srin
in
mad_poetics
Left Me Blindly Here to Stand But Still Not Sleeping
Title: Left Me Blindly Here to Stand But Still Not Sleeping
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine
Spoilers: Through 3x08.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~5,300 words
Summary: Wherein a man walks into a bar, two men walk out, and the third time is a charm of sorts.
Note: Look, Merlin/Gwaine! :D
“Merlin!” Gwaine calls out within moments of Merlin’s entrance, and Merlin is (pleasantly) surprised to see that this time he is seated peaceably at a table, rather than being flung across it with rather a lot of force.
“Hi Gwaine,” Merlin calls back, giving a little wave and heading for his corner.
(Gwaine finds it a bit horrible, this caring for someone business. For the last … well, let’s just say for the last while, he’s been content to stumble around tavern to tavern, no particular pattern to his movements, no particular attention to who’s about unless he needs to avoid a specific someone. No reason not to cross borders and mountains as the whimsy takes him, and no reason to be disappointed when another moon finds him alone. A few tankards of ale will buy him friends enough for an evening and that’s fine, that’s all he needs.
Or it was, anyway. Surely it was. But now, now he’s set himself a radius - no more than a day’s ride from Camelot if he can help it, and rules - nowhere too obscure, nowhere too dangerous for someone unfamiliar to stumble into, nowhere without an obvious tavern to be checked. He’s not prepared to serve a man like Uther or claim a title he doesn’t want, but he also can’t bear the thought of Merlin seeking help and being unable to find it.
So he keeps close, and catches himself regularly watching the entrance, and listening to any news of Camelot, and paying just a little too much attention to any tall skinny lads with short dark hair who cross his path. And, of course, being disappointed when none of them are the right one. It never used to be like this. He’d get lonely occasionally, sure, and sometimes he’d wonder how it might be to have a true companion apart from the bottle and the sword, but he doesn’t think he’s ever missed an actual person before, except his mother. Merlin isn’t like his mother.
It’s a right misery, it is, the waiting and the hoping and the wondering, the quietly gnawing ache in his chest, the rather less quiet one when he wakes up on his own from dreams of ears and dimples and a warm slender body beside his.
…Granted, the surge of utter delight at the sight of Merlin walking through his door - yes, all right, he doesn’t own the door or anything, but it’s his door for the evening, at least - more than makes up for all of that.)
Gwaine kicks out the other chair and gestures to it, smiling already.
“Arthur in trouble again?” he asks, as Merlin sits.
“Nah. Well, maybe, it’s been a few hours and he’s sort of hopeless left alone, but - No. That’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” Gwaine folds his hands on the table and leans in, ready to share secrets, and Merlin feels a swell of affection at his eagerness.
“No. Arthur’s been insufferable the last few days. I just needed to get away,” Merlin admits.
“So you came and found me?” Gwaine asks, the unexpected pleasure evident in his voice.
“Is that a problem?” Merlin asks, eyes all big and innocent but the quirk of his lips rather less so. Gwaine breaks into an enormous grin, and flags down a passing barmaid.
“Maude! Get this man a drink! What’ll it be, Merlin, mead, ale? I hear they do a decent cider here, or maybe you’d like the spiced wine?”
Merlin thinks of the drink he didn’t get to finish the first time they met, and asks for mead; Gwaine beams, and insists on paying for it.
“You sure no big angry fellow is going to turn up demanding that money?” Merlin asks when Gwaine hands the coins to Maude. He wouldn’t mind, really; he won’t admit it but that chase out of town the last time was the most fun he’d had in weeks. Still, it pays to be prepared.
“Nah. Only been in here an hour or two, haven’t had a chance to make any new enemies yet,” Gwaine tells him. “Cheers.”
They drink, Merlin grimacing ever so slightly at the strength of the brew, Gwaine valiantly suppressing his amusement.
“Only a matter of time, then?” Merlin asks. “Should I avoid getting too comfortable?”
“You get as comfortable as you like,” Gwaine says, in a low, suggestive tone. “For you, my friend, I will behave myself.”
Merlin laughs, and Gwaine adds, “At least until you’re ready to move elsewhere.” His voice is as easily confident as always, but there’s a question in his eyes, and Merlin swallows, heart climbing into his throat.
“I’m in no rush to get back,” Merlin says, carefully light. “Have you got a room somewhere? Thought I might stay the night, let Arthur sort himself out for the evening. He’ll probably thank me with a disaster in his chambers tomorrow, but it won’t be the first time. Or the last, I’m sure.”
That’s not entirely true; Merlin actually arranged for one of the other servants to attend Arthur tonight and bring his breakfast in the morning. It likely won’t stop Arthur throwing a bit of a tantrum when Merlin gets back, but at least he might be able to avoid the stocks and the stables.
“That man-” Gwaine begins, but then cuts himself off. “Never mind. None of him. Tonight is for you. Drink up, Merlin! I will show you an evening like you’ve never seen before, and when you cannot possibly have any more fun, there’s a room waiting at the inn down the road for you to rest your pretty head.”
“Down the road?”
“Traveller’s inn, quiet little place, serves more soup than cider. Never drink where you plan to sleep,” Gwaine intones gravely, “Unless you care to sleep in the gutter.”
“Have you ever just walked out of a tavern without anyone chasing you?” Merlin asks, barely containing his mirth.
“Of course I have! Only last week, I made it nearly across town before anyone realized I’d not paid my bill,” Gwaine says. Merlin buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Gwaine, encouraged, continues, “And once I wrapped up in a cloak, pretended to be an old woman, no one gave me any trouble then… Oh! There was also that one time when I was twelve.”
“Only the one?”
“I was a growing boy, had to get my exercise somehow,” Gwaine says, taking great joy in Merlin’s helpless laughter.
After two more rounds of drinks and a selection of ridiculous stories from Gwaine, (all carefully chosen to bring out as many of Merlin’s crinkle-eyed smiles as possible,) Gwaine excuses himself to answer the call of nature. Merlin stays at their table, feeling heavy with the alcohol but also lighter than he has in ages. When he first rode out he’d felt a bit guilty, knowing full-well that Arthur would be cross, that Gaius would disapprove. But now tomorrow doesn’t seem to matter, not with Gwaine here, all energy and smiles, looking so happy simply to have Merlin’s company. It’s a little bit wonderful, this, drinking and laughing with Gwaine and not constantly keeping watch over his shoulder for the next threat to Arthur, just enjoying himself.
When Gwaine comes back, he has a minstrel in tow and two girls on his arms. One of the girls immediately detaches herself and comes to Merlin’s side, cooing over his cheekbones. The other stays with Gwaine, but gives Merlin an appraising look. Merlin turns to Gwaine, bewildered.
“Um, thanks, miss, er, Gwaine, what…?”
“Merlin, meet Gerda and Agnes. They’ve come to dance with us, haven’t you, ladies? Any good dance needs at least two couples, after all.”
“I don’t really know how to-” Merlin begins, but Agnes and Gwaine are already tugging him out of his seat.
