Now I Will Unsettle the Ground Beneath You (3/6)

[nu_breed]

Part Two

***

The trouble with repressed memories is that they tend to appear at the most inconvenient of times. They have this nasty habit of appearing in the middle of a meeting with a prospective buyer, or sex with your boyfriend, or when you're sitting on the tube next to a disapproving old woman who sneers at you.

It's been a week since Merlin and Arthur connected. He keeps wanting to say met, but that would be grossly inaccurate. He's known Arthur for thousands of years, that much is clear. But he can't help wanting to know more. Everything.

There are still so many things he can't remember, and it's like a connect-the-dots picture where some of the dots are missing. There are things he knows of course: he knows that he loved Arthur. Loves. Needs. Wants. Present tense and past tense and everything in between. He knows that he was Arthur's servant, that Arthur was the only son of a King and a fierce warrior, and that Morgana betrayed him, wanted him dead. He knows that all of them: Leon, Lance, Gwaine, even Gwen were there too. He's seen them all in the images he gets hit with constantly, but Merlin doesn't know the rest, the substance underneath, or why they've all come back together like this.

He wonders if painting is the key to unlocking it all. Merlin is painting his fingers raw most days, but unlike before where the images were unclear, distorted half-memories, it feels like the painting is fuelling the memories, not the other way around. The image appears in his head, he paints it, and then the flashback happens. It's like clockwork. His studio is littered with canvases, and it all looks so familiar that he can almost taste it. Maybe if he just keeps painting he'll remember every detail, every memory. He desperately needs to remember, it's all he can think about.

***

Guinevere and Lancelot leave in the middle of the night, and Merlin doesn't get to say goodbye to them. Arthur had given them a chance to leave before anyone else had been told. He knew the rest of the court would not offer the two of them the same leniency and they would be in danger once the court discovered what he had: that their queen had been found in the arms of Arthur's first knight.

Merlin doesn't see Arthur cry or rage. After all, he can hardly blame Gwen for seeking comfort with another when he had done the same. But Lancelot's betrayal-that is what crushes a piece of Arthur's heart, and he is never the same.

***

Merlin almost doesn't pick up when Morgana calls, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to hear for himself how Arthur is, where he is, whether he's as much of a mess as Merlin is. Merlin hopes that he isn't the only one who can't think of anything else. He hopes that Arthur is as twisted up inside, as confused, as he is. He hates how selfish that is, but he finds it hard to care.

"Merlin, I've missed you!" Her voice feels so grounding to him, so familiar, and it gives him something to hold onto. Gwaine has that effect on him too, but it's different, he isn't sharing his bed with Morgana wishing he were sharing it with someone else. Sometimes Merlin wishes he could be cold and heartless and fuck the consequences, but he just isn’t that person.

There is so much scar tissue there between him and Morgana and so much that she's done to hurt them all that Merlin hasn't even remembered yet. But she can't help any of that now, and Merlin just wants her in his life, regardless of the things she's done. She's not the same person she was back then, and Merlin doesn't want to hold this Morgana accountable for all the mistakes she made in the past.

They've all made dreadful mistakes, after all.

"I've missed you too," he admits. "It's only been a few weeks though, are we pathetic?"

"Not at all! I told you I was keeping you, didn't I?"

He laughs. "Yes, well, I'll hold you to that. What's going on?"

"I thought," she starts, "if you're not too busy that is, that I might pop in and see your work. I've been dying to see it after all, and I get to see you in the process, which is a wonderful bonus. When are you free?"

Now. And bring your brother.

"Uh, anytime really. That's the beauty of working in your own flat; you get to entertain people whilst elbow-deep in paint any time of the day."

Morgana's laugh is infectious. "Well, I do have the afternoon free. How about I come and see you in an hour or two, and then take you out for dinner?"

"That, uh, that sounds perfect." Merlin would normally argue, say he doesn't need charity, that he'd be just as happy with a curry from down the road, but he hasn't eaten in hours, and he's ravenous. If Morgana wants to spring for steak, or seafood or what-the-hell-ever, he doesn't have a problem with that at all.

"Couple of hours'd be great, actually. Gives me a chance to tidy up a little bit. It's not every day I get FHM's Sexiest Woman Alive round to mine, you know."

Morgana giggles. "Oh stop, you'll make me blush with embarrassment! And anyway, I wouldn't have thought FHM was your type of magazine at all. Attitude, maybe. Or that Australian one, what's it called? Red?"

"Blue," Merlin says, "but I am rather partial to red." He wants to slap himself for saying it out loud, it's so cheesy. At least he didn't say: "I mostly like it when your brother's wearing red. Or, y'know, nothing." He may as well have, for all the pornographic visions he's getting, just thinking about Arthur and the colour in the same sentence: Arthur in his cloak, dragging Merlin into an alcove to kiss him fiercely, or in his red, open-necked shirt, head thrown back as Merlin sucks him-

Morgana's voice shocks him out of his fantasies: "All right, well I'd better run if I'm going to make it to, God, Stoke Newington of all places, Merlin."

