, Arthur, it's trade."
"Fuck you, Merlin," Arthur retorted. "It's easy for you to say when you're living at home and doing fuck all. Try making a living without anyone to help you."
Merlin eyed the tea kettle in his mum's kitchen. What he really fancied was a biscuit. "So now it's my fault I actually finished university, instead of just fleeing the scene of the crime?"
"A degree is just some words in a book somewhere," Arthur intoned flatly. He sounded like his father. Sometimes Merlin hated Arthur's father. "It has no basis on reality."
"Maybe not your reality," Merlin scoffed while looking for the biscuits. They had to be -- right there on the shelf in front of him. Ah.
"I didn't know HMV paid so handsomely for a double first from UCL."
"You're living with Morgana," Merlin snapped, "it's not exactly selling the Big Issue under Charring Cross, is it?"
"Living with Morgana?" Arthur sputtered. "How much've you been drinking?"
Merlin paused with his hand in a packet of McVitie's. "Staying at your dad's then?"
"Fuck you, Merlin," Arthur repeated.
Merlin'd hit a nerve apparently. Excellent.
"You don't understand," Arthur carried on. "I have to start somewhere."
"You don't start there," Merlin protested with a biscuit halfway to his mouth. "Arthur, if you do that, you'll never leave. You've seen those people on Corrie. They spend their whole lives doing that; it's practically generational. Shows like that are black holes; you're better than that."
Arthur sighed. "It's so easy for you to judge, Merlin. When have you ever taken a risk in your entire life?"
Merlin stared at the phone long after Arthur hung up.
Arse.
Stupid, bloody-minded, arrogant, idiotic, irritating, impossibly independent arse.
Yes, that was his Arthur.
To her credit, when Merlin rang Gwen up twenty minutes later to complain about Arthur being a prat, Gwen let him bitch for five whole minutes before she told him to shut up.
"It's hard out there," Gwen said. "Just because Arthur has talent doesn't mean he's going to succeed, Merlin. Morgana's been there for almost two years and she's only now getting work. And she finished RADA."
"Which is why he needs to come home and finish his degree. Or at least get the hell out of the states," Merlin said triumphantly.
"Which is why he needs you to support his choice," Gwen corrected.
"I completely support his right to be fucking prat," Merlin protested. "I just want him to be a prat here. He's too far away."
"Merlin."
"If this is the part where you tell me I've no right to be upset because, technically, Arthur and I have a 'whatever' as opposed to a proper relationship, I'm going to ring up Lance and tell him you miss him dreadfully and completely forgive him for shagging half our year."
"Merlin!"
Merlin sighed. "Sorry, sorry. I know I've no right to be like this."
"That's not what I was going to say," Gwen replied. "I was going to say that you have every right to be like this, since apparently you're the only one who doesn't think you and Arthur are destined to make each other mad for the rest of your lives."
"I never said anything about destiny," Merlin declared.
"What about--"
"I'd been drinking, doesn't count." Merlin had also jumped on the table, announced that he could fly and then showed the entire pub his arse. It'd been an interesting night.
"Of course not." Gwen's tone only implied she thought him a complete idiot.
Merlin sighed again. "He's going to make a mess of it, Gwen."
"Then shouldn’t you help him?"
Merlin blinked at the phone as though Gwen could see him. "Help him how?"
"You'll think of something, Merlin."
"I will?"
"Well, unless you want him to run off with some Brad Pitt-clone you will."
The thought of Arthur running off with Brad Pitt made Merlin's blood run cold. Hadn't that non-acting, greasy, home-wrecker-turned-philanthropist done enough damage?
Oh, wait, maybe he was thinking of Angelina Jolie.
Merlin had to ring Gwen from the airport to find out where the hell Arthur was staying since he'd managed to leave that particular bit of information back in London. He then had to spend another twenty minutes convincing her that she didn't have to ring Morgana and ask her to drive down to LAX to pick him up, and then it took him another fifty minutes to sort out customs and collect his bag.
When Merlin stepped out of the international terminal the sun was shining brightly, he then nearly got run over by an enormous car because he looked the wrong way before crossing the street, and the heat nearly knocked him on his backside.
It was arse o-clock on a Thursday in September. It had no business being this nice outside. Fucking California.
In true Pendragon form, what Merlin thought would be a relatively simple flat somewhere in the city turned out to be a lavish gated community in the hills with more security than Buckingham Palace. Merlin wasn't allowed through even though he was Arthur Pendragon's best mate, since, apparently, that didn't count. And of course Arthur wasn't home, so Merlin had to spend most of his funny American money paying the taxi driver just to leave him stranded. Sometimes Merlin hated Arthur so much he couldn't even think straight.