“Never fear, Merlin, neither do I, but the girls will be sure to carry us along and forgive us our mistakes,” Gwaine promises, guiding Merlin by the shoulders to an open area of floor. The minstrel rolls his eyes, but starts playing after Gwaine tosses him a few coins.
The girls certainly do their best. Merlin starts off with Agnes and Gwaine with Gerda, both of the boys trying to follow along with limited success. Whenever they trade partners, Gerda flirts shamelessly with Merlin, and he’s so busy blushing and trying to be gracious that he keeps missing steps and needing to be shoved gently into place, but she doesn’t seem to mind much. Agnes is a little more restrained, at least up until she leans in and tells him that he and his friend are ‘Welcome to come with me and Gerda to our bed after closing tonight.’ And pinches his bum. At which point Merlin stops dead, then stumbles into one of the other tavern denizens who has joined in.
(Gerda, meanwhile, notices the way Gwaine can’t keep his eyes off Merlin, and gives him a knowing look the next time she manages to catch his gaze; Gwaine shrugs, grinning sheepishly. Subtlety has never been his strong suite.)
Enough semi-drunken people have stepped into the dance at this point that the next few partner trades are a bit of a muddle, though an impartial observer might notice Gerda and Agnes trading glances and doing some careful steering. Eventually the girls wind up paired with one another, and Gwaine with Merlin.
“Hello gorgeous,” Gwaine murmurs, tugging at Merlin’s hand to bring him in a bit closer than the dance strictly requires.
Merlin goes willingly. Normally he isn’t quite sure what to make of Gwaine when he gets like this, unexpectedly turning his charm on Merlin and, even more unexpectedly, backing it up with not-quite-concealed sincerity, but right now Merlin’s a bit drunk. And anyway, a one-liner and an arm against his as they do the turns are downright tame, compared to what he’s been getting from the girls for the last while. Not that he minds the attention, it’s just all a bit strange. But good. Good strange, like the shiver in his stomach when he catches Gwaine staring at his mouth, that same shiver he’d felt by the fire in the perilous lands, and that night in his own bed in Camelot, when Gwaine had curled into his side and mumbled drunken endearments in his ear before he passed out.
When he’s sober Merlin doesn’t know what to do with any of that, because he doesn’t see any reason for Gwaine to say or do these things if he doesn’t mean them, but he also can’t quite believe that Gwaine could really mean them. When he’s drunk, though, Merlin’s happy to enjoy the attention, to lean into Gwaine’s body, to let his fingers linger on Gwaine’s when they change hands.
Gwaine keeps smiling at him, and Merlin smiles back, and later Merlin couldn’t quite say who was responsible for the two of them drifting away from the main current of the dance. They end up in a corner of the tavern, half-hidden by one of the protrusions in the wall that’s left over from a time when this building served some other purpose. Gwaine’s hands have meandered down to Merlin’s hips, and his thumbs slip underneath the hem of Merlin’s shirt, brushing the narrow band of skin between the top of his trousers and the place where his belt holds his shirt.
“Having fun yet?” Gwaine asks, and Merlin laughs, a little ticklish but mostly amused that the question even needs asking.
“Oh yes,” he assures Gwaine. “Wish you could come back to Camelot, could do this much more often.”
“Nah, you’d get bored,” Gwaine says. “Or that prince of yours would run out of boots for us to scrub.”
(That is what Gwaine says. It isn’t what Gwaine thinks of, when he thinks of how it would be if he did come back to Camelot. He thinks of training with the other knights, honing his skill and putting in extra flourishes when Merlin’s on the sideline, watching; he thinks of having a room that belongs to him for longer than a few days or a fortnight at most; he thinks of having a bed in that room, of drinking with Merlin and laughing with Merlin and tumbling Merlin into that bed. Waking up in that bed with Merlin held in his arms, morning after morning.
He thinks of that, but then he thinks, too, of how it wouldn’t really be like that. Sure, he’d have the room and the bed and the place on the training field, but he would also having Uther hanging over his head. He’d have to pledge himself to a man he doesn’t respect, have to hold his tongue in court, have to bow to meaningless titles. And sure, Merlin might watch him show off with his sword, but then Gwaine would have to watch Merlin following Arthur off the field, removing Arthur’s armour, tending to Arthur’s needs. He’d have to watch Arthur bark orders and insults, oblivious to the treasure ever by his side.
Gwaine won’t go to Camelot to fight for Uther or to claim his title, that’s certain. He suspects, when Merlin smiles or laughs or spills earnest words past his lovely lips, that he might go to Camelot for Merlin, if Merlin asked. But Merlin is the prince’s man.)
“I wouldn’t get bored,” Merlin protests. “Trust me, if I ever had enough spare time to get bored - you don’t know how nice this is, just - no one shouting at me, no one trying to kill Arthur-”
“You deserve it,” Gwaine tells him, quietly serious. Merlin blinks, suddenly aware of where Gwaine’s thumbs still are, of how close all of Gwaine is, of how, whether it makes sense or not, Gwaine’s abandoned two lovely, interested girls in order to crowd Merlin into a poorly lit corner. Merlin swallows. And then, before he can think better of it, Merlin tilts his head and touches his lips to Gwaine’s.
There’s only the tiniest gasp to signal Gwaine’s surprise before he responds. His mouth opens just enough for his tongue to trace Merlin’s bottom lip, his fingers flutter and then tense on Merlin’s hips, and he makes a soft noise that Merlin can’t quite interpret but feels in his gut all the same. Gwaine’s beard is scratchy against Merlin’s skin, and his mouth tastes just like Merlin’s - probably because they both taste of mead - and Merlin suddenly feels quite a bit drunker than he did just a few minutes ago.
Gwaine separates their mouths, but keeps close, leaning his forehead against Merlin’s.
“Was that just the mead talking, or am I an incredibly lucky man tonight?” Gwaine asks, his voice low and just the slightest big rougher than usual.
Merlin swallows again, and he can feel his cheeks heating.
“I, um- I don’t… I - ”
“Shh, love, it’s all right,” Gwaine says, quiet and gentle. “I’ll tell you truly: I’d like to tear off all of your clothes and do things to you that would make bards blush in the telling of it. But I value your friendship more than I want your body, so if you’d prefer, I can forget-”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Merlin, heart pounding wildly, kisses him again. This time it’s wet and messy and thoroughly graceless, and they’re both panting when they finally part.
“That answer your question?” Merlin asks, lips curling in a cheeky grin.
“Oh yes,” Gwaine says, smiling back.
At this point they are interrupted by Maude the barmaid, clearing her throat loudly.
“Can I get you lads anything? Another cup of mead? Pork pie? A room upstairs?”
She’s standing there, arms crossed, expression distinctly unimpressed. Merlin feels his face go red again, and would quite like to die of mortification. Well, maybe not die. Maybe pass out a little, and wake up later, when Gwaine is naked and they don’t have an audience. Gwaine, though, just laughs.
“Point taken, my lady. What say you, Merlin? Care for another drink, or shall we retire, and see to baser hungers?”
