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shippouzrus! (1/3)
Dec. 7th, 2010 06:22 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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merlin_holidaysTitle: Picture Maker
Recipient:shippouzrus
Author:tourdefierce
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur; brief mentions of Merlin/Will, Arthur/Valiant, Merlin/Gwaine, Gwen/Lancelot, Gaius/OMC
Word Count: 24,380
Warnings: Drug use (various forms), hipsters, language, boy-sex, public sex, facials, rimming, NSFW images, conversation about past use of bodily fluids during sex, small mentions of homophobia and other general ridiculousness.
Summary: Hipster: a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter. Hipster: a group of people Arthur Pendragon despises.
Author's Notes: I took the following prompts: bottom!Merlin, slutty!Merlin, emotionally-stunted!Arthur and handsfree orgasms. I'm not sure how this happened by I blame it entirely on S. A big thank you to T and S for all their cheerleading and R for her betaingand sexual favors. Anecdotes you recognize were taken from Ryan McGinley's life without permission or from my own life. The three photographs embedded in this story are Ryan McGinley's photographs. He's like, the god of hipster-gay meets hipster-art. Check him out at his website.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Arthur carefully reminds himself that murder is illegal and very messy. He takes a deep breath and finishes his bourbon. Having never left the bar to begin with, it's replaced before he can even set the glass down. He nods thankfully at the bartender, who is gorgeous and polite and possibly the only person in the entire room that Arthur doesn't want to murder in some fashion.
He fucking hates art shows.
But Morgana threatened and it's her world—she's an art fanatic. He has cancelled so many times that he's forgotten what her gallery looks like; pristine white walls and matching slick tile that shines in a way that is completely mocking. The only color in the entire room comes from the bathrooms, which have rainbow paint dripping (still wet) from both doors, and the people...
God, the people.
It's not that Arthur is a snob. (He is.) But that isn't where the annoyance lies. Arthur's been forced into art gallery openings and generally mindless evenings his entire life thanks to his father's old money and thick name. But these events that Morgana puts on—that Morgana lives and has created to orbit around her is nothing like what his father makes him go to. Looking around him, he notes that him and Morgana are the only people properly dressed. Everyone is wearing tight jeans, some washed-out and begging to be taken back to the 80s, and the vast amounts of pointy shoes defies logic. The women are dressed like men and the men are flirting with homelessness and blatant effeminacy. Many are wearing shirts with ironic sayings, holes cutting into their armpit stains and worn thin from being traded one too many times at the consignment shops. Those who have avoided the t-shirts are wearing hideously patterned button ups with the skinniest ties and look generally malnourished.
Hipsters. All of them.
"Stop glaring," Morgana says from behind him and Arthur nods to the bartender for another. His buzz will hold the night at bay and after three he can switch to water.
"I'm doing no such thing."
"You are," she says without a hint of irritation. "It's unbecoming."
"They're the ones that look at me as if I'm scum," Arthur says as he turns to lean against the bar, his back digging into the rigid corner. Morgan is looking intimidatingly beautiful and striking in a way that almost makes her ugly. It's a line that Arthur knows she loves to walk because she can. Her tailored trousers are slim on her hips before dropping straight down in a line, so that when she walks it seems as if she's gliding underneath all the navy fabric. The toes of her favorite stripped oxfords are pointing out from the large cuff hem that give her a decidedly pirate air. Her top is sheer as to sport what seems to be art, but is actually just one of Morgana's minions’ odes to her tits, which, are pert and visible underneath the drawings in permanent marker across her chest.
"Nice nipples," Arthur says when Morgana arches an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes in predictable response.
"They only hate you because you're rich," she says. Arthur snorts. "And because you're beautiful in that classic way that they've been trying to rebel against since Warhol."
"Oh? Is that all?"
"Stop it," she says, pulling her thumb across his scowl lines and turning to settle beside him. "I'm glad you came."
"Are you?"
Arthur sips at his drink and scans the room. The walls are lined with photographs, mostly black and white. Randomly placed between all the subtle photography are vivid paintings, which bore Arthur to no end. At least the photographs have nudity, although it's certainly not the focus of the pictures.
"Yes," she says crisply beside him. "I want you to meet someone."
"Another art-minion? Another starving up-and-coming artist? Another creative genius?" Arthur doesn't bother to lace his tone with anything other than bored sarcasm. He's convinced most of Morgana's friends are just out for her money and her name to use in a desperate bid for fame. He's not wrong most of the time.
"Merlin is different," Morgana says softly and with enough inflection to make Arthur turn slightly toward her. "This show is different."
"Oh?"
"These artists are different, Arthur. Admittedly, Will's paintings aren't the best but that's because he's a tagger. But Merlin's photographs are just…" Morgana's voice trails off in awe. Arthur takes a drink and ponders what kind of man could impress Morgana. She's usually just amused enough with them to
keep them around for a while before moving on. "Anyway, I thought you'd like it."
"Why would you ever think that?"
"These people are dangerous," she says. "Merlin is dangerous and beautiful and one of the only gay artists with enough balls to run with taggers."
Arthur finishes his drink and reaches back for the third.
"I haven't the slightest idea what that means."
"It means," Morgana says as she pushes off the bar, spinning around so that she's walking backward and spreading her arms out. Arthur's gaze flickers between her exposed chest and her smile, coy but clearly hopeful and delighted. "You should mingle. You might learn something about your closet."
He's not in the closet. He's just not out of it yet. There is an astonishing amount of gray area for something that everyone paints as black and white. Not that Morgana would know, because Arthur refuses to talk about things as common as his sexuality with her. Doesn't stop her from being cheeky and generally infuriating.
She grins, slightly feral as always and spins around to go talk to people with annoying facial hair and useless head accessories.
Arthur distinctly feels that three drinks might not be enough to get him through the evening.
<3<3<3
Arthur eventually makes his way around the gallery and has to admit that Morgana is right about one thing; the photographs are amazing. The lighting is soft in each of them, the pictures graying out in subtle tones as to highlight the subjects. And subjects they are. The people are beautiful, admittedly not classically but interesting and striking in a way that seems to be captured in the lines of their faces, the solid weight of their presence in the frame or in some other equally interesting and emotive body part. Whoever picked the models is genius.
Arthur finds his favorite quickly. It's a darker photo of a woman that Arthur vaguely recognizes as one of Morgana's friends (Gretchen? Gloria?), she's nude and standing in profile over a bathtub, her pregnant belly illuminated in both dark and light. It's stunning. There is a hint of sadness—maybe more darkness than anything but nothing morbid, just simplistic beauty. It almost looks as if she's ready to jump off a cliff and the lines of the bathtub blur in contrast to her naked body. Arthur wants to run his fingers over the picture but he holds back, feeling uncomfortable in how moved he is by the effortless photograph.
He's distracted by someone shaking a spray paint can a few feet from him. The man—er, boy really, looks manic in the way that most of the people here do. Except, there is something different about him, the restless way his wrists shakes the can of paint to the way he grins, feet shifting over the floor in a unsettling way that confirms Arthur suspicion (about most of the people here); he's on drugs.
He's also drawing on the wall.
The strangled noise is out of his mouth before he notices it. "What the hell!" Arthur moves toward him but a thin arm wraps around his front and there are lips pressing against the shell of his ear, cementing him in place.
"Watch," the man says in a whisper behind him. Arthur tries to shake him off but he is held fast, struck still as the man in front of him starts to spray paint the walls of Morgana's studio in a striking red color.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
Arthur watches, as the man makes wide arcs with his hand and yes, there is something mesmerizing about the man's fanatic movements and his painting but the fact of the matter remains that he's defacing Morgana's property.
He spots Morgana across the room and moves to say something, to get her attention but she's also staring at the man marking up a large blank wall. She's smiling. It's only then that Arthur realizing the whole gallery has stopped to watch the man go at the wall with vigor and Arthur notes the fact that several areas of the gallery have purposely blank walls. Morgana never does anything on accident.
"This isn't bloody art," Arthur says before slipping out of the man's grasp and making his way to the loo, shaking his head along the way. It isn't art, it is ridiculous and costly. Not to mention the fact that it is mad. Who paints the walls of their very expensive and very posh art gallery white, only to have an insane man spray paint on them while on drugs?
Morgana. That's who.
When Arthur arrives at the loo, he has another chance to scoff at the complete absurdness of Morgana's hipster-art world because the two bathrooms aren't labeled. The first one he peeks into doesn't have any urinals, the second one doesn't either and no one is in them because they're all watching freak-boy ruin the walls and fume up the room. Arthur picks the second one because he's already there.
Genderless bathrooms.
He relieves himself quickly, tucking himself back in and moving out of the stall to the sinks. He's soaping his hands under the hot water when he looks up to see a man watching him. Once again, man is a relative term because the person who is looking at him can't possibly be over the age of twenty. Never-the-less, he's certainly stunning. His lean frame is propped against the stall doors, clad in a tight v-neck tee with the glittering words 'Queen of Night' running its length down his extremely thin torso. Arthur makes a note of the way the boy’s hands are jammed into the front pockets of his poorly tailored trousers, making the slim definition of his arms stand out, as well as the fact that his pants are two inches too short and reveal the absurdly colored argyle of his socks: a shocking purple and green pattern, which leads to tattered Converse trainers.
Despite his clothing, Arthur's mind registers the gorgeous line of his cheekbones and the cupid’s bow of his mouth in the few seconds that the man watches Arthur in the mirror while he's washing his hands.
"Hello," he says and Arthur does not shiver at the husky quality of the man's voice.
"Evening," Arthur replies with a nod, looking down at his hands to rinse them in the water. When he looks back up to locate the towel dispenser the man is startlingly close, as close as he can get to Arthur's back without touching him. Arthur gasps at the proximity, steadying himself on the wet counter.
"Do you find me attractive?"
Arthur returns the man's stare with widened eyes and a bit of shock. "Pardon?"
The man tilts his head, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips—a movement that Arthur unconsciously tracks with his eyes.
"Am I attractive to you?"
Arthur blinks. The man behind him bends forward a little until he can rest his chin on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur wants to move. He wants to move away from the sink and get out of the bathroom, back to that ridiculous opening, but he's captivated by this man's playful almost-grin, his chin digging into the muscle of Arthur's shoulder. Arthur can't look away from his eyes either, dark cerulean that seems to glint with mischief and open affection. It's strange.
Against his back, Arthur feels the rumble of the man clearing his throat.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says with another lick of his pink lips. "Will you do me a favor?"
Arthur doesn't respond, although his chest tightens at the way the man's mouth shifts and rolls over the word 'favor'. They continue to stare at each other through the mirror and Arthur feels his cheeks heat at the attention.
"Will you do something for me?" He repeats and Arthur is hyper-aware of the ghost of his breath on Arthur's neck. "Please."
Oh. Well, there is certainly something about him that makes Arthur stop and take a breath through his constricted chest. The man's face is calm, maybe a bit curious but none of his features reflect the promise of mischief and filth in his eyes. It brings heat to Arthur's face and curls down his spine in a terribly over dramatic fashion that leaves him panting slightly.
He finds himself wanting to say yes to this ridiculous man and has no idea where this impulsive, eager to please side of him comes from. He's pretty sure all the art and hipster bullshit has melted the logical part of his brain, leaving him with a half hard cock, staring at a pretty mouth, chiseled cheekbones and glittering eyes.
"What is it?" Arthur croaks out, his tongue wetting his lips as his throat feels scratchy. He watches the man track the movement in the mirror. He feels quaked in the moment.
"It's kind of..." the man pauses before biting his bottom lip, "...dirty."
"Yeah?" Arthur practically gasps out and is acutely aware of the bizarre cocoon around them that has shifted from 'odd bathroom conversation' to 'scandalous bathroom encounter' in a matter of minutes.
The man laughs, jerking back and taking Arthur with him by pulling on the sides of Arthur's jacket until he spins around. The man tugs, head back and laughing, until Arthur is manhandled into a stall with the latch clicking shut with a very audible and cliché sound that still leaves Arthur shuttering.
Arthur thinks, This is all Morgana's fault and then the man is sinking to his knees right before Arthur's widening eyes and Arthur is fairly sure he's hallucinating.
