Happy Merlin Holidays, luisadeza! [2/2]

[merlin-hols.livejournal.com]

Outside a light dusting of snow waits, already covering the cars. Great big clumps drift down from a rolling duvet sky, and Merlin sticks out his hands and watches as the snow lands, enraptured like a child with a snow globe who has no idea how the white stuff got inside. His eyes are so bright and full of life Gwaine can’t help but pull him into a kiss by his collar. Merlin flails, arms hesitating before coming to wrap around Gwaine’s neck, and Gwaine holds him tight and lets out a tiny laugh against his mouth. At first it’s all pretty soft and chaste and Gwaine thinks maybe Merlin’s shy, but then his arms tighten and he presses closer and they a trade hot, slick kiss while the snow falls. Gwaine’s lungs turn heavy with cold and Merlin, the thought of someone so brilliant and lovely wanting to do this with him, and they break apart for breath and share a blue cloud. Merlin’s eyes are grinning, his nose a bit pink, and they give in to the urge for another kiss, this one slow and so fucking deep Gwaine feels it in his toes.

Eventually amongst mutters about freezing to death they walk down the road, clinging to each other’s arms and slipping on the ice. On the corner the yellow flashing lights of a gritting lorry make soundless fire in the sky, and there’s enough snow to make a ball with, so Gwaine grabs a handful up and tosses it at Merlin. He splutters, affronted, and throws a compact ball he was apparently already preparing back, darting out of the way and sliding with a whoa on the pavement. They carry on the fight, not caring it’s gone two in the morning as they skid and call each other names and mock each other’s throws, the draped quiet of the snow stealing them a moment from the world as perfect and contained as any trapped in glass.

Numb with cold, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead thanks to Merlin’s surprisingly accurate aim, Gwaine jogs down the fire escape which leads from the pavement to the entrance to his flat, unlocks and pushes the door open. Merlin follows, ducking inside. Shaking the snow out of his hair Gwaine turns to close the door, half a phrase about the state of the place and sorry about the lack of heating on his lips, but before he can utter them Merlin gathers him into a kiss, fingers pressing frigid lines onto his face, tasting him in sigh-drenched pecks and longer swipes of his tongue. There’s a flicker of fourteen-year-old fervour in it, like this isn’t merely a prelude; Merlin would be happy kissing him all night. Slightly less innocent ends in mind, Gwaine kicks the door closed and unhooks Merlin’s buttons, exploring the snugness between his shirt and the silky lining of his coat, warming his hands as he feels a path over the bumps of his ribs and around. Merlin writhes against him, tiny protest noises turning eager as they slip out of his mouth, which is so deliciously warm and keen Gwaine only pulls away so he can nose up to Merlin’s ear and whisper:

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

The salty, woolly scent of Merlin’s hair giddies his thoughts and he nibbles the lobe brushing his lips. Merlin sags like someone’s just kicked him to the back of his knees, catching himself around Gwaine’s neck, and Gwaine thinks they’re both a bit too swoony for grown men but hopefully they can blame it on the drink. He slips Merlin’s hat off and stuffs it into his pocket, and Merlin looks at him with large, glassy eyes. He picks a snow-damp strand of hair off Gwaine’s cheek, and he’s so fucking sweet about it Gwaine can’t help but smooth his hair down too, then ruffle it up again into a kittenish fuzz before slipping his hand to the warmth inside his collar, thumbing back and forth.

“So where are your etchings?” Merlin says, glancing around, one eyebrow slightly cocked.

Gwaine resists the urge to see the place with Merlin’s eyes: scant, tatty furniture and bare walls which speak of a life spent everywhere and nowhere and only ever minus figures in the bank. He tightens his grip, pressing close so Merlin can feel how hard he’s getting – like being turned on makes up for all his failings.

“In the bedroom. On the ceiling. That’s where everyone keeps them.”

Merlin swallows and meets his eye, and before he can have a second thought about what the fuck he’s doing with a travelling paint salesman who lives in a basement on the worst street in town, Gwaine nips at his lip, playful save for the little groan which accompanies it. Merlin kisses him, a twinge of nervy intensity in it, and with two dull shushes they both get out of their damp coats and leave them to the floor.

Gwaine reaches for Merlin’s belt and leads him to his room. There, he goes to turn on the light but thinks better of it, because his bedroom is arguably worse than the lounge. For one, there’s not a bed in it, just a mattress on the floor with a couple of aging duvets in mismatched colours – a violent blue and red stripe like toothpaste and the other dirty green – and for two, the lack of under-the-bed space means he had nowhere to kick all his crap to hide it and it’s making an installation called Endless Piles of Shit on the floor.

“It’s – ”

“Cool,” Merlin says, voice thin and a bit high. “I like sleeping on the floor.”

Gwaine can’t tell if he’s being kind or if he means it, but his breath’s fast and his cock’s interested and in five minutes neither of them will give a fuck if it’s Kensington Palace or a garden shed as long as they’re horizontal. They take a step towards it together and then another, this time covering each other’s mouths and necks in kisses, and distracted Merlin trips on a shoe and stumbles into the chest of drawers, fingers curled against Gwaine’s shirt to take him with him. He makes a kiss-muffled, “Ow,” against Gwaine’s lips as they come to rest, all cross-eyed and pouting at the end of Gwaine’s nose, and Gwaine laughs but thinks: fuck, you’re charming, even when you’re clumsy.

A breath that’s gratifyingly close to a gasp spills out of Merlin’s mouth as they connect again, stomach to stomach, cocks just brushing, and Gwaine slides his hands down over the small, firm hump of Merlin’s arse, manoeuvring him tighter against him. Merlin gives out a surprised noise as he squeezes, fingers settling and tugging in his wet hair, and Gwaine mouths at his neck then kisses the front of Merlin’s shirt, sinking to a crouch. He lifts Merlin’s hem, exposing a crevice of pale skin and a dark trail of hair, and drops a kiss to the denim covering his hip where he bumped it. Almost chair-spin dizzy with the sight of Merlin’s cock caught pointing the way from his zip to his navel, he nuzzles against the worn, thin denim, undoes the skin-flushed metal of Merlin’s belt. He pops the button beneath, and slides to his feet at the same time as slipping his hand inside, elastic of Merlin’s boxers tight on his wrist. He collects Merlin’s mouth in a kiss – or tries to – but Merlin slackens to a groan as Gwaine’s fingers work over him.