Mirth startles Merlin out of his embarrassed reverie, and he laughs too.
“You did not just say that. Tell me you did not actually say that.”
“I will tell you anything you like,” Gwaine promises.
Merlin groans, grabs him by the shirt collar, and starts towing him towards the door. Not that Gwaine is offering up much resistance.
“I think we’d best be off,” Merlin says to Maude. “Do we owe you anything more, miss?”
“Nah, our accounts is settled, you boys have a good night,” Maude says, looking rather friendlier now that they’re leaving.
As soon as they’ve passed the door, Gwaine loops an arm around Merlin’s waist and presses him up against the exterior wall, immediately seeking Merlin’s mouth. Gwaine’s body is heavy and warm against Merlin’s and Merlin just lets himself relax, be held up between the wall and Gwaine’s bulk as they kiss, at once lazy and urgent. Their legs interlock, thighs pressed against one another’s groins, and when Gwaine’s hips start rocking Merlin breaks off, breathing heavily, and whispers,
“Maybe we should move this to your room?”
“Good idea,” Gwaine agrees, and they set off, Gwaine’s arm around still around Merlin’s waist and Merlin’s across Gwaine’s shoulders.
The walk to the inn down the road ought to take fifteen minutes or so, but it takes much longer than that because Gwaine can’t seem to keep his mouth away from Merlin’s neck, and Merlin can’t seem to stop tugging him up to kiss his lips, and then Gwaine tucks Merlin against a barn wall for a few minutes, and then Gwaine trips and ends up in the grass with Merlin on top of him, laughing into his mouth.
They do arrive eventually. At the door, Gwaine makes a comically overacted show of shushing himself and Merlin so as not to annoy the proprietor; this might have been more effective had it not resulted in Merlin giggling, Gwaine shushing him more firmly, Merlin giggling louder, and Gwaine finally silencing him with a kiss that leads into a good five minutes’ worth of snogging in the street. Once they finally make it inside, though, Gwaine just nods at the landlady and takes Merlin’s hand to tow him straight upstairs and into Gwaine’s room.
Given what they’ve been doing for the last hour or three-quarters, simply holding hands shouldn’t mean much. But regardless, the gentle, almost innocent eagerness in the gesture makes something sweet and warm settle in Merlin’s gut, like hot spiced wine on a cold day. It’s a wonderful feeling; if Merlin were more sober and less preoccupied, he might think that he’d like to keep it bottled and safe among Gaius’s medicines, a tonic against lonely days.
The room is small and simple - just a bed, a steadily-burning fire in the grate opposite it, and a washing stand in the corner. When the door is shut behind them, Merlin keeps hold of Gwaine’s hand, brings it up to his lips, and kisses it, slowly, savouring the moment.
“Merlin?” Gwaine asks. He sounds curious, but not at all bothered.
“You’re so - I don’t know, I - I’m just - I’m happy,” Merlin admits, feeling somewhat foolish.
Gwaine’s smile is blinding, though there’s a flash of something ever so slightly sad in his eyes.
“I’m glad,” Gwaine says. With his free hand, he brushes tenderly at some hair that isn’t really long enough to actually be in Merlin’s face. “You ought to be happy.”
This kiss is delicate, more affection than lust, and it sets off a strange, exquisite ache in Merlin’s chest. It’s just a touch overwhelming, and after a moment Merlin deliberately turns it filthy and starts backing Gwaine toward the bed. Gwaine goes easily. When the backs of his knees hit the edge, he flops back and takes Merlin with him.
They stay like that for some time, Merlin straddling Gwaine and grinding their hips together while Gwaine sucks Merlin’s tongue, his lip, sucks bruises on the skin of his throat. Merlin’s sure to be raw tomorrow from the scratch of Gwaine’s beard but just now he doesn’t care, doesn’t want to be doing anything other than this: kissing, rubbing his erection against Gwaine’s, feeling Gwaine’s hands all over him, tasting his hot, mead-tinged breath, hearing the throaty groans he muffles in Merlin’s mouth.
After a particularly helpless noise, Gwaine grabs at Merlin’s hips, stilling him, and tears his mouth away.
“Don’t want to go off just yet,” Gwaine explains, with an apologetic twist of his bitten-red lips, and before Merlin can respond he sets to work undoing Merlin’s belt.
Merlin might be a bit self-conscious about his nudity normally, but between the alcoholic buzz and the heat in Gwaine’s stare as they both undress, it’s simply impossible. When they’re both naked, Gwaine steps in close and murmurs in his ear, voice low and sultry,
“What do you want, Merlin?”
“You,” Merlin says.
Gwaine laughs, kisses him quickly, and says, “I’m flattered, love, but I meant what-” another kiss to his mouth, “-do you want-” Gwaine’s hand slides down Merlin’s chest and stomach to stroke his cock, “-to do now?” and he drops to his knees, staring up at Merlin through his eyelashes.
Merlin swallows hard, tries desperately to remember how to speak, and failing that, cups Gwaine’s cheek and traces his smile with his thumb.
“Anything you want,” Merlin manages. Gwaine covers Merlin’s hand with his, then parts his lips just slightly, just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet Merlin’s thumb.
“I’d love for you to fuck me,” Gwaine says. “But I haven’t any oil, and I don’t much fancy going downstairs to bother the landlady…”
Merlin laughs, which turns into a strangled sort of gasp when Gwaine leans in and licks his cock. Merlin leaves one hand where Gwaine is holding it on his cheek and raises the other to thread into Gwaine’s hair - not tugging or demanding, just enjoying it sliding between his fingers. Gwaine hums, apparently pleased, and closes his lips around the head of Merlin’s dick.
His mouth feels fantastic, and it’s all of about a minute before Merlin’s knees go wobbly and he has to tug Gwaine off and drag him to the bed instead. Gwaine’s wonderfully pliant, stumbling a little but letting Merlin manhandle him as he likes. Merlin arranges him on his side, and then settles in opposite him, so they’re facing one another’s cocks.
“I like the way you think,” Gwaine announces, delighted, and dives back in. He wraps his lower hand around the base of Merlin’s cock, and drapes his upper arm over Merlin’s side so he can fondle Merlin’s arse while he sucks, casual and content as anything.
Merlin takes a deep breath, trying to force himself to concentrate and not just get lost in the sensations. He licks his own fingers, then wraps both arms around Gwaine’s hips, and mouths along the shaft of Gwaine’s prick while he uses his dry hand to gently part Gwaine’s arsecheeks, letting his wet digits reach Gwaine’s hole. Merlin hesitates then, for just the barest moment before Gwaine’s appreciative groan urges him on.
