Beyond the Neon Trees - Part 2 (Big Bang 2011)

[mightypretty]

Merlin leaves it for five days.

After that, it becomes pretty hard to avoid, especially on the following Wednesday. The cold September air is crisp and sharp. It pierces Merlin’s lungs with each intake of breath, so when Arthur suggests they head to the local chippy to get something to eat, he eagerly agrees, tugging the rim of his beanie down lower over his ears. The pair stumbles back across the courtyard with warm smiles and easy nudges. Their fingers are greasy with vinegar and ketchup, and if Merlin’s breath catches a couple of times when Arthur sucks the chip fat off his fingers, the whistling wind disguises it.

They bump shoulders; the scattered lampposts surrounding them offer sparse light, entangled by overgrown trees that cast eerie shadows on the pavement below. Arthur scrunches up his empty chip wrapper, tossing it with effortless style into the rubbish bin on his left. Merlin continues to pick through his, fingers tingly numb from having removed his hands from the warmth of his gloves for so long. Arthur nudges across him and swipes a chip from the greasy newspaper. Merlin lets out an aggravated ’Hey!’ as Arthur lifts the offending chip to his mouth, a drop of ketchup trailing down the side before he swipes it away with his tongue a second later, eyes fixed solely on Merlin.

“Tastes good,” says Arthur, quietly, so hushed and lost to the wind that Merlin almost misses it, but his eyes are trained on Arthur’s face, the bow of his lips, the flush on his cheeks. And no, there is no way Merlin can miss any of this. He simply nods, fingers flexing in the wrapper beneath his hands, releasing a chest-purring hum before he’s yanked back forcibly.

He stumbles, trainers scratching uselessly at the paved ground to remain steady, trying to get some form of grip as he’s pulled taut, arms pinned behind his back, fat heavy hands gripping his shoulders.

“What the fucking fuck!” His eyes dart panicked around him; he knew these type of things happened on run down estates like Holly Street. Not just muggings either - other things, terrible things. He never experienced them himself though, never been jumped on like this, there are certain benefits to being Arthur Pendragon’s best friend - having an odd sense of protection is one of them. However, from the curses and scuffled noises coming beside him, he realises that even being Arthur Pendragon himself sometimes isn’t enough to save you.

“Christ… Fuck! What are you-?”

A sickening thud sounds to his right, followed by a hiss of pain which sparks Merlin into struggling against the death grip he’s held in.

“Easy there, Snow White,” a harsh voice hisses in his ear, causing a sickening feeling of dread to lurch in his stomach. He tilts his head up - finally taking in the men either side of him. Both tall, much taller than him, though not as substantially built as he imagined. They are lithe, slender, but muscled and strong. Merlin whimpers softly as the one on his left reminds him of that fact, pulling his shoulder back till it clicks painfully.

“Looks like we got a screamer ‘ere, mate!” The guy laughs and in the barely-there light, Merlin can see his face is scarred. He doesn’t want to think how he got those marks, or what a man like that can do to someone else.

“We’ll get on to him, Muirden,” a voice sounds from the shadows, sharp and clear. He sounds different, the tone of his voice not holding the usual East-London twang that most on the estate possess. If Merlin knew any better, he’d suspect the man of coming from the toff-end of Richmond or Knightsbridge. “I want to deal with our friend Pendragon first.”

“You don’t fucking touch him! You hear me, Myror? Deal with me, yeah? This is between us. Let him go.” Arthur cuts in sternly. Merlin can hear the slight waver in his words and is left in no doubt that this Myror has too.

“Well isn’t that… touching.”

“Look, I know I was meant to come and see you, and I was going to, I swear-“

“Hmm… well, isn’t it lucky for you that we ran into each other?” Myror’s mouth quirks upwards as he slowly steps out of the shadows, offering Merlin his first opportunity to size him up. Myror’s clothes are tailored, dark jeans meet dark zip up top, a solid mass of muscle with eyes deep and rich, lips pulled in an unwelcome sneer. This Myror is a riddle. One of those blokes that appear so charming and suave yet can stop you cold with just two fingers against the side of your neck. In any other circumstances, Merlin may have even considered him good-looking, but right now there was only one adjective that sprung to mind - deadly.

"See, Arthur you owe me money... and I don't like it when people owe me things."

"I just... I just need a bit more time."

"Time? Right. It didn't take you much time to take the stash I gave you, huh?" Myror quips, raising his eyebrows in a silent signal that has the men flanking Arthur pull tighter. "When I took you on, I had no idea you'd be such a liability."

"I-- I got done over by a customer… Valiant the other day, refused to pay up, that's why I'm short. I'm going--"

"Not my problem." Myror cuts him off, hands flexing in front of him, nimble fingers cracking with each breath of wind. "When you said you could manage to deal on this estate, I believed you... and now you've let me down. I hate it when people let me down." He sighs, shaking his head as Arthur stammers to retort.

Myror tilts his chin, eyes staring cold and hard through sooty lashes - he squints, takes a couple of steps to the left, almost circling the both of them, drinking them in. It's unnerving. How silent the estate has now become. Myror stops, searches Arthur's face - a beat, a breath and then a chilling light gleams in his eye, the sides of his lips pull up in a shit-eating grin. He turns to face Merlin and silently nods.

It’s a split second before Merlin realises that the sharp scream that pierces the air is not his own, but Arthur's. Then the pain hits him. The heavy draws of breath as blows of fists and feet work into his stomach, the hands that braced his chest and shoulders, now possessing his throat as his knees give way. He sinks to the ground as gracelessly as a rag doll. He can hear Arthur cursing - hoarse cries and futile struggles. A litany of "Stop! Please just stop. Stop... Merlin, I'm sorry, just stop -Please."

It feels like hours. Merlin knows it has barely been minutes, seconds. But his wafer thin figure isn't built to withstand a scrape on the knee let alone showers of bloodied knuckles. When it stops, when it finally stops, Merlin curls himself into a ball, closes his eyes and tries to bite back the tears that threaten to spill down his aching cheeks. He just wants to go home, dive under his duvet and wish the taste of blood out of his mouth. He can faintly hear Arthur above him, soft mutterings of "Please just take it out on me, deal with me. Leave him alone, please."

He cracks an eye open as he takes in the six men surrounding Arthur, his own crumpled body left used and trodden in the shadows. "Consider him collateral damage." Myror hisses, taking Arthur's jaw in his dark strong hand. "A warning for if you fuck me over again." He spits, dragging Arthur's head down, forcing him to meet his eye.

"I want my money, Pendragon. All £800 of it, and if I don't get it by Friday, I'm going to whore your pretty ass out until I do, ok?" he sneers, releasing his grip on Arthur's chin with a fierce shove back. He takes a step - pauses; considers his options before drawing an arm back and releasing a sickening blow to Arthur's temple. The skin breaks, a trickle of blood marring his dusty eyebrows. Myror gives a low chuckle before clicking his fingers and the men promptly drop Arthur to his knees, energy and fight and consciousness knocked out of him. Merlin can hear the men retreat, footsteps quieting to a faint echo as they draw further away. Arthur wheezes beside him, coughs once, twice, then scuttles across to Merlin's prone figure, lying silent and unmoving on the asphalt surface.