Gwaine grins against his cheek, and Merlin’s hips stutter into his touch. He presses his forehead into Gwaine’s before fisting his hair, making the damp, straggly ends draw a shiver up Gwaine’s spine. Stiflingly tight inside his own jeans Gwaine walks him back against the wall, pressing his cock into Merlin’s hip, Merlin so fucking hot and eager against his palm. He mutters a tiny fluttered moan, and Gwaine undoes the first buttons of his shirt one-handed, kissing his collarbone as he exposes it to make up for the freezing air with his mouth.

“Feel free to join in any time, Merlin,” he murmurs. Merlin looks at him, dazed and doe-like, and then fumbles with his buckle, hurries a kiss to Gwaine’s mouth but it’s mostly frustrated huff. Gwaine laughs and nips at his chin. “I was just teasing, Merlin. I don’t mind if you want me to do all the work.”

With his free hand he unbuttons his own shirt until it’s sliding towards the floor and catching on his forearm, capturing Merlin’s lip in a proper kiss again, coaxing with his tongue, his fingers matching the rhythm on Merlin’s cock. Merlin’s breath turns ragged, skull falling back against the plaster with a dull thunk. Gwaine nips at his neck and draws his fingers up quickly, and Merlin gives one big squirm onto his toes and what would be away were it not for the wall.

“Sh – ”

The rest of the word turns into a sharp, whispered inhale, and ordinarily Gwaine would think he’d made Merlin’s control shatter and he was about to find himself on his back, but Merlin’s hand covers his and holds it still.

“What?” he says. “You – you change your mind?”

Gwaine’s heart canters at the thought, and Merlin meets his eye, a tiny pucker of a frown between his eyebrows, his breath loud and short, expression saying he doesn’t know whether to stuff Gwaine in his mouth all at once or run away. He removes his hand fairly purposefully and rests it on Gwaine’s chest, just over where his pulse leaves heavy footfalls on his ribs.

“I just – it’s new. Very new.”

“New? Because I’m new, or – ” Merlin swallows and rolls his eyes, and it takes Gwaine half a dozen heartbeats but then: “You’re not – Merlin, are you a virgin?”

The word sounds ridiculous on his lips – he can’t have uttered it in relation to anything but that damn Madonna song in years – but Merlin screws his eyes shut, his mouth pulled into a forced grin turned grimace. He lets out this tiny, wobbling, high noise of reply, and Gwaine’s thoughts free-fall through the night, trying to see it all in the light of the question. With horrible, sickening clarity he realises of course, of course he’s a virgin: it was all there in his shy kisses and his sweet nervousness and his stumbles and this – it was all over this, because if he’s honest, none of this has really gone the way he thought going out with an art student would. Inelegantly all of his thoughts crash land on the word:

“Shit.”

Merlin drops his head onto Gwaine’s shoulder with a slap. He stays there, sagged between Gwaine and the wall for what feels like an era – and Gwaine’s heart just carries on stupidly thunking, his hand still in Merlin’s pants, his thoughts empty of everything but this useless fucking fuckity hell and a vague not-plan to take Merlin back to the lounge, make him a cup of tea, and pretend this wretched, awkward moment never happened. Against his skin Merlin’s face twists with a fresh wince, and he grumbles like an injured tiger cub.

“You must think I’m such a loser.”

“To be honest, mostly I’m just really, really aware I have my hand on your dick,” Gwaine says. Merlin gives a short, hot snigger, peers out – lost and terrified and pleading with him to be kind. Were Merlin anyone else Gwaine thinks he’d probably joke: so that’s where you’ve been all my life. A monastery, but affection curls in his veins at the sight of him and dumbly he just wants to make this all right. “Hey, it’s – ” Still have my hand on his dick. “I’m just going to move this into more neutral territory for a second.”

With a twang of elastic Gwaine shifts his fingers, and once his hand’s free his shirt slides to the floor. In the wake of the noise the whole world seems to have gone quiet, and the cold now they’re not all over each other goosebumps his skin, but he doesn’t think that’s the reason his insides feel braced for a shiver. Everything – even the way he’s breathing – feels precarious, balanced on the idea that this is the moment he decides to either turn his sketch of a crush into something full colour or rip it into pieces.

At first he hadn’t thought about Merlin as more than a Friday distraction, but at some point between texts or jokes about the Renaissance or maybe even snowballs, more crept in. He started to think about this gallery in Vienna which houses nothing but fakes and watching Merlin be all baffled and amused by them, going to that cave in Denmark he’s always wanted to see and him touching the walls with awe, or heading to Royston Cave where the carvings on the walls have been mused over by pagans and knights alike and talking about ley lines and who the fuck hollows out and paints a beehive in a rock. In his head it’s not a sketch of a crush anymore but a vague plan for a series, and it takes more than an unexpected case of virginity to lay waste to that. He touches Merlin’s side, scuffing the rough plaid with his palm, wanting to run his hand to Merlin’s heart to see if it’s pounding like his. Merlin dips his head, his fingers tightening on Gwaine’s stomach where he’s still clutching at recalcitrant buckle like if he lets go he’ll fall off the world.

“Sorry.”

“Hey – no. Whatever bullshit thing you think I’m thinking, I’m just surprised,” Gwaine says, and leans right into his ear to brush the words: “because you’re very, very sexy, and talented, and lovely.”

Merlin meets his eye, tentative and disbelieving, like someone has drawn his pupils with a quick scribble of charcoal. Gwaine touches his chin, hoping he’s being reassuring or something in the rough colour palette of it.

“I’m a moron. I should have realised,” Gwaine says.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Looking back, yes. Problem is I wasn’t looking back, I was thinking about – ” Gwaine tries to swallow down the unbidden images in his head, the ones where Merlin’s a wanton nymphomaniac, and wonders if it would make things better or worse if he rearranged his jeans. He thinks about Leon’s baked polenta and how they’d agreed it tasted exactly like two-year-old washing up sponge to try and damp down his erection. “ – well, that doesn’t matter. So,” he says, with forced gusto. “You want to – ” Hell. What do you do with someone when you bring them home in the middle of the night and you’re not going fuck? Damn, this is probably why people have etchings – as a backup plan. “ – watch TV? I could make tea? Or – whiskey. I think a whiskey and a really bad late night film is just what – ”

“I didn’t want you to stop,” Merlin whispers, and he pecks a kiss to Gwaine’s mouth, leaves his lips there while he murmurs: “I want to do whatever you do. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”

Merlin coaxes him into a proper kiss – just nudging his lips open, then slipping his tongue into Gwaine’s mouth. At first he’s cautious as if he expects to be pushed away like an irritation, but when Gwaine doesn’t he shifts up off the wall to press them together, kiss sloppy and desperate and a fair bit more persuasive than polenta as far as Gwaine’s cock’s concerned. His fingers stray over Gwaine’s crotch, shaking a little but actually managing to undo his buckle this time. They hesitate on the zip, and faintly Gwaine remembers what it was like: desire and doubt tangled together until the only thing in your head’s a gritted Jesus fucking Christ of determination, fear, and knee-wobbling lust; rolling inexorably forward seeking more and more of that spark-bright terrifying, exhilarating sensation like a marble in a valley with no fucking clue how lost it could get until it tips over a cliff and plummets with no way back up.

