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corilannam! [1/3]
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merlin_holidaysTitle: Same River Twice
Recipient:corilannam
Author:kianspo
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, background Gwaine/Elena, Lancelot/Gwen (mentioned)
Word Count: ~22K (I’m so sorry)
Warnings: language, possible geographical and professional inaccuracies, also highlight for spoilery warning: some underage boy kissing (17/16)
Summary: Modern royal AU. When Arthur, the Prince of Wales, was seventeen, he had made a mistake that is still haunting him. Eight years later, can he finally make it right?
Author's Notes: Happy holidays,corilannam! (I really, really hope your other presents are better!)
Huge thanks to my amazing beta M., and my courageous Brit-picker S., both of whom will be credited after the reveal. Also, thank you, V. I couldn’t have done it without you. ♥
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Same River Twice
oooOooo
The day is spectacular for early September. It’s sunny and mild, wrapped in soft tendrils of haze that are invisible to the eye but make the angles smoother and expressions – calmer. It’s a gorgeous day, and this is the first Arthur has seen of it, gazing out the upper floor window of the Queen’s Trust Headquarters at four in the afternoon. He’s been sequestered in meeting after meeting all day and can’t help a twinge of wistfulness as he stares outside.
Someone clears a throat delicately behind him, and Arthur flinches, turning away from the window and looking at the screen again.
“Are you certain you want me to make the final choice?” he asks Gwen dubiously for the third time. “I mean, it’s a children’s hospital. Despite what Morgana’s been telling you, I’m not actually a child.”
Gwen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and gives him a tight smile. It tells him, wordlessly, that she’d be much happier to laugh at his joke if him sitting here making jokes wasn’t keeping her from hurrying home to curl up on a couch with her boyfriend in front of the telly or whatever it is she’d rather be doing on a Friday night.
“Your Highness, this is your charity,” Gwen says patiently. “You’ll be overseeing the hospital during its construction and after it’s been built. It will have a plate with your name on it.”
Arthur sighs. “Does it have to? Can’t it have yours?”
Gwen purses her lips. “In any case,” she says a bit testily, “all three projects have been vetted by the experts for functionality and security. You just need to choose what the building will look like.”
Of course, Arthur thinks grimly. No one considers him an expert on anything, his degree from St. Andrews notwithstanding. Granted, it’s in history, but he’s not a complete imbecile. Essentially, he’s a judge at a beauty contest. Charming.
Honestly, he’s used to all kinds of decisions being made for him by other people, but some days the reminder is more painful than others. The hospital will be built with the money he managed to raise, but God forbid he’d be consulted about anything but pure aesthetics. But Arthur only smiles at Gwen. “All right, then; let’s have a look.”
She seems relieved as she sits down beside him, opening presentation files on her laptop and sending them to the big plasma screen. Arthur feels mildly curious, because making the new children’s hospital a project for the young architects’ contest instead of hiring some big name had been his idea. He’s about to see if it’s paid off.
The first project Gwen shows him looks like oversized Lego cubes stuck together in an odd way. While it’s bright and apparently cheerful, Arthur finds that he can’t really get on with the idea.
The second one is highly reminiscent of a wedding cake, with numerous buildings and platforms adorned in greenery. Most of all it reminds Arthur of the Hanging Gardens, and, while it does look impressive, Arthur isn’t convinced that London can quite live up to the climate conditions of Mesopotamia. And spending money on glorified smoking rooms for the staff isn’t exactly what he has in mind.
The third project is a bloody castle.
Arthur stares at it in suspended disbelief for a few moments, catching himself before he starts poking at the screen. He clears his throat. “Is this a joke?”
Gwen giggles. “Actually, you’ll find that this project scored the highest in both functionality and comfort, as well as security.”
“Really,” Arthur intones, enthralled.
Gwen keeps explaining about internal design and easy access to the elevators, but Arthur zones out. He watches the presentation unfold and bites his lip viciously not to squeal in glee, because there’s an honest to God drawbridge, and wings and wards named after mythical creatures and styled to match.
On the whole, the building looks a bit like Hogwarts, but less fancy somehow – more like a real castle. Arthur can just see it domineering over the neighbourhood, standing in the middle of a magnificent park, also sketched meticulously by this unknown young talent.
“You’re in love with it, aren’t you?” Gwen teases him gently.
Arthur grins. “Well, you have to admit, it’s original. And much more fitting with the city landscape than those Lego things.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “So we have a winner, then?” At Arthur’s nod, she stands up. “In that case, I’ll go tell him.”
“Wait, you mean whoever made this is here?” Arthur stares at her. “Now?”
Gwen nods. “He was late in submitting his paperwork; he’s waiting out there for me now.”
“Fetch him, please,” Arthur says, grinning. “I want to meet this person.”
Gwen dimples with pleasure. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Arthur stands up, walking toward the screen where a three-dimensional model is still rotating, showing off its nooks and crannies. From the half-opened door, Arthur can hear Gwen’s calm tones as she asks someone to step inside.
“Absolutely not!”
Arthur winces and glances at the door incredulously. People are usually tripping over their feet to meet him, but the voice sounds torn between terrified and angry.
“No, Gwen, no bloody way! You said it was all anonymous. You said I’d never have to meet him!”
Arthur’s eyebrows climb higher into his hairline, his curiosity piqued. As a rule, people seem to like him.
“Don’t be stupid!” Gwen snaps, her voice coming closer.
The door flies open and she comes stomping in, dragging someone tall and incredibly reluctant in by the hand. Arthur looks into the man’s face and feels all air leave his lungs in a rush, even as Gwen propels the man forward none too gently.
“Your Highness, this is Merlin Emrys.”
At which point Merlin’s eyes finally meet his, and his lips thin into a stubborn, angry line.
“Hello, Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, with the air of a man who’s about to be executed. “It’s been a long time.”
For the longest, most torturous moment, Arthur can do nothing but stare at the man he thought he would never see again.
oooOooo
This isn’t happening.
Merlin grits his teeth and tries not to howl at the sheer unfairness of it all. What deities could he possibly have offended in his past life to this extent?
He should have said no. When Lance had told him about the contest, he should have bloody said no. But it was anonymous – completely anonymous, Gwen had assured him, and he’d loved working on his project. It was only the second time after uni that he’d gotten to work on something real, and Merlin had loved every minute of it. He’d been thrilled when Gwen came out of the room, eyes bright, and told him his project had won.
This right here, though? This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Gwen’s gasp at Merlin’s brazen familiarity while addressing the crown prince is drowned out when Arthur speaks, breathless and stunned.
“Merlin.”
He looks so appalled and shaken that Merlin prays for the ground to swallow him. The last time he had seen Arthur was eight years ago, and back then he’d looked like any other regular seventeen-year-old, with his hair bleached to platinum by the luscious Mediterranean sun and his skin an alarming shade of roasted tangerine. He was attractive back then, with his blazing smile and clear eyes, shocked and adorable as they’d looked at Merlin and had prompted him to do truly outrageous things just to see that look one more time. Now, though...
Now, Arthur is perfect.
Merlin has seen pictures in the media, of course; he isn’t a hermit. But the photos couldn’t have prepared him for the way Arthur fills the room, every last corner of it; the lines of his body strong and clean, his face classically beautiful like that of a black-and-white movie star, and yet so very tangible, so full of colour. He’s wearing black slacks that sit snugly on his hips and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up and exposing finely shaped arms. His waistcoat and shirt collar are undone; his hair is tousled as though he’s been running his fingers through it.
This is what royal casual must look like. Merlin swallows and tries not to squirm in his cheap, ill-fitting suit from Tesco that he hasn’t worn since graduation. He overslept this morning and spent even less time than usual trying to make himself presentable, his hurried attempts pitiable at best.
He fantasised sometimes about meeting Arthur again, years in the future, when Merlin is no longer a nobody. This isn’t at all what he had in mind. Judging by the way Arthur is looking him over up and down, Merlin looks every bit as pathetic as he feels.
“You two know each other?” Gwen asks, stepping into Merlin’s line of sight, eyeing them curiously.
“We’ve met,” Arthur says. He glances over at the screen and lets out an incredulous chuckle. “I should have known.”
Merlin shifts from foot to foot awkwardly, frowning. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he grumbles. “It was an anonymous contest.” He shoots a dark glance at a thoroughly confused Gwen. “At least it was supposed to be.”
Arthur glances at him, lifting an eyebrow. “It was anonymous up until the winner was chosen, Merlin. It can no longer stay that way, seeing as we have to contract you as a consultant for the construction.”
“But you don’t have to do that, do you?” Merlin huffs. “I mean, now that you know it was my project?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Let’s make something absolutely clear, shall we, Mister Emrys? Your project was chosen based purely on its advantages before all the other submitted works, and I would have contracted its architect regardless of who he or she was.”
“Really.” Merlin tilts his chin up stubbornly. “And if you’d known it was mine before you’d chosen it, you’d have gone for it anyway?”
Arthur gazes at him coolly, one eyebrow raised. “I suppose we’ll never know.”
Merlin seethes quietly, unable to come up with a retort.
“You can consult, can’t you?” Arthur leans a little closer to him. His tone is perfectly neutral and pleasant – a little on the soothing side, as if he’s talking to a skittish horse. “It’s a two-year contract with steady pay. Probably not as glorious as something else out there, but—”
“I’m not in this for the money,” Merlin snaps.
Gwen seems scandalized that anyone would dare talk to the Prince of Wales in that tone, but Arthur just smiles softly. Merlin hates him a little bit for the way that smile makes him feel.
“I know you’re not doing this for the money, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly. “But if we are to hire you – and we really want to – you’re to be paid, just like everyone else. Except me, of course.” Arthur’s eyes skim over him yet again. “But I don’t think you can afford to volunteer.”
Blood rushes to Merlin’s cheeks, his whole face growing hot. “You haven’t become any less of a prat in eight years.”
Gwen chokes, horrified, but Arthur just shakes his head, eyes bright with laughter. “Nor have you lost any of your spunk,” he parries. “Comfort to know.”
“As if you care,” Merlin mutters under his breath.
He doesn’t mean for anyone to hear, the words just slip out. Arthur’s mirth evaporates and he straightens up, every bit the aloof and polite heir to the British throne.
“So, will you be willing to work for us?”
“It’s a great opportunity for you, Merlin,” Gwen says, trying to catch his eye.
Merlin suppresses a sigh. He knows this. On the screen to his left, his beloved Camelot castle is still whirling around, demonstrating all its advantages, and Merlin knows he can’t walk away from this. He loved working on this project; he’d love to see it through.
Besides, the worst thing that could have happened to him here has already happened.
He very carefully doesn’t look at Arthur as he says, “Yes. I’d be – I’d be happy to.”
“Excellent,” Arthur says. He offers Merlin his hand. Merlin takes it in a daze, feeling Arthur’s palm engulfing his own, clasping briefly, warm and tight, before letting go. “Then I’m pretty sure Gwen has more paperwork for you to file.”
“Right.” Merlin nods numbly. “Sure.”
Obviously realising that Merlin isn’t going to start moving under his own power any time soon, Gwen begins to steer him out of the room with a firm hand on his elbow.
“Merlin.”