"Shit, fucking shit, Merlin... Merlin, Merlin, please come on... come on."

A raspy breath escapes his lungs and a dull drone fills his ears. He can hear Arthur's hushed urgent words over him. They feel distant - far away under water, cloudy but reassuring. Fingers trail his face, shaking and unsure, before timidly carding through his matted hair. He’s torn between wanting them to stay there forever and wanting to hit Arthur square in the face.

It takes all his energy to finally move. To cough, spit out the blood that’s stuck to his teeth. He shuffles in his spot on the floor, tries to sit up, but there's a dizziness in his head that threatens to cast his world into blackness so he slumps back down the remaining few inches to the ground. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, hand coming to rest behind Merlin's head to cushion it from the concrete floor.

"Thank Christ," he whispers, bowed over Merlin's body, forehead coming to rest in the centre of his chest. Merlin can feel the heat of Arthur’s breath warming his skin. Months ago, it would have made his heart flutter, hell - minutes ago, it would have felt like some dream-state-fantasy, but now. Now, the hot gust of air feels dirty, laden with lies that have resulted in him lying here. A bloody mess on the grotty streets of East London sprawled beneath the neon trees. Looking like any other sullied-good-for-nothing-estate-life-teenager on the wrong side of the tracks. That isn’t him. He tried so vehemently for that not to be him… and he hates Arthur in that moment for making him so.

And yet, this is the most tender Arthur has been with him in their whole nine years of friendship, making Merlin wish he was able to offer a calming touch back, but he just… can’t. So he settles for quiet words, murmurs of "I'm fine... really."

Arthur seems to snap to attention, lifting his face to take in Merlin's features, "No, we need to get you to hospital."

"No," Merlin croaks, voice harsh and rough, scratching his throat raw. "No," he repeats softer, "No, just get me home."

"Merlin, you... you may have broken ribs or… internal bleeding... God, we need to get you checked over."

"Arthur, nothing is broken,” says Merlin, having finally pushed himself up into a seated position. “Just, no. My mum is working the night shift at A&E. I can't... I can't let her see me like this."

He can't hide the slight wince that escapes his lips as a sharp electric pain shoots up his right hand side; his fingers move quickly - pressing to alleviate the pressure. Arthur casts him a worried glance, eyebrows furrowed, worrying his bottom lip with anxious ferocity. Merlin steels his glare, gritting his teeth, "Take me home."

A flash of hurt passes Arthur's face as he nods silently, bringing an arm around Merlin's shoulder, balancing his weight as he helps him stand. Merlin flinches at the first touch and hangs his head as Arthur’s fingers shake. They stumble their way up the three flights of stairs, Arthur's attempt at conversation and mutterings of "no bloody lifts" and "cheap council stranglers" go unanswered.

They finally reach Merlin's flat, the landing bulb flickering above them casting their faces in shallow light, highlighting cuts and skin beginning to mar with dark hues of purple. Arthur can't look.

"I got it from here." Merlin says quietly, removing his limbs from Arthur's tight hold. He leans against the doorjamb as he fumbles in his jeans pocket for his keys, cursing as they slip from his shaking fingers. Arthur bends down quickly, batting Merlin's hands away as he leans across and opens the front door, moving to aid Merlin in as he steps into the cold and dingy flat. Merlin simply shrugs him off again, flipping the light switch inside the hallway. “I said I've got it from here," he repeats, turning to close the half-opened door in Arthur's face. He’s too slow, however, and tuts as a grotty trainer sticks out to prevent the wood from slamming shut. Arthur closes his eyes and takes a deep shuddering inhale before lifting his blue glazed-over eyes to meet Merlin’s.

“Please, Merlin. I’m so… so God damn sorry. Please let me just make sure you’re ok.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin hisses, brings a hand to his face as the skin around his eye pulls tighter, spiking flashes of pain shooting behind his eyelid. Arthur reaches out a steadying hand to his side, his grip soft yet secure. Merlin tries again to retreat but Arthur holds firm. His thumb absently strokes the jut of Merlin’s hipbone and against his better judgement; it sends a shiver from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. Merlin lets out a shaky sigh; damn Arthur for being able to get under his skin this way: a simple touch and his resolve is broken. He glances up through dark lashes, nodding his head before turning and taking shuffled steps deeper into the flat. He hears the click of the door closing behind him, then the scuffle of shoes being kicked off. Merlin keeps walking, silently turning into his bedroom and perching on the edge of his mattress. The springs’ moans mirror Merlin’s as the aches of his body begin to ease; the desire to throw up fading more with each passing minute - much to his relief. He cradles his head in his hands, wincing as he catches the cut across his cheekbone.

“Idiot,” whispers Arthur, the plastic swivel chair squeaking under his weight as he rolls across the scrubby carpeted floor, deftly lifting Merlin’s pale tapered fingers from his face running a damp flannel across the stains of blood before pressing a bag of frozen peas in its place. Merlin winces at the sudden coldness, catching Arthur’s wrist instinctively. He means to push his hand away, honestly he does, but instead finds his fingers coiling tighter. Tips pressed against the pulse point that beats a steady drum mirrored inside Merlin’s own heated chest. Arthur smiles at him softly, genuine, eyes pliant, warm and happy, despite the splattering of blood that’s drying flakily above his brow. It’s that image that has Merlin snatch the bag from Arthur’s grasp, dropping his wrist in the process. What the fuck has he got to be happy about?

"Thanks but I think I can manage just fine on my own now." Merlin states coldly, eyes flittering to the spot above Arthur's shoulder, refusing to surrender to the wounded look in his friend’s eyes.

The rickety chair squeaks loudly in the otherwise silent room, faint murmurings and hums from television sets reverberate from the flats below. Merlin can feel the deep sigh of regret against his face.

"I know what just happened out there... Merlin, you must know that I never - never wanted anything like that to happen -"

"Drugs, Arthur?" Merlin cuts him off, weariness laden in his broken voice, "Christ, I mean, I know you liked the odd spliff now and then... but dealing? Shit, what was it? Crack? E? God, it wasn't heroin, was it?"

Arthur lifts a hand to his brow, running his fingers through his dusty golden locks. Tresses fall back over his eyes as Arthur hunches forward, curling in on himself. "It was... It was coke mostly. The odd bit of weed too. I--I never took any of it myself. Well, a bit of hash now and then but never the stronger stuff."

"Boss doesn't like you sampling the merchandise?" Merlin snarks.

Arthur raises his head - hurt. "No. I don't want to end up a dead beat junkie."