It’s an effort, coordinating the movement of his mouth on Gwaine’s cock and the play of his fingers at Gwaine’s hole, and remembering to breathe, and remembering that no, he can’t just sink into the sweet oblivion of the drink and Gwaine’s ministrations. But the position is comfortable enough, the weight of Gwaine’s prick is pleasant on Merlin’s tongue, the way his muscles tense and shift in Merlin’s embrace is a thrill, and all that aside, the needy little noises Gwaine makes are more than enough to motivate Merlin to persist in that effort. He loses track of time, his mind blank but for the thoughts of what to do with his hands and mouth, and the pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
Eventually, the fine tremor Merlin can feel running through Gwaine’s body becomes more pronounced, his sounds more desperate, his attention to Merlin’s cock less focussed. When he pulls off, panting out,
“Merlin, I - I’m -”
Merlin presses his finger just a little bit deeper into Gwaine’s arsehole, and sucks just a little harder, and then holds on tightly as Gwaine bucks and swears and comes in Merlin’s mouth. He tries to swallow but only manages some of it, the rest of Gwaine’s release spilling messily over his lips and chin.
“I love you,” Gwaine announces breathlessly when he’s finished, sounding utterly blissed out, and Merlin has a moment to feel smug before Gwaine grabs his hips, rolls them so Merlin’s on top, and takes Merlin’s dick into his mouth again.
The new angle lets Merlin’s cock slip straight down Gwaine’s throat and it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to do anything else any more, because Merlin’s not sure he could manage it, not like this. He presses his cheek to Gwaine’s thigh, or maybe it’s his hip, Merlin’s not really sure, not really able to pay attention to anything but the amazing sensations of Gwaine’s throat around his dick and Gwaine’s fingers tugging and stroking his balls. It’s too much, too good, and Merlin barely manages to choke out a warning (which Gwaine ignores) before the knot of pleasure straining inside him bursts.
It all goes indistinct for a moment there, heavy satisfaction stealing over Merlin’s body and his mind too doped up on the rush of climax to process anything else, but when he can think again he finds Gwaine crawling up alongside him, beaming. They kiss, just a few sloppy passes of lips on lips, and then Merlin falls asleep.
They wake up a little while later to find that they’re sprawled at an angle across the bed, sheets on the floor and bodies sticky with dried sweat and come. The fire has burned down a bit so it’s darker in the room and Merlin feels sort of fuzzy, his brain only half engaged. Gwaine seems to be much the same. They don’t talk; Merlin drags the sheets onto the bed, Gwaine finds some water and a cloth for a token effort at cleaning up, and then they simply snuggle into each other’s arms and go back to sleep.
(When Gwaine wakes in the morning, at first he’s certain he must be dreaming because there’s Merlin in his bed, breath warm on Gwaine’s collarbone, naked skin beneath his hand and where their legs touch and presumably everywhere else. It’s a nice dream, but it’s even better when he remembers last night and realizes it’s real.
He shifts a little so he can kiss Merlin’s forehead; lets his hand wander from Merlin’s ribs to his hip to his groin, wondering if - oh yes - he’s hard too. Merlin mumbles something incoherent and nuzzles closer, and Gwaine is seized by the overwhelming need to keep him like this always, warm and content and safe. At the back of his head he knows that he can’t, that Merlin will go back to Camelot, to his prince and all the dangers and frustrations that come with the job. He knows he can offer a swordarm on a quest and an evening’s delights, but he can’t offer Merlin a home or a proper life. Even if he could, Merlin would surely tire of him eventually, as everyone does.
The thought hurts, and Gwaine pushes it away to focus instead on the sight of Merlin and the feel of him. No sense in dwelling on the future when the present is so very lovely.)
Merlin wakes with a slight headache and a rush of arousal. There’s a hand on his dick, stroking him languidly, and he opens his eyes to find Gwaine watching him, his expression soft and full of affection.
“Good morning,” Gwaine murmurs, and Merlin smiles.
“I’d say so,” Merlin agrees. He slides his hand into Gwaine’s hair and tugs him in for a kiss. They shuffle around gradually, clinging and pulling at one another’s limbs, and after a while Gwaine ends up on top. They rub off together that way, slow and easy in a cocoon of blankets and sleep-warm bodies.
After they’ve both finished, Gwaine buries his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck and says, “Stay.”
“I wish I could,” Merlin sighs, carding his fingers through Gwaine’s hair, enjoying the texture of the thoroughly dishevelled locks. “But I have to-”
“I know. I know you do. Stay for breakfast, and then I’ll ride with you as far as the border.”
“Okay,” Merlin says. He really does wish he could stay; he can’t remember the last time he had as good a time as he did last night, and Gwaine is wonderful, and he could get used to this, the kind words and gentle touches, the ready laughter, the drinking and dancing and fabulous sex. The way Gwaine looks at him like he’s beautiful and holds him like he’s precious. But duty calls; he knows he’d never make it more than a few days before guilt dragged him back to Camelot, and the longer he delays, the more difficult it will be.
They lay together a little longer, then reluctantly crawl out of bed to wash. While they’re dressing, Merlin notices a few fresh marks on Gwaine’s neck that he only vaguely remembers leaving while they were stumbling through the streets, but feels proud of all the same. (Merlin’s own neck is a mottled map drawn in beard-burn and bruises. Even with his neckerchief covering the worst of it, there will be little doubt what he was doing last night when he returns home. Gwaine can’t help wondering if Arthur will go easy on him as a result, or be even more unhappy.)
The landlady serves them eggs and porridge downstairs. While they eat, Gwaine is his usual cheerful, ridiculous self, and if there’s a hint of melancholy in his gaze, well, Merlin isn’t about to draw attention to it. He’s full of jokes and stories all the way to the border, but the mask slips once they reach it.
“Well, this is me,” Gwaine says, halting his horse.
“Right,” Merlin says. There’s an awkward moment, the first one they’ve had, really, and then Merlin makes a decision. He brings his horse around alongside Gwaine’s, close as he can get, and leans over, kisses Gwaine’s mouth. Gwaine steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his face, and Merlin can practically taste the longing in Gwaine’s touch.
“I’ll come back,” Merlin whispers. “Tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll come when I can.”
Gwaine shivers, just faintly, and nods, rubs his cheek against Merlin’s.
“Here for another week, maybe two, and then… I don’t know. I’ll send word. Nowhere too far.”
“Okay. It won’t be too long, I promise, and when Arthur’s king-”
“-Everything will be different,” Gwaine says, drawing away.
He looks strangely resigned, not as eager as Merlin expected, and then something clicks.
“Not everything,” Merlin says earnestly, and pulls him back in for one last kiss.
“I’ll come again soon,” Merlin assures Gwaine when they finally part. “And I’ll bring oil next time,” he adds, pleased when that gets him a hearty laugh and a big smile.
“You do that,” Gwaine tells him, looking cheered again. “I’ll be waiting. Take care, my friend.”
Gwaine turns and rides off, and Merlin heads for home.
[Back in Camelot, Arthur gets halfway through his tirade concerning Merlin’s ineptitude, then notices the marks on Merlin’s neck. He stops talking, eyes going very wide and cheeks taking on the slightest pink tinge, and then he says, “Just a little warning next time, if you please.”
“I did send Edgar,” Merlin says, relieved.
“Yes, well, no one ought to be subjected to Edgar without warning. Now get out, I have reports to read.”]