Gwaine gently eases away, and Merlin chases him, mouth open and eager for another kiss until Gwaine puts a hand on his chest. Merlin looks at him, starkly wanting and confused, and the next moment has a chasm in it while Gwaine desperately tries not to imagine those eyes flaring with newness and awe as he shows Merlin what it’s like to do every single thing it’s possible to do with another person. He does picture it in spite of his efforts, and he tries to say something very sensible like, hey, no rush. You only get to do this stuff for the first time once, so how about that movie and a whiskey and a snog thing? but however much Leon says he has the hair of one he’s not actually an Agony Aunt, so instead it comes out as a broken:

“Merlin – ”

“I’m so, so sick of not having sex,” Merlin whispers, like he really can read Gwaine’s mind. “Yeah, I might not have really kissed anyone before – ”

“Seriously?”

“Well – a friend when I was a kid and a girl when I was fifteen but not, you know, properly.” Merlin sighs, and rolls his eyes. “I’m not completely naïve, though. I watch porn, I’ve got toys – I thought I could bluff, and you said that thing about leaps of faith and trusting where your feet land so I figured – yeah, why not? But then you were everywhere with your lips and your hands and your stubble – god your stubble – why did no one warn me about that? I got – lust baffled.” He glances at the ceiling, but then looks back and gives Gwaine’s belt a firm tug. “But I liked what you were doing. I liked it way too much, actually, and I figured I could either say and maybe you’d want to sleep with me anyway, or not, and one day I’d find you’d amended my Wiki page to include, ‘also comes in twenty seconds and may actually be the world’s worst shag.’ And maybe it’s stupid to be vain about a reputation that doesn’t even exist yet but I guess I am.”

Merlin’s expression wilts, and a laugh is out of Gwaine’s mouth before he can stop it. Merlin grins – sheepish – and then he’s sniggering and punching Gwaine’s shoulder. To humour him Gwaine takes a little step of a wobble, and Merlin grabs his waist and pulls him back. On a whim of affection borne up by Merlin having actually listened to something he said, Gwaine lifts a hand to the back of his neck and draws him in, scuffing a kiss to his temple. Merlin wraps his arms around him, the smell of him – all woody and warm and already familiar – unfurling in Gwaine’s nostrils. They stay there breathing against each other for a moment, and the space between his ribs which only exists when he inhales hollows, because fuck. Gwaine’s thoughts scramble around like a panicking woman in a cartoon being chased by a mouse because whatever they do, whether they fuck or just curl up and kiss, Merlin will remember this forever, and who’s he to insinuate himself in someone’s head like that? He sells paint and lives on stolen noodles and says really stupid things about leaping into puddles of doubt and disappointment. Merlin shifts in, lets out a noise that’s equal parts contented and worried, and it whacks the thought with a broom because Merlin knew that when he said yes to coming here and this of all choices is his to make.

“Ok,” Gwaine says.

“Ok?”

Gwaine cradles his head and lifts it up.

“Ok, I’m glad I know, but – it’s fucking freezing in here, so you want to get in?”

He glances at the mattress and Merlin nods. Gwaine kisses the corner of his mouth, and Merlin’s soft breath of a sigh makes his insides swirl. He turns Merlin into a proper kiss, and it’s different to before, less nervy and the sensation more acute.

“Not the world’s worst, far from it,” he murmurs, and Merlin smiles against his mouth, offering him morsels of real kiss, just lightly sucking on his lip before flitting away, teasing with just the tip of his tongue until Gwaine’s restraint is as strained as his cock. “You must be a prodigy. You’re really getting the hang of this.”

“That’s so fucking cheesy, Gwaine.”

“Shut up. You liked it.”

Merlin laughs and presses back for another kiss before retreating enough to glance down at his clothes.

“So – um – should I..?”

“Here.”

Enough of the buttons of Merlin’s shirt are open to get it over his head so Gwaine tugs it up. Merlin helps – the kind of help which means he gets stuck – and when he emerges after a joint yank he’s sniggering and dishevelled of fringe. Underneath he’s less lanky than he seemed, working with stone gifting him some definition of his own. Gwaine’s cock gives a twitch of approval as he walks his fingers down Merlin’s soft, flat stomach, and finding no real doubt in his eyes Gwaine guides him back towards the mattress with the open fly of his jeans. He drops onto the spongy springs, fishing down the side for the switch which dangles on a cord.

The room lights up with mini paper lanterns in a variety of garish reds strung along the wall, and Merlin toes off his boots and follows him, laughing, his hands flitting to his sides like he wants to hide but doesn’t want Gwaine to see him do it. Gwaine lifts the duvets and sits, propped on his hand. When Merlin doesn’t move he rolls his eyes and taps his thigh in invitation for Merlin to get in his lap. Earns him another laugh, and with a slight wobble Merlin arranges his legs to straddle Gwaine’s hips and sinks down, grinning. Gwaine pulls the duvet up around his shoulders, dick aching beneath the heat and weight of him and far too much tight denim, and when he’s all tucked in Merlin rests his hands on his chest. With huge eyes and quick breath he traces the contours with the rough pads of his fingers, leaving a web of intricate and maddeningly meagre tingles on Gwaine’s skin which sink and tangle around his innards.

They ease into a light snow fall of a kiss, gentle and quiet, and then Merlin rocks against him, getting the angle just right with guileless instinct. Their tongues meet, and they both stiffen, the flurry turning into hasty fingers in Gwaine’s hair and frenetic movement, a blizzard suddenly whipping up from calm. Gwaine shifts down the bed, lying flatter, draws Merlin down with him – or means to, but Merlin’s not really paying attention so he loses whatever balance he had and their mouths bump and miss. Gwaine grins at the thought that apparently messy and clumsy is the way Merlin does everything, and grinds his cock up into the heat between his legs, watching as Merlin’s eyes widen and a tiny grumble of a groan falls out of his mouth.

“Nice?”

Merlin smiles and works his hands under the pillow. Delicately he kisses Gwaine’s neck, fleeting and retreating, hips sliding up and down in a gentle but insistent rhythm. He presses his tongue over Gwaine’s pulse and inches down, sucking lightly and then more when their cocks brush, even though there are still layers between them. Gwaine’s spine squirms like it’s trying to curl into a ball, but he just splays his palms and lets Merlin just do that, shift against him and kiss, and bit by bit the tension in his body melts until he’s going by feel, chasing what he likes, doing more of what inspires Gwaine’s breath to change too. Now he’s not over-thinking everything actually he’s pretty damn hot.