"No of course not... it's not like you're a fucking drug-dealer or anything! Fuck. How did you-Why?"

"Don't get all high and mighty on me, Merlin. We all do things we don’t like to survive. I'm sure you so desperately needed those new Nike Airs, didn't you?" Arthur smarms, glancing down at the black stylish trainers on Merlin's feet. He’d pinched them two weeks ago. His much-loved red Converses had begun to tatter - the soles scuffed away, holes breaking through. He’d got caught in one of London's notorious autumn downpours, returned bones shivering and teeth chattering. Feet frozen like ice as he peeled the sodden socks from between his toes. Arthur knew this - knew that, yes, he had needed them... to survive.

Merlin lowers the ice packet from his face, unable to hide the disgust in his eyes. Arthur twists his body away.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean... Fuck, I'm not doing any of this right."

Merlin releases an exhausted breath. "Just tell me the truth."

Arthur clasps his hands on his knees, bouncing skittishly. "Dad... Dad had gambled the electric money for the month. Lost it on the bloody dogs. He was - well, you know what he's like, Merlin. Said it was my responsibility… that I have to go out and provide for us... that... that he'd supported my sorry ass for long enough and it was time I took care of him."

"Bastard." Merlin whispers. Arthur offers a sad smile, blinks furiously to bat away the tears that pool resolutely in the corner of his eyes. Merlin is so close to reaching out - placing a reassuring hand on his knee. He doesn't.

"He's my father." Arthur shrugs. "So I just needed an escape - a kick, you know? So I went to Myror. Jeez, I got so fucking high! I started sprouting out all this crap about my dad and the money and all this shit. He... He made me an offer. I'd be his man on this estate, sell his gear and in return, I’d get a 30% cut on all the dealings. It sounded... simple."

"Simple? Shit, Arthur - do you hear what you're saying? How can getting involved with someone as fucked up as Myror be simple?"

"Well, it’s been going fine all this time... till that bloody Valiant double crossed me. The prick!"

"How - How long have you been doing this?" Merlin asks quietly, tilting his head to catch Arthur's gaze. They dance around it; Arthur remains silent. Merlin reaches out tentatively, lean fingers curved around the older boys shoulder.

Arthur presses his tongue against his bottom lip, takes a deep breath. "A little over a year."

Merlin's hand drops. "Fuck."

"I'm going to get out of it. As soon as I pay him off - I'm gonna get out. I don't care how I get the money; I might have to pawn a few things... Merlin?"

Merlin has remained still, chest heaving with shallow breaths, in, out... in, out. "A year?" he whispers, hands folding cautiously in his lap, "How didn't- How were you doing this for a year and I had no idea?" Merlin peeps though his lashes, lying damp and soft against the paleness of his skin. His heart is breaking bit by bit, and it's etched in every crevice of his face. How could he have not known that his best friend needed him? Why wasn't he told?

"How could you not tell me?"

Arthur cracks. "Because-" A broken sob catches in his throat as he slips from the chair to his knees, palms spread wide across Merlin's thighs. He takes a moment, fingertips flexing in the tight denim encasing Merlin’s legs before he licks the dryness from his lips and continues on a shattered breath. "Because of this exact reason."

"I don't follow."

"Merlin, I didn't tell you 'cause I didn't want you to be involved. I knew what people like Myror did to those that... slipped up. They know that the way to keep people under control is to hurt the people they care about... and Christ, Merlin, I just wanted you to be safe. I wanted to protect you."

Arthur crawls closer; head bowed watching his own fingers as they dip over Merlin's thighs. “I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone hurting you. You’re my best friend Merlin, I can’t-”

Merlin doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until he feels the brush of Arthur’s thumb over the plump centre of his bottom lip. His skin is dry, chaffed as it strokes a lazy pattern back and forth over the reddening flesh, pulling it down slightly in a pout. He hisses as Arthur nicks the cut at the corner of his mouth, tender and sore. Arthur’s thumb stills at the sound, turning the depths of his deep blue eyes to Merlin’s. Arthur pushes up so their faces are but an inch apart. The air between them swirls and spirals until it no longer becomes his or Arthur’s, his heart races, a quickening beat that only increases as Arthur’s hand splays across his cheek lightly, gentle.

“I promise you I won’t let them hurt you again.” The words are mouthed against his lips.

There's a lump caught in his throat that he tries to swallow down, and Christ, Merlin doesn't know what this is. What version of Arthur he's being shown right now - but the vulnerability in his eyes and the quiver in his jaw has Merlin guessing that this is the truest form of himself Arthur's ever shown anyone. So he takes it. Takes it all. Gladly and eagerly. Fervent touches, soft presses of lips and hushed soliloquies of promises.

The flat of Merlin’s back hits the mattress, Arthur’s figure swimming into vision above him, all blonde hair, furrowed brow and Arthur. Just Arthur. Merlin opens his legs wider, cradles him between his thighs - it’s glorious. He wraps a foot around Arthur’s calf, a sharp gasp of pleasure bites off his tongue as their cocks brush for the first time.

Arthur stills above him - and all too soon the press of his body is removed. “Shit, am I hurting you?”

Merlin wants to laugh at the absurdity, but finds he can only wheeze out a strangled, “No… No, just, just move. Keep moving.”

Arthur’s self-satisfied smirk returns as he rolls his hips down and slots himself fully into the crevice of Merlin’s legs. It’s perfect. It feels like coming home, like a jigsaw finally fitting together and all those other rom-com bullshit clichés that’s had Merlin snigger and roll his eyes in the past. But now its true and he gets it. He understands that feeling right now with Arthur’s lean mass of muscle pressed along the entire length of his body, all hot heat and wet lips, sucking, marking, claiming.

Merlin can’t help the little ‘ah, ah’ noises that gush from his lungs in every exhale; in every press of Arthur’s groin to Merlin’s. The pace quickens. The desperate urge for more, more, more is overpowering. The bed creaks noisily beneath them, the metal frame groaning with each undulating roll of their bodies that forces the headboard to beat a steady rhythm against the wall. It’s intense. Stronger than anything Merlin’s ever felt. It leads his brain to conjure dirtier thoughts of - God, if he’s s so turned on right now, how would this feel without clothes on? The image of Arthur’s red hot cock in his hand, long, thick, elegant - slick with pre-come and his own spit - has Merlin keening loudly, digging the heel of his foot deeper into Arthur’s denim clad ass.

“Fuck. Merlin, so fucking amazing.” Arthur gasps against his neck, mouth pliant at the hollow of his throat, teeth catching and grazing against the stubble scattered there. Merlin has his own lips wrapped tightly around Arthur’s earlobe, tongue lapping at the soft mound of flesh. He bites down hard as one of Arthur’s hands slots at the curved underside of Merlin’s knee, pushing it further against his chest. He presses down the remainder of the way, the action bringing them even closer together. They groan in unison, the angle hotter, dirtier; Arthur lifts his head to catch Merlin’s lips in a sloppy open mouthed kiss that’s more tongue and teeth than finesse. Merlin whimpers as Arthur bites down on his bottom lip, drawing blood from the cut Myror left earlier - Arthur suckles it into his mouth.