"Would you mind coming on my face?"
Arthur chokes on his tongue. "W-what?"
The man at his feet tilts his head in consideration, as if he's consulting a particularly abstract piece of art before he smiles softly and says, "A facial".
"I'm not-"
"I won't touch you," the man says biting his lower lip again and painting the perfect picture of submission that Arthur can't help the strangled moan that gets caught up in his throat. "If you don't want me to, that's fine. But I would really appreciate it if you would do me this favor."
"A favor?"
Arthur isn't processing this very well, he is very aware but the man's eyes are twinkling in a way that speaks to the absurdity of this moment, of the way that he's surely mocking Arthur and clearly the want that Arthur is just now detecting in the two bright spots of color on the man's cheeks and the bulge of his erection, that looks incredibly painful trapped by his obscenely tight pants.
"Yes," he says, wiping his hands on his thighs. "Please do me this favor by coming all over my face."
It takes a moment before Arthur realizes that he's already unbuttoning his trousers, pulling out his half-hard cock to the man's quirking lips.
The question of why seems to sail past him.
The next few minutes pass in a haze of arousal and embarrassment. Arthur's cock hardens into fullness within a few strokes and the man's face only smiles in pleasure. Arthur concentrates on the man's erection that is straining in his pants or the way his eyes dance with pleasure. Arthur's own breath comes in pants, loud and obnoxious in the silence of the bathroom. He stands, back pressed against the stall and just jerks his cock for a few moments wondering if he can even come under the circumstances that he's put himself in.
But then the man presses the palm of his hand to the bulge of his trouser clad erection and Arthur's rhythm stutters, another partially formed moan getting stuffed and tangled in his throat. The man at his feet closes his eyes at the sound, looking particularly effected by Arthur's vocals and something clicks and rearranges itself inside of Arthur's head.
They aren't touching in any way and it suddenly becomes a game: How can Arthur make this man aroused enough that he'll cave and touch Arthur?
Arthur shifts, sliding his feet farther apart so that he can thrust into his hand with slow and measured twists of his hips. The man below also shifts, although Arthur describes it more as squirming, his palm pressing against his erection and his eyes darting from Arthur's face to the way he's thrusting into his own fist.
When the blue-eyed kneeling man licks his lips, Arthur tips his head back and moans. His hand flutters over the length of his cock, squeezing lightly as precome beads at the tip and he watches with hooded eyes as the other man leans forward until his breath ghosts down Arthur's erection like a barely-there kiss.
"Oh fuck," Arthur hisses out of his mouth without his permission and the man moans, eyes locked with Arthur's and his body rocking with the cadence of Arthur's hips.
Arthur licks his other hand, sucking on his fingers and then replacing his dry hand with his wet. The slide is delicious and dirty and oh god he has no idea what he's doing but everything about him feels charged with electricity. The pace of his hips picks up, the finesse of his earlier thrusts gone in favor of his coming orgasm, blazing up his belly from the heavy presence of the man's gaze all over him.
Arthur's hand flies over his cock, hips twisting and fucking up into his ever slick hand from his leaking cock-head. The man at his feet moans along with Arthur, the breath in the exhaling making Arthur twist his body in pleasure. He was so close.
"Please," the man whispers, just centimeters from the tip of Arthur's weeping tip. "Please give it to me. Please."
Arthur comes with a strangled shout, his other hand flying into the man's hair and watching, directing each streak of his come across the man's cheeks, sliding down the flat of his nose, bursts of come gathering over his lips and dripping down his chin. Arthur paints the man face, a picture of bliss, with his come and when he's done, his cock leaking pathetically with the last spasms of his orgasm, the man leans forward to press a kiss to Arthur's sensitive dick. Arthur moans, hand curling into the soft mess of black hair, when the man's tongue swirls around the head before he applies enough suction that it hurts, turning Arthur's knees to jelly and ripping at moan out of his lungs that would make porn stars blush.
The man's mouth leaves off Arthur's cock with an audible 'pop' of suction and spit and Arthur flails, his hand leaving the man's hair regretfully and going to hold the top of the stall so he doesn't crumble into a pile of absolute rubble.
"Wha-" Arthur starts before stopping, his throat dry. "What was that?"
They are both panting. Arthur's cock is still half-hard at the sight of the come smeared and dripping along the plains of the man's face.
"Fags," he says with a casualness that belies his arousal, come smeared over his lips and sliding down his chin. "Come is our most frequent art medium."
He's gone before Arthur can tuck himself back in and rearrange a response.
"What the fuck?" Arthur asks the swinging bathroom door, feelings of awe, filth and like he just got taken advantage of flashing through him.
"Fuck," Arthur repeats, tucking himself back and staggering to the sink.
<3<3<3
Arthur plays the message again:
Arthur, it's Morgana. I can't believe you left! You missed this amazing performance art piece by Merlin. God, it just spoke to everyone about queer politics and hyper sexualization. I can't believe you left without saying goodbye or meeting Merlin. I'm taking pictures of Will's graffiti art before Father's minions paint over it today, you should come by and watch the security tapes with me. Merlin was amazing!
Arthur blinks.
No. Arthur shakes his head, replies the message and then sets about making himself a cup of tea.
Absolutely not, Arthur thinks as he watches the hot water swirl with the steeping tea bag. But even as he's vehemently swearing off going to Morgana's or even entertaining the vaguest hint of memory about last night, he's grabbing his flat keys, pouring the still steeping tea in a travel mug and rushing out the door to hail a cab.
He'd be lying if the man—Merlin, Jesus Christ—he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been haunted by the blue, intensely radiant stare of the man who he came all over in a gallery bathroom stall.
This is obviously Morgana's fault.
<3<3<3
Morgana's taking pictures when he arrives.
There are two glaring pieces of graffiti art and one signature. Arthur knows nothing about the tagging culture that Morgana's drawn to and what he does know is from the snippets of footage he's seen from her documentary about them. He knows they are tragically flawed youths. And even if they are only a few years younger than him, he feels like there are oceans of years between him and the grainy people he's seen on the film or in the gallery events he's been to.
The first piece is a portrait and is, admittedly, stunning. The depth of the painting is surprising, since Morgana claims the artists only work with spray paint. It's in a myriad of blacks and grays that compliment the photographs well by making the transition seamless between the two mediums. The face is distorted, as if the painting is an image from an uneven looking glass.
The second full piece is what appears to be a lego shaped man, something very robotic about the image. He's bleeding and dragging what looks like human intestines behind him. It's remarkably sad and emotive for such an in-your-face piece of art.
The third is done in traditional and typical graffiti lettering but somehow manipulated from the simple 'William' into letters that form a magnificent dragon.
"It's Kill-Garrah."
Arthur looks up to see Morgana beside him but she's not looking at him, she's looking at the signature in front of her. "It's Will's inner demon."
"Inner demon?"
Morgana shrugs, her hand reaching out to trace the intricate patterns. "Will does a lot of heroin and he's convinced that the dragon that he sees there in that space is forever apart of him. He's named it Kill-Garrah."
"Interesting," Arthur says with perfected indifference. It scares him a little that Morgana hangs out with people who do heroin often enough to have the same visions over and over again. But he can see the appeal. Morgana did say dangerous. Besides, what else are rich kids supposed to do but follow around fuck-ups and people both bound and freed by obligations to their desires?
Right.
The door opens behind them and Arthur watches Morgana scowl as the men armed with paint containers and large rollers march into the gallery. They don't bother to introduce themselves and Arthur has a feeling that the mutual loathing has been established between them. Arthur is positive that his father specifically picks non-English speaking workers to do his bidding so that they won't hear a word of Morgana's anarchic talk because everybody knows that Morgana could have made Hitler give into her demands.
She makes her own art out of people and their will.
"Come on," Morgana says, tugging him back to the staircase that led up to her loft. "I can't watch them deface his art."
She cradles her camera close to her and Arthur knows that the next time he shows up at one of her gallery shows, ceiling to floor blow up prints of the art being covered up down stairs will be proudly displayed.
"I had Lance, that's Gwen's boyfriend—you remember him, right? Anyway, I had him splice all the video together because Merlin's on all ten of the cameras at various different times."
Arthur tries to look unaffected but he can already see the vivid image of Merlin's face, come covered and filthy. He's so fucked it's unbelievable.
Morgana prattles on about art and things that Arthur doesn't care about as they settle onto her sleek leather couch. The cameras are black and white but it's easy to pick out Merlin's figure on the frozen screen.
"Pay attention," Morgana says with a glare.
"I am!"
Arthur shifts to get comfortable as Morgana reaches for the remote. Part of him knows this is a fruitless exercise and yet, here he is. There was certainly a masochist side of him he had yet to explore beyond his daddy-issues.
The video follows Merlin out of the bathroom, erection clearly visible beneath his trousers as he adjusts himself. The smear of come across his face is barely-there by the distance of the camera. The angle changes, obviously a different camera as he walks across the gallery. Many people look at him but Arthur doesn't see anyone who explicitly notices the state of his face. It is only until a couple approaches him and he stops walking, turning to speak with them that anyone notices. The rest of the video is mainly full of people’s reactions and soon the whole gallery is whispering. Some look downright disgusted, their faces twisting into something ugly while Merlin keeps chatting and ignores their response. Others offer him a handkerchief and sometimes Merlin smiles or blushes but he always shakes his head—one notable time he looks surprised, touches his face and then licks his finger. The other people watching start to clap.
Arthur watches as if he's having an out-of-body experience. Part of him is overwhelmingly turned on by Merlin's brazen antics (Performance art? What does that even mean?) and then there is something else, sinister and ugly that feels a lot like shame. Arthur can't look away, enamored with the clumsy nature of the artist's body and how he looks so different on the screen than when he was on his knees in front of Arthur.
No matter the circumstances, it seems that Merlin is beautiful and it wasn't just the flattering lighting of the bathroom. There is something undeniably alluring about him that Arthur isn't sure he can describe but he can feel it.
"What do you think?"
Morgana voice pulls him out of whatever self-loathing and completely besotted moment he was having. He directs his eyes in her general direction, not daring to lie within eye contact, and says, "It's fine."
She gapes. "It's what?"
"I said-"
"I heard what you said, you absolute ass."
"Morgana-"
"No," she says with a biting sting. "You know, for liking dick so much, you're such a fucking homophobe."
Arthur can feel the headache blooming behind his eyes. Why is it that every time he and Morgana have a sort of a conversation they spend most of the time insulting each other? It amazes him how quickly they both descend into familiar territories.
"That's not what I meant," he says sternly, "and you know it. Fuck. You know, for someone who hates Father so much, you sure do know how to put words into my mouth just like him."
Morgana's eyes narrow dangerously and this, this is why Arthur doesn't go to her gallery openings, or meet any of her friends, or spend too much time discussing anything that isn't strictly about Morgana because everything goes spectacularly wrong. He never knows when they make the sharp left turn in their conversations but it is apparently inevitable.
"You have no fucking-"
Arthur has never been more grateful for a mobile ring. Well, there was that one time when his father's phone had rung back in secondary school, pulling him away from the pantry where Arthur and Valiant were making out after footie practice but that's neither here nor there.
The look of fury and vengeance in the set of her mouth doesn't leave when Morgana answers the phone but she leaves with the mobile pressed against her ear before Arthur can communicate that he's leaving. Instead, he relaxes against the couch and watches as the DVD restarts, captivated by Merlin—everything about him intrigues Arthur in ways that didn't make any sense. There is nothing special about him. He's just some artist junkie with strange ideals and a thousand other characteristics that Arthur loathes about Morgana's friends.
Yes. That is all he is.
"I have to go."
Arthur pretends he's not riveted by the spastic expression of Merlin's hands while he talks people on the screen. Instead, he lolls his head in a perfect performance of bored rich-boy that he's fairly sure someone should give him an award for such an artful up-bringing. Morgana glares.
"I have to go make sure the load in at the docks goes smoothly," Morgana says with grit.
"More art?"
Arthur doesn't check the sarcasm in his voice and she shakes her head in disappointment. "Yes, you asshole. Lock the door on your way out."