"Well, I wanted a loft in Soho, but unfortunately some of us were blessed with the peasant's gene instead of the landed gentry's."

"Oh touché," Morgana says. "See you soon. If I don't get lost, that is!"

The line goes dead and Merlin realises he forgot to ask her about Arthur. It's probably just as well, the last thing Merlin needs is a visceral reminder of just how fucked he is.

***

Morgana looks out of place in Merlin's very plain, very basic flat. She arrives at the door in Chanel sunglasses, her hair in a bun, and a black ensemble with knee-high spike heel boots that make her look like the world's most glamorous cat burglar.

"Look what I found!" she exclaims. "He was moping around his apartment like a wounded puppy, so I thought I'd bring him along."

Merlin's heart hammers in his chest as she steps aside and Arthur looks up at him through his eyelashes. He looks every bit as fuckable and gorgeous as ever, and the fact that he's incredibly pale, with big dark circles under his eyes, doesn't make him any less attractive. On the contrary, it makes Merlin want to take care of him until the colour comes back into his cheeks.

"My sister," Arthur says, deliberately ignoring Morgana's protests of 'half only fucking half, goddammit!' "is a harpy who refused to leave me in peace. I was perfectly happy on my own, but she turned up on my doorstep begging me to come into the middle of bloody nowhere to see, in her words, 'that lovely Merlin'. I mean really, I'm scared I might catch something just by being in this place."

"Yes, if you're lucky. It's called a personality."

Arthur sneers at Merlin, steps forward, and grimaces at the state of Merlin's front door. It's dusty, true, and the paint work's chipped, but Merlin doesn't really care. It's comfortable enough to sleep and work in. It'll do.

Merlin can't help but notice the way Arthur is staring at his mouth as he brushes past him, almost touching his shoulder he's so close. Merlin swallows, trying to tamp down the massive surge of lust that's boiling underneath. His jeans feel uncomfortably tight all of a sudden and he hopes Morgana doesn't notice.

"Don't mind him, Merlin. He just gets tetchy when he hasn't been laid in more than a week. It's been eight days and he's gagging for it," she stage-whispers.

Merlin stares at Arthur, and the look he gets makes his thighs turn to liquid.

"Sometimes I wish I had a muzzle," Arthur says, still staring directly at him. "Do me a favour and hurry up and show her the damn paintings, Merlin, before I commit sororicide in order to get some bloody peace."

There's something in the way Arthur says his name, the way he stresses the first syllable, that makes Merlin think of lazy summer days, lying around in sun-kissed grass and Arthur stripping him slowly, kissing every inch of uncovered flesh.

Merlin shivers at the memory, and Arthur cocks an eyebrow, mouth turning up at the corners. Smug bastard.

"Yeah, well, let's go upstairs shall we?" Merlin asks, ushering Morgana upstairs with him, and ignoring Arthur. He can just stew for a minute, Merlin thinks, serve him bloody right for turning up and turning everything inside out.

Morgana spends long minutes gazing at his work, going from the painting of the Dragon that Merlin sees in his dreams, to the painting of the hand thrusting Excalibur out of the water, to the countless paintings involving the man who Merlin knows now, is Arthur.

"Gorgeous," Morgana says. "Your use of colour is breathtaking, Merlin."

"It's always been about colour for me," he admits. "It's just organic."

Arthur snorts.

Merlin glares at him, "Did I say something funny, your highness?"

Morgana laughs, but Merlin can see the change in his face, the measured way in which Arthur swallows, the way his jaw tightens.

"Not at all," Arthur forces out, through gritted teeth. "Just- save me from bloody artistic sensibilities, will you? You're all so precious and misunderstood." Arthur mimes swooning with his hand over his eyes.

"My God you're an insufferable tosser," Merlin says. "This from the man whose life's work includes posing for paparazzi, fucking supermodels and snorting the entire GDP up his ridiculous bloody nose? Oh, and-"

"Oooookay," Morgana cuts in. "Let's just try and be civil for five sodding minutes, can we?"

Her phone rings and she looks at the display. "It's Uther. I should really take this. Do try not to start a class war while I'm on the phone, will you?"

She ducks out of the room, and Arthur grins. He's not angry, he's playing with him and Merlin can't decide whether he wants to kiss him, or kill him. Maybe both.

"Why are you even here?" Merlin asks, walking over to his most recent painting, for no other reason than to get some distance between him and Arthur. It doesn't last long, he can hear Arthur's boot heels click-clacking on the floor towards him, making his whole body tense.

"Because you wanted me to be." Arthur's voice is close, and Merlin turns back to see Arthur standing directly behind him.

"That's your ego talking. I never did." Merlin tries to make his voice even, but Arthur is right there and they're so close it's almost claustrophobic.

"Tell me to go, then," Arthur whispers, his lips on Merlin's hair. "Go on, Merlin. Tell me to leave, and I will."