“Shit. Fuck. Arth-I’m gonna-“

Merlin pushes at his chest but Arthur pins him down firmer, thigh pressed harder, rougher against his cock. Merlin’s eyes roll as the snap of hips quickens all over again, hands clasping at Arthur’s shoulders in a desperate bid to hold on against the achingly bruising tempo. Arthur’s tongue comes up to lick the underside of his top lip, grazing against his teeth - an action so tender and soft contrasting to the furious pounding of their hips.

Then it’s all white noise.

Shallow gasping cries ransack his body and leave him boneless. He can feel the hot warmth trapped inside his jeans, a sticky wetness that spreads uncomfortably down his legs. His hips ripple through the aftershocks as Arthur pants and ruts above him desperately. Merlin cards his hand through the sweat-damp hair stuck to Arthur’s forehead, tugs just this side of harsh as he licks a hot wet stripe up the shell of his ear.

“Come on, Arthur.” He whines, tone almost begging, and Arthur’s eyes squeeze shut as his body jolts forward one more time. He grunts, heady sighs dampening the strong line of Merlin’s cheekbone. Arthur’s wet heat presses against Merlin’s, their jeans slickly rough against their tender groins. They collapse against each other, limbs boneless but still thrumming with a gold coil of energy that hums beneath their skin. Arthur’s face is buried in Merlin’s neck, hand low and trembling against Merlin’s stomach. He slowly trails it up Merlin’s chest, bringing the sweat-damp t-shirt he wears with it, revealing expanses of pale warm skin. He’s sure it would look as sparkling as porcelain under any other light, but now it is tarnished - a canvas of ugly shades of purple-blues that dip and sink into each hollow. Arthur’s eyes follow the path of his hand, skimming the jut of Merlin’s collarbone, tips caressing over another mark marring his beautiful skin; this one harsher, rich rose red that he made with his own lips. Merlin watches through hooded lashes. Arthur’s eyes train on the curve of his neck, tongue lathing at dry lips as his fingers trace the pattern he made.

Merlin holds his breath. “Arthur…”

Arthur snaps his eyes up, pauses for a second. “Fuck,” he gasps. His body retreats in a flash, and Merlin is mourning the loss of heat on top of him instantly. He doesn’t watch as Arthur leaves. Keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the cracked white ceiling above. He hears the door shout loudly, ostentatious in the silence of the room. He doesn’t blink. Keeps staring upwards at the fragmented walls that encase him.

He doesn’t blink.



It’s over a week before Merlin sees Arthur again. To say that things have been awkward between them, since the ‘great-big-rutting-until-we-came-in-our-pants-incident’ or just ‘the incident’ as Merlin had taken to shortening it, is an understatement. Arthur has failed to show up for school at all during that time. Leon and Gwaine have made it their life’s mission to pester Merlin everyday about it, asking the whereabouts of their little group’s leader.

That is until the following Tuesday when a flash of blonde hair from across the cafeteria floor catches his eye. There’s Arthur, head thrown back in the midst of one of his overpowering laughs, sat at a round table tucked away in the left hand corner. Leon and Percy flank his right, bursts of happiness ring out across the room twining with the noisy bustle of the lunchtime period. To his left however (where Merlin would usually sit) is a shock of dark curls set around deep chocolate eyes. Gwen's warm smile can be felt from across the room, her teeth pearly white as she animatedly talks to her fellow netball teammates who fill the rest of the table. One of Arthur's hands is twiddling the straw in his cup the other, however, is spread along the back of Gwen's chair. Fingertips curled, drumming an unknown beat against the arch of her shoulder - it’s casual, the act unconscious - and it stabs through Merlin's heart sharper than air. He finds himself rooted to the spot, frozen in place whilst his fellow classmates weave past him jovially, shovelling all manners of crap fast-food-junk into their mouths. A few clatter into him, one taking time to yell ‘fucking move, idiot’ - that has him finally snap out of his trance, swallowing the lump that clings in his throat.

He can’t take it - he needs to get out. Without another glance at the table, he throws his uneaten food in the rubbish, sliding his tray on the top of the bin as he goes. He has an unsettling feeling that he’s being watched but can't bring himself to turn or care whether deep blue eyes are following him out - he just bolts. Merlin’s pace quickens as he exits the canteen, past the reception and straight out of the school gates, his feet continuing until he reaches the end of the street where he hops on board the 221 taking him straight into town. The bus is quiet at this hour, filled with mothers picking their younglings up from nursery, so many blasted buggies that clip his ankles causing him to curse as he stumbles down the walkway.

When he finally reaches Kingsland Shopping Centre, he strolls around aimlessly. A face lost in a sea of people who meander just as fruitlessly through the day break. Merlin returns home with quite the bundle; a new pair of Converses, two DVDs, Mumford and Sons’ latest album, a bottle of that perfume his mother likes as well as a dark charcoal Fenchurch hoodie from Republic... He still, however, has the same amount of money he left with in his wallet.

Today is a bad day.



Merlin goes back to school the next day, vowing to make it through the whole six monotonous hours. He immerses himself in the art department, finally able to discover the dark room he campaigned so tirelessly for the previous year. His art teacher Ms LeFay is one of those crazily eccentric women, eyes bright with a twinkle that speaks of a life full of adventures, of dreams never quite fulfilled. She supported him throughout, urged the head teacher that a fully developed photography department is essential to the future of this school’s devotion to the arts. Most of the student population fancy the pants off her, and why wouldn’t they? With cascading black locks and piercing green eyes, her youthful skin shines ethereally pale, casting her easily as the hottest teacher of the school. Sadly for Merlin, she is missing one key appendage below the waist. However, they have come to form what he hopes is a tight friendship and mutual respect over the years. She has a warmth in her heart that is filled with genuine love for her students and their creativity which Merlin can’t help but be awed by.

So he busies himself in what was once the old supply cupboard, now a fully functioning dark room housing such beautiful equipment that he runs his fingers over attentively. The room is cast in a lazy red hue from the safelights that dangle overhead, disguising the tired circles that hug around his eyes. His fingers work deftly over the enlarger, hands instinctively turning dials, adjusting, flittering around the room as if he lived here all his life. A soft knock makes him pause; he checks the trays of negatives around him before murmuring a ‘come in’. The heavy black curtain in front of the door is pulled aside swiftly as Ms LeFay’s ridiculously high heels click into the room.

"Already getting familiar with the place, I see?" she smiles.

"Uh yeah, I hope that's OK," Merlin lifts his head, a flash of worry passing behind his eyes, "I mean, no-one was in when I got up here and--"

Ms LeFay cuts him off with a raised hand, "Merlin, Merlin, its fine... really. If it wasn't for you, we probably wouldn't have this place at all."