Merlin turns around in the doorway. Arthur is staring at the screen. “I really like your castle.”
Me too, Merlin thinks miserably, and follows Gwen out.
oooOooo
The moment the door closes, Arthur slumps against the desk, leaning on his hands. The strange buzzing in his ears that had started the moment Merlin was dragged into the room is only just beginning to recede. Arthur takes deep breaths, trying to convince his lungs they aren’t actually starving for air.
Merlin.
Eight years ago, Merlin was a skinny, peculiar-looking sixteen-year-old. He wasn’t ugly by any means, just coltish and awkward, his body shimmering on the verge of transforming into something else. Something that had only one word for it, now that the metamorphosis is, evidently, complete.
Gorgeous.
He isn’t just gorgeous, though, Arthur thinks with a strange pull of desperation. He’s gorgeous of the worst possible kind – the kind who doesn’t know it.
Arthur knows only too well how to deal with intentional seduction. People have been coming on to him left, right, and centre ever since he turned fourteen, and twice as much since he came out as Britain’s first openly bisexual royal five years later. He knows how to tactfully diffuse unwanted advances, perhaps even better than he knows the alphabet – considering that, with him, it’s always less of a matter of drunken groping and more of a matter of state.
But he’s helpless before someone who doesn’t realise his own charm, and Merlin is as clueless and alluring as Arthur remembers, only more, so much more so now.
Merlin had grown up tall, though he remained slim as ever. He filled out his body nicely, Arthur thinks, picturing broad shoulders and strong arms, emphasized by a suit that was a little too tight. Small waist, slender hips, long legs – and Arthur can’t help but remember... Merlin’s hair was short then, which made him look adorable. Now it’s curling in soft locks around his ears, grazing his collar, making Arthur’s hands itch to grab it.
His tie was askew, the upper button on his shirt undone. He looked like someone had grabbed him, pushed against the nearest vertical surface, and thoroughly debauched him before throwing him back into the room.
And Arthur doesn’t want to remember what Merlin really looks like, kissed breathless and panting with want, but Arthur’s brain has never sworn any kind of fealty to him.
He stares at the plasma screen unseeingly, and remembers.
oooOooo
When the Italian Prime Minister first offered the use of one of his villas to Uther, Arthur didn’t think highly of his chances. To his surprise, however, his father chose to recognise that Arthur was staggering under the weight of his coursework (exemplary, of course) and could really use a summer break before continuing to be a model student. This was how Arthur was dispatched to Italy on his own, with vague promises of Morgana and Uther joining him at some point.
At first, it was pure bliss. The villa was luxurious and empty, save for the staff of incredibly discreet servants. The town of Manfredonia was charming and welcoming, and Arthur enjoyed his relative anonymity. He knew that the agreement that Uther had with the press about leaving Arthur alone until he became of age in exchange for regular progress reports and photo shoots would probably expire soon, but, for now, it was freedom, and it felt wonderful.
Except it was June, and the season hadn’t started yet. No people who Arthur was allowed to socialise with were around, and by day three, he felt bored out of his mind.
He thought about exploring the town a little, but wandering off aimlessly had never made any sense to him. Besides, if Morgana ever found out he hadn’t even tried to familiarize himself with the local culture, she would nag him into eternity. (They had had an extremely enlightening argument once, in which Arthur had pointed out that he visited enough museums and galleries as it was for official functions and blasted photo ops, and Morgana, in return, had read him the riot act, the gist of which amounted to Arthur being a simpleminded barbarian.)
Having done a quick Google search, Arthur grabbed an English-Italian phrasebook and valiantly set off into the town, Leon trailing discreetly behind.
The fact that he got lost fairly quickly in the labyrinth of cheerful streets and sun-faded blinds on the windows was surprising only to Arthur himself. He could have done the smart thing and asked Leon, but Arthur preferred not to take that option unless absolutely necessary. Leon had been put in charge of his security detail and was actually a grown-up, but Arthur knew that neither of those things would stop him from mocking Arthur’s navigational skills mercilessly.
Arthur decided to do the next best thing and ask for directions. The moment the thought occurred to him, he spotted a perfect target: there was a boy around his age, leaning casually against a wall of what looked like a bakery, hiding under the shade of a balcony from the omnipresent sun.
Later, Arthur would ask himself how he could possibly have thought the boy was a local, considering that, even in the oppressing heat, he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. At the time, however, all Arthur had seen were intense blue eyes and the most amazing cheekbones.
He smiled as he walked toward the boy, his butchered Italian at the ready. The boy noticed his approach and grinned, eyebrows pitched slightly in curiosity.
“Buongiorno,” Arthur said, stumbling over the word. “Sto cercando, um, il museo di olio?”
The boy grinned wider, but said nothing in response. Arthur frowned, glancing at his phrasebook uncertainly. He might not have been fluent in five languages like Morgana, but he was fairly sure he’d gotten it right.
“Mi scusi,” he said. “Sono – oh, Christ – sto cercando—”
The boy laughed and lifted a hand. “Yeah, I got you the first time around, mate,” he said, chuckling. “But your Italian is so completely horrible, I just had to hear it one more time.”
“You—” Arthur sputtered.
He didn’t know where to begin – the boy simply fazed him. For starters, no one had ever called Arthur ‘mate,’ not even his classmates at Eton. No less shocking was that the boy clearly didn’t know who Arthur was. And finally, he let Arthur make a complete fool of himself tripping all over his tongue when—
“You’re English!”
The boy mock-scowled at him. “Welsh, actually, thank you very much.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Figures.”
The boy laughed again, throwing his hands up. “Hey, I could have made you suffer for much longer. And your pronunciation really is terrible. I didn’t even know you could do that to Italian.”
Arthur wasn’t too keen on accepting criticism at the best of times and frowned. “I don’t see you doing any better, Mister Language Expert.”
“Oh, I’m no expert.” The boy dismissed easily, paying no heed to Arthur’s tone. “But my Italian is better than yours, that’s for certain. I’m Merlin, by the way.” And he guilelessly stuck out his hand.
Arthur took it on the long-ingrained instinct that made him feel like a well-trained dog most days. “Arthur.”
He watched Merlin for any signs of recognition – he was Welsh, for God’s sake – but Merlin just smirked.
“Posh. I bet your middle name is something really horrible, like Bartholomew.”
Arthur coloured slightly. His full name was actually Arthur Henry Edward Philip Louis, but he wasn’t about to give Merlin more food for mockery.
“I really don’t see how anyone called Merlin has any place criticizing other people’s names.”
Merlin laughed. He seemed to do that a lot. “Touché. Look, so – I could walk you to your museum, if you want?” Arthur’s eyebrow shot up of its own volition, and Merlin blushed, adding hastily, “I mean, I could explain where it is, but you’d probably just get lost again.”
It was a marker of how completely bewitched Arthur was by that point that he had actually let the insult slide in favour of keeping the weird boy’s company for a while longer. Arthur had the strangest urge to poke and prod at him until he could understand what made him tick. From his battered canvas shoes to the tips of his funny ears, everything about Merlin was so utterly odd that the combination proved strangely compelling, in an unfamiliar way.
“Will I not deprive you of something?” Arthur asked, nodding uncertainly at the house behind Merlin.
“Nah.” Merlin shook his head and grabbed Arthur’s wrist. “Let’s go.”
Arthur was a little concerned with this eagerness, but it was hard to dwell on it with Merlin’s long fingers wrapped around his wrist as they dove into the crowd.
Arthur felt a little claustrophobic in the midst of it. There were too many people in too short a proximity to him, talking loudly – too loudly, really, – laughing, constantly moving around him. Personal space seemed like a non-existent concept here, and Arthur was trying not to hyperventilate.
But Merlin steered him ahead, chattering animatedly, and it was easy to focus on him, tuning out everything else. When Arthur told him where he was staying at ‘a family friend’s invitation,’ Merlin just rolled his eyes, which meant Arthur’s anonymity was safe as long as this boy was concerned.
Merlin was here as an exchange student, he told Arthur gamely, studying architecture and art. From the number of scholarships he mentioned casually, Arthur realised that Merlin must be quite a good student, but he didn’t give it much thought.
It was far more interesting to watch Merlin smile and wave at people he either knew or liked; all of them smiled and waved back. Merlin’s Italian seemed indeed superior, and Arthur listened to him engage in a rapid exchange with an elderly woman at a stand. She patted his cheek and tugged at his ear and made some complicated hand gesture that made Merlin turn red and laugh as he stole a glance back at Arthur. He came back with two roll-like things that smelled delicious and gave one to Arthur with a lopsided grin.
Merlin was obviously in love with both architecture and Italy. He was constantly pointing out things to Arthur, delighting in a crumbling façade of an old house or a miniscule, strange-looking symbol carved under some roof. Merlin was like an over-exuberant tour guide, talking Arthur’s ear off. Surprisingly, Arthur found that he didn’t mind one bit.
Until Merlin grabbed his arm and pulled him into a poorly lit shop of some kind, backing Arthur into a corner.
“What—”
“I don’t mean to alarm you,” Merlin said, leaning in closer. “But there’s a bloke following us – or rather following you. Don’t look now,” he whispered. “He stopped at the postcard stand over there. Big bloke, blond hair, though he’s probably trying to hide that he’s ginger.”
Arthur nearly gave the game away, looking across the street over Merlin’s shoulder to where Leon had indeed stopped beside a souvenir shop with an ever-patient look upon his face.
“Do you see him?” Merlin hissed urgently.
“Yes, I see him,” Arthur said, swallowing a grin. “A rather sinister character. Looks like a pervert.”
“Gingers can’t be trusted,” Merlin said with conviction. “Come on, we’ll shake him off.”
“What? Merlin, wait—”
But Merlin was already pushing him out the back door into a narrow, shadowy street that coiled between houses chaotically, making Arthur’s head spin. Merlin caught Arthur’s wrist again and they ran, starting to laugh halfway through it. The street ended abruptly with a fence, but Merlin had clearly anticipated that, because he turned to Arthur, breathless and grinning, and demanded, “Boost me up.”
Faltering momentarily, Arthur quickly recovered, grabbing Merlin by the waist.
“What are you doing?” Merlin laughed, half-turning in Arthur’s hold.
Arthur blinked. “You said—”
“You make a hand lock like this.” Merlin demonstrated, eyes dancing. “So that I can step on it. Then you push me up.”
“Oh.” Arthur said, letting go of Merlin with reluctance. “Of course.”
Merlin was laughing. “Didn’t you ever climb any fences? God, you posh types are weird.”
Arthur scowled, but then Merlin’s hands were on his shoulders, his foot secured on Arthur’s interlocked hands, and Arthur was distracted.
“Ready?” Merlin grinned. “On three.”
Even with Arthur’s help, Merlin had some trouble securing himself on top of the wide stone ledge. He wriggled and squirmed, and Arthur laughed so hard at the picture he made, it was possible he pulled a muscle.
Merlin turned back toward him finally, red-faced, but grinning. “Prat. See if I give you a hand up or just leave you here for that ginger pervert to find.”
Arthur looked the fence over sceptically and rolled his eyes. “As if I need your help, Merlin.”