Merlin waited at the guard house for at least an hour under the reproachful eye of a rather scary looking man with biceps the size of melons. Merlin spent the majority of that time telling himself that as soon as Arthur showed up, Merlin was going to smack him in the head and demand that Arthur drive him back to the airport so Merlin could get the hell out of this godforsaken colony.
"This must be quite a large package," a very familiar voice broke through Merlin's thoughts of burning Los Angeles and all its stupid security precautions to the ground.
He stood up as the door to the guard house opened and Arthur walked in.
He was definitely more tanned than the last time Merlin had seen him. His teeth were whiter as well, which looked a bit strange, but it was Arthur without a doubt. Messy blond hair, perfect skin, crooked smile and all.
And, oh, god, he was wearing sunglasses -- perfectly clear and crisp aviator sunglasses -- indoors. Like a fucking movie star.
Clearly, Arthur had completely assimilated to the California way of life.
"Merlin?" Arthur froze in his tracks, a security guard hovering behind him.
Merlin gave his most wounded face. "You were expecting the Queen?"
Arthur's mouth opened and closed, twice, and then he just shook his head. "You're really here?"
Merlin hefted his rucksack onto his back. "I couldn't very well let you ruin your career before it got started, could I?"
Arthur laughed.
And for the first time in months, Merlin felt all right.
Merlin wasn't even entirely through the front door before Arthur was shoving him against the wall and snogging him as though it were going to be outlawed by the U.S. government directly. Naturally, Merlin dropped his rucksack on his feet.
Arthur's mouth was softer than Merlin remembered, his lips not as dry, but Arthur's tongue hadn't changed at all. It licked and stroked, and Merlin groaned as Arthur palmed Merlin's cock through his trousers.
Merlin could feel it when Arthur smiled against his mouth, and then he made these completely undignified noises when Arthur corrected his hand so that the tips of his fingers were rubbing against Merlin's balls and the heel was rubbing against the head of Merlin's cock. Not that Merlin really gave a toss about dignity, because it was Arthur and there was no place for dignity between them. If there had been, then Merlin would still be in Stepney Green with his mum, since he'd been forced to move back in with her after Arthur buggered off.
Arthur groped Merlin relentlessly, biting his lips and pulling at his hair, and in reply Merlin gripped at Arthur's backside and rubbed himself against Arthur's hip. Merlin's eyes unfocused dangerously when Arthur dropped to his knees on the obscenely opulent tiling, his fingers fumbling greedily with Merlin's flies.
Merlin's backside was cold against the wallpaper when Arthur divested him of his trousers and pants, and then his head banged against the wall when Arthur wrapped hot fingers around his cock. When Merlin looked down, there was the golden crown of Arthur's head, bent over him like a prayer or an avenging angel.
Arthur licked Merlin's cock as though it were a particularly tasty ice cream. It was obscene the way Arthur's tongue teased him, but then the slurping started and things went from just obscene to obscene and loud. Merlin cracked his head against the wall, again, his eyes rolling up when Arthur hummed around his cock.
The chandelier hanging from the ceiling was impossibly radiant with crystals and gold; it probably cost more than his mum's entire house. The sun shining through the windows cast prisms all around the room, and Merlin's hands blindly tangled in Arthur's hair as Arthur sucked him off.
Sometimes Merlin forgot how rich Arthur's family really was, if only because when Merlin looked at Arthur he never saw a Pendragon, he just saw Arthur, who belched and scratched himself obscenely and stole the last of the Cadbury's Fruit & Nut, so he was continually surprised by how much extravagance actually surrounded Arthur.
But mostly, he didn't give a shit.
Arthur could've been disinherited and destitute, and Merlin wouldn't've cared. In fact, all he really cared about at that moment was fucking Arthur's mouth until it was swollen and red and Arthur was gagging for it.
At least Merlin had the manners to announce when he was about to come; Arthur couldn't even be arsed to do that most of the time.
Apparently, you couldn't just come to Los Angeles, declare yourself an actor and automatically be given an A-List role and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It was one of the most shocking things Merlin had ever heard. Except not really. What did shock Merlin was his mother's language when he rang her to announce that he was taking a rather unexpected year to look after Arthur in California and that medical school would probably have to wait. His mother had never referred to Arthur as, "The Bloody Pied Piper of Good Intentions, Buggery and Harlotry," before.
Merlin couldn't figure out if she was upset with his choice or happy he was looking after Arthur; it was possible his mother didn't know either.
It took three weeks for Merlin to realise that Arthur's entire day tended to consist of sleeping late, driving into the city to sit in halls with lots of other incredibly attractive boys for hours on end like cattle, say three lines before a camera and then go back home and do fuck all. If this was acting, no wonder everybody wanted in.