She sweeps out of the room then, phone already back to her ear and chatting in broken Italian to the deliverers on the other end. Arthur lets his head fall in his hands to rub at his temples. Is it really his fault that Morgana is certifiable?
Is it her fault you came on some artist's face and are now a messy closet case?
"Dammit," he says, before pushing himself up off the sofa. He snarls at the television, still displaying Merlin's charming and utterly disarming presence, just as the phone starts ringing. "How many phones does that women need?"
Grabbing the box, he turns the telly off and heads for the door.
Click: "Shit. Seems I've missed you. I'll try your mobile but if you check your messages, remember that the flat-warming party for Merlin is tonight..."
Arthur stops, half-way out the door.
"It would mean a lot to him if you'd be there. Everyone is going to be there and it'll be good to have someone else who is remotely sane around."
Arthur scoffs at the idea of Morgana being anything remotely sane. She might be the craziest of them all to put this hodgepodge of people together and make it work.
"Merlin's been in a mood since your show, said he met someone but he's not talking. Maybe you'll be able to help or at least get some information out of his moody-ass because it's driving everyone crazy."
Of course. His own fucking curiosity about his sister's life has landed him in such a complete mess. He ignores the message’s implications. There is no way Merlin would want to have anything to do with Arthur—Arthur Pendragon of all people. Not someone like Merlin. Not at all. It's an insane notion.
"Listen, I've got to go before your machine cuts me off. I'll just leave the address here..."
He tries not to listen. He really does. He tries to block it all out and shut the door, go back to his normal life with his normal friends and his normal job and his normal—comfortable closet.
But then, when did normal become boring? When did normal become such a bad life?
He really tries to run away but his feet propel him back into the room to replay the message and type the address into his iPhone.
<3<3<3
He spends two hours trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to wear to a hipster flat-warming party. It's clear, after sorting through his entire wardrobe, that he actually has little that isn't a designer button up or suit. In the end, he throws on a long-sleeved henley faded into heather gray by years of footie practices and wearings to bed. It's a little tight on him but he figures it's probably more the fashion than his usual garb. He digs out a pair of trousers that are comfortable and old before contemplating shoes. All he has are trainers or dress shoes. He compromises as much as possible with a worn out pair of loafers, sans socks even though the weather is frigid because socks would look ridiculous.
This is quickly becoming a worse idea.
When he looks in mirror, he looks nothing like a trendy-twenty-something. He just looks like he's boarding a yacht.
"This is ridiculous," Arthur says to his reflection. "What am I doing?"
For some reason, none of his insecurities are enough to make him climb into bed and fade out into mediocrity. Instead, he makes his way to the bathroom to take out his contacts. His glasses are plastic, black, large and chunky, which are thankfully the style of the times, but that he bought because he was only wearing them in the comfort of his own home and hated how all the others pinched the bridge of his nose. It is the only piece of his wardrobe that Morgana likes.
Well, other than the contributions she makes every occasion she can.
It's well past eleven by the time he finally forces himself not to comb his hair, which for the record, drives him insane. He has never understood why looking like you've never owned a brush in your life is sexy. It just looks... untidy and foolish.
He tries to laugh at himself but it just comes out choked and desperate. It occurs to him as he's pulling on the peacoat Morgana had given him three Christmas ago (which he rarely wears) that it's a flat warming party. He obviously can't go without a gift.
Right?
Arthur shakes himself. It's just rude, no matter who you are, if you crash a party without a bloody gift. He settles for picking the least expensive (100 pound) bottle of red wine out of the pantry and praying he won't look like too much of a twat.
"Too late," he mutters as he pulls on lined leather gloves, checks his pockets for his wallet and phone and heads out the door.
When he tells the address to his driver, Tristan, he gets a bland raise of an eyebrow because it's a certainly dodgy side of town but Tristan thankfully says nothing. Arthur ignores his own blush.
What in the hell is he doing?
<3<3<3
The flat complex looks just as bleak as the dodgy address suggests.
Arthur stands outside in the freezing cold, clutching his bottle of wine, and staring at what he really hopes isn't the party but knows by trick of irony that it most certainly is. There is a flat five stories up that is blaring music and looks to be jam packed with people. Arthur watches in mild horror as someone stumbles out onto the balcony and starts to piss over the side.
He really should be going now.
The elevator seems to be out of operation since the bombings in World War II and so Arthur takes the stairs, which smell like a combination of human feces and cat urine but thankfully only smell that way and are actually quite well lit.
The hallway on the fifth floor is flooded with people, all dressed in various manners and stages of either actual homelessness or hipster-fashion. Arthur doesn't take his chances and mainly keeps to himself as he elbows his way through people having conversations, slumped on the floor, piled on top of each other or, more notably, shagging.
He suddenly feels ridiculous with his bottle of wine and looks around to find a tall, emaciated looking man flopped against the wall, who truly looks homeless.
"Here," Arthur says and tries to trust it at him when a warm arm is slung over his shoulders.
"Don't give that to Barry," a warm voice says. "He'll just hog it all—the selfish twat."
Arthur stares. Barry grunts.
"Excuse me?"
The man with his arm around his shoulder just grins and reads the label. "Whoa, aren't you a posh one?"
Arthur is too shocked and slightly paralyzed by the physicality of the man talking to him. He's just taller than Arthur, dark hair that falls in curls around his face, prominent nose and strong jaw that is covered in stubble. He's wearing a tunic. A tunic. And he's touching Arthur like he has permission or if they're friends. Arthur can confirm that they are by no means friends because he's never seen this man before and he certainly wouldn't be friends with someone who thought tunics were proper attire for any occasion, let alone winter.
Arthur can see the man's pert nipples through the thin, flimsy and diabolical material of his tunic. His nipples.
"What?" Arthur says because the man is staring at him with an alarming smile and Arthur has no idea what one says to maniacs with tunics on.
The man laughs in reply, head thrown back and unbearably happy that Arthur tries to shy away but the man keeps him in his clutches. For a brief moment, Arthur is sure that he is now going to be kidnapped and made into some sort of slave or join a modern-day gypsy cult by force but then the moment passes with the laughter and the man is grinning down at Arthur in something that looks like kindness but may be insanity. Arthur isn't sure.
"Gwaine," the man says as he starts to move them through the maze of people that are pouring out of the flat.
"Um, what?"
"My name," the man says with a swagger of their hips so that they don't run into the door jamb that he's guiding them through. "My name is Gwaine."
"Oh," Arthur says, and nods. "Right. Well, I'm Arthur."
"Arthur, hm?"
The man, Gwaine, looks mildly surprised but his features smooth back into a carefree smile that leaves Arthur very suspicious.
"Well, let’s get something to open this," he says as he jiggles the bottle of wine Arthur brought and Arthur shakes his head, even as he's being strong armed into what looks like the kitchen. The flat is remarkably small.
"No! That's a, um, that's a flat warming gift."
Gwaine laughs again and Arthur frowns. He's beginning to find this man slightly irritating with all the booming laughter that makes his eyes crinkle in an attractive way.
"You really are posh!"
"It's rude not to bring a gift," Arthur grounds out and makes a grab for the bottle but Gwaine swings around two women who are making out against the sink to open a drawer.
"Listen mate, if this is a gift-"
"For Merlin," Arthur clarifies.
"Yes, well, Merlin doesn't drink red wine. And you're going to be way too sober to deal with this lot with a clear head. And unless you're into PBR, which I highly doubt you'll be gettin' on with that, then you'll be better off drinking this entire bottle yourself."
"What-"
Gwaine thrusts a rusty corkscrew into the air in triumph. He meets Arthur's eyes and slings an arm about him again, which had dropped from maneuvering into the tiny kitchenette.
"You can think of another pressie to give Merlin, eh?"
Arthur does not to blush because he's a grown man and whoever this Gwaine character was (What the hell kind of name was that anyway?), he was a total idiot and Arthur didn't even know him! He has no right to be all smarmy and ruggedly handsome. How did he know Merlin didn't like red wine?
But before he could say any of this, Gwaine is thrusting the open bottle in his face.
"Take it!"
"Glassware?"
Gwaine laughs again and pulls him down the hall. "You're hilarious. Let's go find Merlin before someone mistakes you for a copper and breaks a bottle over your head."
Arthur feels horrified and is only slightly grateful that everybody seems to know and love Gwaine, who pushes them both through the tightly packed flat in search of Merlin. No one seems to question his presence here. Although, Arthur can't imagine anyone knowing everyone at the party since it seems to be full of every hipster-fuck in the city.
The whole experience feels like a low budget indie film. They spend a few minutes searching the living room that houses three people having enthusiastic sex on the coach while a group plays scrabble (modified as a drinking game by the looks of it) and two dozen other people stand around talking, like the extremely public sex is normal. One bloke is reading a thick book on a bean-bag, smoking a fag and ignoring everyone around him. Arthur can't believe he can read with all the noise but as he stares at the kid he sort of recognizes him.
Not that he knows or would actually know any of these people but he recognizes the bloke reading from Merlin's portraits. Arthur wonders if this is just a gallery collection of people Merlin has used for art or if they really are his friends. He wonders why he care about the answer.
"I should be off!" Arthur says but Gwaine doesn't seem to hear him in the dull roar of the room and instead tightens his grip around Arthur's shoulders, steering them past the balcony (which Arthur is blissfully thankful for) and down a narrow hallway.
There are people everywhere, crammed into every nook and cranny of the flat and Arthur finds it unsafe and completely unnerving.
"Where are we going?"
Gwaine answers with a sly grin that has Arthur nervous and one-hundred percent certain that he's about to witness something illegal.
Arthur shouts when Gwaine basically kicks down the door at the end of the hall and stumbles only slightly when Gwaine pulls him into a room with only fifteen people in it instead of thirty.
"Look who I found!" Gwaine shouts to the group of people piled on the bed and scattered around the floor, whom he joins as he flails a bit and falls on two people curled up at the foot of the bed.
For a few seconds, everything is silent save for the noise coming from the rest of the flat until Will starts laughing hysterically from his place beside Merlin at the head of the bed and conversation blooms all around them again. Arthur takes in the room; the bed dominates the small space, there's a small mix-matched side table and two tall towers of unpacked boxes. The closet seems to be housing three people in compromising positions instead of actual clothes. Will, the tagger from Morgana's show is sitting next to Merlin although he looks worse for wear and if possible, more detached from reality than when Arthur last saw him.
Arthur tries to look non-nonchalant about the fact that he just crashed Merlin's party but Merlin looks so surprised and utterly gorgeous that Arthur just stares. His cheeks are flushed, his lips parted in surprise and his hair is an absolute wreck. It looks like someone has been running their fingers through it, tugging it and sculpting it to look unnaturally sexy. Given the nature of the party and Arthur's first-hand experience with Merlin, he wouldn't be surprised if Merlin's hair was directly styled by sex.
Or kittens. Or whatever.
"I saved Arthur here from giving his flat-warming wine to Barry," Gwaine says from the floor where Arthur recognizes Morgana's friend Gwen. She's just as beautiful as she was in the picture and she's smiling next to a shockingly attractive man. They look like Spanish models. Arthur shakes his head and glares at Gwaine.
"He did not save me," Arthur says in response, kicking Gwaine's leg as subtly as possible. Gwaine just grins in response, which Arthur thinks might be the only way the man knows how to communicate effectively.
"You're here."
Arthur shifts his focus from Gwaine (still grinning like a loon) to Merlin who looks shocked and undeniably adorable with a large tray balanced on his lap and a large bottle of vodka tucked up into his side.
"Um, yes," Arthur says because he has no idea what he planned on saying once he saw Merlin again. "Gwaine says you don't like wine."
Merlin shoots Gwaine a look as Will seizes on Merlin's shoulder in another fit of laughter. Merlin smacks him softly on the forehead, looking frustrated and fond all at the same time. Arthur finds himself desperately wanting to be on the end of all of Merlin's expressions.
"You brought me a flat-warming present?"