(That night, Gwaine dreams of Merlin, and the future.)
ETA: Sequel here!
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine
Spoilers: Through 3x08.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~5,300 words
Summary: Wherein a man walks into a bar, two men walk out, and the third time is a charm of sorts.
Note: Look, Merlin/Gwaine! :D
“Merlin!” Gwaine calls out within moments of Merlin’s entrance, and Merlin is (pleasantly) surprised to see that this time he is seated peaceably at a table, rather than being flung across it with rather a lot of force.
“Hi Gwaine,” Merlin calls back, giving a little wave and heading for his corner.
(Gwaine finds it a bit horrible, this caring for someone business. For the last … well, let’s just say for the last while, he’s been content to stumble around tavern to tavern, no particular pattern to his movements, no particular attention to who’s about unless he needs to avoid a specific someone. No reason not to cross borders and mountains as the whimsy takes him, and no reason to be disappointed when another moon finds him alone. A few tankards of ale will buy him friends enough for an evening and that’s fine, that’s all he needs.
Or it was, anyway. Surely it was. But now, now he’s set himself a radius - no more than a day’s ride from Camelot if he can help it, and rules - nowhere too obscure, nowhere too dangerous for someone unfamiliar to stumble into, nowhere without an obvious tavern to be checked. He’s not prepared to serve a man like Uther or claim a title he doesn’t want, but he also can’t bear the thought of Merlin seeking help and being unable to find it.
So he keeps close, and catches himself regularly watching the entrance, and listening to any news of Camelot, and paying just a little too much attention to any tall skinny lads with short dark hair who cross his path. And, of course, being disappointed when none of them are the right one. It never used to be like this. He’d get lonely occasionally, sure, and sometimes he’d wonder how it might be to have a true companion apart from the bottle and the sword, but he doesn’t think he’s ever missed an actual person before, except his mother. Merlin isn’t like his mother.
It’s a right misery, it is, the waiting and the hoping and the wondering, the quietly gnawing ache in his chest, the rather less quiet one when he wakes up on his own from dreams of ears and dimples and a warm slender body beside his.
…Granted, the surge of utter delight at the sight of Merlin walking through his door - yes, all right, he doesn’t own the door or anything, but it’s his door for the evening, at least - more than makes up for all of that.)
Gwaine kicks out the other chair and gestures to it, smiling already.
“Arthur in trouble again?” he asks, as Merlin sits.
“Nah. Well, maybe, it’s been a few hours and he’s sort of hopeless left alone, but - No. That’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” Gwaine folds his hands on the table and leans in, ready to share secrets, and Merlin feels a swell of affection at his eagerness.
“No. Arthur’s been insufferable the last few days. I just needed to get away,” Merlin admits.
“So you came and found me?” Gwaine asks, the unexpected pleasure evident in his voice.
“Is that a problem?” Merlin asks, eyes all big and innocent but the quirk of his lips rather less so. Gwaine breaks into an enormous grin, and flags down a passing barmaid.
“Maude! Get this man a drink! What’ll it be, Merlin, mead, ale? I hear they do a decent cider here, or maybe you’d like the spiced wine?”
Merlin thinks of the drink he didn’t get to finish the first time they met, and asks for mead; Gwaine beams, and insists on paying for it.
“You sure no big angry fellow is going to turn up demanding that money?” Merlin asks when Gwaine hands the coins to Maude. He wouldn’t mind, really; he won’t admit it but that chase out of town the last time was the most fun he’d had in weeks. Still, it pays to be prepared.
“Nah. Only been in here an hour or two, haven’t had a chance to make any new enemies yet,” Gwaine tells him. “Cheers.”
They drink, Merlin grimacing ever so slightly at the strength of the brew, Gwaine valiantly suppressing his amusement.
“Only a matter of time, then?” Merlin asks. “Should I avoid getting too comfortable?”
“You get as comfortable as you like,” Gwaine says, in a low, suggestive tone. “For you, my friend, I will behave myself.”
Merlin laughs, and Gwaine adds, “At least until you’re ready to move elsewhere.” His voice is as easily confident as always, but there’s a question in his eyes, and Merlin swallows, heart climbing into his throat.
“I’m in no rush to get back,” Merlin says, carefully light. “Have you got a room somewhere? Thought I might stay the night, let Arthur sort himself out for the evening. He’ll probably thank me with a disaster in his chambers tomorrow, but it won’t be the first time. Or the last, I’m sure.”
That’s not entirely true; Merlin actually arranged for one of the other servants to attend Arthur tonight and bring his breakfast in the morning. It likely won’t stop Arthur throwing a bit of a tantrum when Merlin gets back, but at least he might be able to avoid the stocks and the stables.
“That man-” Gwaine begins, but then cuts himself off. “Never mind. None of him. Tonight is for you. Drink up, Merlin! I will show you an evening like you’ve never seen before, and when you cannot possibly have any more fun, there’s a room waiting at the inn down the road for you to rest your pretty head.”
“Down the road?”
“Traveller’s inn, quiet little place, serves more soup than cider. Never drink where you plan to sleep,” Gwaine intones gravely, “Unless you care to sleep in the gutter.”
“Have you ever just walked out of a tavern without anyone chasing you?” Merlin asks, barely containing his mirth.
“Of course I have! Only last week, I made it nearly across town before anyone realized I’d not paid my bill,” Gwaine says. Merlin buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Gwaine, encouraged, continues, “And once I wrapped up in a cloak, pretended to be an old woman, no one gave me any trouble then… Oh! There was also that one time when I was twelve.”
“Only the one?”
“I was a growing boy, had to get my exercise somehow,” Gwaine says, taking great joy in Merlin’s helpless laughter.
After two more rounds of drinks and a selection of ridiculous stories from Gwaine, (all carefully chosen to bring out as many of Merlin’s crinkle-eyed smiles as possible,) Gwaine excuses himself to answer the call of nature. Merlin stays at their table, feeling heavy with the alcohol but also lighter than he has in ages. When he first rode out he’d felt a bit guilty, knowing full-well that Arthur would be cross, that Gaius would disapprove. But now tomorrow doesn’t seem to matter, not with Gwaine here, all energy and smiles, looking so happy simply to have Merlin’s company. It’s a little bit wonderful, this, drinking and laughing with Gwaine and not constantly keeping watch over his shoulder for the next threat to Arthur, just enjoying himself.
When Gwaine comes back, he has a minstrel in tow and two girls on his arms. One of the girls immediately detaches herself and comes to Merlin’s side, cooing over his cheekbones. The other stays with Gwaine, but gives Merlin an appraising look. Merlin turns to Gwaine, bewildered.
“Um, thanks, miss, er, Gwaine, what…?”
“Merlin, meet Gerda and Agnes. They’ve come to dance with us, haven’t you, ladies? Any good dance needs at least two couples, after all.”
“I don’t really know how to-” Merlin begins, but Agnes and Gwaine are already tugging him out of his seat.