Bastard. Merlin wishes he were that strong. Wishes he could tell Arthur to stay away from him, because even thinking about him throws Merlin completely off-kilter, let alone having him here like this, breathing Merlin's air. The desire to touch him is almost unbearable and Merlin is aching with it.

"This is an interesting painting," Arthur says, smirk evident in his voice, "when did you do that?"

It's the painting of Arthur, well, dream Arthur, anyway. The features are indistinct, but the red and gold on his chest is a dead giveaway: the Pendragon crest.

Merlin thinks of lying, but Arthur knows him too well. "The night I met Gwaine. We went back to his place, and-"

Arthur grabs his shoulder and spins him around. "Don't. I don't need to hear any more."

Merlin can see Morgana from where he's standing, which means if she turned around she would see them. It's the only thing stopping Merlin from reaching out and touching Arthur, running his fingers over his skin.

"You asked."

"Yeah well." Arthur bites at his bottom lip, and Merlin can't help staring. "Now I'm un-asking."

"But it was you," Merlin whispers, "the first time I dreamed about you. That night. I'd never felt anything like it, it felt-" It felt like he was on fire. Just like he does now.

"I know," Arthur interrupts, almost curtly. Merlin sees Morgana, flipping her phone shut, and he realises that's the reason that Arthur's cutting him off.

Merlin forces himself to look at Morgana, tearing his gaze away from Arthur's. Safer that way, after all. Morgana looks tense, unsmiling, so he guesses that things with Uther didn't go well.

"Merlin, I am so sorry, but I'm going to have to postpone our dinner engagement. Uther has an opening he needs me to help with, apparently there's an eleventh hour crisis and there's no caterers and- do you hate me?"

Merlin can feel Arthur's gaze on him, heavy as lead.

"Not at all." Merlin smiles kindly. "Next time. I'll hold you to it."

She smiles back at him, "Your work is outstanding, you know. I have a small gallery I think it would look perfect in, and I know they'll love your paintings; they're a sucker for that whole medieval, old-world thing."

"You're too good to me." Merlin hugs her and she squeezes back. "Thank you. Seriously, it means so much, Morgana."

He remembers then, what she looked like as she died, what she said to him. The apologies spilling from her lips, the way she begged for forgiveness, her tears mixing with his. He'd wanted more than anything to save her, and he will never forgive himself for his part in it. He has always regretted pushing her away when she needed someone most, when all she wanted was to feel like she wasn't alone.

"I'm so glad we met," she says, and he swears he can see tears in her eyes. Maybe he and Arthur are not the only ones who remember what they were. "Okay, Arthur, let's go. Better not keep our father waiting."

"I- I think I'll stay here," Arthur says, not looking at Merlin. "Someone'd better make sure this one has food, he's a walking advertisement for malnutrition as it is."

"Are you sure?" Morgana looks at Merlin, intently. "I'm concerned that you two might kill each other if you're left alone long enough."

"We'll be fine," Merlin says around the lump in his throat. "Besides, Gwaine's coming around in a bit; he was planning on joining us for dinner."

"Perfect." Arthur sounds like he's pouring on as much fake-cheer as is humanly possible. "Gwaine's borrowed something very important to me, and I'd rather like it back."

Merlin snaps his head around to look at Arthur. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and Merlin feels dizzy. The neck of his t-shirt feels tight and constricting around his throat, and he's flushing from head to toe. He has to turn away, it's too much, he feels naked under Arthur's gaze.

"All right then, fantastic." Morgana kisses Merlin's cheek, then Arthur's. "I'll talk to you both later!" And with a wave of her hand, she's off, trotting down the stairs. Merlin waits there, breathing hard, until he hears the door slam downstairs.

When he turns to face him, Arthur's no longer there. He's moved across to one of the other paintings, and has his back to Merlin, his head tilted to one side like he's studying it very hard. It's the most recent one: a hand grasping a chalice.

"Do you remember?" Arthur's voice is cracked and broken, "Because I do."

"Tell me." He knows he shouldn't encourage any of this, but he can't help it.

Arthur turns to face Merlin, swivelling on the balls of his feet. His expression is completely unguarded; pain and want and nothing held back, and Merlin wonders if he looks the same way to Arthur right now.

"You drank it," he says, every word dragged out, like it's being forced out of him, "for me. Because you couldn't let me die. Always fucking sacrificing yourself for me, Merlin, whether I wanted you to or not. Well, I couldn't let you die either."

"Arthur," Merlin exhales, and it sounds like a prayer.

It's all the permission that Arthur seems to need. He stalks across the room towards him, and Merlin doesn't move. Can't. He's frozen, and he hopes that Arthur knows that Merlin isn't standing there immobile because he doesn't want-

Arthur reaches for him, like it's painful for him not to, and Merlin leans in to the touch. Arthur's fingers are on his skin, and it feels so familiar, feels like everything he's been craving for god knows how long. A week, years, centuries. Arthur's touching him everywhere, fingers skating over his lips, hands on his cheeks, in his hair, just grabbing at him like he can't decide where he wants to touch him the most.

