Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

It's impossibly late when Arthur realizes he hasn't seen Merlin for a few hours. Gwen is passed out, Lance curled up to spoon behind her in another display of affection that doesn't match any picture of this party that Arthur has seen. However, it does match Gwen and Lance. Gwen, who Arthur has learned, is a surrogate mother for their friend Gaius and his partner. The baby, born two months ago, is happy and healthy living in a suburb and Gwen and Lance have returned to their life-style. There is something so pleasant about Gwen when she speaks, giggling when she tells Arthur about meeting Lance and falling in love or blushing furiously when Gwaine tells the story of finding Lance and Gwen in compromising positions during every party after they learned she was pregnant. But Arthur thinks he likes the way Gwen's eyes light up in awe when she recounts Merlin taking that picture of her in the gallery. It's the same look she gets in her eyes when Lance crawls up to whisper something in her ear and then she's lost to Arthur, shifting around to make room for Lance before Arthur just nods and gets up.

He relocates to a chair that has appeared beside the bed. His watch says 3:34am and his mind is fuzzy from the bottle of vodka that he'd drunk from in lieu of Merlin returning. He wants to get up and go find him or just leave but he finds himself melting back into the chair and waiting instead. The crowd has thinned, although Arthur can still hear the bustle of people in other parts of the flat. There's no doubt that the coke will keep most of the people up well into the morning.

Arthur watches as Gwaine moves around the room, being petted by various people but not staying long before he settles against the dresser and stares at Arthur. It's closer to four by the time Arthur has really had enough. Of course, that's when Merlin bursts in.

Without his trousers on.

"I'm sorry," Merlin babbles in a voice much too loud for the room and Arthur automatically shushes him, pointing to where Gwen and Lance were sleeping on the bed.

"Oh," Merlin says in a whisper, climbing over people with knobbly knees attached to endless legs that lead to the ugliest pair of whitie-tighties that Arthur has ever seen. "I'm so sorry!"

Arthur shakes his head as Merlin finally makes his way over to him and seems to collapse on top of Arthur in a whoosh of air, bottle of wine held in one hand as his other comes to rest on Arthur's shoulder.

"You're in my lap," Arthur says because he's drunk and Merlin's not wearing trousers anymore.

"Sorry," Merlin whispers but he presses up against Arthur in a way that doesn't say sorry at all. "I got distracted."

"Where are your pants?" He tries not to sound jealous but he doesn't want to look a fool, waiting here all this time while Merlin was out joining the orgy in the living room.

"Freya spilled gasoline on them and then Edwin accidentally set one of the pant-legs on fire."

"That doesn't make any sense and is quite frightening," Arthur says with a blink as Merlin rearranges himself to his will, straddling Arthur's lap and curling his hands around Arthur's neck and shoulders.

"I took them off."

"I see that."

And Arthur does. He sees the pale, too-skinny definition of Merlin's legs and the sharp jut of his hipbones underneath the band of his white underwear. Arthur ignores the bulge of Merlin's crotch because he's not sure his mind won't actually explode if he doesn't.

"Why are you making that face? That is not a sexy face."

Arthur glares. "I make it a rule not to fraternize with people who wear underwear like that."

"It was laundry day," Merlin whinges, his lips pouting and his brow creasing. "I didn't know you were going to be here." Then he smirks. "You owe me an orgasm anyway."

Arthur blinks. "Pardon?"

"Goodness you're posh!"

Arthur squirms. He's never really been ashamed of his wealth before. Not that he's particularly ashamed now but it's certainly uncomfortable how everyone here is decidedly poor and fine with it., more than enjoying this vagrant-bohemian life-style. Not that Will or Merlin are anywhere near poor because Arthur knows exactly how much Morgana pays her artists but Arthur's fairly sure that the money doesn't go to rent or groceries considering how thin Merlin is.

"You're not going to punish me for wearing ugly panties are you?"

Arthur is trying to keep up, he honestly, is but Merlin is shifting and moving over his lap like he's doing a very awkward dance—nevertheless, it's very distracting. It isn't Arthur's fault that he's very drunk after being left alone for so long. Plus, Merlin's pretty, which is obviously Merlin's fault.

"If I would have known," Merlin says with a pull from the wine bottle popping off his lips. "If you would have said, 'no shagging in ugly pants' then I wouldn't have worn any."

Arthur clears his throat. "That so?"

Merlin's eyes are glassy but bright and unblinking. "That is very much so," Merlin imitates.

"Well," Arthur says, sliding his palms up Merlin's thighs. "I guess I can forgive you."

"I'm glad." Merlin smiles, all teeth and hungry, before tipping the wine into Arthur's mouth. It's white and disgustingly cheap causing Arthur to grimace and physically force himself to swallow.

"That was terrible."

"Fuck me," is Merlin's response.

This time, Arthur chokes on his tongue, vividly aware of Merlin now grinding tiny circles onto his half hard cock. He looks ridiculous and not at all sexy because the little motions look funny in the position above Arthur and yet, Arthur finds himself getting harder by the moment.