A nibble right on the spot on his neck which makes him wibble and Gwaine cracks and rolls Merlin onto his back, settles between his knees, nuzzling the side of his neck and drawing in a nose full of woody aftershave mostly worn off and just a hint of warm, sour beer-smell from the pub. He eases away to look, and with his face washed with red-ish light from the lanterns Merlin’s more Cubist than ever. He traces the line of Merlin’s eyebrow and down his nose, just rubs a thumb over lips which earlier he’d imagined doing all sorts of things. Merlin replies by fingering his stubble and then dallying a touch along his shoulder, watching the way his hands fit like he’ll try and sculpt him later from memory. He’s smiley and earnest, and quietly they fit back together. Merlin’s kiss opens up for him, deeper and calmer than before, but this one does feel like a precursor, like Merlin wants more, like he really did come here to do anything Gwaine wants. Some thick feeling to do with being trusted sticks to the roof of Gwaine’s mouth like peanut butter.

There’s a distorted reflection of symmetry to it all. Back in the mists of time when Gwaine was all cockiness and no idea, he lost his virginity to an older man he barely knew. Wildly different circumstances – fifteen and drunk on vodka he stole from his mother he’d literally stumbled into the guy. They smoked outside the van he was renting, and the guy made him laugh and think stupid teenage things about rescue and escape. Gwaine remembers he tasted of fags and cough sweets, and the parallel burn of cock in his arse and carpet-like caravan seating, but not the guy’s name or even the vaguest shape of the rest, a blank until an awful fight when he got home which left him with a scar on his chin as a memento of the whole sorry thing. Maybe it wasn’t so different to this – him and Merlin, a chance meeting, stumbling into each other, but Gwaine doesn’t want to be a taste and a wince of a memory, and he thinks he should probably say something to the effect of: this, just this, tonight, but all that peanut butter trust has his tongue clogged.

Merlin’s palms skid on Gwaine’s back, leaving tingles all the way down his spine, and Gwaine thinks they’ll just do and be; Merlin stopped him once and he’ll do it again if he wants. He moves his hips in an echo of what it’d be like to fuck, and Merlin’s breath hitches but his fingers dig in like he really can hear his thoughts and he’s saying yes. Together they create a rhythm Merlin likes, one he likes so much his kiss gets forgetful and his fingernails just rasp at Gwaine’s skin, and maybe it’s the memory of the first time loitering in his cells but his stomach gets all tight and wishy-washy like he’s never had his hands on someone else’s body before, either.

A push on his waistband alerts him to Merlin trying to get at his arse, and when Gwaine lifts up enough for him to get his hand between them Merlin undoes his zip and looks at him with such urgency and longing it makes his mouth go dry. They peel each other out of what remains of their tangle of clothes, and Merlin’s hands are steadier than his but thankfully he’s too busy stealing a look at Gwaine’s cock to notice. Gwaine means to take it slowly, to settle gently and cover Merlin’s body with enough tiny kisses to make his entire body hum, but apparently there is something of the wanton nymphomaniac about him and Merlin grabs his hand and pulls him back on top of him, meeting his mouth with a rough, demanding kiss. The heady rush of there being nothing between them hits them both, and they find a way to fit, making a hot, sweaty hollow beneath the duvets as they grind against each other, sensation building and redoubling in their whimpers and cut-off groans.

Things get abruptly more serious with Merlin’s feet curling around Gwaine’s legs, heels insistent as they scrabble to keep him moving against his cock. Gwaine catches the intensity of it and thinks stupid, senseless things about wanting to turn Merlin’s universe inside out, to make him feel like the stars are burning in his stomach, kisses him, all breath and tongue, lifting Merlin’s knee up about his waist, running his fingernails through the hair on his thigh, just hard enough to leave fire-like tingles streaked across his skin. Merlin’s breath turns increasingly snatchy and his kisses flounder over ear and cheek and back to his mouth, own fingers clawing at his hair and his arse and the sheet as he shifts up against him, trying to find release. When it happens it’s with a muttered fuck I’m gonna, a gasp and a flood of warmth and damp between them, and at the thought he’s the first person to ever make Merlin do that, a tight edgy feeling slithers down Gwaine’s back.

He lifts off enough of get at his own cock, not bothering with teasing or pretence, just wanting to get there as fast as he can. He kisses the top of Merlin’s arm for some sense of connection while he jerks himself off, his breath ragged against Merlin’s muscle and some vague picture in his head of Merlin and his sculpture and the shape of his mouth. Merlin licks at his ear, kissing and nibbling all wet and eager, and on a wave of unexpected urgency Gwaine comes over his own fingers, burying the noises he makes in Merlin’s hair.

They lie with Gwaine slumped and sweaty against him for a long, thick moment, Merlin’s chest franticly trying to get enough air. Concerned that he’s too heavy Gwaine shifts away. Merlin’s hair is impressively rucked and he has the heel of one hand against his forehead like it’s stuck. Gwaine kisses him noisily and Merlin splutters some kind of half-laugh kiss thing against his mouth in reply, and then swallows and looks at the ceiling and maybe the universe and sounds a word that never happens.

Gwaine flops onto the pillow, tugging the duvet they partially shucked off up, ignoring the rapidly-cooling spunk on his stomach and getting rid of that on his hand. Merlin carries on staring at the ceiling, hand still holding in his brain – and gently Gwaine eases it away to twine their fingers into a hold and pulls it close enough to kiss his knuckles. He lets Merlin have a moment, and then another one, and kisses his cheek. Merlin turns into it, mouth warm and tongue loose and he sighs a groan which reverberates Gwaine’s lips and grins stupidly against them.

“I’ve got to ask,” Gwaine says. “How has this never happened for you before?”

“Dunno.”

“You’re a fucking art student.” Merlin swallows, and Gwaine realises maybe he sounded harsher than intended so he kisses Merlin’s nose and his chin and his cheekbones, hoping to soften it. “You’re not religious, are you? I can’t be doing with self-flagellation and wittering about going to hell in the morning.”