The day Arthur landed the mobile phone commercial, they celebrated by getting terrifically drunk at The Cat and Fiddle in Hollywood, eating exceeding dodgy chicken from the Popeye's three blocks away, and then staggering a mile down the road to The Roosevelt where Arthur accidentally on purpose pushed three people in the pool before jumping in himself and dragging Merlin with him.
They were much more sober when they were escorted out of the hotel by security.
That night they had sex on the steps in the foyer. Really aggressive sex.
Merlin's hands scrabbled for purchase on seamless marble, his fingers catching against the railing haphazardly. The tops of his thighs banging against the edge of a higher step repeatedly rattled his bones, all while Arthur shagged him thoroughly, his fingers leaving bruises on Merlin's hips.
Merlin tried to rest his head on his forearm and almost got a concussion after one particularly fierce thrust from Arthur. Not that Merlin was complaining. The sex was so good that Merlin was going to be spoiled for at least the next week.
Merlin came rather abruptly when Arthur dragged short nails down his back, the sharp sting pushing him over the edge. Arthur followed soon after.
Merlin collapsed on the steps, elbowing Arthur in the ribs. "Fucking hell…"
Arthur bit him on the shoulder. "I left you speechless. I should get a prize."
"Fuck you," Merlin said mildly.
"Maybe. Next time."
Merlin wouldn't have called himself Arthur's manager; he was just the one who kept Arthur on schedule, who made sure Arthur had enough head shots for his auditions and the right copy of the right script from his low-level, uninterested agent.
Merlin was the one who made sure there was loo roll in the house and water in the kettle. And if Arthur gave him money for what he did, well, he wasn't fucking trade. He would've done this even if Arthur wasn't paying him. The money just helped a little. At least it helped him buy his first car. His first used -- very used - car.
Pablo at the gate laughed when the car wheezed up to the community enclosure off of Mulholland. "Hey, English, you pimpin' now, huh?"
Merlin rolled his eyes. "At least it works."
"I can't believe your man is letting you out like this. Damn, son."
Merlin gave Pablo a thin smile as the gates parted and he drove on. This was actually a better car than the first one he'd looked at. Apparently people were just dying to give away cars with manual drive.
The car sputtered up the circular driveway, and Merlin was just closing the door when Arthur came bounding out of the front door.
"What is that?" Arthur gestured toward the car, which Merlin was rather fondly thinking of calling Excalibur, since that was the model name apparently. Arthur's shirt was drenched in sweat; he'd obviously been in the gym. Not that Merlin could blame him for availing himself of the facilities, since Uther's castle also had a sauna, a pool, satellite television and a wine cellar.
Merlin had been in hotels with fewer amenities.
"That is my first car," Merlin said proudly.
"That's not a car, that's a death sentence and an eyesore. You can't leave it there."
"It's my car. I paid for it," Merlin insisted stubbornly.
"Well, you were robbed. Take it back."
"I will not!"
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Merlin, if you wanted a car, you could've just said so. What was wrong with driving one of the cars here?" Arthur gestured to the fully-occupied, four-car garage behind them, which didn't even include the shiny black Porsche that Arthur had acquired at some point.
"I don't need you to give me things," Merlin said flatly. "This is my car. I bought it with my own money."
"Money I paid you," Arthur retorted. Merlin's eyes went wide even as Arthur backtracked. "I didn't - Merlin that's not -"
"Do you really think I'm here for your money?" Merlin's emphasis on the word 'money' made it sound as though it were a terminal disease. "I knew you were a prat, but I had no idea you were a selfish, blind arsehole as well," he said incredulously.
"Merlin!"
"There's not enough money in the fucking world to convince me to move to this soul-sucking crack den of vacuousness!" Merlin spat.
"Nobody asked you to come here!" Arthur retaliated.
"Okay then," Merlin snapped. "I'll just be leaving."
"Merlin, wait!" Arthur called, but Merlin cut him off by getting back in the car and driving off.
At least this time Excalibur started on the first try.
The likelihood of Arthur's step-sister, Morgana, being home when Merlin called round was about as small as the likelihood of Merlin calling round in the first place, which was probably why he drove down Laurel Canyon towards her flat on Melrose. It would be the last place Arthur would ever think to look for him. Hell, it was the last place he thought to go himself.
He rang the buzzer marked 'M. Fay', and then jumped a foot when a staticky voice said, "Yes?"
"Morgana? It's Merlin."
There was a pause. "Merlin? Arthur's Merlin?"
"Arthur is an ungrateful, insufferable prat, who wouldn't know -"
The front door unlocked with a loud buzz.