"You owe me an orgasm," Merlin says with a palm pressed to cock. "And I want it with your cock up my arse."

Arthur looks frantically around as Merlin starts to suck on his lower lip and work both their cocks with the solid circle his hips keep making over Arthur's groin.

"Merlin," Arthur finds himself panting. "You're drunk."

"So are you."

"I'm not fucking you in front of him," Arthur hisses and glares at Gwaine who is grinning like a maniac porn addict on drugs.

"Gwaine doesn't mind."

"Gwen is right there and she's-"

"Asleep."

"-someone's mother," Arthur finishes with a frown.

Merlin giggles, his laughter morphing into small hiccups of laughter that has his body bowing backward enough for Arthur to wrap one arm around his waist and pull him closer so that he doesn't fall off Arthur's lap. The action propels Merlin forward, his collarbone at eye level and Arthur doesn't hesitate to latch his mouth onto the protruding bone there.

He smiles, smugly, when Merlin's laughter abruptly dies. Arthur nudges Merlin's shirt out of the way so he can place sucking kisses all along his collarbone as Merlin squirms on his lap.

"Just because you're all exhibitionist heathens," Arthur says with zeal against the hollow of Merlin's throat, "doesn't mean I want anyone here to see you."

"They already have," Merlin pants above him as he threads his fingers through Arthur's hair and applies pressure to direct Arthur's head, to keep him there. "What's the difference now?"

"I'm the difference," Arthur bites into Merlin's skin. Merlin whimpers a little, tugging on Arthur's hair with both hands until Arthur has no choice but to detach himself with a scrape of teeth and a flick of his tongue.

Merlin's eyes are still sparkling in a creepy and addictive way that Arthur is sure that next, next time he won't find attractive.

"I can't believe you're here," Merlin whispers instead of kissing him and Arthur cocks his head. "How'd you even find me?"

Arthur doesn't blush. "Morgana."

Merlin's eyes widen comically. "You asked Morgana?"

"Fuck no, I was in her apartment being forced to watch security footage of you with my come dripping down your face," Arthur says scathingly. "And Gwen left a message."

Merlin giggles, flushing prettily and nuzzling his nose against Arthur's. It's amazing to Arthur that they haven't kissed yet. He's never gone this long without kissing someone who's obviously fancied him. Then again, he's never been with anyone like Merlin before. Men like Merlin usually stuck to their own kind and stay away from Arthur who looks rich, fit like a footballer and homophobic. According to Morgana, he is still all of those things but she's a bitch and Arthur stopped listening to her when he learned how to spell manipulative.

"You stalked me."

"I did no such thing."

"Imagine my surprise," Merlin continues with a coyness that belies the fact that he's rubbing himself all over Arthur's lap like a common whore, "when you showed up tonight, looking like a very posh wet dream and all because I propositioned you in a loo."

Arthur scoffs, moving his hands up the prominent bumps of Merlin's spine and watching him press into the touch like a cat. He's staring at Arthur's mouth, smirking like a cheeky bugger and suddenly looking less drunk than he was before.

"Why'd you say yes, anyway?"

"Hmm?"

Arthur gets distracted by Merlin's wrist, which swings around in Arthur's vision with Merlin's fingers that are tracing Arthur's face as if he's carefully reading Braille. For a moment, Arthur wants to know what he reads but then he realizes how stupid that sounds and he mentally retracts the statement to engross himself in the thinness of Merlin's left wrist and the word written there is type-writer font: MOLOCH.

Arthur always thought tattoos were foolish endeavors but he's obsessed with the contrast of the thick black lettering and Merlin's ghostly pale skin. He has no idea what the word means. Arthur is fairly sure it's made up but he wants to taste it all the same. He's reaching for Merlin's hand when he's startled from his goal by Merlin's voice.

"Arthur?"

"Sorry," Arthur says, "what were you saying?"

"Why'd you say yes in the loo?"

Arthur considers—letting himself get lost in the steep lines of Merlin's cheek and jaw lines, the haystack mess of black hair, the swollen quality of his mouth and his eyes, still bright and practically twinkling in some sort of constant mirth. There is something about Merlin's body that speaks volumes, as if each part of him is a different entity so happy and mirthful to be a part of Merlin's whole. It's downright strange.

"Why'd you say yes in the loo and then come find me?"

"I don't know," Arthur answers truthfully. "But there is something about you, Merlin."

The smile Merlin gives him is surprisingly shy but when Arthur wraps his fingers around his wrist, his eyes turn dark and hungry. Arthur traces the tattooed lettering with the pad of his finger before leaning up to suck on the skin there, laving over it with his tongue as he keeps his eyes locked onto Merlin's.

"Are these clothes special? Buy them for me?"

Arthur arches an eyebrow in a manner that hopefully conveys his feelings on the question. Merlin rocks his hips a bit and Arthur nips at the bone of his wrist.