“Lived in a small village, moved here, met Arthur,” Merlin says, voice all fractured. He disentangles their hands and turns towards Gwaine, settling close to stare at his mouth. “Hated him. Then realised mostly that was because he wasn’t in love with me.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s fast-forward through the two awful years of beyond pathetic pining and the ill-advised confession sponsored by tequila – ” He pauses, sweeps Gwaine’s still-damp hair off his neck that somehow finds the spot beneath which always makes Gwaine go insane with his thumb. Gwaine swallows, part post-orgasmic wibble and part jealous twinge. “ – and we’re going to pretend the months and months of listening to The Cure and being melodramatic and drunk never happened and that I handled rejection like a grown-up.” Merlin’s gaze lifts to his. “If you’re wondering why I didn’t just do it with some random guy in the toilets with my jeans round my knees – well, truth is, I wasn’t after rose petals and the promise of forever, but I’m just enough of a romantic that I wanted it to be someone I liked enough to look in the eye.”

His fingers play and his eyes stay, and it’s hot and scary as freaking hell.

“What happens now?” Merlin says, quieter than a whisper. “You want me to go?”

Something in Gwaine’s vital organs collapses, and Gwaine kisses his forehead, lets his lips loiter there probably long enough to render his answer unnecessary.

“No. It’s snowing, so you best just give me a cuddle and fall asleep,” he says. He settles back against the pillow, offering his arm, and with a quick pinch of his lips together against a smile Merlin curls onto his shoulder, knees just bumping Gwaine’s. “If you get lucky I’ll wake you in a bit with a blow job and make you think your brain’s going to turn inside out.” Merlin laughs, and shifts a bit closer. Like this he’s a bit like a warm bag of elbows but it’s nice. “I’m not joking, I’m very good at it. It’s the real reason I gave up painting, to spend more time on the one thing at which I am a true artist. It’s a shame I can’t make a living out of it, really.”

“You could.”

“Yeah, but – the one time I tried that I felt entirely the wrong kind of seedy.”

“You – ” Merlin lifts his chin to look at him. “You are joking? You never – ”

“When I was seventeen a guy in a nightclub offered to pay me a tenner to get off with his mate. I’d just drunk the last quid I had to my name so I said yes because his mate looked all right when he pointed him out – only naturally I was looking at the wrong guy. To say the intended recipient of my affection looked like a turtle which had spent its entire life with its head in a vice and had been recently released and taken to a very affordable optician would be... well, unkind but accurate. We got as far as a grope on the dance floor before I realised I really wasn’t drunk enough to do it, and I refunded his mate six pound fifty. I reckoned just over three quid was about fair for a dance and a hard-on and I bought as much Jack Daniel’s as I could with that and slept in a bus stop. Woke up eye-to-eye with a kebab thinking this is it. This is the low point of my life. I’m a failed prostitute and a drunk and on a level with discarded fast food.”

Merlin laughs, and Gwaine wraps his arms around him and tucks him under his chin. He wonders if Merlin can hear his heart beating too fast at the thought of how wrong he’d been that night, that there was so much worse to come, but if he can his fingers just use it as the rhythm for a dance across his sternum. Gwaine kisses his hair and feels a bit like a man who can’t swim and just found himself in the middle of an ocean clinging to a buoy.

They stay like that, and eventually Merlin’s fingers halt and his breathing flattens to a slow, even rhythm. Another moment and he kisses Gwaine’s jaw and murmurs, “Goodnight,” in a way that suggests he’s been rehearsing the word in his head. Gwaine closes his eyes and smiles, the faint red glow from the lights making shapes behind his lids. He drifts into a foggy pondered half-picture, Merlin sitting on the floor not looking at him, his legs crossed and his lip squashed between his teeth, reading one of his very dull books on frescoes. Gwaine’s sneaking peeks at him, careful not to tip him off, charcoal quick under his fingers as he tries to capture his ankle and the curve of his spine, thinking if he can get Merlin just right, he’ll finally have found peace.

*

When Gwaine blinks his eyes open to turn off the lights there are six inches of snow huddled at the bottom of the window and he has Merlin’s shoulder blades under his nose. The lanterns are still on but the room has the bright glare of morning, reflected in a sharp, brisk cold everywhere he’s not draped in both duvets. With a shiver he pulls the toothpaste one higher around them, and at first he thinks Merlin’s asleep, but his hand clenches under the pillow, bringing it under his cheek. His eyes are trained on the small collection of sketches BluTaced to the wall, and Gwaine kisses his shoulder to let him know he’s awake. Merlin glances up at him and smiles in a way that’s really excessively lovely.

“Who’s he?” Merlin says, indicating a scrap of paper with curled edges and a doodle of a boyish yet imperious face.

“Leon. Flatmate. Science guy. Former ballroom squatter.”

“The guy with him in this one?”

“That’s his Percy. They met in the supermarket when Leon was trying to put back a pineapple I nicked.”

“You stole a pineapple?”

“I was going to make poor man’s pizza.” Merlin lifts an eyebrow. “Toast, squeeze of ketchup – you can steal those little sachets loads of places but for ease I’d do it in the supermarket cafe – add a slice of cheese and the topping of your choice, in this case what would have been pilfered pineapple if Leon hadn’t caught me and had some attack of conscience. Prickled myself for nothing.”

“Tin would have been easier to swipe.”

Gwaine blinks at him because he never thought of that, and Merlin goes back to staring at his collection of drawings, moments he snatched from his life and liked enough to keep. Gwaine’s ribs tighten around a swollen, thumping heart, and for a horrible second he pictures Merlin saying something about it being a good job he gave all that up because the proportions are all wrong and the angles are awkward and his style is utterly generic.

“He’s cute. They both are, together.”

“Won’t last,” Gwaine says. “They’ve nothing in common besides being unfeasibly tall.”

“Really? They look happy,” Merlin says, and his eyes go back to them as he reaches out to just touch the lines. “You said you’d given drawing up.”

“Did these before.”

“So they looked happy more than a year ago and they’re still together and you think it won’t last?”

“All right, all right, it’s just wishful thinking,” Gwaine says. “Leon’s sickeningly in love and one day he’s going to realise it and move out and I can’t afford this place on my own. That’s why I’m such a cunt when they’re both here and why I drew them on the sly. Jealous.”

Merlin's smile blooms into a chuckle. Gwaine snuggles into the cosy back of his neck, a bit embarrassed by the ease with which Merlin makes the truth spill out of his gob. He wraps an arm around Merlin’s chest and pulls him close, kissing the line of his shoulder, working his way to his ear, pressing his hard-on into the curve of Merlin’s arse. Merlin sighs, and for a moment he closes his eyes and inches back into him, but then his face washes with a thoughtful seriousness.

“What?”

“I barely know you,” Merlin whispers.

“You feeling weird and slutty?”

Merlin laughs, and turns his head to peer at him. Then the rest of him follows, and he tucks himself into Gwaine’s body, cock hard and pressing against his thigh.

“Why, are you?” he says, and kisses Gwaine’s chin with a cheeky nip.