“Never fear, Merlin, neither do I, but the girls will be sure to carry us along and forgive us our mistakes,” Gwaine promises, guiding Merlin by the shoulders to an open area of floor. The minstrel rolls his eyes, but starts playing after Gwaine tosses him a few coins.
The girls certainly do their best. Merlin starts off with Agnes and Gwaine with Gerda, both of the boys trying to follow along with limited success. Whenever they trade partners, Gerda flirts shamelessly with Merlin, and he’s so busy blushing and trying to be gracious that he keeps missing steps and needing to be shoved gently into place, but she doesn’t seem to mind much. Agnes is a little more restrained, at least up until she leans in and tells him that he and his friend are ‘Welcome to come with me and Gerda to our bed after closing tonight.’ And pinches his bum. At which point Merlin stops dead, then stumbles into one of the other tavern denizens who has joined in.
(Gerda, meanwhile, notices the way Gwaine can’t keep his eyes off Merlin, and gives him a knowing look the next time she manages to catch his gaze; Gwaine shrugs, grinning sheepishly. Subtlety has never been his strong suite.)
Enough semi-drunken people have stepped into the dance at this point that the next few partner trades are a bit of a muddle, though an impartial observer might notice Gerda and Agnes trading glances and doing some careful steering. Eventually the girls wind up paired with one another, and Gwaine with Merlin.
“Hello gorgeous,” Gwaine murmurs, tugging at Merlin’s hand to bring him in a bit closer than the dance strictly requires.
Merlin goes willingly. Normally he isn’t quite sure what to make of Gwaine when he gets like this, unexpectedly turning his charm on Merlin and, even more unexpectedly, backing it up with not-quite-concealed sincerity, but right now Merlin’s a bit drunk. And anyway, a one-liner and an arm against his as they do the turns are downright tame, compared to what he’s been getting from the girls for the last while. Not that he minds the attention, it’s just all a bit strange. But good. Good strange, like the shiver in his stomach when he catches Gwaine staring at his mouth, that same shiver he’d felt by the fire in the perilous lands, and that night in his own bed in Camelot, when Gwaine had curled into his side and mumbled drunken endearments in his ear before he passed out.
When he’s sober Merlin doesn’t know what to do with any of that, because he doesn’t see any reason for Gwaine to say or do these things if he doesn’t mean them, but he also can’t quite believe that Gwaine could really mean them. When he’s drunk, though, Merlin’s happy to enjoy the attention, to lean into Gwaine’s body, to let his fingers linger on Gwaine’s when they change hands.
Gwaine keeps smiling at him, and Merlin smiles back, and later Merlin couldn’t quite say who was responsible for the two of them drifting away from the main current of the dance. They end up in a corner of the tavern, half-hidden by one of the protrusions in the wall that’s left over from a time when this building served some other purpose. Gwaine’s hands have meandered down to Merlin’s hips, and his thumbs slip underneath the hem of Merlin’s shirt, brushing the narrow band of skin between the top of his trousers and the place where his belt holds his shirt.
“Having fun yet?” Gwaine asks, and Merlin laughs, a little ticklish but mostly amused that the question even needs asking.
“Oh yes,” he assures Gwaine. “Wish you could come back to Camelot, could do this much more often.”
“Nah, you’d get bored,” Gwaine says. “Or that prince of yours would run out of boots for us to scrub.”
(That is what Gwaine says. It isn’t what Gwaine thinks of, when he thinks of how it would be if he did come back to Camelot. He thinks of training with the other knights, honing his skill and putting in extra flourishes when Merlin’s on the sideline, watching; he thinks of having a room that belongs to him for longer than a few days or a fortnight at most; he thinks of having a bed in that room, of drinking with Merlin and laughing with Merlin and tumbling Merlin into that bed. Waking up in that bed with Merlin held in his arms, morning after morning.
He thinks of that, but then he thinks, too, of how it wouldn’t really be like that. Sure, he’d have the room and the bed and the place on the training field, but he would also having Uther hanging over his head. He’d have to pledge himself to a man he doesn’t respect, have to hold his tongue in court, have to bow to meaningless titles. And sure, Merlin might watch him show off with his sword, but then Gwaine would have to watch Merlin following Arthur off the field, removing Arthur’s armour, tending to Arthur’s needs. He’d have to watch Arthur bark orders and insults, oblivious to the treasure ever by his side.
Gwaine won’t go to Camelot to fight for Uther or to claim his title, that’s certain. He suspects, when Merlin smiles or laughs or spills earnest words past his lovely lips, that he might go to Camelot for Merlin, if Merlin asked. But Merlin is the prince’s man.)
“I wouldn’t get bored,” Merlin protests. “Trust me, if I ever had enough spare time to get bored - you don’t know how nice this is, just - no one shouting at me, no one trying to kill Arthur-”
“You deserve it,” Gwaine tells him, quietly serious. Merlin blinks, suddenly aware of where Gwaine’s thumbs still are, of how close all of Gwaine is, of how, whether it makes sense or not, Gwaine’s abandoned two lovely, interested girls in order to crowd Merlin into a poorly lit corner. Merlin swallows. And then, before he can think better of it, Merlin tilts his head and touches his lips to Gwaine’s.
There’s only the tiniest gasp to signal Gwaine’s surprise before he responds. His mouth opens just enough for his tongue to trace Merlin’s bottom lip, his fingers flutter and then tense on Merlin’s hips, and he makes a soft noise that Merlin can’t quite interpret but feels in his gut all the same. Gwaine’s beard is scratchy against Merlin’s skin, and his mouth tastes just like Merlin’s - probably because they both taste of mead - and Merlin suddenly feels quite a bit drunker than he did just a few minutes ago.
Gwaine separates their mouths, but keeps close, leaning his forehead against Merlin’s.
“Was that just the mead talking, or am I an incredibly lucky man tonight?” Gwaine asks, his voice low and just the slightest big rougher than usual.
Merlin swallows again, and he can feel his cheeks heating.
“I, um- I don’t… I - ”
“Shh, love, it’s all right,” Gwaine says, quiet and gentle. “I’ll tell you truly: I’d like to tear off all of your clothes and do things to you that would make bards blush in the telling of it. But I value your friendship more than I want your body, so if you’d prefer, I can forget-”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Merlin, heart pounding wildly, kisses him again. This time it’s wet and messy and thoroughly graceless, and they’re both panting when they finally part.
“That answer your question?” Merlin asks, lips curling in a cheeky grin.
“Oh yes,” Gwaine says, smiling back.
At this point they are interrupted by Maude the barmaid, clearing her throat loudly.
“Can I get you lads anything? Another cup of mead? Pork pie? A room upstairs?”
She’s standing there, arms crossed, expression distinctly unimpressed. Merlin feels his face go red again, and would quite like to die of mortification. Well, maybe not die. Maybe pass out a little, and wake up later, when Gwaine is naked and they don’t have an audience. Gwaine, though, just laughs.
“Point taken, my lady. What say you, Merlin? Care for another drink, or shall we retire, and see to baser hungers?”
Mirth startles Merlin out of his embarrassed reverie, and he laughs too.