Merlin's lucky the room’s lighting easily hides the deep rouge blush spreading to the tips of his cheekbones; unfortunately, it does nothing to control the tug of his lips. "You did a wonderful job, Miss, putting it all together..."

"I just hope other students will appreciate it as much."

"Oh, I'm sure they will," he insists, moving around the long rectangle table to check on a couple of trays down the end. Merlin lifts the paper out of the water, fingertips carefully nimble, the grin on his face is breathless as he happily clips them in place on the line above.

Ms LeFay watches on proudly, "Quite - Well, I'm glad I found you in here, Merlin 'cause you're precisely who I was looking for."

Merlin startles at her words, hand slipping as he pegs another print to the wire, "Oh?"

"Yes, have you heard of the YBA exhibit?" At Merlin's blank stare and small shrug of his shoulders, she continues, "It’s specifically designed to highlight the bright young talent of future artists in the field of contemporary pieces." She pauses to take Merlin in, his eyes are still unsure, something not quite--

"I'd like to enter your work... if I may?" she finishes, fingers drawing lazy circles on the wooden table. He follows them with his eyes, almost lost in their hypnotic allure, before snapping to attention as what she just put forward sinks in.

"Me? My--? I really don't think my pieces are to that high a standard..."

"Nonsense!" she exclaims, eyes wide and affronted, "Merlin, some of your work is the most engaging I have ever seen, at any level, let alone for a boy your age."

Merlin watches as she stops herself, almost debating how best to articulate her words. She catches his eye, sees his hesitation. "If you're uncomfortable with the idea, Merlin, I'll let it lie, but I would hate for you to not apply due to a lack of self-confidence. You are an extremely talented young man, and I would very much like for the rest of the country to see that."

Merlin looks across the line of photographs he's just processed, landing on one he took of Arthur's hands as they coiled around a Coke can, the lines stark as they contrast against the black and white backdrop. He looks back towards Ms. LeFay, smile soft, he nods, "Okay, I--Okay."



"Well, I knew it would happen eventually. Marriages never last these days... Shame. Too much bloody monogamy if you ask me -“

Merlin lifts his head from his still-full plate - Dinner lady O’Brien’s famous ‘Meatloaf Surprise’, the surprise being it was fucking awful - his lips quirk as Gwaine swishes (with all manners of grace) into the seat beside him.

He’s smiling at Merlin, teeth glistening white; it leaves him with an unsettling feeling of suspicion and amusement. “I could pretend to know what the hell you’re talking about but seriously-“

“You and Pendragon.”

Merlin arches an eyebrow.

The action has Gwaine sigh dramatically running a hand through his ‘L’Oreal shine-worthy’ hair. “The two of you have barely said a word to each other for bloody weeks and I come in now and see him making moody faces in one corner, you sat over here looking like someone’s kicked your puppy….”

“I don’t have a pupp-“

“Anyway, the point is, it’s getting fucking ridiculous, and it’s giving me a headache.” Merlin scoffs but quickly stifles it after Gwaine shoots him a warning look. “So whatever’s under your bonnets, can you have it out already, throw a few punches if needs be, so we can all get back to some form of normality.”

“Do you even understand the concept of normality?” Merlin asks cheekily, spearing his fork and lifting it to his lips before remembering how God damn awful it tasted and dropping it back down.

“Tried it once, didn’t agree with me,” says Gwaine matter-of-factly. Merlin barks out a deep rich laugh which is too contagious for the Irish man to ignore, “Seriously, mate,” he continues, placing a warm hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Just sort it out… You’re friends, yeah?”

Merlin sobers quickly, studies Arthur from across the canteen. Their eyes meet for an instant - stark blue against blue - and then it’s lost as he turns to Leon, shares a joke and a smile that leaves Merlin feeling even emptier still. “Yeah… friends.”



The cool October air whistles around the rooftops, the clouds hang dark and foreboding across the afternoon sky. Merlin glances upwards; the fear of impending rain makes him move his thumb more urgently across the page. His lithe ivory fingers are smudged with shades of grey matching the sky above as the stub of charcoal chases shadows across his pad. He’s skipping P.E. again, of course. Merlin readily accepted long ago that anything involving a ball or running or any form of strenuous exercise just isn’t for him. So he escaped to where he always does; the rooftop of the science building wasn’t exactly designed to house truant teenagers, but well, Merlin has his ways of getting up here unnoticed. The only drawback however, is that Merlin isn’t the only one with such skills. The clatter of the metal ladder alerts him that his silent sanctum is soon to be intruded upon.

Sandy tufts of hair peek over the ledge, soon followed by the rest of him. Merlin narrows his eyes as Arthur pole-vaults over the ridge, landing swiftly on the gravelled rooftop.

Merlin rakes his eyes over his old friend before clicking his tongue, returning to run deft fingers over his art pad, smudging the dark image into shape.

"Hey," he breathes, standing so very un-Arthur-like, shrunk in on himself, with a nervous twitch to his left leg that has it jittering rapidly.

Merlin looks up at him again, making a great show of looking around the deserted rooftop before raising a challenging eyebrow back at Arthur. "Oh... you talking to me? Sorry, hasn't happened in a while, not used to it."

A part of Arthur's usual cockiness returns to him in that instant; hands no longer shoved in pockets, but folded determinedly across his chest. He sees Merlin's eyebrow and raises a smirk. "Yeah well, I've been missing a prized idiot. Percy and Gwaine aren't quite up to your level of stupidity; it’s highly disappointing and not nearly as entertaining."

Merlin stares at him incredulously for a beat then shakes his head, unable to quell the pull of his lips. “Prat," he scoffs.

"Idiot," Arthur retorts, and that's all that needs saying as they release a breath of laughter, an easiness falling between them that has been gone for too long. Their gasps for air quiet down and they're left staring at each other. Arthur releases a deep heavy sigh as he strolls forward, flopping down beside Merlin against the edge.

“Look... about what happened... that... time. It was -- can we just put it down to a hideously drunk mistake?"

Merlin slides a sideways look across. "You and I both know neither of us were drunk that night."

"Well, then--"

"Or high," Merlin adds, knowing Arthur all too well when it comes to excuses.

"Fucking Christ, alright, can we just... put it down to adrenaline or something? ... I don't know, I just... I just want my friend back alright?"

Merlin breathes out long and hard. He wants to rub his hands over his face, scrub the tiredness from his pores, but his hands are caked in fucking charcoal, and whilst it may get a laugh off Arthur and break this awkward tension, he really doesn't want to walk through the playground to the toilets looking like a black and white minstrel. Instead he rubs them on his jeans, slow and measured.