Merlin stepped into the entry hall and glanced around until a voice called out, "Flat 9, top floor," and Merlin glanced up. Leaning over the railing, in all her dark-haired glory, was Morgana, and not for the first time Merlin wondered why he couldn't just fancy girls enough to shag them. He could snog them, but the sex was mostly uninteresting. He'd tried enough to be sure of it.
"I brought drinks," Merlin said, waving a brown-paper bag at Morgana. He'd actually bought the vodka for himself, but at least this way he wouldn't get arrested for DUI.
"I would hope so," Morgana laughed.
"And then he said didn't see the point in me working, and that I should stay at home and be barefoot and pregnant and cook dinner all the time," Merlin slurred.
Morgana clapped delightedly, vodka and orange sloshing around in her glass. "Somehow, I doubt the pregnant bit, but I'd buy the rest."
Merlin blinked at her rapidly. "Okay, he didn't say any of that, but he might've done. Arsehole."
"Yes, but Merlin, he's always been an arsehole. You know that."
Merlin scoffed and took a swig from the vodka bottle on the table between them. "It's just a car," Merlin protested. "I bought a car, and he's acting like I've cheated on him with David Beckham, tattooed someone else's name on my forehead and blown half of Arsenal."
"Half of Arsenal. Really?"
"He thinks I want him for his money. I don't want him for his money!" Merlin raged.
Morgana patted him on the hand mildly. "No, he thinks you'll leave him, because you don't want his money."
Merlin deflated just as rapidly. "And go where?"
"Anywhere that's not with him."
"He's the one who came out here to be a fucking actor!" Morgana raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but you're working," Merlin corrected. "He's not working and I'm fucking trying to help, and he's being an ungrateful shit."
Morgana shook her head. "You're a mess, you know. I don't know why you love him so much."
"I don't love him," Merlin muttered to the table top.
"Oh, really? What about that time at the pub?"
"I was pissed!"
"I believe the word 'destiny' was used," Morgana said thoughtfully.
Merlin scowled at his hands. When he glanced up, Morgana was giving him an incredibly amused smirk. "All right, Merlin, even though Arthur clearly doesn't deserve you, I'm going to do something for you -- both of you -- because I like you, even when you're pissed, raving like a loony and a bit of an idiot."
Merlin sniffed. "I'm not drunk."
Morgana laughed loudly. "Oh, yes, you are."
Merlin just sniffed again.
"I'm going to go put on some coffee and you're going to sleep it off, and in the morning you're going to call the miracle worker."
Merlin decided to rest his head on the table for a minute. Just a minute though. "There's no such thing as a miracle worker," he said.
"I used to think that too," Morgana said magnanimously.
Arthur was sitting on the doorstep when Merlin pulled into the driveway the next morning. The front door was wide open, but judging by the state of Arthur's clothing and the haggard look on his face, he'd been waiting quite a long time. Possibly all night. Served him right, the bastard.
He stood up as Merlin climbed out of the car, and Merlin eyed him warily.
"Merlin, I'm --" he began as Merlin walked up the path.
"You're an insufferable shit," Merlin finished for him as he approached.
Arthur's face went dark as Merlin walked past and into the house. "I am not," he replied by rote.
Merlin dropped his keys on the table in the foyer and flipped through the post as though anything with his name on it ever arrived. "Yes, you are," Merlin said lightly, turning only when Arthur appeared in his periphery. "And yet, I'm still here."
Arthur's face softened just as quickly as it had tuned angry. "I'm sorry about what I said."
"Be sorry later," Merlin replied. "We have an appointment with a miracle worker, and if we're late, Morgana will kill you on my behalf."
"So, which one are you? The girlfriend or the no-talent offspring?"
Merlin blinked up at the short, brown-haired man that materialised out of nowhere to slide into their booth at Jerry's Deli. The man wore a suit that spoke of money, but his eyes gleamed with something else. Possibly greed. Or prescription drugs. Merlin had heard the stories.
"I'm nobody's girlfriend," he retorted, just as Arthur protested vehemently he had had talent.
The man laughed and clapped his hands. "I'll be the fucking judge of that, Dumbo. Now which one of you ate Morgana's pussy to get this meeting today?"
Merlin's mouth jaw dropped a little at that, because, uh, no. As fit as Morgana was, that would just be awkward. Incredibly awkward.
"Don't talk about my sister that way," Arthur warned.
"Step-sister," the man corrected. "And in this town I can speak to you like I just clamped shackles on your ass at my plantation and branded your dick."
"Oh, really?" Merlin snapped.
"I'm Ari Gold, you Welsh sheep fucker, who the fuck are you?"
"I'm not Welsh!" Merlin spat, but he couldn't help but notice the way that Arthur's face went from red with rage to rather pale.