"I just didn't imagine you to be..." Merlin pauses. "Well, this casual. I was surprised you weren't wearing a three piece suit."

Arthur huffs out a laugh against his skin. "Is that so?"

"You posh and successful types hardly own anything more than business casual."

Arthur licks the tattooed skin and pulls away. "And you have lots of experience with men like me?"

Merlin shakes his head. "I can make educated guesses, though. I imagine you in your track bottoms warming up on the pitch with your mates," Merlin whispers as he guides Arthur's lips back to his wrist. "I can imagine you all suited up like the gallery, eating crisps on your couch and watching crap telly. I can imagine you naked..."

His voice trails off for a bit and Arthur takes the opportunity to suck his long, skinny, tempting fingers right into his mouth. Arthur catalogs the moan that comes out of Merlin's parted lips, low and insistent. He sucks the digits, flicking his tongue over the pads and slips them out of his mouth with a soft pop, releasing Merlin's wrist at the same time.

"But I certainly never imagined you in the current outfit," Merlin says huskily and Arthur notes the tone of absolute mischief. "In fact, I don't think I like you in it. Looks like you stole it."

"I am not-"

Merlin rolls his eyes, insolent and mouthy and teasing. Arthur is surprised at how much of a turn on it is, but then again, he's sure that everything this awkward and gawky kid does is a turn on and that just can’t be possible.

"You owe me," is all he says before winking and unbuttoning the flap in his pants. Arthur can feel the panic well up inside his belly but it's very nearly negated by the fact that he is half-hard, drunk and Merlin looks delicious.

"Here?" Arthur hisses and looks around. Everyone seems to be passed out or in some sort of drug-induced trance. Except for Gwaine... "I'm not getting off with you with him in the room."

Merlin smirks, leaning forward to press his lips to Arthur's ear as he whispers, "Who said anything about you getting off?"

"What-"

But then Arthur gets distracted by those hands, slender and delicate looking as they dip into the open flap of Merlin's underwear, twisting until the bone of his wrist is clearly visible as he pulls out his cock. The swivel of his hips has his pants cutting half-way down his arse and slipping until Arthur's got a lap full of exposed Merlin in a room full of chaos.

It's certainly not how he imagined it.

"Merlin," Arthur hisses out. He leans forward, brings his left arm up to wrap around Merlin's waist and his right to hook around his thin shoulders and make him hunch down. It's impossible to hide from the room exactly what's going on but Arthur tries to at least hide Merlin's cock—his fucking amazing cock. Arthur can't take his eyes from it, it's long (sizably larger than Arthur's own, he notes) and curved to the left but it's not very thick. He watches with painstaking slowness as Merlin cups the tip, his thumb and ring finger coming to squeeze and rub at the foreskin there.

"God," Merlin gasps out above him, making Arthur look up from where he was probably drooling over Merlin's cock. "You're so fucking gorgeous."

Arthur blushes, curling his hands into Merlin's shirt and tugging him a bit closer. Merlin's face gets out of reach then and Arthur entire world narrows to the slide of Merlin's hand over the length of his cock, cupping the tip and then returning to the base, disappearing for a few moments to play with his balls that are just out of sight. Arthur barely registers Merlin's other hand which is clenched in the hairs at the nape of his neck but he becomes aware of it as Merlin uses it to direct Arthur's mouth to his nipple, pebbled and prominent beneath the thin material of his shirt.

Arthur doesn't hesitate to open his mouth.

"Oh fuck yes," Merlin murmurs and Arthur sucks hard, tasting cloth and soap against his tongue. He inhales hard, smelling smoke and sweat before Merlin jerks his head back.

Arthur eyes flick up to Merlin's, which are unfocused and frantic. "Give me your hand," Arthur says and it's the first words he's spoken since Merlin's taken his dick out.

Merlin tilts his head, nods and moves his hand that is damp with pre-come up to Arthur's mouth. He licks his lips, moving his head forward to press the flat of his tongue to Merlin's wrist and then running it very slowly up his palm and to the tip of his fingers. For a few moments, all Arthur can think about is how ridiculous this is—from meeting Merlin, to coming here, to this; Merlin in his lap and Arthur licking his palm in a room full of people. But then the taste of Merlin, sweet and bitter blooms on his tongue and Arthur forgets about everything else that might have mattered before meeting this man.

Arthur continues to lick at Merlin's hand until he pulls it away. This time, when Merlin's fingers curl around his leaking dick, he arches with a sharp, painful moan that could be Arthur's name but it's unclear because it seems endless. Merlin's voice shutters and stops with every desperate hitch of his hips and clenching of those utterly addicting hands.

"Merlin," Arthur breathes, his hands clenching into the fabric of Merlin's shirt in an attempt to keep them there because there is something about this moment that Arthur knows will be broken if he touches Merlin anymore than he is right now. But God, he wants to. He wants to run his hands all over Merlin's body and put his mouth wherever he pleases.