Arthur flushes and takes a few steps toward the bed. "Yes, although it seems that it has already been opened," Arthur says and gestures with the wine to Gwaine but doesn't take his eyes off Merlin, who is smiling with a coyness that is sure to drive Arthur crazy with desire. How anyone looks that attractive when in such a setting of utter debauchery is incomprehensible. Arthur doesn't process much but Merlin's flushed cheeks and bright eyes that are still sparkling.
"You look like you needed a drink!" Gwaine replies before turning to tackle the man sitting next to Gwen off the bed. There is a battle cry and then the wrestling match is continued on the floor.
"Merlin," Will whinges and Merlin breaks eye contact with Arthur to kiss the top of Will's head and whisper something that Arthur can't hear.
"Alright," Will replies with a twisted face of petulance. "But if you give him my lines I'll paint you with a little peen in my next mural."
Arthur huffs out a bit of laughter as Will shakes his finger at Merlin in complete seriousness before sliding off the bed and flouncing (oh all the fucked up flouncing, how do they do that?) out of the room, knocking his shoulder against Arthur's in a way that should have been intimidating but just made Will, whose body seemed to be made entirely out of liquid, bounce off Arthur's solid form and into the door frame with a giggle and more flouncing.
God, what is Arthur doing here?
"Come sit," Merlin says, patting the spot next to him and smiling with his entire mouth. He looks mad, much like Gwaine's smile but for some reason it doesn't irritate Arthur as much. He thinks it might be the fact that Merlin's ears are so childishly cute that it makes the loony-grinning seem natural instead of manic. He ignores the thought that Merlin's grin might not be annoying because he's had Arthur's come all over his face and Arthur wants to be in compromising positions with Merlin as soon as humanly possible.
Arthur picks his way through the bodies of people lying on the floor. He pushes the shock away when he sees a girl pushing a needle into her arm in the corner while she talks about someone named Judith Butler and Anzaldua with a casualness like she's simply discussing the weather or the shit traffic on the tube the other day. Instead, he focuses on Merlin's cheerful face and the fact that he doesn’t look angry or upset that Arthur has invited himself to the party. In fact, Merlin looks rather pleased and doesn't that bode well for Arthur?
The mattress dips underneath him and Merlin smiles wide before turning back to the large silver tray in his lap where a pile of white powder, a credit card and a twenty dollar bill lay.
"How was the opening?" Gwen asks from the foot of the bed and Merlin sneaks Arthur a look underneath his sooty-eyelashes that would have weakened Arthur's knees if he hadn't been sitting. But Merlin doesn't say anything, instead he prattles on to Gwen who is lying across the bed and sticking her bare feet in the faces of Gwaine and the Tan-Man on the floor.
Part of Arthur's mind registers the fact that Merlin has a pile of cocaine in his lap but he's mainly consumed by the length of Merlin's fingers as he flattens out the bill with one hand, his other taking a fourth of the pile of powder with the credit card. The bill goes over the pile and then the credit card runs over the bill with a grace that Arthur finds completely distracting and not at all what he associates with preparing coke for consumption.
In the background, Arthur hears the smooth tonal quality of Merlin's voice tripping over itself as he talks to Gwen. Arthur focuses most of his attention between Merlin's lips as they form over the words and his fingers, long and thin, pale as the powder that he's dividing into lines over half the tray.
Arthur startles a bit when Merlin nudges his foot, clothed in gray suede oxfords, against Arthur's ankle. "Will was kidding about sharing," Merlin says with a nod toward the neatly divided lines. "You can have some if you want."
Arthur gapes. He's never done anything harder than marijuana in his life. There was once when he thought about doing a bit of ecstasy before a concert but he ended up being the designated driver instead.
"I don't," Arthur starts before getting distracted by Merlin licking his lips, running the tip of his tongue over the edge of card. "I've not-"
"S'okay," Merlin says as he passes the tray to Gwen who takes the bill from him and rolls it into a tight tube before putting it to her nose, pushing down to block the opposite nostril and inhaling hard, doing half the line, then switching to the other nostril and doing the other half. (Arthur wants to ask, 'WHAT ABOUT YOUR CHILD' but decides against it.)
"It's just polite to ask," Merlin says and Arthur nods when Merlin proceeds to scoot closer to him, effectively pressing their sides together from shoulder to feet. "It's not really any fun if you haven't been drinking."
"Oh?" Arthur says because what else is he supposed to say?
"Yeah, but I'm pretty drunk so it's nice. You'd probably just be jittery and paranoid without a drink."
"Well," Arthur says with a shrug. "I've got your present to drink."
"Drink up," Merlin says, somehow making it sound filthy and sexy, his voice low and insistent that flashes Arthur back to the gallery bathroom with Merlin on his knees asking for it. Arthur feels a flush run up his body as Merlin smiles again, lifting the bottle of wine to Arthur's lips and tipping it for him.
Arthur watches Merlin's face as he obediently swallows the dry wine with gulps, lips sealed tight around the head of the bottle. It's certainly more erotic than Arthur ever intended in the company of strangers.
"Oi! You got it cut up?" Will staggers into the room and Merlin lowers the bottle from Arthur's lips, with a soft pop. They stare at each other for a bit, Arthur licking his lips and chasing errant droplets of wine until Will sits on the bed a little enthusiastically with a wickedness that Arthur thinks might be jealousy.
"Better lay off the nummies tonight, Merlin," Will slurs.
Gwen cracks up laughing and pushes the tray to Will as Gwaine's head pops up over the edge of the bed.
"You know, I've never actually heard the whole story," he says with eyebrows that are moving up and down like fuzzy caterpillars. Arthur takes another swig of wine and tries to will him out of existence.
"Oh!" Gwen says with a laugh and a hiccup. "Please tell it! Please! When I tell it to Lance, he just thinks I'm lying."
"That's because it's just too ridiculous," the Tan-Man says, who Arthur assumes is Lance. "Plus, you can't even say dick without giggling off your seat."
Gwen blushes and Lance kisses her cheek in a display of sweetness that seems out of place.
"I don't want to tell it," Merlin says, not looking at Arthur but looking at his hands. "If I do, it'll scare Arthur away. And he's only just got here."
Arthur moves from staring at Merlin's hands, to staring at Merlin's neck because he's obviously not looking at Arthur. Will starts to cackle with laughter again.
"You've got to tell it," Will says. "Arthur will be a good mate and stick around. Won't you, Arrrthur?"
Will says his name like the blatant arsehole he is and Arthur bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't like Will. Not one bit. Instead of telling Will that he can take his junkie arse back to whatever hell hole he dragged himself out of, Arthur smiles and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to Merlin's temple. It's a bold move, even for him, but the warmth of the wine is obviously going to his head and it is hard to just be this near to Merlin and not want more contact.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says quietly. Merlin stills and Arthur holds his breath.
"Promise?"
"Good!' Will interrupts and Arthur jerks his head back, the moment broken, to glare at Will's stupid face. "Now tell the story."
"So, back when Will fancied himself gay," Merlin says with a smirk and an evilness that says he's not interested in Will ruining his night and will exact revenge. "Not that that lasted long."
"Two weeks with you is sure to turn anyone straight," Will parries as he brings the rolled bill to his nose.
"Anyway, I'd just finished picking out the final collection for my book and Will had stumbled upon an eight ball of blow. We were so poor then, I can't even tell you how lucky we were to have food, let alone drugs. But anyway, we got just fucked up out of our minds and were laying about when Will coated his fingers in coke and put them in my mouth. Well, you can imagine how we thought this would be a good idea."
Arthur cocks an eyebrow, feeling distinctly uncomfortable and not liking it one bit that Will had his hands anywhere near Merlin. Ever.
"Mate," Will says as his hands sweeps over his nose and he sniffs quickly two or three times. "It's not my fault you've got a terrible gag reflex. What kind of faggot has any at all?"
Merlin's shoulder brushes against Arthur's and he wills himself to focus on the story and not how nice Merlin's body feels pressed up against his or the way that feeling is warring with a million other ideas swirling in his mind; Merlin's ghost breath over his cock, Merlin's erection straining the front of his trousers, Merlin's head nestled in Will's lap...
"But instead of repressing the gag reflex, it just numbed the area. So when Will shoved his cock-"
"My very impressive dick," Will says loudly while passing the tray back to Gwen who giggles.
"-down my throat, I gagged but I didn't know it because everything was numb," Merlin continues. "Next thing I know, I'm vomiting all over Will's dick."
The whole group around them groans and Arthur gapes, as both Will and Merlin start laughing. How they are able to tell this story without dying of embarrassment is beyond Arthur. Hell, this entire life is beyond him.
"And," Merlin continues, eyes bright and glazey drunk. "This twisted fuck came, while I was puking on his cock. I'm fucking puking my guts out and Will coming all over my hair and neck."
Arthur is in awe and disgusted.
"What! You have no idea how warm stomach contents are," Will squawks from where Gwen is done doing a line and the rest of the room is laughing, groaning in disgust at Will who seems to soak up the attention with a few well constructed grins.
Arthur drinks half the bottle of wine in a single chug.
"Taking shots without me?" Merlin asks from next to him, the attention of the room diverted once again, and Arthur arches an eyebrow in response.
"You cannot do shots of wine, Merlin."
Merlin grins. "Lies."
Arthur doesn't know what to do when Merlin smiles like that, flirtatious and shameless, and so he brings the bottle back to his lips and watches as Merlin does the same with the plastic bottle of vodka beside him. As Arthur gulps down the wine, eyes glued to the way Merlin's throat works over the searing liquid, he thinks that maybe being here isn't such a terrible idea.
Arthur finishes the bottle, amazed at how easy it is to finish and entire bottle of wine when there isn't any glassware involved. Merlin pulls his own bottle from his lips and grimaces to Arthur's huffed laughter. When he goes to sit it down next to the bed, turning away from Merlin's shining eyes, he's stopped from turning back by the blunt pressure of Merlin's forehead against his temple. It's the mirror of what Arthur had brazenly done earlier, only now their positions are reversed and if Will thinks to interrupt this time, Arthur might shove that bill so far up his nose that it becomes a permanent fixture.
"I like this," Merlin breathes into his ear. "I liked it when you did this to me."
Arthur doesn't suppress the shiver that runs down his spine. His hands clench against the fabric over his knees, suddenly free of the wine bottle and having absolutely nothing to stop him from twisting his hands into Merlin's mess of hair, which has been teasing him since Arthur walked into the room.
"I'm sorry about Will," Merlin says.
"I don't really want to talk about Will," Arthur says automatically and finds infinite pleasure in the way Merlin's laughter comes in tiny puffs of air across Arthur's neck.
"You're going to need more wine if you're going to make it through the night," Merlin whispers, his chest pressing into Arthur's shoulder and his nose rubbing at the top of Arthur's ear in a maddening way that shouldn't be anywhere near sexy but somehow is very much indeed. "I'll be right back."
And then Merlin is gone, gangly legs standing up on the bed, stepping over Gwen and Lance to get to Will and the tray. Arthur watches, slightly out of breath, as Merlin grabs the tray of coke and Will's hand, only to disappear out from the room.
Arthur lets his head thump back against the wall.
"You're Morgana's brother, yeah?"
Arthur opens his eyes to find Gwen lying next to him, her curls spread out on the duvet in a copy of her limbs that seem twisted and sprawled out in odd angles.
"Step-brother," Arthur softly corrects and Gwen laughs, her hand touching his thigh. "You're Gwen?"
She nods.
"Well, I guess I have you to thank for being here."
"Why's that?"
Arthur startles himself with honesty. "I listened to your message at Morgana's. It's how I knew this was going on."
"You gate crashed?"
"I took it upon myself-" Arthur starts but then Gwen dissolves into giggles, her hand clutching the fabric of his pant leg. "Yes. I certainly did gate crash this party."
Gwen's eyes are glazed with a high that certainly clashes with Arthur’s knowledge of her (mother in the photograph, 'sensible one' from Morgana's description) but she's warm and the only person who hasn't annoyed Arthur by simply existing and so he smiles at her.
"I'm glad you came," she says with a little nod and tilt of her head. "Merlin's glad too."
Arthur wants to push the subject, desperate to know what Merlin thinks or what Merlin has said about their tryst in the gallery bathrooms but then Gwen is off, talking about something else that Arthur doesn't quite catch but enjoys the way she talks to animatedly that he doesn't say anything.