"Arthur Pendragon," Arthur said, ignoring Merlin's indignation.
"So you're the no-talent, walking sperm donation. Got it. Who's your girlfriend with the ears like fucking boat sails, and why's she gaping like she's been working the glory hole?"
"Who the fuck're you to-" Merlin's words were muffled by Arthur's hand over his mouth.
"What do I have to do to convince you to sign me, Mr. Gold?" Arthur said. Merlin bit him. "OW!"
"I don't care if you're bloody King Midas himself!" Merlin snapped over Arthur. "You don’t speak to people that way unless you want someone to bash your head in."
"And who's going to do that, princess, you?"
Merlin rose up. "I might do, yes," he said, resolutely not letting Arthur pull him back down. "Just because you're a small-dicked waste of space is no reason to insult people who are actually really fucking good at what they do. Just because his surname is Pendragon doesn't mean he's anything like his father; he's better, and you'd be fucking blessed if Arthur signed with you. Unlike most of these vapid rent boys and pneumatic whores prancing about without a brain in their heads, he's actually got fucking talent!"
Ari sat back in the booth, his hands folded in front of him, his face impassive. Merlin only sat down when he realised Arthur's nails were digging so hard into his wrist that they'd drawn blood and people were staring. But people were always staring at Arthur, so bollocks to that.
And then Ari grinned. "So, your girlfriend has balls," he said. "You know that usually costs extra in this town, Arthur, right?"
Merlin just stared.
This was Morgana's fucking miracle worker? The next time Merlin saw Morgana they were going to have to talk extensively about what exactly she thought a miracle was.
"Ari Gold, Merlin," Arthur repeated for the fourth time as they waited in traffic on Crescent Heights. "Ari fucking Gold."
"I've got that part down," Merlin said through clenched teeth. "The part that keeps escaping me is why the hell you want an arse-licking prick like that as your agent."
"Ari Gold represents everyone," Arthur said as though Ari were the second coming.
"Everyone like who?"
"Vincent Chase."
"Who?"
"Aquaman!"
"Oh, him. Right. Is that the only one?"
"Sharon Stone."
"Isn't she a bit mad?"
"Jake Gyllenhaal."
"He's all right I suppose, if you go for that."
Merlin laughed when Arthur smacked him on the arm.
"Mary J Blige," Arthur carried on. "Mark Wahlberg. Don Cheadle. Shia LaBeouf. Kerry Washington. Matt Damon. Jeffrey Wright. Robert Downey Jr. George fucking Clooney."
Merlin sighed. "You want this, don't you?"
When Arthur looked at him, his face was so hopeful it made Merlin's chest hurt. "Yes."
Merlin sighed and rubbed his forehead.
The Porsche moved five feet forward in afternoon traffic.
Now that was Merlin's idea of a miracle.
It took Ari three days to ring Arthur back. Three days of Arthur sulking and nearly killing himself with workouts and runs and sex. Well, Merlin didn't mind that last one per se, but his dick was starting to chafe and he had work to do. He had been trying to get Arthur in to see the casting director at DreamWorks, which would be somewhere between a miracle and the second coming of the Messiah, but he was trying. And then Ari rang, and when Merlin picked up the phone their conversation went a lot like this:
"Hello."
"Arthur?"
"No, it's Merlin, who's speaking?"
"Merlin, my favourite trannie with the handle bar ears for driving, it's Ari Gold. Where's our boy?"
"Our boy?"
"Are you slow? Why am I asking? You're English; I should be glad you've got all your teeth. Our boy. What's mine is mine, and now, what's yours in mine. Which means Arthur is mine. Put him on the fucking phone, Rapunzel, before I lock your ass away where Arthur can't fuck it anymore."
"Ari, I'm going to come down there and-"
"It's Ari?" Merlin spun around, and there, in the doorway, was Arthur, practically vibrating with excitement.
Merlin shook his head and handed over the phone. "Congratulations," he said dryly. "I think you just bought yourself a short, vulgar American."
The good thing about Arthur signing with the Miller Gold Agency was -- no, as far as Merlin could tell there was no good thing about Arthur signing with MGA. Arthur just kept on going to cattle call after cattle call and not getting any work, including commercials, because Ari said those were for no-talent hacks and he wasn't investing in Arthur's tight ass just to waste him on selling laundry detergent and Zoloft ads. Allegedly, Ari Gold made stars not fucking stand-ins, which was bullshit, because Ari wasn't making anything except a headache for Merlin. Instead, Ari started sending Arthur to events: mobile phone launches and special screenings at the DGA. Events where there were press who wanted to know Arthur's name, and what he was wearing and was he really Uther Pendragon's son? What did his dad think of Arthur's career choice?