He took a couple of steps back to gather momentum and jumped up on the run, high enough to plant his hands on the top, and then pulled his body up, his arms straining, until he could swing a leg over the fence and sit, facing Merlin.
Who was gaping.
“Wow,” Merlin breathed at last, staring at Arthur’s arms, eyes slightly glazed over. “Wow.”
“You said that already,” Arthur pointed out helpfully, not gloating at all. But then Merlin’s fingers reached out to touch his biceps, tracing the outline of the muscles wonderingly, and Arthur’s smugness promptly yielded place to something entirely different.
“Are you an athlete?” Merlin asked, still rubbing Arthur’s arms as if he forgot he was doing it.
To Arthur’s utter horror, he could feel himself becoming hard. It was probably only natural, given the combination of the morning’s excitement, the run, physical exertion that made Arthur’s heart pump blood at double speed, and, most of all, the awestruck expression splashing in Merlin’s bright blue eyes unchecked.
“Not all of us are such pathetic wimps like you, Merlin,” Arthur drawled, pulling away, and swinging his leg to the other side of the fence so that he was no longer straddling it.
He hopped down then, knees bent to absorb the impact, and straightened up, surreptitiously adjusting himself in his shorts.
“Show off,” Merlin grumbled, and jumped off the fence, too. He didn’t have the first idea of coordination and would have ended with his face smashed into the ground, had Arthur not caught him.
“Dear God, you really are something else,” Arthur muttered, acutely aware that Merlin was standing too close. “How you haven’t broken your neck yet, I’ve no idea.”
Merlin grinned at him ruefully, panting against Arthur’s neck and making him shiver. He smelled of clean sweat and midday sun, a little bit of drafting ink, and a lot of something nameless, unidentifiable and delicious that was making Arthur’s mouth water. He felt dizzy. He was still bracing Merlin, one hand cradling his shoulder, the other pressing against the sharp outline of his hipbone, shockingly tangible under the worn denim.
Merlin’s eyes zeroed in on Arthur’s lips, and he blushed, stepping back hurriedly and looking anywhere but at Arthur.
“Well, come on then. The museum’s that way.”
“Merlin, wait,” Arthur called, walking quickly to catch up. “I don’t really want to go to that museum.”
Merlin grinned. “Honestly? I was surprised you wanted to in the first place. It’s really boring.”
“You wouldn’t mind, um.” Arthur trailed off, glancing around the busy square. “That is, if you could show me around, maybe?”
When he finally did look up, Merlin was beaming. “I thought you’d never ask.”
oooOooo
It took Leon two and a half hours to find them, by which time Arthur had managed to be dropped in a fountain, shouted at for walking shirtless (it was still drying, okay?) into a church by some angry women, took about a dozen photographs of pigeons and children (and one, rather blurry, of Merlin), and was generally having the time of his life. When Leon walked into the shadow of an ice cream parlour and headed straight for where Arthur and Merlin were having an ice cream feast all to themselves, Arthur felt a pang of guilt.
“Wow, you sure are persistent,” Merlin said as he looked up and spotted Leon looming over them.
Leon’s face was ostensibly calm, but Arthur knew a storm when he saw one.
“Your Highness, if you are quite finished.”
In the ensuing flood of explanations, Merlin went from disbelief to amusement to utter horror in the span of five short minutes and was finally left gaping at Arthur, terrified.
“Oh my God. I kidnapped the Prince of Wales. Oh my God.” He looked up at Leon. “What are they going to do to me?”
“Drag you to the Tower,” said Leon, who wasn’t in a charitable mood after chasing after them for the better part of the day. “If you cooperate, they’ll chop your head off real quick – you won’t feel a thing.”
“Oh God,” Merlin groaned again and glared at Arthur, who was laughing. “You’re such a prat, you know that?”
“Careful, Merlin.” Arthur smirked. “You’re talking to royalty.”
“I’m talking to an arsehole!” Merlin snapped. “And don’t give me that look – they can only kill me once, and I’m pretty sure I’m doomed already.” Arthur snorted. Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were, you utter pillock?”
Leon tutted, but said nothing. Arthur threw his hands up, grinning. “How was I supposed to know you’re the only Brit alive who didn’t know what his prince looked like?”
“I don’t watch much telly,” Merlin grumbled. “Some of us have to actually work and study, Sire.”
“Well, there you go, Merlin. It’s not my fault you’re some kind of anti-social hermit.”
“I’m not anti-social!” Merlin protested. Suddenly, catching Arthur completely by surprise, he resolved into giggles. “Oh my God,” Merlin wheezed. “I’m Gregory Peck.”
“What?” Arthur blinked, confused.
Merlin laughed harder, pointing an unsteady finger at him. “And you’re – you’re Audrey Hepburn. Oh my God, this is too good.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” Arthur demanded, and then saw Leon’s lips twitching.
“I believe Mister Emrys is referring to Roman Holiday,” Leon said, smiling pleasantly at Arthur all of a sudden. Merlin dropped his head into his hands on the table, shaking with laughter. “It is a film about a certain princess—”
“We’re in Italy!” Merlin managed, breathless, clutching at the table. “We’re in bloody Italy!”
Arthur glanced from one to the other and groaned. “I hate you both.”
Leon’s eyebrows furrowed. “On that note, Your Highness, we really have to go.”
Arthur nodded, the plastic spoon he’d been toying with snapping in his hand. He winced.
Merlin’s laughter faded slowly as he peered into Arthur’s face. “So I guess that’s it, then?” he asked, his voice quiet by the last word, eyes startlingly sober.
Something clenched tightly in Arthur’s chest at the thought. “No, of course not, Merlin, don’t be an idiot. This isn’t the Middle Ages. I have to go now, but if you want to – hang out? You could maybe come to the villa tomorrow?” Merlin didn’t say anything, and Arthur pressed on. “There’s a swimming pool up there, you know. Pretty impressive. And the playroom is stocked with videogames. And there’s a tennis court, though I don’t suppose you play? But I could teach you? If you want? Or we could just chill and—”
“I have class in the morning,” Merlin said, a small smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. “But I could stop by afterwards? It’s up there on the mountain, right? Where that single road leads?”
“Yep.” Arthur shot to his feet, as if afraid that, if he lingered, Merlin would change his mind. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Merlin gave him a rueful grin and an awkward wave.
On their way back, Leon was mostly silent, if still disapproving. When they reached the car, he said only, “I don’t condone what you did, Your Highness.”
“Look, Leon, I’m really—”
Leon held up a hand. “Arthur. Having met your friend, I – understand.”
“Oh.” Arthur swallowed and blushed for some reason. “Right.”
Leon’s expression was not unkind. “You’ll have to be very careful, Arthur.”
Arthur spent the short ride up trying desperately not to think about what Leon had meant.
oooOooo
Merlin did indeed drop by the next day, extremely shy and jumpy, when Leon greeted him at the gates. Arthur poked fun at him mercilessly and pushed him into the pool in his clothes, though he thoughtfully snatched the folder with sketches from Merlin’s hands first. Merlin didn’t think much of Arthur’s consideration and retaliated by dropping ice cream down the back of Arthur’s shirt later, making him jump and scream in a manner that no one would have called particularly manly. Leon gazed up at the sky a lot that afternoon, probably praying, which, in light of his atheism, was especially ominous.
Hours trickled into a steady stream of days. Arthur had various engagements every other day and Merlin went to classes, but they spent as much time together as they could in between.
Merlin was hopeless at tennis and not particularly fond of rock climbing, but he could walk all day long without tiring. He dragged Arthur along as he explored the old castle, the basilica, and the port and bargained at the marketplace for some weird-looking trinkets he didn’t really need, as well as a watch that Merlin liked because it was on a thick black leather bracelet and was supposedly waterproof and not because it was a fake Patek Philippe. When Arthur pointed that out, Merlin just blinked at him and asked if it meant it was Japanese.
He tried to teach Arthur some proper Italian, laughing when Arthur complained that his tongue simply didn’t curl that way. Merlin chatted away happily most of the time. He was like a walking encyclopaedia of city planning and art history; and Arthur no longer wondered how it was possible that Merlin had no idea who he was. Clearly, the only time when Merlin’s nose wasn’t buried in a book was when his head was high up in the clouds.
Arthur had no idea why the thought of it awoke such unbearable, inexplicable fondness in him. He had never been accused of being soft in his life – he played rugby, for God’s sake. But Merlin was like a clumsy, blue-eyed kitten who had claws, all right, but no clue as to how to use them. Except for playing, obviously.
Arthur might have considered himself to be as tough as they came, but he’d have to be a stone cold mass murderer not to melt at the sight of Merlin, just a little.
He compensated by being as much of a prat to Merlin as the boy believed him to be, and pulling all the pigtails Merlin didn’t have almost religiously. He valiantly ignored Leon’s smirks and instead threatened to fire him five times a day.
Leon took them out into the sea, much to Merlin’s delight. He teased Arthur for being too delicate when Arthur refused to join him for a swim in the open water. Arthur scowled, but the Adriatic was bloody cold in June, and he could feel his toes freezing when he so much as tried the water. Merlin just laughed, swimming around the boat in circles, fearless and unexpectedly graceful in the water, as he scared away the seagulls. He never stopped with the taunting, but Arthur couldn’t find it in him to complain when he got to pull Merlin back onboard, wet and shivering and laughing and letting Arthur rub his arms and back until he was warm again.
June melted into July, and both Merlin and Arthur became more busy: Merlin, with the additional seminars and classes that started with the arrival of the two long-expected professors; and Arthur, with all the obligatory socializing he was expected to do, now that the season had started and people of import began trickling into the seaside.
Inviting Merlin along was an exercise in futility. Merlin’s eyes would go wide with panic, and Arthur wouldn’t see him at all for three days afterwards, until Merlin could be sure that Arthur had changed his mind. Arthur didn’t understand how meeting his friends, most of whom were children of the European political and business elite, could possibly be any more intimidating than being on speaking terms with the Prince of Wales, and Merlin seemed to have no problem with that – but Merlin wouldn’t relent.
When he finally did say yes, Arthur suspected it was only because the party in question was to be held on a yacht, and Merlin was as fascinated by ships of all kinds almost as much as he was by old buildings.
Arthur didn’t know what he expected when he told Merlin to clean up a bit, but it definitely wasn’t the sight that greeted him at the villa’s gates where Merlin was waiting for him. He wore a pair of really nice black jeans, only kept on his hips by virtue of a leather belt that looked suspiciously like the real deal, and a tight-fitting, navy blue button-down, open at the collar, the thin material accentuating all of his angles, the colour bringing out his eyes. Even his hair was styled in something close to fashionable, and Arthur couldn’t help but stare.
Merlin was blushing, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.
“You, um—” Arthur started, pointing vaguely. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, you look really… How did you—?”
Merlin chuckled nervously. “I told the guys at camp I had to attend some really posh party. They, um, pulled resources.”
It was Arthur’s turn to blush. All this time he’d been nagging Merlin to come along, he hadn’t realised that just dressing appropriately might be outside of someone’s price range.
“Yes, well.” Arthur swallowed. “That’ll do.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Leon wouldn’t let me drive; I hope you don’t mind.”