He listens to her talking and ignores the way Gwaine is watching him from his new position by Lance's feet.
next
Recipient:
shippouzrusAuthor:
tourdefierceRating: NC-17
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur; brief mentions of Merlin/Will, Arthur/Valiant, Merlin/Gwaine, Gwen/Lancelot, Gaius/OMC
Word Count: 24,380
Warnings: Drug use (various forms), hipsters, language, boy-sex, public sex, facials, rimming, NSFW images, conversation about past use of bodily fluids during sex, small mentions of homophobia and other general ridiculousness.
Summary: Hipster: a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter. Hipster: a group of people Arthur Pendragon despises.
Author's Notes: I took the following prompts: bottom!Merlin, slutty!Merlin, emotionally-stunted!Arthur and handsfree orgasms. I'm not sure how this happened by I blame it entirely on S. A big thank you to T and S for all their cheerleading and R for her betaing
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Arthur carefully reminds himself that murder is illegal and very messy. He takes a deep breath and finishes his bourbon. Having never left the bar to begin with, it's replaced before he can even set the glass down. He nods thankfully at the bartender, who is gorgeous and polite and possibly the only person in the entire room that Arthur doesn't want to murder in some fashion.
He fucking hates art shows.
But Morgana threatened and it's her world—she's an art fanatic. He has cancelled so many times that he's forgotten what her gallery looks like; pristine white walls and matching slick tile that shines in a way that is completely mocking. The only color in the entire room comes from the bathrooms, which have rainbow paint dripping (still wet) from both doors, and the people...
God, the people.
It's not that Arthur is a snob. (He is.) But that isn't where the annoyance lies. Arthur's been forced into art gallery openings and generally mindless evenings his entire life thanks to his father's old money and thick name. But these events that Morgana puts on—that Morgana lives and has created to orbit around her is nothing like what his father makes him go to. Looking around him, he notes that him and Morgana are the only people properly dressed. Everyone is wearing tight jeans, some washed-out and begging to be taken back to the 80s, and the vast amounts of pointy shoes defies logic. The women are dressed like men and the men are flirting with homelessness and blatant effeminacy. Many are wearing shirts with ironic sayings, holes cutting into their armpit stains and worn thin from being traded one too many times at the consignment shops. Those who have avoided the t-shirts are wearing hideously patterned button ups with the skinniest ties and look generally malnourished.
Hipsters. All of them.
"Stop glaring," Morgana says from behind him and Arthur nods to the bartender for another. His buzz will hold the night at bay and after three he can switch to water.
"I'm doing no such thing."
"You are," she says without a hint of irritation. "It's unbecoming."
"They're the ones that look at me as if I'm scum," Arthur says as he turns to lean against the bar, his back digging into the rigid corner. Morgan is looking intimidatingly beautiful and striking in a way that almost makes her ugly. It's a line that Arthur knows she loves to walk because she can. Her tailored trousers are slim on her hips before dropping straight down in a line, so that when she walks it seems as if she's gliding underneath all the navy fabric. The toes of her favorite stripped oxfords are pointing out from the large cuff hem that give her a decidedly pirate air. Her top is sheer as to sport what seems to be art, but is actually just one of Morgana's minions’ odes to her tits, which, are pert and visible underneath the drawings in permanent marker across her chest.
"Nice nipples," Arthur says when Morgana arches an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes in predictable response.
"They only hate you because you're rich," she says. Arthur snorts. "And because you're beautiful in that classic way that they've been trying to rebel against since Warhol."
"Oh? Is that all?"
"Stop it," she says, pulling her thumb across his scowl lines and turning to settle beside him. "I'm glad you came."
"Are you?"
Arthur sips at his drink and scans the room. The walls are lined with photographs, mostly black and white. Randomly placed between all the subtle photography are vivid paintings, which bore Arthur to no end. At least the photographs have nudity, although it's certainly not the focus of the pictures.
"Yes," she says crisply beside him. "I want you to meet someone."
"Another art-minion? Another starving up-and-coming artist? Another creative genius?" Arthur doesn't bother to lace his tone with anything other than bored sarcasm. He's convinced most of Morgana's friends are just out for her money and her name to use in a desperate bid for fame. He's not wrong most of the time.
"Merlin is different," Morgana says softly and with enough inflection to make Arthur turn slightly toward her. "This show is different."
"Oh?"
"These artists are different, Arthur. Admittedly, Will's paintings aren't the best but that's because he's a tagger. But Merlin's photographs are just…" Morgana's voice trails off in awe. Arthur takes a drink and ponders what kind of man could impress Morgana. She's usually just amused enough with them to
keep them around for a while before moving on. "Anyway, I thought you'd like it."
"Why would you ever think that?"
"These people are dangerous," she says. "Merlin is dangerous and beautiful and one of the only gay artists with enough balls to run with taggers."
Arthur finishes his drink and reaches back for the third.
"I haven't the slightest idea what that means."
"It means," Morgana says as she pushes off the bar, spinning around so that she's walking backward and spreading her arms out. Arthur's gaze flickers between her exposed chest and her smile, coy but clearly hopeful and delighted. "You should mingle. You might learn something about your closet."
He's not in the closet. He's just not out of it yet. There is an astonishing amount of gray area for something that everyone paints as black and white. Not that Morgana would know, because Arthur refuses to talk about things as common as his sexuality with her. Doesn't stop her from being cheeky and generally infuriating.
She grins, slightly feral as always and spins around to go talk to people with annoying facial hair and useless head accessories.
Arthur distinctly feels that three drinks might not be enough to get him through the evening.
Arthur eventually makes his way around the gallery and has to admit that Morgana is right about one thing; the photographs are amazing. The lighting is soft in each of them, the pictures graying out in subtle tones as to highlight the subjects. And subjects they are. The people are beautiful, admittedly not classically but interesting and striking in a way that seems to be captured in the lines of their faces, the solid weight of their presence in the frame or in some other equally interesting and emotive body part. Whoever picked the models is genius.
Arthur finds his favorite quickly. It's a darker photo of a woman that Arthur vaguely recognizes as one of Morgana's friends (Gretchen? Gloria?), she's nude and standing in profile over a bathtub, her pregnant belly illuminated in both dark and light. It's stunning. There is a hint of sadness—maybe more darkness than anything but nothing morbid, just simplistic beauty. It almost looks as if she's ready to jump off a cliff and the lines of the bathtub blur in contrast to her naked body. Arthur wants to run his fingers over the picture but he holds back, feeling uncomfortable in how moved he is by the effortless photograph.
He's distracted by someone shaking a spray paint can a few feet from him. The man—er, boy really, looks manic in the way that most of the people here do. Except, there is something different about him, the restless way his wrists shakes the can of paint to the way he grins, feet shifting over the floor in a unsettling way that confirms Arthur suspicion (about most of the people here); he's on drugs.
He's also drawing on the wall.
The strangled noise is out of his mouth before he notices it. "What the hell!" Arthur moves toward him but a thin arm wraps around his front and there are lips pressing against the shell of his ear, cementing him in place.
"Watch," the man says in a whisper behind him. Arthur tries to shake him off but he is held fast, struck still as the man in front of him starts to spray paint the walls of Morgana's studio in a striking red color.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
Arthur watches, as the man makes wide arcs with his hand and yes, there is something mesmerizing about the man's fanatic movements and his painting but the fact of the matter remains that he's defacing Morgana's property.
He spots Morgana across the room and moves to say something, to get her attention but she's also staring at the man marking up a large blank wall. She's smiling. It's only then that Arthur realizing the whole gallery has stopped to watch the man go at the wall with vigor and Arthur notes the fact that several areas of the gallery have purposely blank walls. Morgana never does anything on accident.
"This isn't bloody art," Arthur says before slipping out of the man's grasp and making his way to the loo, shaking his head along the way. It isn't art, it is ridiculous and costly. Not to mention the fact that it is mad. Who paints the walls of their very expensive and very posh art gallery white, only to have an insane man spray paint on them while on drugs?
Morgana. That's who.
When Arthur arrives at the loo, he has another chance to scoff at the complete absurdness of Morgana's hipster-art world because the two bathrooms aren't labeled. The first one he peeks into doesn't have any urinals, the second one doesn't either and no one is in them because they're all watching freak-boy ruin the walls and fume up the room. Arthur picks the second one because he's already there.
Genderless bathrooms.
He relieves himself quickly, tucking himself back in and moving out of the stall to the sinks. He's soaping his hands under the hot water when he looks up to see a man watching him. Once again, man is a relative term because the person who is looking at him can't possibly be over the age of twenty. Never-the-less, he's certainly stunning. His lean frame is propped against the stall doors, clad in a tight v-neck tee with the glittering words 'Queen of Night' running its length down his extremely thin torso. Arthur makes a note of the way the boy’s hands are jammed into the front pockets of his poorly tailored trousers, making the slim definition of his arms stand out, as well as the fact that his pants are two inches too short and reveal the absurdly colored argyle of his socks: a shocking purple and green pattern, which leads to tattered Converse trainers.
Despite his clothing, Arthur's mind registers the gorgeous line of his cheekbones and the cupid’s bow of his mouth in the few seconds that the man watches Arthur in the mirror while he's washing his hands.
"Hello," he says and Arthur does not shiver at the husky quality of the man's voice.
"Evening," Arthur replies with a nod, looking down at his hands to rinse them in the water. When he looks back up to locate the towel dispenser the man is startlingly close, as close as he can get to Arthur's back without touching him. Arthur gasps at the proximity, steadying himself on the wet counter.
"Do you find me attractive?"
Arthur returns the man's stare with widened eyes and a bit of shock. "Pardon?"
The man tilts his head, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips—a movement that Arthur unconsciously tracks with his eyes.
"Am I attractive to you?"
Arthur blinks. The man behind him bends forward a little until he can rest his chin on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur wants to move. He wants to move away from the sink and get out of the bathroom, back to that ridiculous opening, but he's captivated by this man's playful almost-grin, his chin digging into the muscle of Arthur's shoulder. Arthur can't look away from his eyes either, dark cerulean that seems to glint with mischief and open affection. It's strange.
Against his back, Arthur feels the rumble of the man clearing his throat.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says with another lick of his pink lips. "Will you do me a favor?"
Arthur doesn't respond, although his chest tightens at the way the man's mouth shifts and rolls over the word 'favor'. They continue to stare at each other through the mirror and Arthur feels his cheeks heat at the attention.
"Will you do something for me?" He repeats and Arthur is hyper-aware of the ghost of his breath on Arthur's neck. "Please."
Oh. Well, there is certainly something about him that makes Arthur stop and take a breath through his constricted chest. The man's face is calm, maybe a bit curious but none of his features reflect the promise of mischief and filth in his eyes. It brings heat to Arthur's face and curls down his spine in a terribly over dramatic fashion that leaves him panting slightly.
He finds himself wanting to say yes to this ridiculous man and has no idea where this impulsive, eager to please side of him comes from. He's pretty sure all the art and hipster bullshit has melted the logical part of his brain, leaving him with a half hard cock, staring at a pretty mouth, chiseled cheekbones and glittering eyes.
"What is it?" Arthur croaks out, his tongue wetting his lips as his throat feels scratchy. He watches the man track the movement in the mirror. He feels quaked in the moment.
"It's kind of..." the man pauses before biting his bottom lip, "...dirty."
"Yeah?" Arthur practically gasps out and is acutely aware of the bizarre cocoon around them that has shifted from 'odd bathroom conversation' to 'scandalous bathroom encounter' in a matter of minutes.
The man laughs, jerking back and taking Arthur with him by pulling on the sides of Arthur's jacket until he spins around. The man tugs, head back and laughing, until Arthur is manhandled into a stall with the latch clicking shut with a very audible and cliché sound that still leaves Arthur shuttering.
Arthur thinks, This is all Morgana's fault and then the man is sinking to his knees right before Arthur's widening eyes and Arthur is fairly sure he's hallucinating.
"Would you mind coming on my face?"
Arthur chokes on his tongue. "W-what?"