Merlin stayed away from those, not just because he wanted to, but because Ari had said there would be a lot of questions about him and them and their relationship, and for once, Merlin agreed.
He wasn't ashamed of whatever he had with Arthur, but it wasn't to be shared. Fuck the public's right to anything.
Ari's answer phone message went something like this:
Attention all Aryan-looking speakers of the Queen's fucking English, which makes you all sound even more like the pussies you already are. Some fucking dick smoker named Arthur Pendragon just got his limey ass a supporting role in this indie film that this friend of mine named Matt fucking DAMON is shooting. It's got some lines beyond 'bend over and cough' and 'yes, I'll suck your dick if you pay me $20.' Pack your motherfucking bags, kiddo, because you're going to fucking Argentina for a month. Don't drink the water and double wrap your cock when you fuck the bitches; I don't need you coming back with your dick in a baggie or a baby mama on your arm."
Arthur played the message fifteen times before Merlin physically unplugged the answer phone and threatened to drop it in the pool.
The night before Arthur left for Buenos Aires, Merlin tied him to the bed and sucked him off until Arthur nearly broke himself in the process.
The bed frame creaked dangerously as Arthur tried to free himself, or at the very least tried to fuck Merlin's mouth without any leverage to help him along.
Merlin sucked and licked, and once, even hummed a bit of a Blur song around Arthur's prick, until Arthur almost choked himself between laughing and moaning. Merlin paid particular attention to the sensitive area right under the crown that made Arthur whimper, and in payment, Arthur made the most gloriously-addictive, pleased noises.
Merlin brought Arthur to the edge once, twice, more than twice, but he stopped counting after Arthur started promising to buy him his own island.
"I don’t want your money," Merlin intoned against the hot skin of Arthur's thigh.
Arthur twisted underneath him. "I know... I know..." he panted, trying fruitlessly to fuck himself on Merlin's fingers.
"Never wanted your stupid fucking money." Merlin mouthed Arthur's balls wetly. Messily.
Arthur made a noise that sounded a lot like, "Yurrrrrr."
"I don't care about your fucking surname either."
Merlin scissored his fingers viciously, and Arthur arched as far off the bed as his restraints would allow. His indecipherable cry spoke volumes.
"I want you," Merlin said, before his mouth descended on Arthur's cock again.
"Fuck, Merlin!" which was a pretty accurate description of what Merlin was doing between his mouth on Arthur's cock and the three fingers he had inside of Arthur. Every time one of Merlin's fingers brushed against Arthur's prostate (which was quite often), he tried to jerk away, until he was clearly too exhausted to make the effort.
Eventually the over stimulation dissolved Arthur's cries into raspy whimpers.
And then, when Arthur was finally quiet and still, Merlin untied his legs and fucked him, hard. Arthur watched with wide eyes and bitten lips, his only vocalization hoarse grunts and groans, his hands opening and closing fruitlessly where they were tied to the headboard.
Merlin could feel Arthur shake with every thrust. The muscles in Arthur's thighs quivered under Merlin's fingers as his cock slapped heavily against his stomach, leaving spatters of wetness everywhere.
Far too soon it was over, and Merlin's orgasm turned him into a boneless puddle. It was only Arthur's gasping noises that reminded Merlin that he still needed to finish the job. He wrapped sweaty fingers around Arthur's cock, and with a few quick turns of his wrist Arthur was coming all over Merlin's fingers and his own stomach.
Arthur made a muted noise of approval, and Merlin climbed up and untied his wrists, rubbing them softly as Arthur lay beside him, drowsy and sated.
Merlin knew there would be bruises for days to come. Bruises for the make-up people to contend with in Argentina. He didn’t care.
Arthur's tilted his head back and gazed at Merlin, his eyes glassy. Merlin just chuckled and leaned down to kiss him. Arthur's lips tasted a lot like surrender.
Merlin was satisfied.
A car arrived at the arse crack of dawn to take Arthur to the airport. It took every fibre of Merlin's will not to run around checking to make sure Arthur had got his passport and his ticket and the latest copy of the script and his fucking iPhone and his laptop and whatever else he might need. He wasn't Arthur's mum and this wasn't the first day of school, so instead he lounged in the bed, sheets tangled around his legs as he watched Arthur from underneath his lashes.
"I think that's it," Arthur said, grabbing the last of his things.
Merlin smiled benignly. His chest hurt. "All right then."
Arthur paused in the doorway. "It would be much easier for me to leave, if you could look less like a porn star for a few minutes."
Merlin flushed and Arthur smiled. And then Arthur turned away, and Merlin could feel his face fall. This was it; the beginning of something. Something he wasn't going along for. He missed it when Arthur turned back, but then Arthur was scrambling onto the bed, his dirty trainers all over the duvet.