Merlin gives in then, forgets about Gwaine and anything logical in his brain telling him he can’t, that he shouldn't do this. Just gives in and gives up and lets Arthur in.

"What do you-" Merlin swallows, throat so dry it feels like ash, "you can have anything, Arthur. Anything you want."

I'm yours, my lord.

"Your mouth, Merlin," Arthur groans, "I need to-"

"Yes," Merlin says, grabbing Arthur by the hips and holding him there, fingers hooked in his belt loops. "Do it. Please."

Arthur's mouth is hard and wet and insistent, and Merlin wonders, as he kisses back, how he's managed to live without this for so long. This isn't a tentative, tender kiss between two people who don't know each other, it's frantic and desperate and full of lust and years upon years of waiting and wanting. Merlin is vaguely aware that Arthur is walking him back, his lips crushing Merlin’s, Arthur's tongue in Merlin's mouth and when they hit the wall, Arthur gets his thigh in between Merlin's and holds him there.

"I can't-" Arthur manages in between kisses, "I can't think about anything else. Fuck, Merlin, I just want-"

"Everything." Merlin latches his mouth onto Arthur's collarbone and sucks, hard. "You want everything, don't you?"

"Yes."

"God, Arthur. Me too." And Merlin does. He wants to kiss Arthur like this for hours, kiss until they both can't breathe. He wants Arthur on his knees, his mouth on Merlin's cock, he wants Arthur's cock too, wants to fuck himself on it: mouth, arse, he doesn't care.

He wants to bind himself to Arthur like this. Lose himself in him. Make Arthur see that he doesn't need anything, anyone else.

And that's when Merlin hears a key turn in the lock downstairs.

"Shit. Gwaine."

Arthur pulls away. His hair is completely messed, up, his mouth is red and swollen, and he has a love bite darkening on his collarbone. He looks like a sex fantasy come to life. He smooths a hand through his hair, and adjusts his rumpled shirt.

"Hey!" Gwaine yells from downstairs.

"We'll be down in a minute," Merlin yells back, trying to keep his voice even.

"You look," Arthur pulls Merlin's shirt back into place, and rubs a thumb over his mouth, "good enough to eat. Might want to do something about that, though." He points to Merlin's crotch with that ridiculous patented Arthur-smirk plastered on his face.

Merlin groans. He's ridiculously turned on, so hard he aches with it, and he can't bear the idea of not touching Arthur. But Christ. Gwaine. It's all so completely fucked, and he's never felt so conflicted in his life, want and need and joy all mixed up with guilt so strong that he feels ill with it.

"You realise," Arthur says, "that this may well be the most uncomfortable dinner ever. And, well, speaking as someone who endures my father's company on a regular basis? That's saying something."

Merlin laughs, but there's no warmth in it.

"Better go down and see your boyfriend."

Arthur pushes Merlin in the direction of the stairwell, a warm, strong hand on his lower back.

***

Dinner is every bit as uncomfortable as Merlin would've expected. For him that is. Gwaine doesn't seem to notice anything is the slightest bit wrong, and he and Arthur slam back shot after shot of Patron, laughing and reminiscing about the 'good old days' of Eton and this person and that person whose names are all double barrelled and horribly posh.

Merlin is, quite frankly, more than a little shocked that Arthur's attention seems to be focused on Gwaine and not on him, when Merlin can still feel those hands on his body, and the imprint of his lips on Merlin's own.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes it out, staring blankly at the message on the screen.

you could try being more distant, Merlin, it isn't completely bloody obvious that something's wrong, or anything

maybe I'm incapable of pretending I'm not screwing around on my partner quite as well as you. i mean, you've had the practice and all he sends back, and watches as Arthur receives the text message. Watches his face fall. Merlin can feel his chest tighten with guilt, he didn't want to hurt Arthur, didn't want to dredge up- that.

I'm sorry, he texts back, that was uncalled for

Arthur's jaw is set, and Merlin wishes, not for the first time, that he'd learned not to just open his mouth like that. Thousands of years and he still hasn't learned tact.

"Need to go take a slash," Gwaine slurs. He's a lot drunker all of a sudden, and Merlin smiles fondly. For someone who has as much money as Gwaine does, he's completely lacking in class.

When he's out of earshot, Arthur shakes his head, tension obvious in every muscle, hisses, "Fuck you, Merlin. I should walk in there right now and tell him everything."

Merlin had forgotten how ice-cold Arthur's anger always was. How hurt he gets, and how cruel he becomes to compensate.

He remembers how hurt Arthur was when he found out about the lies, the magic. How he'd told Merlin to get out of his sight, that he never wanted to look on his face again, that even seeing Merlin made him sick to his stomach.

"I'm sorry," Merlin whispers, "I wasn't thinking. I was just- jealous, I guess?"

Arthur laughs then, not cruelly. "Jealous? Of the fact that I was speaking to Gwaine? Merlin, that is completely ridiculous. Even for you."