Merlin glanced over Arthur’s shoulder, smiled shyly, and waved. “Hi, Leon.”
“Good evening, Mister Emrys,” came an amused reply. “If you gentlemen are quite ready, the car is waiting.”
In the car, Merlin sat so stiff and unusually quiet that Arthur had to suppress a groan.
“Hey.” He reached out and squeezed Merlin’s knee. Merlin jumped and looked at him, startled. “You realise they’re just people, right? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I hope they don’t all have your charming personality,” Merlin shot back. “Then I’d be in real trouble.”
Arthur just grinned.
oooOooo
Valiant’s yacht was beautiful and luxurious Arthur wasn’t particularly fond of its owner, ever since they first met in Nice two years ago. Valiant tried to win Morgana’s favour and, when that failed, got drunk and tumbling Gwen would make a great consolation prize. The resulting scandal was quickly hushed up in order not to cripple the relationship with the remaining Bourbons that had been problematic for some time already. The incident had left Arthur with a sour taste of French aristocracy in general and a strong dislike of Valiant in particular.
Arthur couldn’t fault him for taste, though. Merlin was whirling his head around, wide-eyed with delight and fear, and Arthur had to sink his nails hard into his own palm to rein in the urge to reach out and grab Merlin’s hand.
“Just be yourself,” he murmured, his hand on the small of Merlin’s back as he went through the first round of introductions.
As it turned out, Arthur needn’t have worried. Merlin only had to shyly compliment Vivian’s earrings, mumbling something about classicism in jewellery design and Troy, to be promptly kidnapped by the nearest assortment of young women, who only surrendered him to the next group after a barely civil verbal catfight. Amused, Arthur watched from across the room as they cooed at Merlin, petting his hair and plying him with drinks, ignoring his embarrassed objections.
Satisfied that Merlin was having a good time, Arthur went about finding his own entertainment, reconnecting with old friends and enjoying the fact that alcohol was flowing freely. He even let Owain and Pellinore drag him out to the dance floor, which Arthur normally tried to avoid at all costs. He just didn’t have what it took to just shake and gyrate to whatever horrible excuse was passing as music and ended up shifting his weight back and forth, rigid and out of rhythm. He was buzzed just enough for it not to bother him tonight, though, so he laughed and allowed himself to be swayed, a beer bottle in his hand, girls in daring outfits surrounding him in a hot, tight slide of bodies.
Arthur didn’t know how much time he spent there before drifting back to the bar, his whole body tingling with energy. At some point it occurred to him to check up on Merlin, who seemed to be nowhere in sight. Arthur frowned slightly, pushed off the teenage dream of a very underage and very pissed Lady something-or-other, and went in search of his friend.
He passed Vivian, who just smiled at him dopily, barely emerging for a handful of seconds from a drunken snog fest she was having with a rather dazed-looking waiter. Arthur left her alone, knowing there’d be no use. Bella only shrugged and laughed at Arthur in response to his question, and Beth looked like she couldn’t remember her own name, never mind Merlin’s.
It was one of the impeccably trained and habitually blank-faced catering staff who finally pointed Arthur in the direction of the upper deck, mentioning something about Valiant as well. Arthur thanked the man with a nod and rushed up the narrow stairs, now deeply concerned.
The lights were out up here; Arthur’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Then he spotted two figures in the far end of the deck, and felt his stomach drop.
Valiant had Merlin pressed up against a bulkhead, one hand under Merlin’s shirt, the other clutching his nape in an unforgiving grip. Merlin was smiling, but it was a tight, pained kind of grimace, as if he was still trying to make nice. His hands were pressed against Valiant’s chest, pushing ineffectually as he tried to weasel out of Valiant’s grip.
Arthur was moving before he knew it. “There you are, Merlin,” he said in a tone that was anything but casual. “It’s time we headed back.”
If Arthur had any doubts about his reading of the situation, the unabashed, naked relief in Merlin’s eyes as he looked at him was more than enough of a reassurance.
Valiant was clearly pissed and not as easily dissuaded. “Fuck off, Arthur,” he snapped without looking at him, making no move to release Merlin. “We’re a little busy here, so if you don’t mind—”
“I think you’ll find that Merlin minds,” Arthur said, his tone freezing. “Let him go, Valiant. Now.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Valiant asked, but he did push himself off of Merlin, turning to glare at Arthur.
“Because I told you to,” Arthur snapped.
Valiant’s expression morphed into a leer. “Oh, my mistake, Your Highness. I thought he was just a piece of fresh meat. But if he’s your personal fucktoy, you should either learn to share or stop flaunting him in people’s faces.”
Merlin, who seemed to have finally recovered from shock, emitted some kind of indignant exclamation, but Arthur barely heard him.
He had no idea how it happened. He wasn’t even that drunk, and he’d never had such poor impulse control in his life. But the next thing he knew was his fist connecting with Valiant’s jaw with a satisfying crack, and then Valiant was stumbling backward, his knees catching the low railing, and he was flying overboard and out of Arthur’s view.
“Fuck,” Merlin gasped and dashed forward to look.
Arthur joined him, drawn by some kind of morbid curiosity. If Valiant had hit his head on something; if he so much as grazed the board...
“Arthur, you could have killed him,” Merlin stammered breathlessly.
But there were ripples on the surface of the water, and a moment later, Valiant emerged, glaring up and shouting, “You’re a dead man, Pendragon! You’re fucking dead!”
“Right,” Arthur drawled, dark satisfaction coiling low in his belly. “That’s our cue.” He grabbed Merlin’s wrist and dragged him downstairs and off the yacht while Leon fished an enraged and still very much drunk Valiant out of the water.
Arthur shoved Merlin into somebody’s Porsche, the keys conveniently in the ignition, and jumped in after him, driving off faster than the indignant shouts behind them registered.
Merlin maintained some kind of stunned, dead silence as Arthur carelessly curbed the twists and turns of the serpentine road leading up to the villa, barely pausing to wave at the security guards at the gates. The flourish of gravel that Arthur raised as he stopped abruptly in front of the house had barely hit the ground when Merlin was out of the car, running unsteadily into the relative darkness of the garden.
“Merlin, wait!” Arthur yelled after him, hastily killing the engine. “Shit.”
He sprinted after Merlin, who hadn’t made it very far after all. He’d stopped with his hands braced on his knees, leaning forward and panting as though he’d just discovered oxygen.
“Merlin,” Arthur called uncertainly, coming to a halt beside him, reaching out tentatively. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Don’t touch me.” Merlin flinched away. “Don’t – don’t come near me.”
Heart sinking, Arthur lifted his hands up. “Calm down. Just talk to me, Merlin, please. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Merlin repeated incredulously, straightening up and staring at Arthur. “I should never have come to that party. I should never have tried to make friends with people who – who treat others like – like – I’m not your bloody fucktoy!”
“Merlin!” Blood rushed to Arthur’s face. “I would never—”
“Well, maybe not that part,” Merlin snapped. “But I am just a toy for you, aren’t I? A fucking plaything? God, I was so stupid – what was I thinking? And what happens when you get bored of me, when this ‘fresh meat’ isn’t so fresh anymore? Am I to entertain your pals next?”
“God, would you just SHUT UP?” Arthur snarled. “I’m sorry I took you to that party, Merlin, and I’m sorry you had to hear that, but if you stopped being such a delicate bloody flower for one second and think, you’d see that I’m nothing like Valiant and you’re being horribly unfair!”
“Fuck off, Arthur,” Merlin bit out, but his lips were trembling and his eyes darted away. “Just – just leave me alone.”
He turned his back, and Arthur could do nothing but stare at him, helpless and frightened – really frightened, for the first time in his life. Which, of course, made him lash out.
“Honestly, Merlin, I know that Val got a little too handsy for comfort, but he was drunk – it happens. You’re acting like no one has ever tried to pull you before!”
Merlin whirled around, fists clenched. “‘It happens’?” he repeated, incensed.
Arthur bit his lip hard. “Fuck – That’s not what I meant.”
Merlin stepped forward, advancing on him angrily. “Has it occurred to you, you selfish, self-centred pillock, that not all of us have been fit for magazine covers since childhood? That maybe tonight was the first time that anyone has even looked at me like that – and that I wasn’t ready for some bloke I don’t even know to grope my arse and shove his dick between my legs like he had the right?”
Flushed with humiliation, Merlin stood tall, his whole body ringing with indignation. “You’ll have to excuse me, Your Highness, for nursing my delicate sensibilities. I’m a chav; you can’t expect more from me.”
That was too much, way too much for Arthur, who growled in frustration at his own inability to communicate what he wanted to with his words, and he couldn’t stand to watch Merlin hurting one second longer.
Not pausing to think, he grabbed Merlin by the back of his neck, jerked him forward, and kissed him.
Merlin gasped and tried to pull away, but Arthur held him fast. “Please,” he muttered. “Please let me. Please, Merlin, just – just let me do this. I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you.”
Merlin stilled in his arms, wary, waiting. Arthur sent silent grace to whatever gods watched over them, because Merlin still had enough trust in him to allow this, to let Arthur hold him. Arthur snaked an arm around his waist and leaned into Merlin slowly, carefully, pressing silent apologies and endearments to his mouth, tiny affectionate nips and kisses that melted on Merlin’s lips, sweet and gentle, until Merlin sighed quietly and sagged a little, the fight draining out of him.
“Not a toy, not anyone’s toy,” Arthur murmured, cradling his face. “Wanted to rip his fucking arms off. Should never have made you go, but you were avoiding me and I wanted to see you. I missed you so fucking much, Merlin.”
Merlin’s hands came to rest on Arthur’s hips as he let out a shuddering breath. “Prat,” he whispered resignedly. “Kiss me already.”
And Arthur only meant to offer comfort, but he couldn’t turn that down, either. It was glorious, if a little awkward. Merlin’s inexperience showed in every stuttering slide of his lips, in every surprised gasp that he made, and Arthur cursed himself mentally a dozen times over for having been so completely thoughtless. He licked Merlin’s mouth open as gently as he could, but it was hard to restrain himself with Merlin making impatient, downright sinful noises and pulling him closer, opening up eagerly as if he couldn’t get enough of Arthur, as if however long it lasted would never be enough.
“Okay?” Arthur asked when they parted for air, Merlin’s arms wrapped around him tightly, like Arthur was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Yeah,” Merlin breathed, moaning when Arthur bent to lick at his throat, teeth worrying the pulse point.
Merlin dropped his head back, his hips slamming into Arthur’s as he arched in a beautiful, seamless line, leaving the pale expanse of his throat open and defenceless. Arthur breathed him in deeply, blindsided by want, kissing and nibbling mindlessly, until Merlin’s whole body began to hum with pleasure in his arms. Merlin’s fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair as he caught his mouth in another kiss, laughing into it when they swayed, nearly losing their balance, and Arthur grinned and dipped him just for the hell of it.
Arthur was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t register another presence at first, completely missing a startled, shocked gasp and a muffled curse. It wasn’t until the harsh white light flooded the shadowy lawn that he looked up, blinking blearily, arms still wrapped around Merlin.
On the front steps of the house, Morgana was standing with her hand clasped over her mouth, staring at them agape.