The man at his feet tilts his head in consideration, as if he's consulting a particularly abstract piece of art before he smiles softly and says, "A facial".
"I'm not-"
"I won't touch you," the man says biting his lower lip again and painting the perfect picture of submission that Arthur can't help the strangled moan that gets caught up in his throat. "If you don't want me to, that's fine. But I would really appreciate it if you would do me this favor."
"A favor?"
Arthur isn't processing this very well, he is very aware but the man's eyes are twinkling in a way that speaks to the absurdity of this moment, of the way that he's surely mocking Arthur and clearly the want that Arthur is just now detecting in the two bright spots of color on the man's cheeks and the bulge of his erection, that looks incredibly painful trapped by his obscenely tight pants.
"Yes," he says, wiping his hands on his thighs. "Please do me this favor by coming all over my face."
It takes a moment before Arthur realizes that he's already unbuttoning his trousers, pulling out his half-hard cock to the man's quirking lips.
The question of why seems to sail past him.
The next few minutes pass in a haze of arousal and embarrassment. Arthur's cock hardens into fullness within a few strokes and the man's face only smiles in pleasure. Arthur concentrates on the man's erection that is straining in his pants or the way his eyes dance with pleasure. Arthur's own breath comes in pants, loud and obnoxious in the silence of the bathroom. He stands, back pressed against the stall and just jerks his cock for a few moments wondering if he can even come under the circumstances that he's put himself in.
But then the man presses the palm of his hand to the bulge of his trouser clad erection and Arthur's rhythm stutters, another partially formed moan getting stuffed and tangled in his throat. The man at his feet closes his eyes at the sound, looking particularly effected by Arthur's vocals and something clicks and rearranges itself inside of Arthur's head.
They aren't touching in any way and it suddenly becomes a game: How can Arthur make this man aroused enough that he'll cave and touch Arthur?
Arthur shifts, sliding his feet farther apart so that he can thrust into his hand with slow and measured twists of his hips. The man below also shifts, although Arthur describes it more as squirming, his palm pressing against his erection and his eyes darting from Arthur's face to the way he's thrusting into his own fist.
When the blue-eyed kneeling man licks his lips, Arthur tips his head back and moans. His hand flutters over the length of his cock, squeezing lightly as precome beads at the tip and he watches with hooded eyes as the other man leans forward until his breath ghosts down Arthur's erection like a barely-there kiss.
"Oh fuck," Arthur hisses out of his mouth without his permission and the man moans, eyes locked with Arthur's and his body rocking with the cadence of Arthur's hips.
Arthur licks his other hand, sucking on his fingers and then replacing his dry hand with his wet. The slide is delicious and dirty and oh god he has no idea what he's doing but everything about him feels charged with electricity. The pace of his hips picks up, the finesse of his earlier thrusts gone in favor of his coming orgasm, blazing up his belly from the heavy presence of the man's gaze all over him.
Arthur's hand flies over his cock, hips twisting and fucking up into his ever slick hand from his leaking cock-head. The man at his feet moans along with Arthur, the breath in the exhaling making Arthur twist his body in pleasure. He was so close.
"Please," the man whispers, just centimeters from the tip of Arthur's weeping tip. "Please give it to me. Please."
Arthur comes with a strangled shout, his other hand flying into the man's hair and watching, directing each streak of his come across the man's cheeks, sliding down the flat of his nose, bursts of come gathering over his lips and dripping down his chin. Arthur paints the man face, a picture of bliss, with his come and when he's done, his cock leaking pathetically with the last spasms of his orgasm, the man leans forward to press a kiss to Arthur's sensitive dick. Arthur moans, hand curling into the soft mess of black hair, when the man's tongue swirls around the head before he applies enough suction that it hurts, turning Arthur's knees to jelly and ripping at moan out of his lungs that would make porn stars blush.
The man's mouth leaves off Arthur's cock with an audible 'pop' of suction and spit and Arthur flails, his hand leaving the man's hair regretfully and going to hold the top of the stall so he doesn't crumble into a pile of absolute rubble.
"Wha-" Arthur starts before stopping, his throat dry. "What was that?"
They are both panting. Arthur's cock is still half-hard at the sight of the come smeared and dripping along the plains of the man's face.
"Fags," he says with a casualness that belies his arousal, come smeared over his lips and sliding down his chin. "Come is our most frequent art medium."
He's gone before Arthur can tuck himself back in and rearrange a response.
"What the fuck?" Arthur asks the swinging bathroom door, feelings of awe, filth and like he just got taken advantage of flashing through him.
"Fuck," Arthur repeats, tucking himself back and staggering to the sink.
Arthur plays the message again:
Arthur, it's Morgana. I can't believe you left! You missed this amazing performance art piece by Merlin. God, it just spoke to everyone about queer politics and hyper sexualization. I can't believe you left without saying goodbye or meeting Merlin. I'm taking pictures of Will's graffiti art before Father's minions paint over it today, you should come by and watch the security tapes with me. Merlin was amazing!
Arthur blinks.
No. Arthur shakes his head, replies the message and then sets about making himself a cup of tea.
Absolutely not, Arthur thinks as he watches the hot water swirl with the steeping tea bag. But even as he's vehemently swearing off going to Morgana's or even entertaining the vaguest hint of memory about last night, he's grabbing his flat keys, pouring the still steeping tea in a travel mug and rushing out the door to hail a cab.
He'd be lying if the man—Merlin, Jesus Christ—he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been haunted by the blue, intensely radiant stare of the man who he came all over in a gallery bathroom stall.
This is obviously Morgana's fault.
Morgana's taking pictures when he arrives.
There are two glaring pieces of graffiti art and one signature. Arthur knows nothing about the tagging culture that Morgana's drawn to and what he does know is from the snippets of footage he's seen from her documentary about them. He knows they are tragically flawed youths. And even if they are only a few years younger than him, he feels like there are oceans of years between him and the grainy people he's seen on the film or in the gallery events he's been to.
The first piece is a portrait and is, admittedly, stunning. The depth of the painting is surprising, since Morgana claims the artists only work with spray paint. It's in a myriad of blacks and grays that compliment the photographs well by making the transition seamless between the two mediums. The face is distorted, as if the painting is an image from an uneven looking glass.
The second full piece is what appears to be a lego shaped man, something very robotic about the image. He's bleeding and dragging what looks like human intestines behind him. It's remarkably sad and emotive for such an in-your-face piece of art.
The third is done in traditional and typical graffiti lettering but somehow manipulated from the simple 'William' into letters that form a magnificent dragon.
"It's Kill-Garrah."
Arthur looks up to see Morgana beside him but she's not looking at him, she's looking at the signature in front of her. "It's Will's inner demon."
"Inner demon?"
Morgana shrugs, her hand reaching out to trace the intricate patterns. "Will does a lot of heroin and he's convinced that the dragon that he sees there in that space is forever apart of him. He's named it Kill-Garrah."
"Interesting," Arthur says with perfected indifference. It scares him a little that Morgana hangs out with people who do heroin often enough to have the same visions over and over again. But he can see the appeal. Morgana did say dangerous. Besides, what else are rich kids supposed to do but follow around fuck-ups and people both bound and freed by obligations to their desires?
Right.
The door opens behind them and Arthur watches Morgana scowl as the men armed with paint containers and large rollers march into the gallery. They don't bother to introduce themselves and Arthur has a feeling that the mutual loathing has been established between them. Arthur is positive that his father specifically picks non-English speaking workers to do his bidding so that they won't hear a word of Morgana's anarchic talk because everybody knows that Morgana could have made Hitler give into her demands.
She makes her own art out of people and their will.
"Come on," Morgana says, tugging him back to the staircase that led up to her loft. "I can't watch them deface his art."
She cradles her camera close to her and Arthur knows that the next time he shows up at one of her gallery shows, ceiling to floor blow up prints of the art being covered up down stairs will be proudly displayed.
"I had Lance, that's Gwen's boyfriend—you remember him, right? Anyway, I had him splice all the video together because Merlin's on all ten of the cameras at various different times."
Arthur tries to look unaffected but he can already see the vivid image of Merlin's face, come covered and filthy. He's so fucked it's unbelievable.
Morgana prattles on about art and things that Arthur doesn't care about as they settle onto her sleek leather couch. The cameras are black and white but it's easy to pick out Merlin's figure on the frozen screen.
"Pay attention," Morgana says with a glare.
"I am!"
Arthur shifts to get comfortable as Morgana reaches for the remote. Part of him knows this is a fruitless exercise and yet, here he is. There was certainly a masochist side of him he had yet to explore beyond his daddy-issues.
The video follows Merlin out of the bathroom, erection clearly visible beneath his trousers as he adjusts himself. The smear of come across his face is barely-there by the distance of the camera. The angle changes, obviously a different camera as he walks across the gallery. Many people look at him but Arthur doesn't see anyone who explicitly notices the state of his face. It is only until a couple approaches him and he stops walking, turning to speak with them that anyone notices. The rest of the video is mainly full of people’s reactions and soon the whole gallery is whispering. Some look downright disgusted, their faces twisting into something ugly while Merlin keeps chatting and ignores their response. Others offer him a handkerchief and sometimes Merlin smiles or blushes but he always shakes his head—one notable time he looks surprised, touches his face and then licks his finger. The other people watching start to clap.
Arthur watches as if he's having an out-of-body experience. Part of him is overwhelmingly turned on by Merlin's brazen antics (Performance art? What does that even mean?) and then there is something else, sinister and ugly that feels a lot like shame. Arthur can't look away, enamored with the clumsy nature of the artist's body and how he looks so different on the screen than when he was on his knees in front of Arthur.
No matter the circumstances, it seems that Merlin is beautiful and it wasn't just the flattering lighting of the bathroom. There is something undeniably alluring about him that Arthur isn't sure he can describe but he can feel it.
"What do you think?"
Morgana voice pulls him out of whatever self-loathing and completely besotted moment he was having. He directs his eyes in her general direction, not daring to lie within eye contact, and says, "It's fine."
She gapes. "It's what?"
"I said-"
"I heard what you said, you absolute ass."
"Morgana-"
"No," she says with a biting sting. "You know, for liking dick so much, you're such a fucking homophobe."
Arthur can feel the headache blooming behind his eyes. Why is it that every time he and Morgana have a sort of a conversation they spend most of the time insulting each other? It amazes him how quickly they both descend into familiar territories.
"That's not what I meant," he says sternly, "and you know it. Fuck. You know, for someone who hates Father so much, you sure do know how to put words into my mouth just like him."
Morgana's eyes narrow dangerously and this, this is why Arthur doesn't go to her gallery openings, or meet any of her friends, or spend too much time discussing anything that isn't strictly about Morgana because everything goes spectacularly wrong. He never knows when they make the sharp left turn in their conversations but it is apparently inevitable.
"You have no fucking-"
Arthur has never been more grateful for a mobile ring. Well, there was that one time when his father's phone had rung back in secondary school, pulling him away from the pantry where Arthur and Valiant were making out after footie practice but that's neither here nor there.
The look of fury and vengeance in the set of her mouth doesn't leave when Morgana answers the phone but she leaves with the mobile pressed against her ear before Arthur can communicate that he's leaving. Instead, he relaxes against the couch and watches as the DVD restarts, captivated by Merlin—everything about him intrigues Arthur in ways that didn't make any sense. There is nothing special about him. He's just some artist junkie with strange ideals and a thousand other characteristics that Arthur loathes about Morgana's friends.
Yes. That is all he is.
"I have to go."
Arthur pretends he's not riveted by the spastic expression of Merlin's hands while he talks people on the screen. Instead, he lolls his head in a perfect performance of bored rich-boy that he's fairly sure someone should give him an award for such an artful up-bringing. Morgana glares.
"I have to go make sure the load in at the docks goes smoothly," Morgana says with grit.
"More art?"
Arthur doesn't check the sarcasm in his voice and she shakes her head in disappointment. "Yes, you asshole. Lock the door on your way out."
She sweeps out of the room then, phone already back to her ear and chatting in broken Italian to the deliverers on the other end. Arthur lets his head fall in his hands to rub at his temples. Is it really his fault that Morgana is certifiable?