"Arthur, your shoes," Merlin scolded just before Arthur grabbed him by the hair and kissed him deeply, his mouth as warm as the Los Angeles sun. Merlin's brain scrambled as Arthur moved away just as quickly.
"I'll see you in a month," Arthur called over his shoulder.
Merlin flopped back on the bed and stared at the crown moulding along the edges of the ceiling. There was no way he was going back to sleep now. He'd best have a shower and a wank. Maybe not in that order.
It took Merlin approximately one week to lose the plot. Okay, more like ten days. It wasn't that Arthur was gone. Arthur'd been gone for four months before Merlin caved and come to Hell Ay, but this, this was different. Not this he missed him - actually, that was a lie. A whopping great lie, and one that Morgana laughed at outrageously over several bottles of wine and one exceptionally long What Not to Wear marathon.
"Oh God, Merlin, you're such a girl," Morgana laughed. "I don’t know how you can miss my step-brother the way you do, I can only assume it has to do with the sex."
Merlin didn't even have to pretend to be scandalised. "Morgana."
Morgana snickered. "Well, you better think of some reason for your faffing about like Graham Norton, or Gwen's going to blame me."
Merlin brightened considerably. "Gwen's coming? She didn't tell me she was coming!"
"She doesn't know yet," Morgana said. "I've just been offered a lead in this new Showtime series; I sent her the ticket as a surprise. I don't see why Arthur should be the only one with his best mate out here to keep him sane."
Merlin sighed dramatically. "Oh thank god, finally someone not on the game."
"I'm not on the game!" Morgana objected hotly.
Merlin grabbed one of several Varietys from Morgana's coffee table and waved it in her face. "You read Variety, The Hollywood Reporter and Defamer religiously every day. You've got Deadline Hollywood updates on your Blackberry, and I reckon you could navigate IMDB Pro in your sleep, tell me again how this isn't your life?"
Morgana pouted. "Well, it's not all I talk about."
Merlin smiled. "No, it's not."
"And my 'game' as you put it, got you Ari."
"And don't think I'll be thanking you for that ever," Merlin said wryly. Morgana rolled her eyes. "So, what's it called then, your show?"
Morgana's face went slightly pink. "Incubus/Succubus."
Merlin raised an eyebrow.
"I'm the lead," Morgana reiterated. "And I get to talk like myself."
Not being required to use an American accent was a huge deal; Merlin couldn't argue with that. Instead he held up his glass. "Cheers."
Morgana and Merlin met Gwen at LAX, and despite her protestations about jet lag and needing a lie down and a cup of tea, they were having none of it. Instead they whisked her off to The Standard on Sunset where they spent Gwen's first afternoon in Los Angeles, drinking too sweet drinks by the pool, eating impossibly decadent American comfort food and ogling the out-of-work actors hovering around the periphery.
"Is this what you do all day long?" Gwen asked after her third outrageously blue drink in a martini glass. "No wonder I can't get anyone to come back for a visit."
Morgana adjusted her shirt so her tan would be even. "Not every day, just most days."
Merlin grinned from behind his sunglasses. "Yes, Gwen, we've been holding out on you."
"And you," Gwen said, turning on Merlin, "with your la-di-da California sunglasses. You've actually got colour, or is that spray-on tan?"
Morgana patted Gwen's arm. "It's called Mystic Tan out here."
Merlin sputtered, his gin and tonic going all over everything. "I don't Mystic Tan!"
Morgana laughed. "He's a kept man, now, Gwen, he can focus on his tan."
"I am not a kept man!" Merlin declared loudly.
It was Gwen's turn to pat Merlin's arm. "She's winding you up, Merlin, calm down."
"You see what I've been saying about his co-dependency with Arthur?" Morgana's voice was entirely too triumphant.
"I've told you to stop watching Dr. Phil," Merlin sulked.
"You two need a hobby besides shagging," Morgana said loftily.
Merlin just sputtered. Although, Morgana did have a point. Sort of.
Morgana was still chuckling when Merlin's mobile rang. Merlin lifted up his sunglasses. Arthur. It must be around two. Argentina was six hours ahead of California, and Arthur generally rang after he'd finished for the day.
"Tell Arthur we said hello," Gwen called as Merlin climbed out of his lounger to take the call.
Merlin just flashed them a 'v.'
Christmas came and went with Arthur in Argentina and Merlin in Los Angeles.
It was mostly crap; Merlin couldn't even be bothered to buy a tree.
He rang his mum first thing to ask if she got the presents he sent, but it was strange to think of the holidays without her. And while Merlin was moping about, his mum hurried him off the phone as she was having dinner with Merlin's Uncle Gaius, which made Merlin even more bitter. He wanted to be getting pissed with his Uncle Gaius, not skulking around Arthur's lair.