"Fuck," Merlin chokes and Arthur flicks his gaze rapidly from his face, flushed and scrunched in pleasure, to Merlin's steadily leaking cock, engorged and red from the friction of his slender hand rapidly, painfully stripping from base to tip. "Oh fuck, Arthur, fuck, fuck, fuck."

Arthur watches.

Merlin's slams his other hand into Arthur's shoulder, pushing him against the back of the chair and putting some distance between them just as he's coming. He back bows, mouth open in a moan with rapid breaths and his whole body is trembling as he comes in jerks of his cock, the streaks of come coating the front of Arthur's trousers with startling precision.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur murmurs, his eyes fluttering at the pure sensation of Merlin's come, hot and sticky, painting the crotch of his trousers where his erection was straining for release.

There is stillness. Arthur is painfully aware of his own arousal and the way their panting is very loud in the quiet of the room. It's only when Merlin moves his hand from his softening cock to wipe it on his bare leg that Arthur looks up from his come streaked crotch to Merlin. His eyes widen, almost comically and Arthur moves his hands from their death clench on the fabric of Merlin's shirt.

There's a brief flickering of panic in Merlin's eyes and then, "Don't you dare move. Don't you move, dammit."

"What-"

"Fucking move and I'll fucking kill you," Merlin says, scrambling off Arthur's lap and turning to dive underneath the bed. Arthur crawls through the fog of arousal clouding his brain and tries to wrap his mind around the image of Merlin, all skinny legs and elbows and glorious hands, with his flaccid cock hanging out of his pants with what just happened.

He doesn't really understand.

Merlin finally swirls around with an older looking camera. Arthur frowns, his hands moving to Merlin, but he shakes his head and Arthur stills. It isn't hard to imagine Merlin in a studio now, not with how natural he looks with a camera in his hands even though his soft cock is poking out of his underwear and spots of semen drying everywhere. He still looks as if he was born to do this, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.

Arthur doesn't think about stopping him from taking a picture. He doesn't think about what it will mean for his father's business or his reputation. He doesn't think about ruining the Pendragon name or the curl of shame that comes with disappointing the only family he has. He doesn't think about any of those things.

He just watches and thinks about Merlin.

Afterwards, Merlin smiles shyly and puts the camera in his bedside drawer. Arthur's throat is dry and he moves to get up out of this uncomfortable chair but then Merlin is crawling back into his lap, curling up and moving around until he's wrapped around Arthur like a baby octopus.

"Merlin," Arthur whispers with nothing more to say but Merlin shakes his head and tilts his head up to press his lips to Arthur's. The kiss is chaste, especially compared to the other interactions they've had and Arthur wants more, so much more of this strange man, but then Merlin is pulling back and looking at him.

"Hi there," Merlin says with a quirk of his lips and Arthur kisses the smile, the frames of his glasses digging into his face. He keeps it chaste and light, relishing in the fact that he now knows that Merlin's lips are a little chapped and there's one spot that's almost chewed raw.

Arthur finds himself liking that he knows these small facts. He likes them so much that he mainly forgets about his half-hard cock still trapped in his trousers. He likes them enough to ignore the fact that Gwaine is still watching them. He likes these facts so much that he doesn't protest when Merlin breaks the kisses, smile still there, eyes still glittering, and tucks his head underneath Arthur's chin. Instead, he wraps his arms around Merlin's thin frame and lets the tired, woozy, drunk feeling of the night lull him to sleep to the sound of Merlin's breathing.

Arthur wakes when Merlin climbs off of him but he doesn't move. Half of him thinks he's paralyzed and the other half knows he just a coward. When Merlin stumbles, stepping on someone's foot, he apologizes and says he's going to the loo.

It takes Arthur three minutes to make sure he's got everything he came with stuffed back into his pockets. His body creaks when he gets up out of the chair, his trousers stained, his back aching and his mind very, very confused.

He flees, Gwaine's eyes boring into the back of his head as he slips out of the bedroom and out of Merlin's flat without a sound.

"Leon!"

Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose and desperately wishes he would have brought his glasses to work. His eyes are killing him.

"Yes, sir?"

Arthur looks up at Leon, who is probably the highest paid PA on the continent. But it's 10:45 on a Wednesday night and he's still here, helping Arthur put together a presentation for his father that has no hope of getting more than a nod of approval for.

"Is my car ready?"

Leon nods and smiles tightly. "Yes, sir. I've put the rest of the files you might need for tomorrow in your briefcase. There's mail in the passenger seat that came through your personal slot and the dry cleaning you've forgotten to take home for three weeks is hanging up in the backseat."

Arthur closes his eyes. He didn't really forget the dry-cleaning. He's been avoiding it.

"Thank you," Arthur says with a sigh. "You can head home. I won't be in before the presentation so you can take the morning off. Be here by one."

"Are you sure you don't want a driver, sir?"

Arthur waves him off, grateful for the small smile Leon gives him before he backs out of the office. Arthur waits until Leon's gone before packing up his laptop and the rest of his things. He shuts off the lights, tugs on his coat and walks to the parking lot.