Is it her fault you came on some artist's face and are now a messy closet case?
"Dammit," he says, before pushing himself up off the sofa. He snarls at the television, still displaying Merlin's charming and utterly disarming presence, just as the phone starts ringing. "How many phones does that women need?"
Grabbing the box, he turns the telly off and heads for the door.
Click: "Shit. Seems I've missed you. I'll try your mobile but if you check your messages, remember that the flat-warming party for Merlin is tonight..."
Arthur stops, half-way out the door.
"It would mean a lot to him if you'd be there. Everyone is going to be there and it'll be good to have someone else who is remotely sane around."
Arthur scoffs at the idea of Morgana being anything remotely sane. She might be the craziest of them all to put this hodgepodge of people together and make it work.
"Merlin's been in a mood since your show, said he met someone but he's not talking. Maybe you'll be able to help or at least get some information out of his moody-ass because it's driving everyone crazy."
Of course. His own fucking curiosity about his sister's life has landed him in such a complete mess. He ignores the message’s implications. There is no way Merlin would want to have anything to do with Arthur—Arthur Pendragon of all people. Not someone like Merlin. Not at all. It's an insane notion.
"Listen, I've got to go before your machine cuts me off. I'll just leave the address here..."
He tries not to listen. He really does. He tries to block it all out and shut the door, go back to his normal life with his normal friends and his normal job and his normal—comfortable closet.
But then, when did normal become boring? When did normal become such a bad life?
He really tries to run away but his feet propel him back into the room to replay the message and type the address into his iPhone.
He spends two hours trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to wear to a hipster flat-warming party. It's clear, after sorting through his entire wardrobe, that he actually has little that isn't a designer button up or suit. In the end, he throws on a long-sleeved henley faded into heather gray by years of footie practices and wearings to bed. It's a little tight on him but he figures it's probably more the fashion than his usual garb. He digs out a pair of trousers that are comfortable and old before contemplating shoes. All he has are trainers or dress shoes. He compromises as much as possible with a worn out pair of loafers, sans socks even though the weather is frigid because socks would look ridiculous.
This is quickly becoming a worse idea.
When he looks in mirror, he looks nothing like a trendy-twenty-something. He just looks like he's boarding a yacht.
"This is ridiculous," Arthur says to his reflection. "What am I doing?"
For some reason, none of his insecurities are enough to make him climb into bed and fade out into mediocrity. Instead, he makes his way to the bathroom to take out his contacts. His glasses are plastic, black, large and chunky, which are thankfully the style of the times, but that he bought because he was only wearing them in the comfort of his own home and hated how all the others pinched the bridge of his nose. It is the only piece of his wardrobe that Morgana likes.
Well, other than the contributions she makes every occasion she can.
It's well past eleven by the time he finally forces himself not to comb his hair, which for the record, drives him insane. He has never understood why looking like you've never owned a brush in your life is sexy. It just looks... untidy and foolish.
He tries to laugh at himself but it just comes out choked and desperate. It occurs to him as he's pulling on the peacoat Morgana had given him three Christmas ago (which he rarely wears) that it's a flat warming party. He obviously can't go without a gift.
Right?
Arthur shakes himself. It's just rude, no matter who you are, if you crash a party without a bloody gift. He settles for picking the least expensive (100 pound) bottle of red wine out of the pantry and praying he won't look like too much of a twat.
"Too late," he mutters as he pulls on lined leather gloves, checks his pockets for his wallet and phone and heads out the door.
When he tells the address to his driver, Tristan, he gets a bland raise of an eyebrow because it's a certainly dodgy side of town but Tristan thankfully says nothing. Arthur ignores his own blush.
What in the hell is he doing?
The flat complex looks just as bleak as the dodgy address suggests.
Arthur stands outside in the freezing cold, clutching his bottle of wine, and staring at what he really hopes isn't the party but knows by trick of irony that it most certainly is. There is a flat five stories up that is blaring music and looks to be jam packed with people. Arthur watches in mild horror as someone stumbles out onto the balcony and starts to piss over the side.
He really should be going now.
The elevator seems to be out of operation since the bombings in World War II and so Arthur takes the stairs, which smell like a combination of human feces and cat urine but thankfully only smell that way and are actually quite well lit.
The hallway on the fifth floor is flooded with people, all dressed in various manners and stages of either actual homelessness or hipster-fashion. Arthur doesn't take his chances and mainly keeps to himself as he elbows his way through people having conversations, slumped on the floor, piled on top of each other or, more notably, shagging.
He suddenly feels ridiculous with his bottle of wine and looks around to find a tall, emaciated looking man flopped against the wall, who truly looks homeless.
"Here," Arthur says and tries to trust it at him when a warm arm is slung over his shoulders.
"Don't give that to Barry," a warm voice says. "He'll just hog it all—the selfish twat."
Arthur stares. Barry grunts.
"Excuse me?"
The man with his arm around his shoulder just grins and reads the label. "Whoa, aren't you a posh one?"
Arthur is too shocked and slightly paralyzed by the physicality of the man talking to him. He's just taller than Arthur, dark hair that falls in curls around his face, prominent nose and strong jaw that is covered in stubble. He's wearing a tunic. A tunic. And he's touching Arthur like he has permission or if they're friends. Arthur can confirm that they are by no means friends because he's never seen this man before and he certainly wouldn't be friends with someone who thought tunics were proper attire for any occasion, let alone winter.
Arthur can see the man's pert nipples through the thin, flimsy and diabolical material of his tunic. His nipples.
"What?" Arthur says because the man is staring at him with an alarming smile and Arthur has no idea what one says to maniacs with tunics on.
The man laughs in reply, head thrown back and unbearably happy that Arthur tries to shy away but the man keeps him in his clutches. For a brief moment, Arthur is sure that he is now going to be kidnapped and made into some sort of slave or join a modern-day gypsy cult by force but then the moment passes with the laughter and the man is grinning down at Arthur in something that looks like kindness but may be insanity. Arthur isn't sure.
"Gwaine," the man says as he starts to move them through the maze of people that are pouring out of the flat.
"Um, what?"
"My name," the man says with a swagger of their hips so that they don't run into the door jamb that he's guiding them through. "My name is Gwaine."
"Oh," Arthur says, and nods. "Right. Well, I'm Arthur."
"Arthur, hm?"
The man, Gwaine, looks mildly surprised but his features smooth back into a carefree smile that leaves Arthur very suspicious.
"Well, let’s get something to open this," he says as he jiggles the bottle of wine Arthur brought and Arthur shakes his head, even as he's being strong armed into what looks like the kitchen. The flat is remarkably small.
"No! That's a, um, that's a flat warming gift."
Gwaine laughs again and Arthur frowns. He's beginning to find this man slightly irritating with all the booming laughter that makes his eyes crinkle in an attractive way.
"You really are posh!"
"It's rude not to bring a gift," Arthur grounds out and makes a grab for the bottle but Gwaine swings around two women who are making out against the sink to open a drawer.
"Listen mate, if this is a gift-"
"For Merlin," Arthur clarifies.
"Yes, well, Merlin doesn't drink red wine. And you're going to be way too sober to deal with this lot with a clear head. And unless you're into PBR, which I highly doubt you'll be gettin' on with that, then you'll be better off drinking this entire bottle yourself."
"What-"
Gwaine thrusts a rusty corkscrew into the air in triumph. He meets Arthur's eyes and slings an arm about him again, which had dropped from maneuvering into the tiny kitchenette.
"You can think of another pressie to give Merlin, eh?"
Arthur does not to blush because he's a grown man and whoever this Gwaine character was (What the hell kind of name was that anyway?), he was a total idiot and Arthur didn't even know him! He has no right to be all smarmy and ruggedly handsome. How did he know Merlin didn't like red wine?
But before he could say any of this, Gwaine is thrusting the open bottle in his face.
"Take it!"
"Glassware?"
Gwaine laughs again and pulls him down the hall. "You're hilarious. Let's go find Merlin before someone mistakes you for a copper and breaks a bottle over your head."
Arthur feels horrified and is only slightly grateful that everybody seems to know and love Gwaine, who pushes them both through the tightly packed flat in search of Merlin. No one seems to question his presence here. Although, Arthur can't imagine anyone knowing everyone at the party since it seems to be full of every hipster-fuck in the city.
The whole experience feels like a low budget indie film. They spend a few minutes searching the living room that houses three people having enthusiastic sex on the coach while a group plays scrabble (modified as a drinking game by the looks of it) and two dozen other people stand around talking, like the extremely public sex is normal. One bloke is reading a thick book on a bean-bag, smoking a fag and ignoring everyone around him. Arthur can't believe he can read with all the noise but as he stares at the kid he sort of recognizes him.
Not that he knows or would actually know any of these people but he recognizes the bloke reading from Merlin's portraits. Arthur wonders if this is just a gallery collection of people Merlin has used for art or if they really are his friends. He wonders why he care about the answer.
"I should be off!" Arthur says but Gwaine doesn't seem to hear him in the dull roar of the room and instead tightens his grip around Arthur's shoulders, steering them past the balcony (which Arthur is blissfully thankful for) and down a narrow hallway.
There are people everywhere, crammed into every nook and cranny of the flat and Arthur finds it unsafe and completely unnerving.
"Where are we going?"
Gwaine answers with a sly grin that has Arthur nervous and one-hundred percent certain that he's about to witness something illegal.
Arthur shouts when Gwaine basically kicks down the door at the end of the hall and stumbles only slightly when Gwaine pulls him into a room with only fifteen people in it instead of thirty.
"Look who I found!" Gwaine shouts to the group of people piled on the bed and scattered around the floor, whom he joins as he flails a bit and falls on two people curled up at the foot of the bed.
For a few seconds, everything is silent save for the noise coming from the rest of the flat until Will starts laughing hysterically from his place beside Merlin at the head of the bed and conversation blooms all around them again. Arthur takes in the room; the bed dominates the small space, there's a small mix-matched side table and two tall towers of unpacked boxes. The closet seems to be housing three people in compromising positions instead of actual clothes. Will, the tagger from Morgana's show is sitting next to Merlin although he looks worse for wear and if possible, more detached from reality than when Arthur last saw him.
Arthur tries to look non-nonchalant about the fact that he just crashed Merlin's party but Merlin looks so surprised and utterly gorgeous that Arthur just stares. His cheeks are flushed, his lips parted in surprise and his hair is an absolute wreck. It looks like someone has been running their fingers through it, tugging it and sculpting it to look unnaturally sexy. Given the nature of the party and Arthur's first-hand experience with Merlin, he wouldn't be surprised if Merlin's hair was directly styled by sex.
Or kittens. Or whatever.
"I saved Arthur here from giving his flat-warming wine to Barry," Gwaine says from the floor where Arthur recognizes Morgana's friend Gwen. She's just as beautiful as she was in the picture and she's smiling next to a shockingly attractive man. They look like Spanish models. Arthur shakes his head and glares at Gwaine.
"He did not save me," Arthur says in response, kicking Gwaine's leg as subtly as possible. Gwaine just grins in response, which Arthur thinks might be the only way the man knows how to communicate effectively.
"You're here."
Arthur shifts his focus from Gwaine (still grinning like a loon) to Merlin who looks shocked and undeniably adorable with a large tray balanced on his lap and a large bottle of vodka tucked up into his side.
"Um, yes," Arthur says because he has no idea what he planned on saying once he saw Merlin again. "Gwaine says you don't like wine."
Merlin shoots Gwaine a look as Will seizes on Merlin's shoulder in another fit of laughter. Merlin smacks him softly on the forehead, looking frustrated and fond all at the same time. Arthur finds himself desperately wanting to be on the end of all of Merlin's expressions.
"You brought me a flat-warming present?"
Arthur flushes and takes a few steps toward the bed. "Yes, although it seems that it has already been opened," Arthur says and gestures with the wine to Gwaine but doesn't take his eyes off Merlin, who is smiling with a coyness that is sure to drive Arthur crazy with desire. How anyone looks that attractive when in such a setting of utter debauchery is incomprehensible. Arthur doesn't process much but Merlin's flushed cheeks and bright eyes that are still sparkling.