"Adrenaline, huh?" he asks, eyes locking onto Arthur's for a moment before they cast back down to his hands clenching his jeans. Flashbacks to Arthur’s hands doing the same thing just a few weeks ago has him nodding his head. "Ok, adrenaline... we can go with that." He smiles as Arthur's face seems to lighten instantly. The sun cracks through the dark clouds overhead, bathing them in swathes of searing heat; Merlin's not sure if it's a coincidence or God having a fuck off laugh at them.

He somehow thinks it’s the latter.



Things do go back to normal… somewhat. They go to school most days, spending every Tuesday and Friday afternoons atop of the science building smoking and laughing as Leon does his Monty Python Brian impression, Gwaine hollering ’How should we fuck off O’Lord!’ which has them all promptly rolling on the floor. They also spend way too much time playing FIFA ‘11 and even more time playing Call of Duty - ‘Arthur watch out he’s-Arthur he’s… fucking hell, you dickwad, HE’S BEHIND YOU!’ After much coaxing from Gwaine, plus the worst puppy-dog eyes in the history of begging from Arthur, Merlin eventually agrees one day to swipe them some vodka from Gaius’s off-license down the road - He still has the lump on his head from the old man’s swinging broom. They do manage to keep the alcohol though; whilst Gaius sure puts up a mean fight, his sprinting days are somewhat behind him, and they make it back to Merlin’s flat with relative ease. The vodka however does not go down as easily, and when Gwaine disappears for an age and returns with a bottle of tequila, well… Merlin doesn’t quite remember how that night turns out but he’s sure it’s not good.

They also continue to get stoned. A lot. Which is how Merlin comes to find himself one chilling Saturday evening, laid flat on his back, limbs stretched wide proudly proclaiming himself ‘a starfish’ atop of the Hill. “It’s because I’m a star, see?” He states rather matter-of-factly to Gwaine, who tilts his head as though inquiring Merlin’s shape.

“Ah, but you’re not sparkling… stars sparkle.” Gwaine points out, rollup secured between his lips. Merlin pouts.

After Arthur’s discovery of god-knows-how-old weed down the side of his bed, they’d all declared a trip to the Hill was in high order. All that is bar Percy, Lance and Elyan, the three of them are absolute chimney-pots when it comes to actual smokes but are quick to draw the line at anything stronger. Merlin admires that about them in a way. He, however, loves the craic, needs those few moments in his life where the most imperative of concerns is who would win in a fight - a badger or a mole? Leon has argued a good case for the mole - ‘They’re sneaky,’ he said. Quite.

“If the poor bastard wants to be a star, just let him be a fucking star.” Arthur comments from beside him, a glazed expression over his face, spliff hanging loosely in his fingers. Gwaine rolls his eyes, flopping back on the grass with a dramatic sigh as Merlin smiles smugly and sticks his tongue out, flapping his arms up and down wildly.

“What are you trying to do now? Make a snow angel?” asks Gwaine, taking a long deep drag, releasing a ringlet of O’s into the crisp-night sky.

Merlin shoots him a look that clearly means he is some deranged fool. “Not a snow angel, Gwaine, a grass angel… duh.”

“I thought you were a starfish?” Leon pipes up, sitting at the very highest peak of the hill, legs crossed and eyes closed. He looks like some kind of hairy ginger Buddha, which Arthur is quick to point out and receives a clump full of dry grass in his face.

“Yeaaaaa I got bored of that.” Merlin whines, arms propelling twice more, before he heaves panting breaths from his excursions. He flips over to his stomach, half landing on Arthur who puffs out an ‘oof’ as well as a ‘bloody gangly oaf’ whilst trying to shepherd Merlin off him. Arthur manages to free his arm from under Merlin’s chest but they’re still touching, pressed against each other from shoulder to ankle. Merlin’s not sure whether it’s a side effect from the weed but his skin is prickling hot, cold shivers shooting through his right hand side - a crackling charge that arouses and frightens him in equal measure.

Merlin is half aware there is a rather heated debate taking place between Leon and Gwaine something to do with whether a kangaroo can jump over a pig… or a sheep… or some kind of farm animal. Merlin is rather more fascinated with the spliff Arthur is currently twiddling between thumb and forefinger. The blonde is paying just as much attention to their boisterous friends as Merlin, eyes vacant as they stare straight upwards into the midnight blue abyss. Merlin studies him silently for a while, explores the contours of his face, the way his honey-suckled skin draws tight around his cheekbones, his jaw, the prominent curve of his Adams apple. There’s a small cut to Arthur’s lip, the plump cherry tainted bow scarred. He claimed he nicked himself shaving. Merlin has an awful suspicion it was more likely the handiwork of Uther - despite Arthur’s constant insistence that the old man never laid a hand on him.

Regardless, Arthur’s face only seems to hold this tranquillity when high off the good stuff or absolutely wasted. It is a sad state of affairs but worth it to see no lines of worry or stress pull at his features. Merlin grins to himself as he snatches the smoke away from Arthur’s hand with distracted ease. Arthur turns his head lazily, tongue coming to wet his lips as he watches Merlin’s eyes flutter shut and inhale deeply around a soft hum. Merlin looks down at him through his lashes, pupils blown as he leans up on his elbow and crowds closer against Arthur. They watch each other throughout. Merlin takes another drag before blowing the smoke slowly over his friend’s face. Arthur can’t keep his eyes open as Merlin’s warm breath dances across his skin; the scent of the weed makes his head dizzy as his fingers clutch into the dirt under his hands, struggling to keep himself from floating away.

Merlin stares as Arthur gasps pocketfuls of cool night air into his lungs, chest heaving as if he’s sprinted a hundred metres; his eyes are once again trained on the smog filtered sky. He rakes up and down Arthur’s face once more before flopping onto his back again, raising his arm across to Arthur’s mouth so he can wrap his lips around the stub and take a drag. Arthur inhales sharply, spluttering as the taste sticks in his throat, scratching against his tonsils. He pushes Merlin’s arm back, and he simply shrugs and raises the spliff back to his own mouth.

“Do you think-“ Arthur begins, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think when people die they… they watch down on you?”

Merlin nods vigorously, grass falling over the top of his hoodie. “Oh, yeah, mate, totally. My dad’s up there somewhere, they’re stars, you see, like me -“

“I thought you were an angel now?” Arthur quirks.

“I’m part time angel, part time star.”

“Right, I see,” he giggles, hushing when Merlin’s rather pointedly bony elbow nudges into his side, “Okay Okay, so stars, you say…”

Merlin heaves a put-upon sigh as he picks up his story, “Yes, you see, when those we love pass on, they turn into stars. We may not be able to see them all the time but when we need them, we’ll feel them. That warmth you get in your chest… when you’re just trying to make sense of it all? That’s them; shining their light within you, guiding you… they’re there with you every step of the way."

Arthur’s soft laboured breaths mingle with Merlin’s own as they both stare intently at the few specks of starlight that have burst through the hazy evening cloud.

“You think my mum’s one of those stars?”