Predictably, the dry cleaning is hanging in the backseat—mocking him.

He fastens his seat belt but doesn't have the energy to turn the key just yet. Instead, he has a very dramatic staring contest with a pair of laundered trousers. He can hear Morgana's voice, harpy-screeching and indignant, too. Every time he thinks about the trousers, he thinks about all the voice messages Morgana has left, detailing how she is furious with him and disowning him. She's also not talking to him but that hasn't stopped her from leaving voicemails.

She's also been texting him.

Arthur looks down at where his phone is, full of nasty messages from Morgana and then back into the mirror to see the trousers in their shiny packaging, practically singing about all the things Arthur is trying to forget.

Stay forgotten.

"Shit," Arthur says and leans back in the chair. He's got half a mind to text Morgana and tell her to mind her own bloody-damn business but instead, he shuffles through the mail Leon put on the seat. There's a few billing statements, nothing terribly exciting and nothing urgent. It all seems ordinary except for a large cardboard envelope. There isn't an address on the front, just his name scrawled in cramped cursive and no return address.

Arthur pulls the tab at the top of the envelope and pulls out two photographs. He can't see the glossy photos without a light and scrambles to turn the overhead light on, fear and excitement and something else clawing its way to his throat.

"Oh," he whispers.

The first photograph is of him and Gwen. They're both laughing, Gwen staring at him as she covers her wide, smiling mouth. Arthur has his head thrown slightly back, a flush working down his throat but the texture of the photo is vibrant and happy and Arthur can hear the laughter. He can feel the memory on his skin.

The second photo takes his breath away.

A note, stuck to the back of the photo, falls into Arthur's lap. When he picks it up, it has only one word, scribbled in the same handwriting as his name: Please.

He wants to think that it's blackmail. He wants to. He wants to be angry and vicious. He wants to pick up his phone and call his solicitor. He wants to be angry. Instead, he remembers the gentle press of Merlin's lips against his and the feeling of Merlin curled up in his lap. Arthur feels the flood of memories assault him. Merlin's long, pale legs and his thin wrists, his 'moloch' tattoo. Arthur can see the quirk of his lips and the curve of his cock. He can vividly picture Merlin's slender fingers and the stain of his come on Arthur's trousers.

He should call his father's assistant, tell him that there might be trouble but he doesn't. He picks up the phone and presses number two on his speed-dial.

"Geoffrey? Yeah, I'm sorry about the hour. Can you do me a favor? Wonderful. Can I have the number for a Merlin Emrys? Yes, M-e-r-l-i-n. I'm not sure on the spelling of the last name but he did a gallery showing for Morgana a month ago."

Arthur stares at the photos, his fingerprints making faint impressions over the glossy paper. Geoffrey makes several humming noises that indicate that he's working and Arthur traces his name penned over the front of the envelope.

"Sorry, can you repeat that number?... Thank you, Geoffrey. You've been a tremendous help."

When Arthur starts his car, he's smiling.

Arthur never sees Merlin without a camera.

It's dinner, for the first time on their own, when Arthur gives up on looking casual and comes to Merlin's terrifying flat to pick him up. It's bitter cold, even under all the layers of his suit and wool coat but Arthur finds himself smiling anyway as he takes the stairs two at a time to go collect Merlin.

Arthur knocks, hearing music from the inside. It's the sort of music that either makes you want to fall in love or find a way to be smart enough, or good enough to stay away. Basically, it's indie crap but Arthur finds it incredibly endearing that Merlin is such a lovely and predicable stereotype.

"Come in!"

He turns the knob, letting himself into a flat that is complete disaster. It looks as if Merlin has just had a party the night before, even though Arthur knows for a fact that Merlin was in Paris doing an interview. Arthur suspects that it might always look like this: a whirlwind of scarves, hoodies and v-necks draped over every available surface; there is assorted prints or books or books about prints everywhere; empty cans of PBR are tucked into corners; make-shift ashtrays appear at every single turn; and things like blenders and dildos, which do not belong in the living room, are obviously not in their rightful place.

It's disgusting and lived in and so very Merlin that Arthur can't bring himself to hate it beyond a vow that he's going to personally clean the sheets of Merlin's bed before he lets his bare skin anywhere near it.

Arthur blushes at the thought.

"Merlin?"

"Sorry," Merlin yells from the direction of the bathroom. "I'm running a bit behind."

Arthur rolls his eyes but turns to shrug off his jacket, finding a space on a barstool that looks relatively safe to put his coat on. He's unwinding his scarf when he looks up to see Merlin, standing in the hallway, taking pictures of him.

Arthur's face goes through a multitude of expressions, he can feel the way he shifts from surprise to embarrassment to curiosity and then back to embarrassment that leads to defense. "What are you doing?"

Merlin takes a few more snaps with his camera without answering Arthur. He's such a nerd, Arthur thinks as he takes in Merlin's half-nakedness (very distracting that), camera looped around his neck, black jeans cutting into his hips and exposing the waistband of his briefs (not white, thankfully).