"Not like that," Merlin says, playing with a frayed thread from his pullover, "jealous that it seemed so easy to sit here and act as if nothing'd happened when all I can do is think about you touching me. That's all."

"God, you're an idiot," Arthur says, fondly. "If you think this is easy, you should see the inside of my head right now."

Gwaine takes that moment to return from the bathroom, stumbling on very shaky legs.

"I think," he slurs, "you may need to take me home and put me to bed, Merlin. Tequila is evil and horrible and bad and I don't feel very well."

Merlin shakes his head, and stands up, wrapping his scarf around his neck and grabbing a hold of Gwaine.

"I'll get this," Arthur says, slamming back his last shot and grimacing. "Go and put this lightweight to bed. We'll talk later." His last sentence is weighted with more than Merlin can think about right now, but he nods and walks Gwaine out to the car, not looking back at Arthur, even though it feels like agony not to.

***

By the time they get to Gwaine's flat, he is barely standing, and Merlin half-carries him into the lift. It's only one floor, but Gwaine is five foot eleven of solid muscle, and Merlin is not in the mood to be flattened, thank you very much.

"You're so good to me, Merlin," Gwaine mumbles, as Merlin gets him inside. Gwaine falls back on the sofa, and Merlin groans. He pulls off Gwaine's trainers, and unbuttons his jeans.

"You're so good to me, Merlin. Such a good bad servant."

Merlin shivers and tries to shake the memory off.

"C'mon, you can't sleep here." He pulls Gwaine upright. Merlin feels about as far from good to Gwaine as is humanly possible. If there is a hell for cheating boyfriends, Merlin is headed straight for it.

He gets Gwaine down to his boxers, and tucks him into bed, a large glass of water on the bedside table, and within seconds, Gwaine has rolled onto his belly, his arms spread out on the mattress.

Merlin feels like he's being flayed, pulled in too many directions and something's going to have to give. That something is probably going to be his sanity, at this rate. He wants Arthur, doesn't want to hurt Gwaine, wants all his memories back, knows that some of those memories are going to be brutally painful, and he doesn't know how to balance any of it.

He strips down to his underwear, and switches off the bedside lamp.

When he wakes up, Gwaine is snoring heavily. It takes Merlin a moment to work out why he's awake, but the vibrations from his phone clue him in, and he can see the display flashing, lit up with Arthur's name. He knows he shouldn't answer it, for one thing it's three o'clock in the morning, and for another, there really is no good that can come of it. But he's no more likely to resist the pull between him and Arthur, than he is able to resist breathing.

"Hello," he manages, half-whispered and raspy, as he pads out to the living room on bare feet. "Arthur, do you know what time it is?"

"Late." Arthur's voice is lazy, drawling.

"Are you drunk?"

"Very."

"High?"

Arthur laughs. "Oh yes. That too."

Merlin shifts a cushion behind his head as he lies back on the sofa. "Where've you been tonight?"

"Dunno," Arthur says, "Some friend of a friend of a- well, she wasn't very good, whoever she was. She wasn't- you."

Merlin inhales sharply, through his nose. "Did you-?"

"I let her blow me," Arthur admits, "and all the time I was thinking how her mouth isn't anywhere as good as yours. You have such a pretty mouth, Merlin. Prettier'n any girl's."

"Arthur-"

"I can still taste you, you know." Arthur's voice is deep, rough, bordering on very dangerous, "can still taste you in my mouth. I can't stop thinking about you. Want to- you can't even imagine the things I want to do to you."

Merlin can imagine quite a bit.

"Want you to suck me." Arthur's breathing is hitched and his voice wavers on the words. Merlin knows he's touching himself, can tell without having to see, and it makes his cock throb and his throat dry up.

"Arthur," he groans, and he doesn't even think about whether he should or not, just gets his hand inside his own underwear, not stroking, just there, resting against his cock.

"Do it," Arthur orders. "Touch yourself. For me."

He whimpers, but he doesn't hesitate, just wraps his hand around his cock and starts to stroke. Slow, hard strokes which feel so agonisingly good that Merlin wants to cry.

"I remember, you know," Arthur says, his voice like honey in Merlin's ear. "That first time. The way you pushed and pushed until I slammed you against the wall in my chambers, fucked you there like you were some little harlot who couldn't even wait to lift her skirts and bend over-"

"I remember too," Merlin says, interrupting him. "You- Uh- You were trying to be so noble. So worried about abusing your position when really, that's exactly what I wanted. Just wanted you to- uh- throw me down and-"

He's close now, so close, the memory firmly in his head, the image of Arthur frantically pulling off Merlin's breeches and fucking him with oil-slick fingers and cock, fucking him against the wall because they both wanted it so badly they couldn't even get to the bed: Merlin naked and Arthur still mostly clothed, hands all over Merlin and mouth like a brand on his skin.

"I wish I was there, Merlin," Arthur croons in his ear. "I'd bend you over the arm of that ugly sofa, fuck you slow and tease you, make you beg for it harder and faster. I wouldn't care that Gwaine was in the next room, asleep, I'd let you make as much noise as you wanted to."