“I’m a ball of recrimination and self-hatred,” Gwaine says. “But – actually that’s nothing to do with you. In fact I think you might be the cure.”

He means it as a joke but it doesn’t sound at all like one now it’s out of his mouth. He looks down, thinking: shit, because this kid, this fucking kid, has him spewing things best left unsaid. Merlin fingers his jaw, lifts him back up, and edges into a kiss – hesitant, at first, but then really warm and soft and slow, arm wrapping around Gwaine’s neck, pushing into his hair like that’s where his hands belong. After the first close of their lips together none of Merlin’s unease remains, and that makes Gwaine’s leech away too, and before he knows it things have turned heated and they’re shifting against each other in a way that’s not casual but heading for the same place they reached last night.

Gwaine’s stomach twists at the thought, and he runs his hand up Merlin’s leg, presses him back, kisses the muscles in his neck and moves down, leaving a damp trail on his collarbone and through the smattering of hair on his chest. He drags his stubble over Merlin’s nipple, watching as he presses his head back into the pillow and arches up with a delightful guttural groan. Gwaine does it again before capturing the soft skin in his mouth and sucking, and Merlin’s fingers find his shoulders and give a little push down. Gwaine meets his eye with a question.

“You said something about making my head explode..?”

“Precocious.”

“Apparently.”

Grinning with the thought Gwaine shrugs under the duvet and kisses Merlin’s stomach, mapping the valley of it, drawing his tongue in swirls and swoops until Merlin’s breath turns not just hitched but gaspy, his legs tense and his noises pleading. Merlin’s taut cock bobs on his stomach, and Gwaine gives it a tiny kiss, then a small exploratory lick, knowing he’s being a bit of a bastard about it but unable to resist the urge. Merlin lifts the duvet and worms under it with him, trapping them both below the blankets in semi-dark where everything’s shadows and each breath feels like a secret. Gwaine thinks he’s going to say something but he doesn’t, just looks at his cock and Gwaine’s mouth, lips parting audibly and making anticipation prickle at Gwaine’s nape like he’s the one who’s never done it before.

Gwaine shifts between his knees to kiss the inside of his thigh, moving up, knowing Merlin’s watching, his heart thunking double quick time because of it, his blood cawing as he noses up to his balls. He steadies his cock with his fingers and gives him one light, long lick before he takes him in his mouth. The noise Merlin makes is a bit like a startled roar – and to hear it again Gwaine slides his lips around the head to give it a wet suck before sinking back down. Merlin’s fingers twist in the sheets and his feet scrabble for purchase to push up into his mouth, and Gwaine lets him for a moment, and then slides off and works his way along the shaft with his tongue, little licks before pressing flat, tonguing the tight curve of his balls.

Merlin’s entire body writhes, legs falling open, and Gwaine rubs Merlin’s stomach with a flat palm, desire curling in his own gut as he shifts against the mattress to sate the demands of his cock. He runs his hands over Merlin’s hips to where his mouth is, slips a thumb over skin wet from his spit. Gwaine just lightly touches his arse, and Merlin lets out a needy little moan, contracting around the touch. Gwaine moves away shooting up a look of apology, but Merlin holds his gaze, and then fumbles down for his hand, guides it back. Gwaine’s chest is fucking frantic but he does it again and pushes in a little further, and Merlin murmurs and his hips shift for more.

“You want me to do this properly?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Gwaine throws off the duvet to get to the drawer, ferrets around inside until he finds lube. Merlin emerges and looks at him, face red and sweaty and his hair positively scarecrow-esque, but his eyes are awed and lusty and Gwaine’s cock fucking throbs at the sight of him. He can’t get his fingers slick fast enough, and consequently it takes him twice as long as it ever has before. He drops the tube and fits himself tight to Merlin’s side, nudging Merlin into a kiss. It’s hot and gaspy with anticipation, and just when Gwaine thinks maybe this is too far too fast and he should say something a bit Agony Aunt Merlin whispers:

“Hurry up, I’m sure.”

“Have I mentioned that mind reading thing you do is fucking disconcerting?”

Merlin answers him with another kiss, and Gwaine gives Merlin’s cock a quick sweep and then moves beneath it into the warm crevice between his legs. Merlin bends his knee, and with his heart somewhere around his tonsils Gwaine slides one wet finger over his hole. Merlin’s back arches, pushing a startled and not entirely pleased noise out of his mouth. Gwaine presses a soothing kiss to his cheek, but Merlin shakes his head and just says:

“Cold. Really cold.”

Gwaine grins, kissing him, tongues meeting as he just presses inside Merlin’s body. Merlin stills, then exhales and pushes onto his finger. Gwaine swallows, his thoughts absent and his focus entirely on the feel of Merlin around him, and he withdraws a little before inching back in, taking it slowly until Merlin relaxes and starts to move with a tiny but steady rhythm. His head falls to the pillow, and Gwaine covers his neck and his chest with kisses, licking at his nipple. Merlin swallows loudly, his stomach flinching, and the close, slick slide of his finger makes Gwaine ache from his bellybutton to his balls.

Merlin drops a hand to his arm, curving around the muscle to cling, and Gwaine starts to fuck him a little faster, a little deeper, the gasps of response curling up to gnaw at the pit of his stomach like they’re his own. Merlin’s fingernails dig in, and Gwaine looks up. Merlin’s got his other forearm over his eyes, but his mouth’s open and his Adam’s apple’s bobbing in little gulps of air. Just as Gwaine’s thinking he’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen the lube squelches and Merlin laughs, tightening up around him, and Gwaine almost comes then and there because fuck.

Instead he shoves the duvet down and rearranges himself so he can get his mouth on Merlin’s cock. It’s not the best angle but still it’s not long before he’s a bit delirious with the dual sensation of Merlin filling his mouth and his finger apparently driving Merlin near to distraction, Merlin’s legs trembling and incoherent little fuck fuck fucks falling out of his mouth. His hands fist on the sheets as his body squirms in tighter and tighter little movements, and it’s only a moment until Merlin comes with a sharp cry and a shudder that rolls from his hips up his spine, his arse pulsing around Gwaine’s finger. Gwaine sucks gently on his cock as he softens until he whimpers, swallowing before he slips off to wipe his mouth and his hand on the sheet and crawl up Merlin’s limp and rather sweaty body.

Merlin meets his eye with a breathless, shaky:

“God.”