"Hi," Merlin says when he finally drops the camera to hang on his neck, the black metal a very sharp contrast to his pale skin and the pinkness of his nipples. Arthur feels himself blush.

"More photos?" Arthur feels stupid just standing in Merlin's flat in his suit but Merlin is smiling goofily.

"You look good."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Merlin says with a nod. "You look good in my flat."

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that so he goes to Merlin instead, ignoring the way he's stepping on a multitude of noisy things and just kisses him.

They miss their dinner reservations, jack each other off in the back of a taxi and eat chips from a dodgy Indian man instead.

Text from Morgana:
you're a twat.

Arthur shakes his head, glaring at his phone and answers a handful of emails before picking up his phone and texting her back.

Text to Morgana:
mind your own business. harpy.

Satisfied that he's put Morgana off for another day or so, he closes his eyes and thinks about calling it a day. It's only 3pm but it's Friday and his mind is more than checked out by this point. He wants to say his eagerness to get out of work has nothing to do with the fact that Merlin's been gone all week long, off to some obscure forest to shoot photos of naked people running about in nature and will be back sometime tonight but he knows perfectly well that all he wants is to see him.

How did this happen? Arthur's not sure. But there is something about Merlin that seems to have latched onto Arthur's life, like a fungus, and is growing steadily.

"The lighting in your office is shit," a very familiar and missed voice says. Arthur opens his eyes to find Merlin, camera in hand, leaning across his desk to take pictures of Arthur's hands that are gripping the edge of his desk.

"What are you doing here?"

Merlin tilts his head, still behind the camera and takes a few more photos, before lowering it and smiling. It's a tired smile and something tugs at Arthur's chest.

"Will drove on the last leg," Merlin says casually. "So we made it back in four hours instead of seven."

"That’s... terrifying."

Merlin laughs, so small and nostalgic that it makes Arthur just a tiny bit jealous of Will. "You weren't in the car. I'm pretty sure this batch of models will never agree to do another shoot with me."

"Because of Will?"

"A bit. Also, there was an incident with a badger."

Arthur frowns, taking in Merlin's dirty clothes and skin. There's a streak of dirt that runs up his neck that Arthur has an alarming urge to lick off. Merlin has obviously turned him into some sort of dirty hippie.

"Badgers exist?"

"Apparently," Merlin says and then he's smiling, climbing onto Arthur's desk with all this filth and grime and appallingly endearing elbows and knees to mount Arthur's lap.

"Merlin," Arthur says as a means to chastise but just sounds breathless.

Merlin shakes his head. "Lean back," he says with a few firm presses to Arthur's jaw that directs his neck back against the chair.

"Merlin, I'm at work."

"Shush, you're the boss," he says with a cluck of his tongue like Arthur's being the outrageous one. Arthur obeys, relaxing back into the chair and realizing just how tired he is. "Did you miss me?"

Arthur blinks. "Absolutely not."

Merlin smiles so widely, Arthur's afraid he's going to strain something in his face.

"I missed you," Merlin says with a roll of his hips. "Let me show you how much."

Arthur wants to protest but he can only watch with hooded eyes as Merlin rotates his hips in the most alarmingly seductive way. Although, he manages to ruin the moment by taking another blasted picture. Arthur lets him before putting his palm on the lens, he'll buy Merlin a new one if need be, and pushes it away.

"Show me," he says and Merlin flails his limbs, managing to drop the camera on Arthur's desk before attacking Arthur's mouth with an intensity that he's almost forgotten Merlin possesses. His mouth tastes like licorice and the sweet tang of oranges. There's a hint of gritty dirt when Arthur licks at his teeth but he ignores it in favor of letting himself be devoured.

The grind into each other, Merlin riding Arthur's lap in what is becoming a very familiar and frequent position for them. Arthur keeps meaning to ask him why he insists on climbing into Arthur's lap at every available moment but he keeps getting distracted. Their hands clutch and press, the friction of clothes and days of being without each other is intoxicating, their touches demanding until they both come like teenagers inside their trousers. Merlin makes an alarming amount of noise, breathy gasps and needy whimpers and moans that Arthur is sure can be heard all around the office.

Afterward, with Merlin's face tucked up underneath Arthur's chin, another familiar position for them, Arthur sees Leon re-entering the office with a nod and a smile so coy that Arthur can't decide if he wants to give him a raise or fire him.

On Arthur's birthday, he finds himself lying in a pool of thick red paint. There's a crown on his head that shines and flickers in the light of flash bulbs. He knows there is symbolism here for more than just his childish heart, scattered between shrapnel infant cries and frantically beeping machines. He knows this isn't just about his emotional void—his mummy issues. He knows that it's about queenship or some other profound and revolutionist, liberal nonsense but he does it anyway.

He lets Merlin lead him into the room, undress him and position him. He doesn't know why and for the first time in a long time, not knowing isn't a crime.

"A gift," Merlin says without a smile but with bared teeth.