Behind her, in the doorway, was King Uther.
Part 2
Recipient:
corilannamAuthor:
kianspoRating: PG-13
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, background Gwaine/Elena, Lancelot/Gwen (mentioned)
Word Count: ~22K (I’m so sorry)
Warnings: language, possible geographical and professional inaccuracies, also highlight for spoilery warning: some underage boy kissing (17/16)
Summary: Modern royal AU. When Arthur, the Prince of Wales, was seventeen, he had made a mistake that is still haunting him. Eight years later, can he finally make it right?
Author's Notes: Happy holidays,
corilannam! (I really, really hope your other presents are better!)Huge thanks to my amazing beta M., and my courageous Brit-picker S., both of whom will be credited after the reveal. Also, thank you, V. I couldn’t have done it without you. ♥
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
The day is spectacular for early September. It’s sunny and mild, wrapped in soft tendrils of haze that are invisible to the eye but make the angles smoother and expressions – calmer. It’s a gorgeous day, and this is the first Arthur has seen of it, gazing out the upper floor window of the Queen’s Trust Headquarters at four in the afternoon. He’s been sequestered in meeting after meeting all day and can’t help a twinge of wistfulness as he stares outside.
Someone clears a throat delicately behind him, and Arthur flinches, turning away from the window and looking at the screen again.
“Are you certain you want me to make the final choice?” he asks Gwen dubiously for the third time. “I mean, it’s a children’s hospital. Despite what Morgana’s been telling you, I’m not actually a child.”
Gwen tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and gives him a tight smile. It tells him, wordlessly, that she’d be much happier to laugh at his joke if him sitting here making jokes wasn’t keeping her from hurrying home to curl up on a couch with her boyfriend in front of the telly or whatever it is she’d rather be doing on a Friday night.
“Your Highness, this is your charity,” Gwen says patiently. “You’ll be overseeing the hospital during its construction and after it’s been built. It will have a plate with your name on it.”
Arthur sighs. “Does it have to? Can’t it have yours?”
Gwen purses her lips. “In any case,” she says a bit testily, “all three projects have been vetted by the experts for functionality and security. You just need to choose what the building will look like.”
Of course, Arthur thinks grimly. No one considers him an expert on anything, his degree from St. Andrews notwithstanding. Granted, it’s in history, but he’s not a complete imbecile. Essentially, he’s a judge at a beauty contest. Charming.
Honestly, he’s used to all kinds of decisions being made for him by other people, but some days the reminder is more painful than others. The hospital will be built with the money he managed to raise, but God forbid he’d be consulted about anything but pure aesthetics. But Arthur only smiles at Gwen. “All right, then; let’s have a look.”
She seems relieved as she sits down beside him, opening presentation files on her laptop and sending them to the big plasma screen. Arthur feels mildly curious, because making the new children’s hospital a project for the young architects’ contest instead of hiring some big name had been his idea. He’s about to see if it’s paid off.
The first project Gwen shows him looks like oversized Lego cubes stuck together in an odd way. While it’s bright and apparently cheerful, Arthur finds that he can’t really get on with the idea.
The second one is highly reminiscent of a wedding cake, with numerous buildings and platforms adorned in greenery. Most of all it reminds Arthur of the Hanging Gardens, and, while it does look impressive, Arthur isn’t convinced that London can quite live up to the climate conditions of Mesopotamia. And spending money on glorified smoking rooms for the staff isn’t exactly what he has in mind.
The third project is a bloody castle.
Arthur stares at it in suspended disbelief for a few moments, catching himself before he starts poking at the screen. He clears his throat. “Is this a joke?”
Gwen giggles. “Actually, you’ll find that this project scored the highest in both functionality and comfort, as well as security.”
“Really,” Arthur intones, enthralled.
Gwen keeps explaining about internal design and easy access to the elevators, but Arthur zones out. He watches the presentation unfold and bites his lip viciously not to squeal in glee, because there’s an honest to God drawbridge, and wings and wards named after mythical creatures and styled to match.
On the whole, the building looks a bit like Hogwarts, but less fancy somehow – more like a real castle. Arthur can just see it domineering over the neighbourhood, standing in the middle of a magnificent park, also sketched meticulously by this unknown young talent.
“You’re in love with it, aren’t you?” Gwen teases him gently.
Arthur grins. “Well, you have to admit, it’s original. And much more fitting with the city landscape than those Lego things.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “So we have a winner, then?” At Arthur’s nod, she stands up. “In that case, I’ll go tell him.”
“Wait, you mean whoever made this is here?” Arthur stares at her. “Now?”
Gwen nods. “He was late in submitting his paperwork; he’s waiting out there for me now.”
“Fetch him, please,” Arthur says, grinning. “I want to meet this person.”
Gwen dimples with pleasure. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Arthur stands up, walking toward the screen where a three-dimensional model is still rotating, showing off its nooks and crannies. From the half-opened door, Arthur can hear Gwen’s calm tones as she asks someone to step inside.
“Absolutely not!”
Arthur winces and glances at the door incredulously. People are usually tripping over their feet to meet him, but the voice sounds torn between terrified and angry.
“No, Gwen, no bloody way! You said it was all anonymous. You said I’d never have to meet him!”
Arthur’s eyebrows climb higher into his hairline, his curiosity piqued. As a rule, people seem to like him.
“Don’t be stupid!” Gwen snaps, her voice coming closer.
The door flies open and she comes stomping in, dragging someone tall and incredibly reluctant in by the hand. Arthur looks into the man’s face and feels all air leave his lungs in a rush, even as Gwen propels the man forward none too gently.
“Your Highness, this is Merlin Emrys.”
At which point Merlin’s eyes finally meet his, and his lips thin into a stubborn, angry line.
“Hello, Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, with the air of a man who’s about to be executed. “It’s been a long time.”
For the longest, most torturous moment, Arthur can do nothing but stare at the man he thought he would never see again.
This isn’t happening.
Merlin grits his teeth and tries not to howl at the sheer unfairness of it all. What deities could he possibly have offended in his past life to this extent?
He should have said no. When Lance had told him about the contest, he should have bloody said no. But it was anonymous – completely anonymous, Gwen had assured him, and he’d loved working on his project. It was only the second time after uni that he’d gotten to work on something real, and Merlin had loved every minute of it. He’d been thrilled when Gwen came out of the room, eyes bright, and told him his project had won.
This right here, though? This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Gwen’s gasp at Merlin’s brazen familiarity while addressing the crown prince is drowned out when Arthur speaks, breathless and stunned.
“Merlin.”
He looks so appalled and shaken that Merlin prays for the ground to swallow him. The last time he had seen Arthur was eight years ago, and back then he’d looked like any other regular seventeen-year-old, with his hair bleached to platinum by the luscious Mediterranean sun and his skin an alarming shade of roasted tangerine. He was attractive back then, with his blazing smile and clear eyes, shocked and adorable as they’d looked at Merlin and had prompted him to do truly outrageous things just to see that look one more time. Now, though...
Now, Arthur is perfect.
Merlin has seen pictures in the media, of course; he isn’t a hermit. But the photos couldn’t have prepared him for the way Arthur fills the room, every last corner of it; the lines of his body strong and clean, his face classically beautiful like that of a black-and-white movie star, and yet so very tangible, so full of colour. He’s wearing black slacks that sit snugly on his hips and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up and exposing finely shaped arms. His waistcoat and shirt collar are undone; his hair is tousled as though he’s been running his fingers through it.
This is what royal casual must look like. Merlin swallows and tries not to squirm in his cheap, ill-fitting suit from Tesco that he hasn’t worn since graduation. He overslept this morning and spent even less time than usual trying to make himself presentable, his hurried attempts pitiable at best.
He fantasised sometimes about meeting Arthur again, years in the future, when Merlin is no longer a nobody. This isn’t at all what he had in mind. Judging by the way Arthur is looking him over up and down, Merlin looks every bit as pathetic as he feels.
“You two know each other?” Gwen asks, stepping into Merlin’s line of sight, eyeing them curiously.
“We’ve met,” Arthur says. He glances over at the screen and lets out an incredulous chuckle. “I should have known.”
Merlin shifts from foot to foot awkwardly, frowning. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he grumbles. “It was an anonymous contest.” He shoots a dark glance at a thoroughly confused Gwen. “At least it was supposed to be.”
Arthur glances at him, lifting an eyebrow. “It was anonymous up until the winner was chosen, Merlin. It can no longer stay that way, seeing as we have to contract you as a consultant for the construction.”
“But you don’t have to do that, do you?” Merlin huffs. “I mean, now that you know it was my project?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Let’s make something absolutely clear, shall we, Mister Emrys? Your project was chosen based purely on its advantages before all the other submitted works, and I would have contracted its architect regardless of who he or she was.”
“Really.” Merlin tilts his chin up stubbornly. “And if you’d known it was mine before you’d chosen it, you’d have gone for it anyway?”
Arthur gazes at him coolly, one eyebrow raised. “I suppose we’ll never know.”
Merlin seethes quietly, unable to come up with a retort.
“You can consult, can’t you?” Arthur leans a little closer to him. His tone is perfectly neutral and pleasant – a little on the soothing side, as if he’s talking to a skittish horse. “It’s a two-year contract with steady pay. Probably not as glorious as something else out there, but—”
“I’m not in this for the money,” Merlin snaps.
Gwen seems scandalized that anyone would dare talk to the Prince of Wales in that tone, but Arthur just smiles softly. Merlin hates him a little bit for the way that smile makes him feel.
“I know you’re not doing this for the money, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly. “But if we are to hire you – and we really want to – you’re to be paid, just like everyone else. Except me, of course.” Arthur’s eyes skim over him yet again. “But I don’t think you can afford to volunteer.”
Blood rushes to Merlin’s cheeks, his whole face growing hot. “You haven’t become any less of a prat in eight years.”
Gwen chokes, horrified, but Arthur just shakes his head, eyes bright with laughter. “Nor have you lost any of your spunk,” he parries. “Comfort to know.”
“As if you care,” Merlin mutters under his breath.
He doesn’t mean for anyone to hear, the words just slip out. Arthur’s mirth evaporates and he straightens up, every bit the aloof and polite heir to the British throne.
“So, will you be willing to work for us?”
“It’s a great opportunity for you, Merlin,” Gwen says, trying to catch his eye.
Merlin suppresses a sigh. He knows this. On the screen to his left, his beloved Camelot castle is still whirling around, demonstrating all its advantages, and Merlin knows he can’t walk away from this. He loved working on this project; he’d love to see it through.
Besides, the worst thing that could have happened to him here has already happened.
He very carefully doesn’t look at Arthur as he says, “Yes. I’d be – I’d be happy to.”
“Excellent,” Arthur says. He offers Merlin his hand. Merlin takes it in a daze, feeling Arthur’s palm engulfing his own, clasping briefly, warm and tight, before letting go. “Then I’m pretty sure Gwen has more paperwork for you to file.”
“Right.” Merlin nods numbly. “Sure.”
Obviously realising that Merlin isn’t going to start moving under his own power any time soon, Gwen begins to steer him out of the room with a firm hand on his elbow.
“Merlin.”