“You did not just say that. Tell me you did not actually say that.”
“I will tell you anything you like,” Gwaine promises.
Merlin groans, grabs him by the shirt collar, and starts towing him towards the door. Not that Gwaine is offering up much resistance.
“I think we’d best be off,” Merlin says to Maude. “Do we owe you anything more, miss?”
“Nah, our accounts is settled, you boys have a good night,” Maude says, looking rather friendlier now that they’re leaving.
As soon as they’ve passed the door, Gwaine loops an arm around Merlin’s waist and presses him up against the exterior wall, immediately seeking Merlin’s mouth. Gwaine’s body is heavy and warm against Merlin’s and Merlin just lets himself relax, be held up between the wall and Gwaine’s bulk as they kiss, at once lazy and urgent. Their legs interlock, thighs pressed against one another’s groins, and when Gwaine’s hips start rocking Merlin breaks off, breathing heavily, and whispers,
“Maybe we should move this to your room?”
“Good idea,” Gwaine agrees, and they set off, Gwaine’s arm around still around Merlin’s waist and Merlin’s across Gwaine’s shoulders.
The walk to the inn down the road ought to take fifteen minutes or so, but it takes much longer than that because Gwaine can’t seem to keep his mouth away from Merlin’s neck, and Merlin can’t seem to stop tugging him up to kiss his lips, and then Gwaine tucks Merlin against a barn wall for a few minutes, and then Gwaine trips and ends up in the grass with Merlin on top of him, laughing into his mouth.
They do arrive eventually. At the door, Gwaine makes a comically overacted show of shushing himself and Merlin so as not to annoy the proprietor; this might have been more effective had it not resulted in Merlin giggling, Gwaine shushing him more firmly, Merlin giggling louder, and Gwaine finally silencing him with a kiss that leads into a good five minutes’ worth of snogging in the street. Once they finally make it inside, though, Gwaine just nods at the landlady and takes Merlin’s hand to tow him straight upstairs and into Gwaine’s room.
Given what they’ve been doing for the last hour or three-quarters, simply holding hands shouldn’t mean much. But regardless, the gentle, almost innocent eagerness in the gesture makes something sweet and warm settle in Merlin’s gut, like hot spiced wine on a cold day. It’s a wonderful feeling; if Merlin were more sober and less preoccupied, he might think that he’d like to keep it bottled and safe among Gaius’s medicines, a tonic against lonely days.
The room is small and simple - just a bed, a steadily-burning fire in the grate opposite it, and a washing stand in the corner. When the door is shut behind them, Merlin keeps hold of Gwaine’s hand, brings it up to his lips, and kisses it, slowly, savouring the moment.
“Merlin?” Gwaine asks. He sounds curious, but not at all bothered.
“You’re so - I don’t know, I - I’m just - I’m happy,” Merlin admits, feeling somewhat foolish.
Gwaine’s smile is blinding, though there’s a flash of something ever so slightly sad in his eyes.
“I’m glad,” Gwaine says. With his free hand, he brushes tenderly at some hair that isn’t really long enough to actually be in Merlin’s face. “You ought to be happy.”
This kiss is delicate, more affection than lust, and it sets off a strange, exquisite ache in Merlin’s chest. It’s just a touch overwhelming, and after a moment Merlin deliberately turns it filthy and starts backing Gwaine toward the bed. Gwaine goes easily. When the backs of his knees hit the edge, he flops back and takes Merlin with him.
They stay like that for some time, Merlin straddling Gwaine and grinding their hips together while Gwaine sucks Merlin’s tongue, his lip, sucks bruises on the skin of his throat. Merlin’s sure to be raw tomorrow from the scratch of Gwaine’s beard but just now he doesn’t care, doesn’t want to be doing anything other than this: kissing, rubbing his erection against Gwaine’s, feeling Gwaine’s hands all over him, tasting his hot, mead-tinged breath, hearing the throaty groans he muffles in Merlin’s mouth.
After a particularly helpless noise, Gwaine grabs at Merlin’s hips, stilling him, and tears his mouth away.
“Don’t want to go off just yet,” Gwaine explains, with an apologetic twist of his bitten-red lips, and before Merlin can respond he sets to work undoing Merlin’s belt.
Merlin might be a bit self-conscious about his nudity normally, but between the alcoholic buzz and the heat in Gwaine’s stare as they both undress, it’s simply impossible. When they’re both naked, Gwaine steps in close and murmurs in his ear, voice low and sultry,
“What do you want, Merlin?”
“You,” Merlin says.
Gwaine laughs, kisses him quickly, and says, “I’m flattered, love, but I meant what-” another kiss to his mouth, “-do you want-” Gwaine’s hand slides down Merlin’s chest and stomach to stroke his cock, “-to do now?” and he drops to his knees, staring up at Merlin through his eyelashes.
Merlin swallows hard, tries desperately to remember how to speak, and failing that, cups Gwaine’s cheek and traces his smile with his thumb.
“Anything you want,” Merlin manages. Gwaine covers Merlin’s hand with his, then parts his lips just slightly, just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet Merlin’s thumb.
“I’d love for you to fuck me,” Gwaine says. “But I haven’t any oil, and I don’t much fancy going downstairs to bother the landlady…”
Merlin laughs, which turns into a strangled sort of gasp when Gwaine leans in and licks his cock. Merlin leaves one hand where Gwaine is holding it on his cheek and raises the other to thread into Gwaine’s hair - not tugging or demanding, just enjoying it sliding between his fingers. Gwaine hums, apparently pleased, and closes his lips around the head of Merlin’s dick.
His mouth feels fantastic, and it’s all of about a minute before Merlin’s knees go wobbly and he has to tug Gwaine off and drag him to the bed instead. Gwaine’s wonderfully pliant, stumbling a little but letting Merlin manhandle him as he likes. Merlin arranges him on his side, and then settles in opposite him, so they’re facing one another’s cocks.
“I like the way you think,” Gwaine announces, delighted, and dives back in. He wraps his lower hand around the base of Merlin’s cock, and drapes his upper arm over Merlin’s side so he can fondle Merlin’s arse while he sucks, casual and content as anything.
Merlin takes a deep breath, trying to force himself to concentrate and not just get lost in the sensations. He licks his own fingers, then wraps both arms around Gwaine’s hips, and mouths along the shaft of Gwaine’s prick while he uses his dry hand to gently part Gwaine’s arsecheeks, letting his wet digits reach Gwaine’s hole. Merlin hesitates then, for just the barest moment before Gwaine’s appreciative groan urges him on.