The splash of red paint over his belly makes him want to cry but when he opens his eyes, Merlin is already there.

"A gift," he pleads with shining eyes. "She would have been proud of you."

Arthur doesn't know when he found out or how he's supposed to feel any one emotion about this but the tightness in his chest loosens, his shoulders relax and the second splash of paint doesn't hurt as much.

Arthur wakes up to the sound of a Polaroid machine rolling out a photo. It's mechanic and harsh sounding in the early morning light of his apartment but as he rubs the sleep from his eyes and pulls on his glasses, he can't help but smile.

"What are you doing here?"

Merlin smiles, spindle like fingers tapping over the archaic looking camera in one hand while his other shakes the Polaroid with quick flicks of his wrist. "I broke in."

Arthur blinks. "You broke into my home?"

"Sure," Merlin says with a shrug. "I wanted to see where you slept when you weren't with me."

There's something here. Arthur is sure of it but it's too early in the morning to be having some sort of relationship conversation and Merlin looks so good, boyfriend cardigan with no t-shirt underneath and just his briefs. He looks comfy and homey and Arthur shakes his head to keep the thoughts from clouding his mind.

"Where are your pants?"

"Took 'em off."

"Bit presumptuous, aren't you?"

"Maybe not," Merlin says with a nod to Arthur's crotch where his morning erection is tenting the linens and reacting to Merlin's mere presence.

Arthur grunts and makes a grab for the square photograph but Merlin just shakes his head and tosses the camera to the floor.

"Stay home today."

"Pardon?"

Merlin smiles, wide and so truthfully that Arthur gets distracted by the sheer luxury of it. But then Merlin is there, rubbing his nose alongside Arthur's and pushing him back until Merlin is stretched out on top of him.

"Don't go to work," Merlin whispers while nipping at Arthur's lips. "Stay here with me."

"Why?"

"So we can have sex all day and I can use the rest of my Polaroids to document everything about you," Merlin says with seriousness that quakes in Arthur's chest before he smiles and licks at Arthur's lips. The way Merlin shifts from each emotion is enough to make anyone motion sick but it makes Arthur's head spin in a way that frustrates him and delights him equally.

"I've been meaning to do a collage dedicated to stages of your boner," Merlin says, deadpan and they laugh, kissing and rolling around in Arthur's expensive bed sheets like they haven't a care in the world. And they don't, not really, not when they're together and Arthur can block out the massive amounts of work he hasn't taken home since getting together with Merlin. He can truly get lost in Merlin's smiles and all his tragically hipster ways.

Arthur doesn't go in to work that day and Merlin does indeed use up all his film.

Text from Boy Wizard:
party at gwaines.

Arthur scowls at the text message. He's tempted to text back and tell him that in no way is Merlin to step in a ten foot radius of Gwaine when Arthur's not around. But he doesn't because he's unsure if he's allowed. Arthur is fairly sure Merlin is his boyfriend. Fairly sure. Mostly sure. This uncertainty is something Morgana says is good for him—character building or something else equally as rotten.

It just makes Arthur want to build a dungeon to keep Merlin in.

"Sir?"

Leon is leaning in the doorway. "Percy is bringing the coffee and we're to meet your father in the conference room on the 27th floor in ten minutes."

"Right," Arthur says, silencing his phone and putting Merlin out of his mind for the rest of the evening.

Four hours later, Arthur caves in to Leon's protests and has Tristan drive him home. He dozes on the way, his mind going over the day purely out of habit. In all honesty, it was a good day for him. His father only grimaced once during Arthur's presentation and the representatives from Mercia Inc. ate up the ideas. All in all, it was a perfect sort of day.

"Then why do I feel so bloody rotten?" Arthur mumbles when his car arrives outside of his flat building. He thanks Tristan with a nod and drags himself out of the backseat and into the building. The lift is slow and tedious but Arthur takes some comfort in the bland music playing softly above him. He thinks about how much Merlin hates lift music and takes the stairs even if it makes his thin chest heave.

This makes Arthur frown. Stupid Merlin and his sweet mouth and his ridiculous ideas and... Arthur presses a hand to his eyes and thinks that he really needs to go to bed.

When Arthur walks into his bedroom, he almost runs into a camera set-up on a tripod. It's blinking, the red light in high contrast with half of the room that's very dark. The other half is bathed in moonlight because the window covers are pulled back to let the light stream in from the windows. On his bed, Merlin is curled up in a fetal position.

Arthur blinks. Merlin looks decidedly small in Arthur's large bed, his skin very pale in the moonlight and Arthur almost laughs because Merlin, naturally, isn't wearing anything on the lower half of his body except for two mix-matched socks. However, he's still managed to leave his shirt on, the white v-neck shirt looking dark against his skin.

If there is one thing that Arthur is certain about with Merlin, it's that the boy really hates wearing pants.

Arthur undresses silently, putting his suit in the dry-cleaning pile and contemplating slipping into some sort of pajamas but then Merlin makes a sniffling noise combined with a sleepy groan and Arthur abandons any idea that isn't crawling into bed the very moment.