Gwaine kisses him through a startled and almost hysterical laugh, Merlin murmuring grateful little nothings and sliding against his lips, imprecise and drowsy and all jittery with new sensation. Gwaine can’t tell if it’s the kiss or the thought of how Merlin feels which makes his cock nudge insistently at Merlin’s hip, but either way with surprising guile and none of his usual clumsiness Merlin eases Gwaine back against the mattress, all over his neck with kisses and touches as he slides a hand to Gwaine’s dick. Breathing hard and fast, his fingers float up and down maddeningly, skimming the sensitive head, and then tightening on his shaft. He’s way too tentative, the sharp point of arousal just to the left of what Merlin’s doing, but not wanting to shatter the mood with a word Gwaine shifts up into Merlin’s hand, showing him with his hips the rhythm he likes. Merlin gets it. A few more strokes and then he pulls off and grabs the lube, and when his fingers return it’s better – so much better – for a little slide and a lot more confidence.

It’s not the most technically competent hand job he’s ever had but Gwaine’s so turned on it doesn’t really matter that it’s a stagger upwards to the point of no return rather than a beeline for it, and when Merlin bites and licks that damn spot on his neck knowing that’s the thing that’ll send him over the edge, his stomach curls up tight, anyway, and Gwaine comes, panting and grateful as anything.

For a moment they just lie there in an awkward, hot tangle of elbows and knees and various fluids, and then Merlin lets out this kittenish rumble, slides off Gwaine’s shoulder and hides his face in the pillow, muttering something that’s broken and goes can’t – believe – did that.

“You feeling weird and slutty now, Merlin?”

Merlin laughs, muffled, and shoves at him with a limp, flaily hand. Gwaine catches it and bites at his arm, and Merlin peeks out, his eyes bright and his face very pink. Gwaine inches in until they’re nose to nose and there’s nowhere to hide.

“You want to have a shower?” he says, and he sees uncertainty flash through Merlin’s eyes. “I’m not trying to get rid of you. I meant with me. You know – we cover each other in bubbles and then we act surprised when we’re feeling each other up against the tiles.”

Merlin smiles, all quiet but very, very real, and nods.

“Just need a minute,” he murmurs, “for my legs to start working again.”

*

“What do you want on your toast?”

“What are my choices?” Merlin says, and leans on the counter wearing one of Gwaine’s jumpers, his hair damp and in his eyes.

“Nutella, marmalade, jam – apricot variety, honey, or you could go avant garde with ketchup and mustard.”

“Nutella.”

Gwaine throws a spoonful on his toast and spreads it with the back of the spoon, and indulging a whim about how nice it would be if they tasted the same as well as smelling the same he adds it to his too. He slices it all into lopsided triangles, and pushes the plate towards Merlin. Merlin bites his lip and toys with the corner of one piece, shifting his weight and looking at him like he’s in a life drawing class and he wants to draw the person in front of him in detail but keeps accidentally meeting their eye and losing his nerve. Gwaine slides a mug of tea towards him, and Merlin gives a little huff and says:

“I’m trying to think of a subtle way to say it but I can’t, so – what happens now?”

Gwaine lifts a toast triangle and shoves it into his mouth.

“You eat it, Merlin.”

Merlin grumbles around the toast but takes a bite anyway, rubbing the crumbs off his lips and nodding appreciatively.

“I meant – ” Merlin waves vaguely between them, and tilts his head.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Gwaine says, reaching for him and dragging him in by his hip.

“Why? You’re the one who’s done this before.”

“Yeah but – in case you haven’t figured it, I’m not big on rules so there’s no way I’m going to draw guides for you to follow. Don’t ever think you have to paint within someone else’s lines,” Gwaine says. “You make your own mess according to the whims of your soul. You did last night, and this morning, and – ” He leans into Merlin’s ear to whisper: “ – I like it.”

Gwaine places a kiss on his cheek and then goes back to his own toast, and Merlin looks at him in this way Gwaine can’t unpick.

“Paint me a picture,” Merlin says, “of what – right now – you’d like to happen.”

His gaze has a directness to it that’s at once earnest and merely softly curious, so Gwaine takes a bit of his toast and plays along.

“All right. We’ll stay here for a bit, watch it snow and drink tea and eat toast. Then I’ll walk you home.”

“Walk me home?” Merlin says. “It’s like three streets.”

“So imagine how bad I’d feel if you slipped on ice and died, and I wasn’t there to save you because I couldn’t be arsed to walk three streets.” Merlin sniggers and rolls his eyes, poking at his chipped mug. “When we get there, we’ll do that annoying thing where neither of us wants to say goodbye so we keep talking shit. We’ll kiss on your doorstep, and then you go inside and do that thing they do in films where you slide down the back of the door grinning your face off and maybe doing one of your little laughs. And I – ”

“You do a weird dance thing on the pavement,” Merlin says, words pitching around a smile, “and lose your footing, and this old woman looks at you like you’re nuts, so you act all casual and when you’re round the corner you burst out laughing. Then what?”

“We both play it cool for – oh, hours maybe, and then I cave and call because I have less than no willpower, and I say, ‘What are you doing tonight?’ and you say – ”

“Working,” Merlin says, with a wince and a shrug. “I always work Saturday night. Arthur needs me.”

“Right, so I say, ‘Fancy coming round when you finish?’ To which you reply – ?”

“ ‘All right, then.’ Maybe I’ll grab a take away on my way over?”

Gwaine smiles and lets it happen in his head: Merlin on the doorstep in the snow in his ridiculous work t-shirt with a plastic bag full of containers.

“You bring noodles and they’re my favourite, and because it’s freezing we eat them in bed – before, during, and after we try some things you always fancied from all that porn you’ve apparently watched – which I want to hear about in great detail at some point, by the way,” he says, and Merlin grins. “On Sunday we don’t get out of bed until lunchtime, and I take you to the pub where Percy’s a chef for lunch. You meet my friends, and they adore you, and you’re impressed because I know a chef with a very kind disposition, and you love his – ”

“Roast potatoes. I can’t resist them.”

“ – and I steal your Yorkshire pudding because I’m a pest like that, and Leon gives me a stern look like, why are you being yourself? Don’t you know how annoying you are?”

“But luckily for you I think it’s cute,” Merlin says, with a little swing of his hips, all coy before he meets Gwaine’s eye, steady and serious. “And I want to come back here with you again but I have so much reading – ”

“I don’t mind. I know it’s important. I call you to say goodnight and we have a sleepy conversation about nothing and you fall asleep with your phone in your hand.” Not willing to leave it there Gwaine runs ahead. “Before we know it, it’s Christmas, so you’re – ?”

“With my mother. And you’re – ”

“With Leon and Percy and a bunch of other urchins, so we don’t see each other again until – ”

“Boxing Day?” Merlin offers. “We go to the cinema to see a cheesy blockbuster.”