Merlin turns his head to meet Arthur’s gaze, the blue of his irises seem deeper, like liquid, and he can’t help but catch his breath at the intensity behind them. He swallows as he nods his head gently, “Of course Arthur, she’s the brightest one.”

They’re no longer touching but the charge that ran through Merlin earlier that night spikes back with full spark. Not only down his right side this time, but throughout his entire body, his nerves tingle alive, acutely aware of every hair on his body, every pore of his skin as Arthur’s eyes bore into him greedily, unblinking.

“Oi, you two. We need your help, seriously important philosophical question here,” yells Gwaine up above, and it’s like a freezing ice-bucket of water has been poured over them both. Arthur grants him one last look before unsteadily rising to his feet and taking the few wobbly steps that lead him to the two slurred men. Merlin follows shortly after, wavering above them precariously until he is tugged down by an insistent Leon.

“Seriously important question,” Gwaine reiterates.

Merlin nods, “Okay.”

Leon waves his arm in front of them before making a huge circular motion, “Ginormously life affirming.”

“Right,” Arthur adds.

“Significantly-“

“Can we just cut to the fucking chase, lads?”

Gwaine looks at Arthur and Merlin in turn, before levelling his gaze at Leon who nods, “Who… has the shiniest hair?” he asks.

The question leaves all four of them in hysteric bouts of laughter and faux fighting. Gwaine and Leon spend most of the evening petting each other’s heads, Leon cursing Gwaine’s ‘voluminous waves’ while the Irishman retorts that he is just as jealous over Leon’s ‘buoyant curls’. Arthur and Merlin think they’re both fucking bonkers - but then they haven’t really taken their eyes off each other for most of the night so Merlin doesn’t think they’re that fit to comment.

Hours pass quickly and all too soon the chirps of birds and other woodland creatures remind them that it’s ass-o’clock in the morning and really the buzz will be wearing off soon and wouldn’t they all much rather be tucked up in bed when that is the case? They manage to stumble back between them with no major injuries; Gwaine has a rather unfortunate encounter with a rose bush but other than that, the four make it back in one piece. Gwaine and Leon holler and stumble across to West Court as Merlin and Arthur bid them adieu tripping over each other as they take to the concrete stairs into Holly Street gingerly.

They reach the third floor and Merlin nearly tumbles to the ground when an unexpected arm lands heavy across his shoulders, “Coming back to yours, mine’s too far.” Arthur slurs in his ear, Merlin trying to work out why he - ‘the skinniest fucking one out of the pair of them’ - is the one who has to prop them both up.

“Fuck off; it’s only two more flights.”

“Come on, your mum’s at work… I’ll make it worth your while!” Arthur sing-songs and for a sickening moment, Merlin’s heart leaps to his throat as he turns wild eyes on his friend. It’s a peculiar sense of relief yet disappointment as Arthur reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieves a clear plastic bag, shaking the mouldy green contents with a smirk.

“You cheeky -- been holding out on us?” Merlin chokes, fingers clutching at air as Arthur snatches back the bag too quickly, eyes dancing with stoned mirth.

“Nah mate, just saving the best stuff for you and me.”

When Arthur’s looking at him like that - all tousled hair and blinding crooked teeth, Merlin knows he’s done for. He raises a quizzical eyebrow and adopts the air of someone mulling over a decision before breaking out into a wide grin of his own, “Flattery will get you everywhere. Come on then… It better be good shit, mind.”

...
..
.

“Fuck, that’s good.” Merlin sighs on a heavy exhale, wisps of smoke curling before his eyes. He’s sat on the floor, back pressed up against the foot of his bed, long lithe legs stretched out endlessly in front. Merlin tilts his head back, neck craning over the comforter as Arthur swims into vision above him.

“Told you, didn’t I?”

He’s happy. One of those genuinely broad smiles on his face, eyes light despite his level of intoxication. The bed shakes under Merlin’s head as Arthur squirms to get comfortable, finally deciding to rest flat on his back, head hanging over the edge next to Merlin’s. ‘Fuck - he must be getting blood rush to the brain,’ Merlin thinks as he rests his cheek against the edge of the mattress and watches as Arthur takes a couple heavy drags, eyes closed. When the blonde opens them, the startling blue of his eyes are fanned by long amber lashes that flutter against the ringlet of smoke as it seeps out of his lips.

Merlin takes the rollup from Arthur’s proffered hand, studying the stub between his fingertips, afraid of the question on his lips and the answer it could provoke.

"So where'd you get the stuff?" Merlin finally asks. Even with the window open the heat of the room is suffocating, causing his skin to break out in red prickly splotches.

"Hmm?" Arthur hums, non-committal, and it’s only when Merlin raises the spliff in his hand in way of explanation does Arthur offer any forthcoming, "Oh, uh, some stock I had left over from well... you know."

Arthur stumbles over his words, preferring instead to pinch the smoke back from Merlin's hand, taking three or four deep pulls. Merlin tilts his head back further to watch, struggling to garner Arthur's attention as the blonde vehemently keeps his eyes shut. "Myror?” Merlin supplies.

Arthur nods, head lolling off the edge of the bed, "Yeah it's uh... We're sorted now. We weren’t exactly talking when I… I paid him his money that Friday... We're all square now. It’s done."

"Done?" Merlin repeats, staring down at his hands. The grass is kicking in more and more as the time passes and - Christ, have his fingers always been this long? - Not the point; he shakes his head, trying to clear the fog that is creeping behind his eyelids. What was Arthur saying? Dogs? Drugs? DRUGS! "Done with Myror or done dealing?" he pushes.

Arthur is shifting atop the mattress again, before drawing his neck even further back, face directly in line with Merlin's. "Both" he states, eyes locked on each other.

"Good. That's...good." Merlin surmises as Arthur smiles lopsidedly at him, placing his hand in front of Merlin's lips, allowing the younger man to take a deep drag. Merlin keeps his eyes open as he does so, can feel the rough skin of Arthur's knuckles as his lips pucker around the spliff.

"Mmmm," Arthur agrees, taking in the upside down world around him.



It’s two days later at ridiculous-o’clock in the bloody morning again when things seem to come to a head. The covers are a warm comfort from the blistering cold that threatens to seep in under the windowpane as Merlin burrows closer, deeper. The building never sleeps, always offering moans and groans from TV sets or foxes crying into the night below. A noise Merlin doesn’t expect or greet warmly however, is the sharp pounding on the front door, insistently loud. He rouses groggily, contemplating just staying in bed because really, who the fuck would be barraging their flat at this hour? It’s only the quick flash of worry that maybe Hunith has forgotten her keys that finally has Merlin pulling back the covers with a heavy sigh and scuffle across the flat with all the graces of a newborn lamb. He jams his knee into the edge of the couch, gasps ‘Fuck’ as he hobbles the rest of the way, peering through the peephole curiously. The curse leaves his lips again as he unlocks the chain, pulling the door wide to greet the slumped form of his best friend.