"Arthur, Arthur," Merlin moans as quietly as he can, driving his hips forward and back, fucking his hand faster and rougher.

"Yeah, Merlin, do it. Want to hear you when you fall apart for me, want to hear my name on your lips when you come all over yourself."

"Oh God. Fuck."

"Yes," Arthur moans. "Together. You and me."

Merlin comes with his hand in his pants, and Arthur groaning obscenities in his ear, while Merlin's teeth bite into his bottom lip to stop himself from screaming.

He makes sure he’s gone the next morning by the time Gwaine wakes up.

***

They’ve been at it for hours: sticky, wet and sweaty. Arthur has pushed all the furs and bedclothes onto the floor and has Merlin’s wrists pinned above his head.

“Don’t move,” he hisses, his fingers skimming over Merlin’s hole: come-slicked and used and Merlin can’t help it, groans and rocks his hips forward, trying to get Arthur to put his fingers inside.

“Gods, you really can’t get enough of it, can you? You love me doing this, fucking you anytime I want to.”

“Please,” Merlin begs, “I can’t. I need.”

“Yes,” Arthur bites his neck, whispers against it, “I know exactly what you need. I always do.”

“Merlin? Did you hear a word I said?”

Merlin blinks, and tries to focus. He’s sitting opposite Gwen and there’s a puddle on the table, where he’s knocked his glass of water over.

“Shit. Sorry, Gwen. Really sorry, I just-” Merlin can feel heat staining his cheeks and the back of his neck, and his jeans are tight.

“Drifted off? Yeah, I can see that. What is going on with you lately, Merlin? You seem so distracted. Is that boy of yours keeping you up all hours shagging your brains out, or something?”

Merlin mops up the puddle with his serviette. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Gwen shakes her head at him, smiling, then goes on to tell him about Lance and how he’s been really distant the last few days and she thinks he might be having an affair. Merlin just scoffs and tells her he really doesn’t think Lance is the type to have an affair, and he wishes he could tell Gwen what he knows, that Lance has never been anything but faithful to her, now or then. That her falling in love with Arthur broke his heart, but he never once felt angry or bitter, and he never stopped loving her.

“Just talk to him, Gwen,” Merlin tells her. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re absolutely right,” she nods. “I’m acting like a kid, aren’t I? I’m just going to go see him. Right now.”

They go up to the counter to pay, and Merlin can feel his legs are still wobbly from the memory of he and Arthur, and- Christ, it would be lovely to go ten minutes without thinking of Arthur fucking Pendragon and as a result, having a respite from the erection that seems to always be present when he thinks about him.

He catches the tube in a daze, images in his head of Arthur’s hands and his sex-rough voice telling Merlin what he’s going to do to him, and kisses that last for hours, and he almost misses his stop.

As soon as he gets in the door he’s running up the stairs to the loft, getting canvas and charcoals and paint and brushes and just laying it all out on the floor. He gets to work and he can feel the room spinning as he sketches rough lines on the canvas.

When he comes to, he’s covered in paint, his hands are chafed and he can’t recall how long he’s been at it, but it’s dark outside and Merlin’s sure it was hours ago that he got home.

The canvas isn’t just covered in rough lines now, the painting is fully-formed. It’s Arthur, lying on his back, naked. He’s perfectly muscled, golden, and glistening with sweat, his thighs spread and his hand wrapped around his cock and his teeth on his lower lip, a blissful, wanton expression on his face.



Merlin doesn’t get up, he just rolls over and gets his jeans open, shoving his hand inside. He fists his cock fast and hard, the image of him on top of Arthur, hands on Arthur’s chest for leverage as he rides him slow and steady, burning the backs of his eyelids.

When he comes, he tries not to say it, tries to resist, but it's inevitable, and he spills into his hand groaning "ArthurArthurArthur" and wanting him so badly he can barely breathe. It feels like an ache, not being able to touch him then and there, but when he puts his hand on the painting, on Arthur's chest, it gets better.

He falls asleep right there on the hard floor and dreams of Arthur’s hands on him, his fingers touching him softly, reverently.

***

He hasn't spoken to Arthur for a week now, not since the debacle that was dinner with Gwaine and the thing that happened after, otherwise known as the best phone sex Merlin has ever had.

Oh, and of course there was the small matter of the kiss. Merlin is trying very hard not to think about that, because every time he does he gets a little dizzy and a lot turned on, and thinking about Arthur's lips is pretty much a sure-fire way to encourage flashbacks in the middle of selling a customer a large coffee-table book of Monet's most famous works. Nobody needs to see Merlin, with a raging hard-on under his jeans, dropping an incredibly expensive, and incredibly heavy, hardcover book on his foot.

He often wishes things could just go back to normal, to the way they were before Arthur appeared in his life and turned everything upside-down. It's getting harder and harder for Merlin to remember what it felt like to wake up and not have his first thought be of Arthur, or to go to bed at night not wondering where Arthur was, who he was with, what he was doing.