Merlin turns around in the doorway. Arthur is staring at the screen. “I really like your castle.”
Me too, Merlin thinks miserably, and follows Gwen out.
The moment the door closes, Arthur slumps against the desk, leaning on his hands. The strange buzzing in his ears that had started the moment Merlin was dragged into the room is only just beginning to recede. Arthur takes deep breaths, trying to convince his lungs they aren’t actually starving for air.
Merlin.
Eight years ago, Merlin was a skinny, peculiar-looking sixteen-year-old. He wasn’t ugly by any means, just coltish and awkward, his body shimmering on the verge of transforming into something else. Something that had only one word for it, now that the metamorphosis is, evidently, complete.
Gorgeous.
He isn’t just gorgeous, though, Arthur thinks with a strange pull of desperation. He’s gorgeous of the worst possible kind – the kind who doesn’t know it.
Arthur knows only too well how to deal with intentional seduction. People have been coming on to him left, right, and centre ever since he turned fourteen, and twice as much since he came out as Britain’s first openly bisexual royal five years later. He knows how to tactfully diffuse unwanted advances, perhaps even better than he knows the alphabet – considering that, with him, it’s always less of a matter of drunken groping and more of a matter of state.
But he’s helpless before someone who doesn’t realise his own charm, and Merlin is as clueless and alluring as Arthur remembers, only more, so much more so now.
Merlin had grown up tall, though he remained slim as ever. He filled out his body nicely, Arthur thinks, picturing broad shoulders and strong arms, emphasized by a suit that was a little too tight. Small waist, slender hips, long legs – and Arthur can’t help but remember... Merlin’s hair was short then, which made him look adorable. Now it’s curling in soft locks around his ears, grazing his collar, making Arthur’s hands itch to grab it.
His tie was askew, the upper button on his shirt undone. He looked like someone had grabbed him, pushed against the nearest vertical surface, and thoroughly debauched him before throwing him back into the room.
And Arthur doesn’t want to remember what Merlin really looks like, kissed breathless and panting with want, but Arthur’s brain has never sworn any kind of fealty to him.
He stares at the plasma screen unseeingly, and remembers.
When the Italian Prime Minister first offered the use of one of his villas to Uther, Arthur didn’t think highly of his chances. To his surprise, however, his father chose to recognise that Arthur was staggering under the weight of his coursework (exemplary, of course) and could really use a summer break before continuing to be a model student. This was how Arthur was dispatched to Italy on his own, with vague promises of Morgana and Uther joining him at some point.
At first, it was pure bliss. The villa was luxurious and empty, save for the staff of incredibly discreet servants. The town of Manfredonia was charming and welcoming, and Arthur enjoyed his relative anonymity. He knew that the agreement that Uther had with the press about leaving Arthur alone until he became of age in exchange for regular progress reports and photo shoots would probably expire soon, but, for now, it was freedom, and it felt wonderful.
Except it was June, and the season hadn’t started yet. No people who Arthur was allowed to socialise with were around, and by day three, he felt bored out of his mind.
He thought about exploring the town a little, but wandering off aimlessly had never made any sense to him. Besides, if Morgana ever found out he hadn’t even tried to familiarize himself with the local culture, she would nag him into eternity. (They had had an extremely enlightening argument once, in which Arthur had pointed out that he visited enough museums and galleries as it was for official functions and blasted photo ops, and Morgana, in return, had read him the riot act, the gist of which amounted to Arthur being a simpleminded barbarian.)
Having done a quick Google search, Arthur grabbed an English-Italian phrasebook and valiantly set off into the town, Leon trailing discreetly behind.
The fact that he got lost fairly quickly in the labyrinth of cheerful streets and sun-faded blinds on the windows was surprising only to Arthur himself. He could have done the smart thing and asked Leon, but Arthur preferred not to take that option unless absolutely necessary. Leon had been put in charge of his security detail and was actually a grown-up, but Arthur knew that neither of those things would stop him from mocking Arthur’s navigational skills mercilessly.
Arthur decided to do the next best thing and ask for directions. The moment the thought occurred to him, he spotted a perfect target: there was a boy around his age, leaning casually against a wall of what looked like a bakery, hiding under the shade of a balcony from the omnipresent sun.
Later, Arthur would ask himself how he could possibly have thought the boy was a local, considering that, even in the oppressing heat, he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. At the time, however, all Arthur had seen were intense blue eyes and the most amazing cheekbones.
He smiled as he walked toward the boy, his butchered Italian at the ready. The boy noticed his approach and grinned, eyebrows pitched slightly in curiosity.
“Buongiorno,” Arthur said, stumbling over the word. “Sto cercando, um, il museo di olio?”
The boy grinned wider, but said nothing in response. Arthur frowned, glancing at his phrasebook uncertainly. He might not have been fluent in five languages like Morgana, but he was fairly sure he’d gotten it right.
“Mi scusi,” he said. “Sono – oh, Christ – sto cercando—”
The boy laughed and lifted a hand. “Yeah, I got you the first time around, mate,” he said, chuckling. “But your Italian is so completely horrible, I just had to hear it one more time.”
“You—” Arthur sputtered.
He didn’t know where to begin – the boy simply fazed him. For starters, no one had ever called Arthur ‘mate,’ not even his classmates at Eton. No less shocking was that the boy clearly didn’t know who Arthur was. And finally, he let Arthur make a complete fool of himself tripping all over his tongue when—
“You’re English!”
The boy mock-scowled at him. “Welsh, actually, thank you very much.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Figures.”
The boy laughed again, throwing his hands up. “Hey, I could have made you suffer for much longer. And your pronunciation really is terrible. I didn’t even know you could do that to Italian.”
Arthur wasn’t too keen on accepting criticism at the best of times and frowned. “I don’t see you doing any better, Mister Language Expert.”
“Oh, I’m no expert.” The boy dismissed easily, paying no heed to Arthur’s tone. “But my Italian is better than yours, that’s for certain. I’m Merlin, by the way.” And he guilelessly stuck out his hand.
Arthur took it on the long-ingrained instinct that made him feel like a well-trained dog most days. “Arthur.”
He watched Merlin for any signs of recognition – he was Welsh, for God’s sake – but Merlin just smirked.
“Posh. I bet your middle name is something really horrible, like Bartholomew.”
Arthur coloured slightly. His full name was actually Arthur Henry Edward Philip Louis, but he wasn’t about to give Merlin more food for mockery.
“I really don’t see how anyone called Merlin has any place criticizing other people’s names.”
Merlin laughed. He seemed to do that a lot. “Touché. Look, so – I could walk you to your museum, if you want?” Arthur’s eyebrow shot up of its own volition, and Merlin blushed, adding hastily, “I mean, I could explain where it is, but you’d probably just get lost again.”
It was a marker of how completely bewitched Arthur was by that point that he had actually let the insult slide in favour of keeping the weird boy’s company for a while longer. Arthur had the strangest urge to poke and prod at him until he could understand what made him tick. From his battered canvas shoes to the tips of his funny ears, everything about Merlin was so utterly odd that the combination proved strangely compelling, in an unfamiliar way.
“Will I not deprive you of something?” Arthur asked, nodding uncertainly at the house behind Merlin.
“Nah.” Merlin shook his head and grabbed Arthur’s wrist. “Let’s go.”
Arthur was a little concerned with this eagerness, but it was hard to dwell on it with Merlin’s long fingers wrapped around his wrist as they dove into the crowd.
Arthur felt a little claustrophobic in the midst of it. There were too many people in too short a proximity to him, talking loudly – too loudly, really, – laughing, constantly moving around him. Personal space seemed like a non-existent concept here, and Arthur was trying not to hyperventilate.
But Merlin steered him ahead, chattering animatedly, and it was easy to focus on him, tuning out everything else. When Arthur told him where he was staying at ‘a family friend’s invitation,’ Merlin just rolled his eyes, which meant Arthur’s anonymity was safe as long as this boy was concerned.
Merlin was here as an exchange student, he told Arthur gamely, studying architecture and art. From the number of scholarships he mentioned casually, Arthur realised that Merlin must be quite a good student, but he didn’t give it much thought.
It was far more interesting to watch Merlin smile and wave at people he either knew or liked; all of them smiled and waved back. Merlin’s Italian seemed indeed superior, and Arthur listened to him engage in a rapid exchange with an elderly woman at a stand. She patted his cheek and tugged at his ear and made some complicated hand gesture that made Merlin turn red and laugh as he stole a glance back at Arthur. He came back with two roll-like things that smelled delicious and gave one to Arthur with a lopsided grin.
Merlin was obviously in love with both architecture and Italy. He was constantly pointing out things to Arthur, delighting in a crumbling façade of an old house or a miniscule, strange-looking symbol carved under some roof. Merlin was like an over-exuberant tour guide, talking Arthur’s ear off. Surprisingly, Arthur found that he didn’t mind one bit.
Until Merlin grabbed his arm and pulled him into a poorly lit shop of some kind, backing Arthur into a corner.
“What—”
“I don’t mean to alarm you,” Merlin said, leaning in closer. “But there’s a bloke following us – or rather following you. Don’t look now,” he whispered. “He stopped at the postcard stand over there. Big bloke, blond hair, though he’s probably trying to hide that he’s ginger.”
Arthur nearly gave the game away, looking across the street over Merlin’s shoulder to where Leon had indeed stopped beside a souvenir shop with an ever-patient look upon his face.
“Do you see him?” Merlin hissed urgently.
“Yes, I see him,” Arthur said, swallowing a grin. “A rather sinister character. Looks like a pervert.”
“Gingers can’t be trusted,” Merlin said with conviction. “Come on, we’ll shake him off.”
“What? Merlin, wait—”
But Merlin was already pushing him out the back door into a narrow, shadowy street that coiled between houses chaotically, making Arthur’s head spin. Merlin caught Arthur’s wrist again and they ran, starting to laugh halfway through it. The street ended abruptly with a fence, but Merlin had clearly anticipated that, because he turned to Arthur, breathless and grinning, and demanded, “Boost me up.”
Faltering momentarily, Arthur quickly recovered, grabbing Merlin by the waist.
“What are you doing?” Merlin laughed, half-turning in Arthur’s hold.
Arthur blinked. “You said—”
“You make a hand lock like this.” Merlin demonstrated, eyes dancing. “So that I can step on it. Then you push me up.”
“Oh.” Arthur said, letting go of Merlin with reluctance. “Of course.”
Merlin was laughing. “Didn’t you ever climb any fences? God, you posh types are weird.”
Arthur scowled, but then Merlin’s hands were on his shoulders, his foot secured on Arthur’s interlocked hands, and Arthur was distracted.
“Ready?” Merlin grinned. “On three.”
Even with Arthur’s help, Merlin had some trouble securing himself on top of the wide stone ledge. He wriggled and squirmed, and Arthur laughed so hard at the picture he made, it was possible he pulled a muscle.
Merlin turned back toward him finally, red-faced, but grinning. “Prat. See if I give you a hand up or just leave you here for that ginger pervert to find.”
Arthur looked the fence over sceptically and rolled his eyes. “As if I need your help, Merlin.”
He took a couple of steps back to gather momentum and jumped up on the run, high enough to plant his hands on the top, and then pulled his body up, his arms straining, until he could swing a leg over the fence and sit, facing Merlin.