It’s an effort, coordinating the movement of his mouth on Gwaine’s cock and the play of his fingers at Gwaine’s hole, and remembering to breathe, and remembering that no, he can’t just sink into the sweet oblivion of the drink and Gwaine’s ministrations. But the position is comfortable enough, the weight of Gwaine’s prick is pleasant on Merlin’s tongue, the way his muscles tense and shift in Merlin’s embrace is a thrill, and all that aside, the needy little noises Gwaine makes are more than enough to motivate Merlin to persist in that effort. He loses track of time, his mind blank but for the thoughts of what to do with his hands and mouth, and the pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
Eventually, the fine tremor Merlin can feel running through Gwaine’s body becomes more pronounced, his sounds more desperate, his attention to Merlin’s cock less focussed. When he pulls off, panting out,
“Merlin, I - I’m -”
Merlin presses his finger just a little bit deeper into Gwaine’s arsehole, and sucks just a little harder, and then holds on tightly as Gwaine bucks and swears and comes in Merlin’s mouth. He tries to swallow but only manages some of it, the rest of Gwaine’s release spilling messily over his lips and chin.
“I love you,” Gwaine announces breathlessly when he’s finished, sounding utterly blissed out, and Merlin has a moment to feel smug before Gwaine grabs his hips, rolls them so Merlin’s on top, and takes Merlin’s dick into his mouth again.
The new angle lets Merlin’s cock slip straight down Gwaine’s throat and it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to do anything else any more, because Merlin’s not sure he could manage it, not like this. He presses his cheek to Gwaine’s thigh, or maybe it’s his hip, Merlin’s not really sure, not really able to pay attention to anything but the amazing sensations of Gwaine’s throat around his dick and Gwaine’s fingers tugging and stroking his balls. It’s too much, too good, and Merlin barely manages to choke out a warning (which Gwaine ignores) before the knot of pleasure straining inside him bursts.
It all goes indistinct for a moment there, heavy satisfaction stealing over Merlin’s body and his mind too doped up on the rush of climax to process anything else, but when he can think again he finds Gwaine crawling up alongside him, beaming. They kiss, just a few sloppy passes of lips on lips, and then Merlin falls asleep.
They wake up a little while later to find that they’re sprawled at an angle across the bed, sheets on the floor and bodies sticky with dried sweat and come. The fire has burned down a bit so it’s darker in the room and Merlin feels sort of fuzzy, his brain only half engaged. Gwaine seems to be much the same. They don’t talk; Merlin drags the sheets onto the bed, Gwaine finds some water and a cloth for a token effort at cleaning up, and then they simply snuggle into each other’s arms and go back to sleep.
(When Gwaine wakes in the morning, at first he’s certain he must be dreaming because there’s Merlin in his bed, breath warm on Gwaine’s collarbone, naked skin beneath his hand and where their legs touch and presumably everywhere else. It’s a nice dream, but it’s even better when he remembers last night and realizes it’s real.
He shifts a little so he can kiss Merlin’s forehead; lets his hand wander from Merlin’s ribs to his hip to his groin, wondering if - oh yes - he’s hard too. Merlin mumbles something incoherent and nuzzles closer, and Gwaine is seized by the overwhelming need to keep him like this always, warm and content and safe. At the back of his head he knows that he can’t, that Merlin will go back to Camelot, to his prince and all the dangers and frustrations that come with the job. He knows he can offer a swordarm on a quest and an evening’s delights, but he can’t offer Merlin a home or a proper life. Even if he could, Merlin would surely tire of him eventually, as everyone does.
The thought hurts, and Gwaine pushes it away to focus instead on the sight of Merlin and the feel of him. No sense in dwelling on the future when the present is so very lovely.)
Merlin wakes with a slight headache and a rush of arousal. There’s a hand on his dick, stroking him languidly, and he opens his eyes to find Gwaine watching him, his expression soft and full of affection.
“Good morning,” Gwaine murmurs, and Merlin smiles.
“I’d say so,” Merlin agrees. He slides his hand into Gwaine’s hair and tugs him in for a kiss. They shuffle around gradually, clinging and pulling at one another’s limbs, and after a while Gwaine ends up on top. They rub off together that way, slow and easy in a cocoon of blankets and sleep-warm bodies.
After they’ve both finished, Gwaine buries his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck and says, “Stay.”
“I wish I could,” Merlin sighs, carding his fingers through Gwaine’s hair, enjoying the texture of the thoroughly dishevelled locks. “But I have to-”
“I know. I know you do. Stay for breakfast, and then I’ll ride with you as far as the border.”
“Okay,” Merlin says. He really does wish he could stay; he can’t remember the last time he had as good a time as he did last night, and Gwaine is wonderful, and he could get used to this, the kind words and gentle touches, the ready laughter, the drinking and dancing and fabulous sex. The way Gwaine looks at him like he’s beautiful and holds him like he’s precious. But duty calls; he knows he’d never make it more than a few days before guilt dragged him back to Camelot, and the longer he delays, the more difficult it will be.
They lay together a little longer, then reluctantly crawl out of bed to wash. While they’re dressing, Merlin notices a few fresh marks on Gwaine’s neck that he only vaguely remembers leaving while they were stumbling through the streets, but feels proud of all the same. (Merlin’s own neck is a mottled map drawn in beard-burn and bruises. Even with his neckerchief covering the worst of it, there will be little doubt what he was doing last night when he returns home. Gwaine can’t help wondering if Arthur will go easy on him as a result, or be even more unhappy.)
The landlady serves them eggs and porridge downstairs. While they eat, Gwaine is his usual cheerful, ridiculous self, and if there’s a hint of melancholy in his gaze, well, Merlin isn’t about to draw attention to it. He’s full of jokes and stories all the way to the border, but the mask slips once they reach it.
“Well, this is me,” Gwaine says, halting his horse.
“Right,” Merlin says. There’s an awkward moment, the first one they’ve had, really, and then Merlin makes a decision. He brings his horse around alongside Gwaine’s, close as he can get, and leans over, kisses Gwaine’s mouth. Gwaine steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his face, and Merlin can practically taste the longing in Gwaine’s touch.
“I’ll come back,” Merlin whispers. “Tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll come when I can.”
Gwaine shivers, just faintly, and nods, rubs his cheek against Merlin’s.
“Here for another week, maybe two, and then… I don’t know. I’ll send word. Nowhere too far.”
“Okay. It won’t be too long, I promise, and when Arthur’s king-”
“-Everything will be different,” Gwaine says, drawing away.
He looks strangely resigned, not as eager as Merlin expected, and then something clicks.
“Not everything,” Merlin says earnestly, and pulls him back in for one last kiss.
“I’ll come again soon,” Merlin assures Gwaine when they finally part. “And I’ll bring oil next time,” he adds, pleased when that gets him a hearty laugh and a big smile.
“You do that,” Gwaine tells him, looking cheered again. “I’ll be waiting. Take care, my friend.”
Gwaine turns and rides off, and Merlin heads for home.
[Back in Camelot, Arthur gets halfway through his tirade concerning Merlin’s ineptitude, then notices the marks on Merlin’s neck. He stops talking, eyes going very wide and cheeks taking on the slightest pink tinge, and then he says, “Just a little warning next time, if you please.”
“I did send Edgar,” Merlin says, relieved.
“Yes, well, no one ought to be subjected to Edgar without warning. Now get out, I have reports to read.”]
(That night, Gwaine dreams of Merlin, and the future.)
ETA: Sequel here!