It's just like it always was: Arthur is the centre of Merlin's universe, and every waking minute is spent fixating on him. If he isn't thinking about him, he's painting him, or dreaming about him, and Merlin thinks he might quietly go insane if this keeps going for much longer.

It's unthinkable, though, not having Arthur in his life. It makes Merlin's chest ache even entertaining the prospect. The thought of not being able to see Arthur just isn't an option. Now that Merlin can remember, to forget would be absolute fucking torture.

Merlin hasn't touched himself with such obsessive regularity since he was a teenager. He's always enjoyed sex, hell, loved it even. But with Arthur occupying his thoughts 24/7, it feels more than that: like a compulsion, a drug. He's lost count of the number of times he's thrown himself at Gwaine just so he can sublimate his feelings for Arthur, and he feels completely horrible over it, because it's never Gwaine's face he sees when he comes. Not anymore. Merlin needs to find a way to break things off with Gwaine, because this isn't him. He isn't the one who cheats, the one who can't control himself.

Merlin barely recognises himself these days.

The painting of Arthur, the one that looks more like pornography than art, sits on an easel, covered with a white sheet. Merlin is working on a new one: it’s not fully-formed yet, but he can see the images coming together, the red and gold mixed with gold and white and his stomach aches just thinking about it. Arthur and Gwen on their wedding day. So happy, so full of hope, and Merlin always knew that what Arthur and he had was different, that Arthur didn’t love Gwen in the way he loved Merlin, but it didn’t hurt any less knowing that, not when he could see how happy they were.

The night of the wedding, Gwaine had comforted Merlin with his stupid, bawdy jokes and far too much mead, and he’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, murmuring over and over just how much he didn’t need King bloody Arthur and his stupid crooked smile, and he'd had plenty of offers from plenty of men, thank you very much.

He had awoken the next morning to a terrible headache and Arthur looming over the two of them. And from that point on, Arthur had treated Gwaine with little more than barely-concealed disdain, and he didn’t touch Merlin, barely looked at him for days.

There’s a knock on the door, and Merlin rubs a hand over his face, trying to shake himself clear of the memory, jogs downstairs, and opens it.

He’s not at all surprised to see Arthur standing there, looking as tired and strung-out as Merlin feels. He’s unshaven, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He looks inhumanly, ridiculously beautiful.

“We really have to stop meeting like this.” Arthur tries for a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, since you’re here-” Merlin says, gesturing for Arthur to come in, and he doesn’t even know what to say next, other than “shut the door behind you.”

Merlin walks into the living room, not looking to see if Arthur’s following him, because he knows he is. Can feel it.

“Do you want a drink, or something?”

“No.” Arthur is barely audible. “No, I don’t want a drink Merlin, I want-”

Merlin leans against the breakfast bar, his back to Arthur.

“I didn’t sleep with him,” he says, his voice ragged, “on your wedding night. Gwaine. I didn’t-”

Arthur sighs, and Merlin swears he can hear hundreds of years of pain in that one breath.

“Why didn’t you- Merlin, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You didn’t ask,” Merlin says, surprised at the bitterness in his own tone. "You just assumed the worst of me, Arthur."

He feels Arthur’s hands on his shoulders, turning him around to face him. He looks like he’s been punched repeatedly, wounded and exhausted and Merlin can’t handle this. He doesn’t want Arthur to carry more weight. He has enough to- he just has enough.

Merlin puts a hand out and touches Arthur’s cheek, his thumb stroking up and down the length of his cheekbone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have. It was just such a mess back then.”

“I know. I'm sorry too.” He sounds so tired, and Merlin wants to take all of it away.

“Can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how wrong it is to.” Merlin puts his face to Arthur’s neck, rests his lips on the pulse point and murmurs into his skin, “I need you, Arthur.”

Arthur grabs him then, so fast that Merlin barely has time to process it, one hand around Merlin’s waist, and the other in his hair. Arthur’s mouth is on Merlin’s, wet and hard and insistent, and Merlin just opens for him on a whimper as Arthur pulls him against his body.

“God. Want you,” Arthur breathes into his mouth, “need to touch you, Merlin, I can’t think of anything else.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, pulling away and trying not to focus on how sexy Arthur looks, lips red and used. He can feel the hard edge of the breakfast bar pressing into his back, and he wonders if he’ll end up with a line of bruises there, bruises he can press his fingers into and think of this, of Arthur. The mere thought floods his belly with liquid heat.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Arthur admits, laughter colouring his words, running his fingertips over Merlin’s mouth. Merlin parts his lips and lets his tongue flick out, catching the tips of Arthur’s fingers and moaning around them.

“Oh, you little- fine, if that’s how you want to play it.” Arthur growls and pulls his fingers free of Merlin’s mouth, unbuttoning his jeans and getting his hand inside to wrap around Merlin’s cock. ”God, you're just dying for it, aren’t you?”

Merlin groans as Arthur starts to fist his cock, slow and torturous. Arthur’s hands are smooth now, no sword calluses or old scars, or ragged nails, just perfect, soft skin wrapped around him and he’s teasing Merlin, keeping his hand loose so that he’s barely touching him.