Who was gaping.
“Wow,” Merlin breathed at last, staring at Arthur’s arms, eyes slightly glazed over. “Wow.”
“You said that already,” Arthur pointed out helpfully, not gloating at all. But then Merlin’s fingers reached out to touch his biceps, tracing the outline of the muscles wonderingly, and Arthur’s smugness promptly yielded place to something entirely different.
“Are you an athlete?” Merlin asked, still rubbing Arthur’s arms as if he forgot he was doing it.
To Arthur’s utter horror, he could feel himself becoming hard. It was probably only natural, given the combination of the morning’s excitement, the run, physical exertion that made Arthur’s heart pump blood at double speed, and, most of all, the awestruck expression splashing in Merlin’s bright blue eyes unchecked.
“Not all of us are such pathetic wimps like you, Merlin,” Arthur drawled, pulling away, and swinging his leg to the other side of the fence so that he was no longer straddling it.
He hopped down then, knees bent to absorb the impact, and straightened up, surreptitiously adjusting himself in his shorts.
“Show off,” Merlin grumbled, and jumped off the fence, too. He didn’t have the first idea of coordination and would have ended with his face smashed into the ground, had Arthur not caught him.
“Dear God, you really are something else,” Arthur muttered, acutely aware that Merlin was standing too close. “How you haven’t broken your neck yet, I’ve no idea.”
Merlin grinned at him ruefully, panting against Arthur’s neck and making him shiver. He smelled of clean sweat and midday sun, a little bit of drafting ink, and a lot of something nameless, unidentifiable and delicious that was making Arthur’s mouth water. He felt dizzy. He was still bracing Merlin, one hand cradling his shoulder, the other pressing against the sharp outline of his hipbone, shockingly tangible under the worn denim.
Merlin’s eyes zeroed in on Arthur’s lips, and he blushed, stepping back hurriedly and looking anywhere but at Arthur.
“Well, come on then. The museum’s that way.”
“Merlin, wait,” Arthur called, walking quickly to catch up. “I don’t really want to go to that museum.”
Merlin grinned. “Honestly? I was surprised you wanted to in the first place. It’s really boring.”
“You wouldn’t mind, um.” Arthur trailed off, glancing around the busy square. “That is, if you could show me around, maybe?”
When he finally did look up, Merlin was beaming. “I thought you’d never ask.”
It took Leon two and a half hours to find them, by which time Arthur had managed to be dropped in a fountain, shouted at for walking shirtless (it was still drying, okay?) into a church by some angry women, took about a dozen photographs of pigeons and children (and one, rather blurry, of Merlin), and was generally having the time of his life. When Leon walked into the shadow of an ice cream parlour and headed straight for where Arthur and Merlin were having an ice cream feast all to themselves, Arthur felt a pang of guilt.
“Wow, you sure are persistent,” Merlin said as he looked up and spotted Leon looming over them.
Leon’s face was ostensibly calm, but Arthur knew a storm when he saw one.
“Your Highness, if you are quite finished.”
In the ensuing flood of explanations, Merlin went from disbelief to amusement to utter horror in the span of five short minutes and was finally left gaping at Arthur, terrified.
“Oh my God. I kidnapped the Prince of Wales. Oh my God.” He looked up at Leon. “What are they going to do to me?”
“Drag you to the Tower,” said Leon, who wasn’t in a charitable mood after chasing after them for the better part of the day. “If you cooperate, they’ll chop your head off real quick – you won’t feel a thing.”
“Oh God,” Merlin groaned again and glared at Arthur, who was laughing. “You’re such a prat, you know that?”
“Careful, Merlin.” Arthur smirked. “You’re talking to royalty.”
“I’m talking to an arsehole!” Merlin snapped. “And don’t give me that look – they can only kill me once, and I’m pretty sure I’m doomed already.” Arthur snorted. Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were, you utter pillock?”
Leon tutted, but said nothing. Arthur threw his hands up, grinning. “How was I supposed to know you’re the only Brit alive who didn’t know what his prince looked like?”
“I don’t watch much telly,” Merlin grumbled. “Some of us have to actually work and study, Sire.”
“Well, there you go, Merlin. It’s not my fault you’re some kind of anti-social hermit.”
“I’m not anti-social!” Merlin protested. Suddenly, catching Arthur completely by surprise, he resolved into giggles. “Oh my God,” Merlin wheezed. “I’m Gregory Peck.”
“What?” Arthur blinked, confused.
Merlin laughed harder, pointing an unsteady finger at him. “And you’re – you’re Audrey Hepburn. Oh my God, this is too good.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” Arthur demanded, and then saw Leon’s lips twitching.
“I believe Mister Emrys is referring to Roman Holiday,” Leon said, smiling pleasantly at Arthur all of a sudden. Merlin dropped his head into his hands on the table, shaking with laughter. “It is a film about a certain princess—”
“We’re in Italy!” Merlin managed, breathless, clutching at the table. “We’re in bloody Italy!”
Arthur glanced from one to the other and groaned. “I hate you both.”
Leon’s eyebrows furrowed. “On that note, Your Highness, we really have to go.”
Arthur nodded, the plastic spoon he’d been toying with snapping in his hand. He winced.
Merlin’s laughter faded slowly as he peered into Arthur’s face. “So I guess that’s it, then?” he asked, his voice quiet by the last word, eyes startlingly sober.
Something clenched tightly in Arthur’s chest at the thought. “No, of course not, Merlin, don’t be an idiot. This isn’t the Middle Ages. I have to go now, but if you want to – hang out? You could maybe come to the villa tomorrow?” Merlin didn’t say anything, and Arthur pressed on. “There’s a swimming pool up there, you know. Pretty impressive. And the playroom is stocked with videogames. And there’s a tennis court, though I don’t suppose you play? But I could teach you? If you want? Or we could just chill and—”
“I have class in the morning,” Merlin said, a small smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. “But I could stop by afterwards? It’s up there on the mountain, right? Where that single road leads?”
“Yep.” Arthur shot to his feet, as if afraid that, if he lingered, Merlin would change his mind. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Merlin gave him a rueful grin and an awkward wave.
On their way back, Leon was mostly silent, if still disapproving. When they reached the car, he said only, “I don’t condone what you did, Your Highness.”
“Look, Leon, I’m really—”
Leon held up a hand. “Arthur. Having met your friend, I – understand.”
“Oh.” Arthur swallowed and blushed for some reason. “Right.”
Leon’s expression was not unkind. “You’ll have to be very careful, Arthur.”
Arthur spent the short ride up trying desperately not to think about what Leon had meant.
Merlin did indeed drop by the next day, extremely shy and jumpy, when Leon greeted him at the gates. Arthur poked fun at him mercilessly and pushed him into the pool in his clothes, though he thoughtfully snatched the folder with sketches from Merlin’s hands first. Merlin didn’t think much of Arthur’s consideration and retaliated by dropping ice cream down the back of Arthur’s shirt later, making him jump and scream in a manner that no one would have called particularly manly. Leon gazed up at the sky a lot that afternoon, probably praying, which, in light of his atheism, was especially ominous.
Hours trickled into a steady stream of days. Arthur had various engagements every other day and Merlin went to classes, but they spent as much time together as they could in between.
Merlin was hopeless at tennis and not particularly fond of rock climbing, but he could walk all day long without tiring. He dragged Arthur along as he explored the old castle, the basilica, and the port and bargained at the marketplace for some weird-looking trinkets he didn’t really need, as well as a watch that Merlin liked because it was on a thick black leather bracelet and was supposedly waterproof and not because it was a fake Patek Philippe. When Arthur pointed that out, Merlin just blinked at him and asked if it meant it was Japanese.
He tried to teach Arthur some proper Italian, laughing when Arthur complained that his tongue simply didn’t curl that way. Merlin chatted away happily most of the time. He was like a walking encyclopaedia of city planning and art history; and Arthur no longer wondered how it was possible that Merlin had no idea who he was. Clearly, the only time when Merlin’s nose wasn’t buried in a book was when his head was high up in the clouds.
Arthur had no idea why the thought of it awoke such unbearable, inexplicable fondness in him. He had never been accused of being soft in his life – he played rugby, for God’s sake. But Merlin was like a clumsy, blue-eyed kitten who had claws, all right, but no clue as to how to use them. Except for playing, obviously.
Arthur might have considered himself to be as tough as they came, but he’d have to be a stone cold mass murderer not to melt at the sight of Merlin, just a little.
He compensated by being as much of a prat to Merlin as the boy believed him to be, and pulling all the pigtails Merlin didn’t have almost religiously. He valiantly ignored Leon’s smirks and instead threatened to fire him five times a day.
Leon took them out into the sea, much to Merlin’s delight. He teased Arthur for being too delicate when Arthur refused to join him for a swim in the open water. Arthur scowled, but the Adriatic was bloody cold in June, and he could feel his toes freezing when he so much as tried the water. Merlin just laughed, swimming around the boat in circles, fearless and unexpectedly graceful in the water, as he scared away the seagulls. He never stopped with the taunting, but Arthur couldn’t find it in him to complain when he got to pull Merlin back onboard, wet and shivering and laughing and letting Arthur rub his arms and back until he was warm again.
June melted into July, and both Merlin and Arthur became more busy: Merlin, with the additional seminars and classes that started with the arrival of the two long-expected professors; and Arthur, with all the obligatory socializing he was expected to do, now that the season had started and people of import began trickling into the seaside.
Inviting Merlin along was an exercise in futility. Merlin’s eyes would go wide with panic, and Arthur wouldn’t see him at all for three days afterwards, until Merlin could be sure that Arthur had changed his mind. Arthur didn’t understand how meeting his friends, most of whom were children of the European political and business elite, could possibly be any more intimidating than being on speaking terms with the Prince of Wales, and Merlin seemed to have no problem with that – but Merlin wouldn’t relent.
When he finally did say yes, Arthur suspected it was only because the party in question was to be held on a yacht, and Merlin was as fascinated by ships of all kinds almost as much as he was by old buildings.
Arthur didn’t know what he expected when he told Merlin to clean up a bit, but it definitely wasn’t the sight that greeted him at the villa’s gates where Merlin was waiting for him. He wore a pair of really nice black jeans, only kept on his hips by virtue of a leather belt that looked suspiciously like the real deal, and a tight-fitting, navy blue button-down, open at the collar, the thin material accentuating all of his angles, the colour bringing out his eyes. Even his hair was styled in something close to fashionable, and Arthur couldn’t help but stare.
Merlin was blushing, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.
“You, um—” Arthur started, pointing vaguely. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, you look really… How did you—?”
Merlin chuckled nervously. “I told the guys at camp I had to attend some really posh party. They, um, pulled resources.”
It was Arthur’s turn to blush. All this time he’d been nagging Merlin to come along, he hadn’t realised that just dressing appropriately might be outside of someone’s price range.
“Yes, well.” Arthur swallowed. “That’ll do.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Leon wouldn’t let me drive; I hope you don’t mind.”
Merlin glanced over Arthur’s shoulder, smiled shyly, and waved. “Hi, Leon.”