“Arthur?” he asks curiously, hand coming to rub at tired eyes.

Arthur is drunk. That much is obvious. If it isn’t clear just from the stench of him, Merlin can tell from the way his eyes dart around the place, comically wide, pupils blown around red-swollen rims. His hair sits haphazardly, tufts of blonde sticking every which way, clothes askew as if he dressed in a hurry. For all intents and purposes, Arthur Pendragon looks like a broken man; that thought alone tears something deep in Merlin, who can do little more but clutch on the door and try and make sense of it all.

“Arthur?” he says again, bringing a hand to tug at his friend’s sleeve.

The action seems to trigger something in Arthur who snaps his attention to Merlin’s face before slumping further against the doorjamb. “He was right,” he mutters; the words are softly spoken yet laced with a bitter edge. “I’m just a fucking mess. Always have been, always will be.”

Merlin looks at him uncertainly. “Don’t say that… Look just, come in, yeah?”

Arthur pushes away from the door, plans of a fast retreat etched clear on his face. “I don’t know why I came here…”

“Well, you obviously can’t stop thinking of me,” he deadpans.

Arthur scoffs, lowering his head, unable to suppress the soft chuckle that escapes him; Merlin smiles.

“Come on, Arthur.”

This time, he sways nearer to the door. His eyes rake over Merlin, making him flush; he feels naked under that gaze, suddenly wishing he’d slept in more than just boxers and a light tee. Arthur guides himself to the couch, flopping down dramatically as he throws his head over the edge, closing his eyes tight. Merlin slides the lock across the door, turning and pressing back against it for a few moments. “So what happened?” he asks, shuffling across to the couch, swatting Arthur’s legs to make room for him to sit down, which Arthur does with a put-out sigh.

“Oh, nothing my father hasn’t deemed fit to tell me countless times before: that I’m a useless, pathetic disgracing waste of space. You’d think I’d have got used to the soundtrack by now.”

Merlin makes to cut in but Arthur continues. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s right. What have I ever done to prove him different?”

“Arthur, you shouldn’t listen to Uther; he’s a -“

“A bastard? Yeah, I know. Still, doesn’t mean what he’s saying ain’t true.”

Merlin’s face flashes with hurt, anger; incredulity that a father can make his own son feel this way, “It’s not though! How can you--? Arthur, you are nothing like what he says you are. “

Arthur snorts dryly, arm coming to cover his face. “It’s okay. I’ve come to accept it actually. Same old shit day after day, becoming him eventually…”

“Don’t.” Merlin says harshly, words crisp. “Don’t say that. You are ten times the man your father is; you will never be like him.”

“It’s inevitable, Merlin. I know it, he knows it-“

“Well, I don’t.” Merlin declares. He shifts across to the coffee table, perches on the edge so he’s directly in front of Arthur, saddened by the resigned nature on his face.

“You will not become you father, Arthur, because I won’t let you. You are a clever, strong, funny, brave man… a bit of a prat now and then,” he nudges Arthur’s knee with his own, smile shy as Arthur gazes up at him through his lashes, “but you’ve got a kind heart. You care about others, about your friends… You care… and that makes you completely different from him.”

“It’s easy for you to say all that but, the truth is everything I touch, I fuck up. School and dad, and Christ… Myror? How are you even still talking to me after that?”

Merlin’s eyes flitter down to his lap, his ragged breaths sound increasingly louder in the dull quiet. “I’m not going to say you’re not to blame,” he begins, fingers drumming a nervous pattern on his knee, “because, really, you were an utter twat for getting involved with someone like him, but… Arthur, you weren’t to know what they’d do. It wasn’t you who threw any of those punches and you tried-“

“Not hard enough. They still hurt you,” he whispers.

“Yeah…” Merlin watches the path of his own hand as it slowly traces across from his knee to Arthur’s, touch soft, hesitant, “and I’m still here… with you.”

Arthur’s whole body is shaking under his fingers, mouth pulled in a grimace as he runs terse hands through his hair. “I don’t know what… Merlin, I don’t know what the fuck this is, or what I’m feeling about myself or-or… or you. It’s all just one big fucking mess and I-I can’t screw this up, I won’t. You’re pretty much the only true friend I have and-and I bollocks things up, that’s what I do! But I can’t-if I do that with you, Merlin, I couldn’t… I wouldn’t-“

Merlin’s scrambled to his knees and is in front of Arthur in a breath, hands gingerly coming up to pull clenched fingers from his tresses. A litany of quiet promises - “Shhh, it’s ok… It’s all going to be okay.” - are whispered in the space between them. Arthur’s eyes are hauntingly clear, vacant of any trace of intoxication as they watch Merlin’s thumb rub soothingly over his knuckles.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Merlin runs his tongue over his dry lips, the cool air making them tingle. “I won’t let you do that,” he half-smiles, eyes dazzling as they peek up through sooty lashes.

The sight is too much to resist as Arthur brings a thumb up to run curiously over Merlin’s bottom lip, just as he had done the first time. Tip hanging weighty on the soft plump flesh, he spreads the rest of his fingers to fit around the curve of Merlin’s jaw. All sharp angles and ivory skin, the shape of his cheekbone strongly carved under Arthur’s palm as he directs Merlin’s face close to his own, and slowly closes the distance. The first touch is gentle, barely there, lips too dry and noses too close, then Merlin pushes up on his knees, tilts his head just so - and then it all makes perfect sense. Their mouths fold together effortlessly - eager biting nips which are lapped away with affectionate tongues. It’s different from their first kiss months ago, feels different. Merlin’s fingers grip at Arthur’s thighs, drawing him closer to the edge of the couch widening his legs so he can slot between them. Arthur’s have taken residence in Merlin’s hair, gripping and pulling the short strands as their kiss turns deeper. They part eventually, dry pants landing heavy on the other’s face, foreheads pressed together. Arthur curls his bottom lip between his teeth, the hint of a smirk forming there. “God, you’re good at that,” he rasps, fingers loosening their grip, coming to curl the unruly dark locks behind his ears.

Merlin lets out a long satisfied hum; it reverberates through his chest like a purr. “Now do you believe you’re nothing like Uther?”

It takes Arthur a while to process the words, so content is he in stroking back Merlin’s hair from his forehead when, “Wha-did you have to bring up my dad now? Honestly, Merlin, why am I not surprised? You really are the biggest mood kill-“

“Well, let me help you forget then,” he grins mischievously, catching Arthur’s disgruntled pout between his lips, sucking gently with intent. Arthur is laughing against his mouth, taking Merlin’s kisses eagerly. All too soon, the laughter gives way to moans as Merlin’s hand, which was previously riding high on his leg, thumbs easily at his jeans, popping the button and sneaking inside. This is all new, flesh on flesh, fingers curled around blistering hot heat. It’s fast, and urgent and over way too quickly.

None of this fazes them though.

After all, they have the whole night.



Part 3