“Please,” Merlin begs, “I need-”

“Oh, I know what you need,” Arthur says, his voice sex-raw and filthy, “fuck my hand, Merlin. You know you love it.”

“Such. A. Fucking. Narcissist,” Merlin pants out, but he does it, thrusts his hips forward, driving his cock into the now much tighter circle of Arthur’s hand, and it feels glorious. Arthur’s eyes are so dark, so intense, and the way he’s looking at Merlin- Christ. It makes him feel utterly exposed seeing the pure want on Arthur’s face.

“Oh Christ, Merlin,” Arthur chokes out and Merlin isn’t going to last much longer, not with Arthur looking at him like that while Merlin fucks Arthur’s fist. Arthur grabs Merlin by the back of his neck and kisses him forcefully, wet and open-mouthed, shoving his tongue inside with no finesse whatsoever. Arthur’s kisses were always like this: rough and hard and claiming. Possessive and wholly consuming.

Merlin doesn't know how he's managed to live without this, and he pulls back, both hands holding Arthur's face, his thumbs swiping over his kiss-slicked, swollen lips.

“Watch,” he barely manages to get out, and Arthur’s mouth falls open, watching Merlin as he comes apart, orgasm hitting him with so much force he feels faint and he holds on to the edge of the breakfast bar to steady himself as he paints Arthur’s hand and his own chest and chin with his come.

He grimaces. “Ugh. Now I’m going to have to wash that shirt.”

Arthur smirks, “You could just take it off.”

“Perve.” Merlin grins back, and strips his t-shirt off, throwing it on the ground. He knows he must look an absolute picture, jeans undone and cock hanging out. Shirtless. Like a twink for hire. He drops to his knees in front of Arthur, and unbuttons Arthur’s pants. He can’t help but grin at Arthur's sharp inhale, when he realises what Merlin’s doing.

“Been wanting to do this for weeks,” Merlin says, and his voice sounds raw and broken. “Ever since I first saw you.”

And that’s not even half the truth. It’s been years since Merlin started fantasising about getting on his knees for Arthur Pendragon, the centre of all of his filthiest fantasies, and that doesn’t cover it either.

Merlin has been wanting to do this for centuries. Ever since he lost him.

But it’s too much to think about that, too painful, so instead, Merlin just takes out Arthur’s cock and lovingly licks from tip to root and back again.

Arthur is watching him, and Merlin doesn’t take his eyes off him as he opens his mouth and takes Arthur's cock all the way in; slow and wet, until his nose is pressed against Arthur’s belly.

“Oh fuck, Merlin,” Arthur groans, and throws his head back, exposing that throat that Merlin wants to kiss and lick and bite.

Merlin grabs Arthur’s hands and puts them on the back of his head, hoping that Arthur knows what he means by the gesture. It’s such a strange feeling, having to learn that unspoken language again, having to learn each others bodies again, like they haven’t done this hundreds of times already.

But Arthur smiles down at Merlin like he knows, and Merlin opens his jaw wider, lets Arthur thrust into his mouth with utter abandon. Arthur’s fingers are twisted in his hair, and Merlin's jaw is aching from Arthur fucking his mouth like this and god, he loves it. Loves the sharp almost-pain-edge that it gives him. It feels so good, and he can’t help it, he moans around Arthur’s cock, and he can feel himself starting to get hard again just from this, from the feel of Arthur's cock in his mouth, the smell and taste of him and all the gorgeous noises he's making.

Arthur is mumbling nonsense now, thrusting erratically and Merlin knows he must be close. Merlin pulls off, nearly all the way, still looking up at Arthur. He knows he must look completely wanton: mouth red and used, chin wet as he stares up at him through his eyelashes. Merlin grins and slowly takes Arthur's cock back in, inch by inch, tongue tracing the vein on the underside, as he moves forward.

“Fucking hell, Merlin,” Arthur grinds out between gritted teeth, “you're a wet dream, aren’t you? Jesus.”

Only for you, he wants to say. Only for you.

Arthur comes with a harsh, bitten-off cry, gripping Merlin’s hair painfully tight.

Merlin’s jaw throbs and his throat hurts, but it’s a good hurt, and so very much worth it when he looks at Arthur; dishevelled and fucked-out. He looks like sin, and Merlin wants to do it all over again.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he doesn’t answer it, he already knows who it is, and it makes guilt coil tightly in his belly, bitter and wrong. They've crossed the line now, he and Arthur. Really crossed it. It's bad enough snogging and indulging in phonesex, but touching him like this, getting on his knees for him, seeing Arthur's face when he makes him come- that's something so much worse.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Merlin says, his voice ragged. He gets to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Arthur tucks himself back in and he looks about as worried as Merlin feels. “I. I really don’t know. This is a bit of a mess really, isn’t it?”

Which of course is the Pendragon way of saying that everything is completely and utterly fucked. Which it really is.

Part Four
Masterpost