“Good evening, Mister Emrys,” came an amused reply. “If you gentlemen are quite ready, the car is waiting.”
In the car, Merlin sat so stiff and unusually quiet that Arthur had to suppress a groan.
“Hey.” He reached out and squeezed Merlin’s knee. Merlin jumped and looked at him, startled. “You realise they’re just people, right? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I hope they don’t all have your charming personality,” Merlin shot back. “Then I’d be in real trouble.”
Arthur just grinned.
Valiant’s yacht was beautiful and luxurious Arthur wasn’t particularly fond of its owner, ever since they first met in Nice two years ago. Valiant tried to win Morgana’s favour and, when that failed, got drunk and tumbling Gwen would make a great consolation prize. The resulting scandal was quickly hushed up in order not to cripple the relationship with the remaining Bourbons that had been problematic for some time already. The incident had left Arthur with a sour taste of French aristocracy in general and a strong dislike of Valiant in particular.
Arthur couldn’t fault him for taste, though. Merlin was whirling his head around, wide-eyed with delight and fear, and Arthur had to sink his nails hard into his own palm to rein in the urge to reach out and grab Merlin’s hand.
“Just be yourself,” he murmured, his hand on the small of Merlin’s back as he went through the first round of introductions.
As it turned out, Arthur needn’t have worried. Merlin only had to shyly compliment Vivian’s earrings, mumbling something about classicism in jewellery design and Troy, to be promptly kidnapped by the nearest assortment of young women, who only surrendered him to the next group after a barely civil verbal catfight. Amused, Arthur watched from across the room as they cooed at Merlin, petting his hair and plying him with drinks, ignoring his embarrassed objections.
Satisfied that Merlin was having a good time, Arthur went about finding his own entertainment, reconnecting with old friends and enjoying the fact that alcohol was flowing freely. He even let Owain and Pellinore drag him out to the dance floor, which Arthur normally tried to avoid at all costs. He just didn’t have what it took to just shake and gyrate to whatever horrible excuse was passing as music and ended up shifting his weight back and forth, rigid and out of rhythm. He was buzzed just enough for it not to bother him tonight, though, so he laughed and allowed himself to be swayed, a beer bottle in his hand, girls in daring outfits surrounding him in a hot, tight slide of bodies.
Arthur didn’t know how much time he spent there before drifting back to the bar, his whole body tingling with energy. At some point it occurred to him to check up on Merlin, who seemed to be nowhere in sight. Arthur frowned slightly, pushed off the teenage dream of a very underage and very pissed Lady something-or-other, and went in search of his friend.
He passed Vivian, who just smiled at him dopily, barely emerging for a handful of seconds from a drunken snog fest she was having with a rather dazed-looking waiter. Arthur left her alone, knowing there’d be no use. Bella only shrugged and laughed at Arthur in response to his question, and Beth looked like she couldn’t remember her own name, never mind Merlin’s.
It was one of the impeccably trained and habitually blank-faced catering staff who finally pointed Arthur in the direction of the upper deck, mentioning something about Valiant as well. Arthur thanked the man with a nod and rushed up the narrow stairs, now deeply concerned.
The lights were out up here; Arthur’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Then he spotted two figures in the far end of the deck, and felt his stomach drop.
Valiant had Merlin pressed up against a bulkhead, one hand under Merlin’s shirt, the other clutching his nape in an unforgiving grip. Merlin was smiling, but it was a tight, pained kind of grimace, as if he was still trying to make nice. His hands were pressed against Valiant’s chest, pushing ineffectually as he tried to weasel out of Valiant’s grip.
Arthur was moving before he knew it. “There you are, Merlin,” he said in a tone that was anything but casual. “It’s time we headed back.”
If Arthur had any doubts about his reading of the situation, the unabashed, naked relief in Merlin’s eyes as he looked at him was more than enough of a reassurance.
Valiant was clearly pissed and not as easily dissuaded. “Fuck off, Arthur,” he snapped without looking at him, making no move to release Merlin. “We’re a little busy here, so if you don’t mind—”
“I think you’ll find that Merlin minds,” Arthur said, his tone freezing. “Let him go, Valiant. Now.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Valiant asked, but he did push himself off of Merlin, turning to glare at Arthur.
“Because I told you to,” Arthur snapped.
Valiant’s expression morphed into a leer. “Oh, my mistake, Your Highness. I thought he was just a piece of fresh meat. But if he’s your personal fucktoy, you should either learn to share or stop flaunting him in people’s faces.”
Merlin, who seemed to have finally recovered from shock, emitted some kind of indignant exclamation, but Arthur barely heard him.
He had no idea how it happened. He wasn’t even that drunk, and he’d never had such poor impulse control in his life. But the next thing he knew was his fist connecting with Valiant’s jaw with a satisfying crack, and then Valiant was stumbling backward, his knees catching the low railing, and he was flying overboard and out of Arthur’s view.
“Fuck,” Merlin gasped and dashed forward to look.
Arthur joined him, drawn by some kind of morbid curiosity. If Valiant had hit his head on something; if he so much as grazed the board...
“Arthur, you could have killed him,” Merlin stammered breathlessly.
But there were ripples on the surface of the water, and a moment later, Valiant emerged, glaring up and shouting, “You’re a dead man, Pendragon! You’re fucking dead!”
“Right,” Arthur drawled, dark satisfaction coiling low in his belly. “That’s our cue.” He grabbed Merlin’s wrist and dragged him downstairs and off the yacht while Leon fished an enraged and still very much drunk Valiant out of the water.
Arthur shoved Merlin into somebody’s Porsche, the keys conveniently in the ignition, and jumped in after him, driving off faster than the indignant shouts behind them registered.
Merlin maintained some kind of stunned, dead silence as Arthur carelessly curbed the twists and turns of the serpentine road leading up to the villa, barely pausing to wave at the security guards at the gates. The flourish of gravel that Arthur raised as he stopped abruptly in front of the house had barely hit the ground when Merlin was out of the car, running unsteadily into the relative darkness of the garden.
“Merlin, wait!” Arthur yelled after him, hastily killing the engine. “Shit.”
He sprinted after Merlin, who hadn’t made it very far after all. He’d stopped with his hands braced on his knees, leaning forward and panting as though he’d just discovered oxygen.
“Merlin,” Arthur called uncertainly, coming to a halt beside him, reaching out tentatively. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Don’t touch me.” Merlin flinched away. “Don’t – don’t come near me.”
Heart sinking, Arthur lifted his hands up. “Calm down. Just talk to me, Merlin, please. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Merlin repeated incredulously, straightening up and staring at Arthur. “I should never have come to that party. I should never have tried to make friends with people who – who treat others like – like – I’m not your bloody fucktoy!”
“Merlin!” Blood rushed to Arthur’s face. “I would never—”
“Well, maybe not that part,” Merlin snapped. “But I am just a toy for you, aren’t I? A fucking plaything? God, I was so stupid – what was I thinking? And what happens when you get bored of me, when this ‘fresh meat’ isn’t so fresh anymore? Am I to entertain your pals next?”
“God, would you just SHUT UP?” Arthur snarled. “I’m sorry I took you to that party, Merlin, and I’m sorry you had to hear that, but if you stopped being such a delicate bloody flower for one second and think, you’d see that I’m nothing like Valiant and you’re being horribly unfair!”
“Fuck off, Arthur,” Merlin bit out, but his lips were trembling and his eyes darted away. “Just – just leave me alone.”
He turned his back, and Arthur could do nothing but stare at him, helpless and frightened – really frightened, for the first time in his life. Which, of course, made him lash out.
“Honestly, Merlin, I know that Val got a little too handsy for comfort, but he was drunk – it happens. You’re acting like no one has ever tried to pull you before!”
Merlin whirled around, fists clenched. “‘It happens’?” he repeated, incensed.
Arthur bit his lip hard. “Fuck – That’s not what I meant.”
Merlin stepped forward, advancing on him angrily. “Has it occurred to you, you selfish, self-centred pillock, that not all of us have been fit for magazine covers since childhood? That maybe tonight was the first time that anyone has even looked at me like that – and that I wasn’t ready for some bloke I don’t even know to grope my arse and shove his dick between my legs like he had the right?”
Flushed with humiliation, Merlin stood tall, his whole body ringing with indignation. “You’ll have to excuse me, Your Highness, for nursing my delicate sensibilities. I’m a chav; you can’t expect more from me.”
That was too much, way too much for Arthur, who growled in frustration at his own inability to communicate what he wanted to with his words, and he couldn’t stand to watch Merlin hurting one second longer.
Not pausing to think, he grabbed Merlin by the back of his neck, jerked him forward, and kissed him.
Merlin gasped and tried to pull away, but Arthur held him fast. “Please,” he muttered. “Please let me. Please, Merlin, just – just let me do this. I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you.”
Merlin stilled in his arms, wary, waiting. Arthur sent silent grace to whatever gods watched over them, because Merlin still had enough trust in him to allow this, to let Arthur hold him. Arthur snaked an arm around his waist and leaned into Merlin slowly, carefully, pressing silent apologies and endearments to his mouth, tiny affectionate nips and kisses that melted on Merlin’s lips, sweet and gentle, until Merlin sighed quietly and sagged a little, the fight draining out of him.
“Not a toy, not anyone’s toy,” Arthur murmured, cradling his face. “Wanted to rip his fucking arms off. Should never have made you go, but you were avoiding me and I wanted to see you. I missed you so fucking much, Merlin.”
Merlin’s hands came to rest on Arthur’s hips as he let out a shuddering breath. “Prat,” he whispered resignedly. “Kiss me already.”
And Arthur only meant to offer comfort, but he couldn’t turn that down, either. It was glorious, if a little awkward. Merlin’s inexperience showed in every stuttering slide of his lips, in every surprised gasp that he made, and Arthur cursed himself mentally a dozen times over for having been so completely thoughtless. He licked Merlin’s mouth open as gently as he could, but it was hard to restrain himself with Merlin making impatient, downright sinful noises and pulling him closer, opening up eagerly as if he couldn’t get enough of Arthur, as if however long it lasted would never be enough.
“Okay?” Arthur asked when they parted for air, Merlin’s arms wrapped around him tightly, like Arthur was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Yeah,” Merlin breathed, moaning when Arthur bent to lick at his throat, teeth worrying the pulse point.
Merlin dropped his head back, his hips slamming into Arthur’s as he arched in a beautiful, seamless line, leaving the pale expanse of his throat open and defenceless. Arthur breathed him in deeply, blindsided by want, kissing and nibbling mindlessly, until Merlin’s whole body began to hum with pleasure in his arms. Merlin’s fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair as he caught his mouth in another kiss, laughing into it when they swayed, nearly losing their balance, and Arthur grinned and dipped him just for the hell of it.
Arthur was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t register another presence at first, completely missing a startled, shocked gasp and a muffled curse. It wasn’t until the harsh white light flooded the shadowy lawn that he looked up, blinking blearily, arms still wrapped around Merlin.
On the front steps of the house, Morgana was standing with her hand clasped over her mouth, staring at them agape.
Behind her, in the doorway, was King Uther.
Part 2
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Date: 2011-12-23 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-07 09:57 pm (UTC)