“We argue about what sweets to get in the queue and jostle just to touch, and when the lights go out we’re all over each other and we miss the entire film.”

“The week after that we go to a gallery,” Merlin says. “We stop and stare in front of all the same things, which we both thinks means something, but neither of us says so. About then, we come back here and you – ” He looks up and grins, all crinkly and embarrassed. “ – well, fuck my brains out?”

“In a gentle and romantic way.” Merlin laughs into the neck of Gwaine’s jumper, and Gwaine’s heart gives a small leap. “After that you start spending more time here than you do at your place. You bring all your books over and make a sort of nest with them at the foot of the sofa, and I think you’re adorable when you’re concentrating. In the evenings you scribble and you type and I sit with you and pretend I’m reading the paper, but actually I’m drawing sketches of you, only I don’t want to admit it because that you’ve inspired me to draw again seems like an admission I’m not quite ready to make.”

“And I know you’re doing it,” Merlin says, “but I don’t say anything. I just wait for you to tell me.”

Gwaine dampens his lips, and he knows he shouldn’t but it’s all too easy to keep indulging in this daydream.

“One day,” he says, “we’re joking around about the guys you live with – ”

“Girls. I live with girls.”

“Girls, then, girls you live with having forgotten what you look like, and I say, ‘why don’t you move in?’ And you say – ”

“ ‘That’s a bit fast, isn’t it?’ ” Merlin says, and stares at his feet.

“I make a nervous joke about your course being nearly done and if you’re going to be a starving artist, why not learn from someone who knows all the tricks?”

“My friends think I’m insane for even considering it,” Merlin says, “but eventually I decide that I’m an artist, and what’s the point of that if I don’t do something reckless and hasty every once in a while?”

“So we do it,” Gwaine says. “Leap of faith and all that, and we’re both scared as hell but we know it doesn’t really matter if we get our hearts burnt because, well, paint is just pain with a t on the end. And I know you sculpt but I couldn’t do a cute spelling thing with that so let’s just pretend.”
Merlin looks up, and this huge wall of feeling which wasn’t there before kicks Gwaine in the stomach, like everything they just described has already happened in more than words and they’re not here after one night but on the brink of a dwarfing commitment.

“You’ve given that a lot of thought,” Merlin says.

“It’s just a rough draft. We can rub it out and start again. No-one gets it right the first time – I mean you’re not supposed to, are you? There’s always splodges and mistakes and – ”

“They’ll be the best part. It’s only when you splodge you find out what you really want to create.”

Merlin goes back to his toast. Gwaine takes a bite of his, too. It turns huge and dry in his mouth because he’s waited his whole life for someone who thought that. His spine bristles, and this frail wash of fear runs over the top of everything they just drew in their heads, because he’s never wanted anything like he wants that, and he’s not sure – at all – that it’s not going to slip into the gap between what he wants to make with his hands, and what he has the skill for.

*

“Not bad for your first time.”

Gwaine wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist, and he leans back, all reedy and tired, his fingers falling to Gwaine’s wrist. He rests his head against Gwaine’s, rolling the bony bits of their skulls together, and murmurs a non answer, watching as the gallery empties of everyone but their friends and his mother. Leon and Percy are in the corner having a very in-depth conversation about humus, and on the biggest sculpture – this huge baroque thing with little individual frescoes depicting various alienated figures all united but not knowing it – sits a yellow sold tag, the piece supposedly bought by an anonymous collector Gwaine knows is secretly Arthur making amends for a heartbreak years ago. Outside snow trickles down in clumps the size of a child’s fist, and Merlin watches it – or maybe their reflection – as Gwaine nuzzles his shoulder and says:

“Didn’t I tell you it’d be all right?”

Merlin smiles, closes his eyes, and just leans, and it’s glorious.

It’s taken three years. There have been mistakes: a fight about Arthur and a dozen little ones he can’t even remember the cause of; they’ve broken up twice and fallen back together in pieces to build something new; they’ve lived on rice and frozen peas for weeks on end and they’re on the blacklist for four different electricity companies; and it’s only a tiny gallery and Merlin still works in The Wounded Unicorn but he’s leaning and it’s snowing and it’s nearly Christmas again, and in the moment there’s nothing else Gwaine wants in the world.

“What you thinking about?”

“Nothing. You?”

“Same nothing, probably. What do you want to do now?” Gwaine murmurs. “Paint me a picture.”

“We’ll walk home in the snow,” Merlin says, and turns in Gwaine’s arms. “We’re halfway there when you think it’s cute to start a snowball fight – which you lose – and as undefeated champion I demand a really epic kiss. When we get in, we fall into a glass of red wine face first, and you pretend to write me a new Wikipedia entry and make me believe I’m not a hopeless, talentless fool.”

“Done. I’ll get the frame.”

Merlin laughs and knocks their foreheads together, then gathers up a fistful of Gwaine’s jumper and pulls him into a kiss, the moderately epic sort.

“You could have changed,” Merlin says, tugging on a splatter of yellow paint.

“I got into it. Beside, it’ll wash out. That’s the beauty of eco paint – in fact, just one of its many virtues over traditional oils.” Merlin lifts an eyebrow. “What? I believe in my product and a true salesmen doesn’t have an off switch.”

Merlin kisses him again, deep and smiley.

“I’m going to say to goodbye to everyone and find our coats,” he says.

Gwaine watches him, watches other people pull him into hugs and tell him well done, and he blushes and bats them off, his eyes darting back to Gwaine for reassurance. Gwaine just grins at him, and for the first time in a long time he thinks about that Painting By Numbers kit he got when he was eight.

On the box they made claims about painting something beautiful – use our colours and stick within our lines and it’s easy – but even as an eight-year-old he’d known beauty would never lie in prescription and following the rules, but by doing something from the heart and the gut and the soul over the top. He thinks about this splodge of a thing he and Merlin have made: an abstract which more than likely makes very little sense to anyone looking at it. But when he skived school because he just couldn’t stand it and stole into galleries; when he hid amongst the paintings at fifteen with his heart in tatters, knowing his mother would never look at him and care; when he sheltered in them at twenty-five and tried to figure out what to do with his life; when they were his refuge from grief he didn’t understand, it was always the abstracts he liked best. He liked to squint out a meaning of his own, pick out the emotion of the strokes, and bumble his way into a reading entirely, idiosyncratically his.

Maybe it’s the slowly-falling snow and the rosy hues of retrospect making him sentimental, but he thinks of that night – that first night with Merlin – in all its messy imperfection. He can’t explain it, but to him it always looked beautiful, precisely because they didn’t paint it by numbers: they splodged what they wanted, and made something only they would ever understand, and to him it always looked just a little bit like love.