"You look like you needed a drink!" Gwaine replies before turning to tackle the man sitting next to Gwen off the bed. There is a battle cry and then the wrestling match is continued on the floor.
"Merlin," Will whinges and Merlin breaks eye contact with Arthur to kiss the top of Will's head and whisper something that Arthur can't hear.
"Alright," Will replies with a twisted face of petulance. "But if you give him my lines I'll paint you with a little peen in my next mural."
Arthur huffs out a bit of laughter as Will shakes his finger at Merlin in complete seriousness before sliding off the bed and flouncing (oh all the fucked up flouncing, how do they do that?) out of the room, knocking his shoulder against Arthur's in a way that should have been intimidating but just made Will, whose body seemed to be made entirely out of liquid, bounce off Arthur's solid form and into the door frame with a giggle and more flouncing.
God, what is Arthur doing here?
"Come sit," Merlin says, patting the spot next to him and smiling with his entire mouth. He looks mad, much like Gwaine's smile but for some reason it doesn't irritate Arthur as much. He thinks it might be the fact that Merlin's ears are so childishly cute that it makes the loony-grinning seem natural instead of manic. He ignores the thought that Merlin's grin might not be annoying because he's had Arthur's come all over his face and Arthur wants to be in compromising positions with Merlin as soon as humanly possible.
Arthur picks his way through the bodies of people lying on the floor. He pushes the shock away when he sees a girl pushing a needle into her arm in the corner while she talks about someone named Judith Butler and Anzaldua with a casualness like she's simply discussing the weather or the shit traffic on the tube the other day. Instead, he focuses on Merlin's cheerful face and the fact that he doesn’t look angry or upset that Arthur has invited himself to the party. In fact, Merlin looks rather pleased and doesn't that bode well for Arthur?
The mattress dips underneath him and Merlin smiles wide before turning back to the large silver tray in his lap where a pile of white powder, a credit card and a twenty dollar bill lay.
"How was the opening?" Gwen asks from the foot of the bed and Merlin sneaks Arthur a look underneath his sooty-eyelashes that would have weakened Arthur's knees if he hadn't been sitting. But Merlin doesn't say anything, instead he prattles on to Gwen who is lying across the bed and sticking her bare feet in the faces of Gwaine and the Tan-Man on the floor.
Part of Arthur's mind registers the fact that Merlin has a pile of cocaine in his lap but he's mainly consumed by the length of Merlin's fingers as he flattens out the bill with one hand, his other taking a fourth of the pile of powder with the credit card. The bill goes over the pile and then the credit card runs over the bill with a grace that Arthur finds completely distracting and not at all what he associates with preparing coke for consumption.
In the background, Arthur hears the smooth tonal quality of Merlin's voice tripping over itself as he talks to Gwen. Arthur focuses most of his attention between Merlin's lips as they form over the words and his fingers, long and thin, pale as the powder that he's dividing into lines over half the tray.
Arthur startles a bit when Merlin nudges his foot, clothed in gray suede oxfords, against Arthur's ankle. "Will was kidding about sharing," Merlin says with a nod toward the neatly divided lines. "You can have some if you want."
Arthur gapes. He's never done anything harder than marijuana in his life. There was once when he thought about doing a bit of ecstasy before a concert but he ended up being the designated driver instead.
"I don't," Arthur starts before getting distracted by Merlin licking his lips, running the tip of his tongue over the edge of card. "I've not-"
"S'okay," Merlin says as he passes the tray to Gwen who takes the bill from him and rolls it into a tight tube before putting it to her nose, pushing down to block the opposite nostril and inhaling hard, doing half the line, then switching to the other nostril and doing the other half. (Arthur wants to ask, 'WHAT ABOUT YOUR CHILD' but decides against it.)
"It's just polite to ask," Merlin says and Arthur nods when Merlin proceeds to scoot closer to him, effectively pressing their sides together from shoulder to feet. "It's not really any fun if you haven't been drinking."
"Oh?" Arthur says because what else is he supposed to say?
"Yeah, but I'm pretty drunk so it's nice. You'd probably just be jittery and paranoid without a drink."
"Well," Arthur says with a shrug. "I've got your present to drink."
"Drink up," Merlin says, somehow making it sound filthy and sexy, his voice low and insistent that flashes Arthur back to the gallery bathroom with Merlin on his knees asking for it. Arthur feels a flush run up his body as Merlin smiles again, lifting the bottle of wine to Arthur's lips and tipping it for him.
Arthur watches Merlin's face as he obediently swallows the dry wine with gulps, lips sealed tight around the head of the bottle. It's certainly more erotic than Arthur ever intended in the company of strangers.
"Oi! You got it cut up?" Will staggers into the room and Merlin lowers the bottle from Arthur's lips, with a soft pop. They stare at each other for a bit, Arthur licking his lips and chasing errant droplets of wine until Will sits on the bed a little enthusiastically with a wickedness that Arthur thinks might be jealousy.
"Better lay off the nummies tonight, Merlin," Will slurs.
Gwen cracks up laughing and pushes the tray to Will as Gwaine's head pops up over the edge of the bed.
"You know, I've never actually heard the whole story," he says with eyebrows that are moving up and down like fuzzy caterpillars. Arthur takes another swig of wine and tries to will him out of existence.
"Oh!" Gwen says with a laugh and a hiccup. "Please tell it! Please! When I tell it to Lance, he just thinks I'm lying."
"That's because it's just too ridiculous," the Tan-Man says, who Arthur assumes is Lance. "Plus, you can't even say dick without giggling off your seat."
Gwen blushes and Lance kisses her cheek in a display of sweetness that seems out of place.
"I don't want to tell it," Merlin says, not looking at Arthur but looking at his hands. "If I do, it'll scare Arthur away. And he's only just got here."
Arthur moves from staring at Merlin's hands, to staring at Merlin's neck because he's obviously not looking at Arthur. Will starts to cackle with laughter again.
"You've got to tell it," Will says. "Arthur will be a good mate and stick around. Won't you, Arrrthur?"
Will says his name like the blatant arsehole he is and Arthur bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't like Will. Not one bit. Instead of telling Will that he can take his junkie arse back to whatever hell hole he dragged himself out of, Arthur smiles and leans forward until his forehead is pressed to Merlin's temple. It's a bold move, even for him, but the warmth of the wine is obviously going to his head and it is hard to just be this near to Merlin and not want more contact.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says quietly. Merlin stills and Arthur holds his breath.
"Promise?"
"Good!' Will interrupts and Arthur jerks his head back, the moment broken, to glare at Will's stupid face. "Now tell the story."
"So, back when Will fancied himself gay," Merlin says with a smirk and an evilness that says he's not interested in Will ruining his night and will exact revenge. "Not that that lasted long."
"Two weeks with you is sure to turn anyone straight," Will parries as he brings the rolled bill to his nose.
"Anyway, I'd just finished picking out the final collection for my book and Will had stumbled upon an eight ball of blow. We were so poor then, I can't even tell you how lucky we were to have food, let alone drugs. But anyway, we got just fucked up out of our minds and were laying about when Will coated his fingers in coke and put them in my mouth. Well, you can imagine how we thought this would be a good idea."
Arthur cocks an eyebrow, feeling distinctly uncomfortable and not liking it one bit that Will had his hands anywhere near Merlin. Ever.
"Mate," Will says as his hands sweeps over his nose and he sniffs quickly two or three times. "It's not my fault you've got a terrible gag reflex. What kind of faggot has any at all?"
Merlin's shoulder brushes against Arthur's and he wills himself to focus on the story and not how nice Merlin's body feels pressed up against his or the way that feeling is warring with a million other ideas swirling in his mind; Merlin's ghost breath over his cock, Merlin's erection straining the front of his trousers, Merlin's head nestled in Will's lap...
"But instead of repressing the gag reflex, it just numbed the area. So when Will shoved his cock-"
"My very impressive dick," Will says loudly while passing the tray back to Gwen who giggles.
"-down my throat, I gagged but I didn't know it because everything was numb," Merlin continues. "Next thing I know, I'm vomiting all over Will's dick."
The whole group around them groans and Arthur gapes, as both Will and Merlin start laughing. How they are able to tell this story without dying of embarrassment is beyond Arthur. Hell, this entire life is beyond him.
"And," Merlin continues, eyes bright and glazey drunk. "This twisted fuck came, while I was puking on his cock. I'm fucking puking my guts out and Will coming all over my hair and neck."
Arthur is in awe and disgusted.
"What! You have no idea how warm stomach contents are," Will squawks from where Gwen is done doing a line and the rest of the room is laughing, groaning in disgust at Will who seems to soak up the attention with a few well constructed grins.
Arthur drinks half the bottle of wine in a single chug.
"Taking shots without me?" Merlin asks from next to him, the attention of the room diverted once again, and Arthur arches an eyebrow in response.
"You cannot do shots of wine, Merlin."
Merlin grins. "Lies."
Arthur doesn't know what to do when Merlin smiles like that, flirtatious and shameless, and so he brings the bottle back to his lips and watches as Merlin does the same with the plastic bottle of vodka beside him. As Arthur gulps down the wine, eyes glued to the way Merlin's throat works over the searing liquid, he thinks that maybe being here isn't such a terrible idea.
Arthur finishes the bottle, amazed at how easy it is to finish and entire bottle of wine when there isn't any glassware involved. Merlin pulls his own bottle from his lips and grimaces to Arthur's huffed laughter. When he goes to sit it down next to the bed, turning away from Merlin's shining eyes, he's stopped from turning back by the blunt pressure of Merlin's forehead against his temple. It's the mirror of what Arthur had brazenly done earlier, only now their positions are reversed and if Will thinks to interrupt this time, Arthur might shove that bill so far up his nose that it becomes a permanent fixture.
"I like this," Merlin breathes into his ear. "I liked it when you did this to me."
Arthur doesn't suppress the shiver that runs down his spine. His hands clench against the fabric over his knees, suddenly free of the wine bottle and having absolutely nothing to stop him from twisting his hands into Merlin's mess of hair, which has been teasing him since Arthur walked into the room.
"I'm sorry about Will," Merlin says.
"I don't really want to talk about Will," Arthur says automatically and finds infinite pleasure in the way Merlin's laughter comes in tiny puffs of air across Arthur's neck.
"You're going to need more wine if you're going to make it through the night," Merlin whispers, his chest pressing into Arthur's shoulder and his nose rubbing at the top of Arthur's ear in a maddening way that shouldn't be anywhere near sexy but somehow is very much indeed. "I'll be right back."
And then Merlin is gone, gangly legs standing up on the bed, stepping over Gwen and Lance to get to Will and the tray. Arthur watches, slightly out of breath, as Merlin grabs the tray of coke and Will's hand, only to disappear out from the room.
Arthur lets his head thump back against the wall.
"You're Morgana's brother, yeah?"
Arthur opens his eyes to find Gwen lying next to him, her curls spread out on the duvet in a copy of her limbs that seem twisted and sprawled out in odd angles.
"Step-brother," Arthur softly corrects and Gwen laughs, her hand touching his thigh. "You're Gwen?"
She nods.
"Well, I guess I have you to thank for being here."
"Why's that?"
Arthur startles himself with honesty. "I listened to your message at Morgana's. It's how I knew this was going on."
"You gate crashed?"
"I took it upon myself-" Arthur starts but then Gwen dissolves into giggles, her hand clutching the fabric of his pant leg. "Yes. I certainly did gate crash this party."
Gwen's eyes are glazed with a high that certainly clashes with Arthur’s knowledge of her (mother in the photograph, 'sensible one' from Morgana's description) but she's warm and the only person who hasn't annoyed Arthur by simply existing and so he smiles at her.
"I'm glad you came," she says with a little nod and tilt of her head. "Merlin's glad too."
Arthur wants to push the subject, desperate to know what Merlin thinks or what Merlin has said about their tryst in the gallery bathrooms but then Gwen is off, talking about something else that Arthur doesn't quite catch but enjoys the way she talks to animatedly that he doesn't say anything.
He listens to her talking and ignores the way Gwaine is watching him from his new position by Lance's feet.
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