He tried to ring Arthur, but there was no answer. He was probably working, since Merlin couldn't imagine a studio just giving people a day off with pay ever. Merlin had never hated Hollywood more than he did at that very moment. Stupid, bloody productions in other countries were ruining his life.
In the afternoon, Merlin had dinner with Morgana and Gwen, who'd visited one of the British groceries in Santa Monica and picked up some Christmas crackers. They spent a few hours listening to a podcast of the Queen's speech, watching reruns of Are You Being Served and Torchwood on BBC America and getting completely smashed.
At around ten at night, they went for a walk along Melrose, with Morgana and Gwen ogling the shop windows and giggling and pushing each other off the kerb over and over again.
It was at least 28 degrees Celsius outside, which was obscene. Merlin was in a tee shirt and jeans, and there was sweat in the small of his back on bloody Christmas Day. Los Angeles was so fucking strange. Where were the grey skies? Where was the rain? Where was the fucking cold wintery weather in December?
Clearly, not in Southern California.
When Merlin got home, there were three messages from Arthur on the answer phone.
Merlin hadn't even realised his mobile was off.
Arthur's voice was scratchy with sleep when Merlin rang. "Happy Christmas," Merlin said, fumbling with the security system before climbing up the stairs. Uther's lair was entirely too big for him alone.
"More like happy day after Christmas," Arthur mocked.
"Sorry, I didn't realize my phone was off."
"Having that much fun without me?" Arthur's tone was light.
"Not really."
"Out with your other boyfriend?"
Merlin scoffed. "Obviously. You know Californians love pasty, skinny Brits with crooked teeth."
Arthur went quiet. "Everything all right then?"
"Christmas in California is horrible," Merlin said flatly. "It's too hot."
Arthur was quiet for a minute. "We'll go somewhere cold next year."
Merlin sighed as he turned on the bedroom light and was greeted with an empty room. "Yeah, all right."
Arthur was supposed to wrap filming on January 5th, which left Merlin with an enormous wine cellar and no plans on New Year's Eve.
Morgana and Gwen were off to some fancy dress party in the hills, which Gwen had begged Merlin to come to, but he couldn't be arsed. His exact words being along the lines of, "As much as I love you in a completely platonic and non-sexual way, there's no way on God's green fucking earth that I'm ringing in the New Year with a bunch of fucking actors and their sycophants."
Gwen pursed her lips. "Morgana's an actor, and so's Arthur, so does that make us their sycophants or had you just forgotten that bit?"
Merlin covered his eyes. "Actually, I hoped I'd hit my head and would wake up in an episode of Life on Mars just in time to shag John Simm."
Gwen shook her head. "All right, Merlin, if that's what you want."
It was most certainly not what Merlin wanted, but he wanted to do the industry dance even less, which was obviously why he was sprawled out on the sofa in the sitting room at 11:31 p.m., watching a Deadwood marathon with a bottle of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild clutched in his fist.
"You are a sad, sad man, Merlin Emrys," Merlin hiccupped. "Useless degree in Literature. Abandoned for Jason Bourne in Buenos Aires. Calluses from too much wanking. Watching fucking Deadwood to ring in the New Year. You could be at some swish party doing coke off of Lindsey Lohan's tits and instead -"
"And instead you're talking to yourself," a droll voice finished for him. "You know that's never a sign of good mental health."
The bottle of wine slipped from Merlin's fingers, bounced off the sofa and fell on the carpet as he whirled around. He didn't give the wine much thought when he saw Arthur standing in the doorway.
Merlin stood up fast enough that he saw spots, and for a moment he forgot how to speak.
Arthur smirked at him and dropped his carry-on on the floor. "You're all right then?" he asked as he took the three steps into the room.
Merlin just stared. He'd picked a fine time to come over all shy.
Arthur paused awkwardly. "Merlin?"
Merlin blinked. "Hi."
Arthur's grin was blinding. "I'm away for a month, and all I get is 'hi'?"
Merlin scrambled over the sofa, landing in front of Arthur with a stumble. "Were you expecting something more like this?" he asked, right before he grabbed Arthur by the shirt and hauled him into a jaw-aching kiss.
Arthur tasted like peanuts and gin and that horrible American chocolate that was like chalk. Merlin's tongue flittered everywhere, remembering, memorizing and cataloguing for potential change.
Arthur's eyes were still closed when Merlin finally pulled back to breathe. He pressed his forehead against Arthur's, and Arthur finally opened his eyes.
"I missed you too," Arthur said.
Merlin smiled.
Part II