Arthur settles into the left side of the bed, lying close enough to feel the heat from Merlin's body but not close enough to touch.

"Arthur?"

He looks over to where Merlin has straightened a bit from his position, his back still to Arthur although he's twisted to look over his shoulder.

"You're in my bed," Arthur says in response to the sleepy glaze of Merlin's eyes. Merlin smiles softly and whatever lingering irritation Arthur has about Gwaine leaves him.

"Wanted you," Merlin says before turning away again. Before Arthur can say anything else, Merlin's arm is reaching back to pull Arthur forward and the long, thinness of his body is pressing back against Arthur's front until they're spooning like kittens.

Arthur inhales smoke and stale beer when he nuzzles into the base of Merlin's skull. "You're in my bed and there's a camera set up. Are you making wank videos?"

Merlin makes a sleepy whine and pats at Arthur until he finds Arthur's naked arm and follows the line until he grabs Arthur's hand, intertwines their fingers and slips them underneath Merlin's t-shirt to rest on his belly.

"Missed you at Gwaine's and then I got an idea," Merlin says with a voice so husky with sleep that Arthur almost feels guilty for asking any questions.

"Hmm," Merlin hums. "You're naked."

Arthur huffs out a laugh against the downy hairs of Merlin's neck. "Yes, and you are, once again, not wearing any pants."

"You feel good," Merlin replies, not following any sort of linear conversation style. "It's nice."

Arthur can do nothing but tighten his grip on Merlin's body, entangling their legs together. He's half-hard but he always is around Merlin. He feels sleepy and comfortable in a way that makes his chest tight with something that feels like uncertainty but he's sure it something else entirely—something far more dangerous.

"It's on a timer."

"The camera?"

"Yeah," Merlin whispers, his fingers stroking Arthur's. "Takes a picture every hour."

The silence that coats them is soft and intimate. He's suddenly struck with an intense urge to stay in this moment for the rest of time. He presses lingering, light kisses to Merlin's bare neck and listens to his breathing.

"I just wanted to take our picture," Merlin says when Arthur is sinking into sleep. "We're real and I wanted you."

Weeks later, Arthur will be looking for a file in the small cluttered space of his kitchen table. He'll open a folder to see ten prints. The first three are of Merlin alone, asleep in Arthur's bed and looking divine. The other seven are of the two of them. They're like a sucker-punch to his belly because he feels sick to his stomach, churning and twisted on the inside as he flicks through the pictures. The light moves across them in a mesmerizing way, it makes them look as fit they're shifting in the pictures but Arthur is drawn to the last photo. The bottom of Merlin's shirt has ridden up, exposing their entwined hands and the position of the light floods across their bodies. They contrast in a shocking way and fit so perfectly together that Arthur has to sit down because he feels a bit light headed.

"I'm so fucked," he says to his empty apartment. He makes plans to see Morgana for the first time since starting this thing with Merlin and doesn't hesitate to tell her everything.

She has similar sentiments.

Arthur glares at his computer screen.

"It cannot be this difficult," he grinds out and scrolls down the page.

Apparently, it is.

"Leon!"

A half a beat passes and then Leon is strolling into Arthur's office with a small smile and very large cup of tea. "Here you go sir," he says smoothly. "Have you given up yet?"

Arthur takes three long sips of tea, enjoying the way it sort of scolds his mouth and he can practically feel his headache surrendering to the all healing power of a very good cuppa.

"Christmas is a horrid time of the year," Arthur says in response.

"Many would disagree with you," Leon chides lightly. "I take it you haven't yet found Merlin a suitable gift?"

Arthur glares.

"May I make a suggestion, sir?"

Arthur sighs. "Anything to avoid having to call Morgana."

"There is an auction this Saturday," Leon says carefully, placing the catalog in front of Arthur. "Page twelve has a very interesting item that will suit Merlin perfectly."

Page twelve is a very expensive notebook. A bloody fucking notebook.

"A million and a half pounds for a damn notebook?"

Across from him, Leon sighs as if Arthur is the dense one. "Merlin's tattoo."

"What about it?"

"I'm beginning to see the failures of public school now. Poetry is important to your education and it is certainly important to Merlin since he got it tattooed on his skin."

Arthur looks back down at the auction booklet. "Ginsberg?"

"Yes," Leon says with a roll of his eyes and a small smile. "He's an American poet, hugely influential, especially to the queer community."

"Oh," Arthur says softly. He reads the description and feels a small pang of guilt. He's not well versed in literature. He's fully aware of that and he knows he understands even less about queer politics. Not like Merlin, who goes to rallies and writes letters to UN officials and goes to protests. Not like Merlin who has stacks of books ranging from feminist theory to trans-politics and who makes art to reflect every moment of his queerness.

Queer, a word that only meant 'odd' to Arthur until he met Merlin.

"Leon," Arthur says when his assistant turns to go. "Thank you."

The smile he receives is genuine.

"Would you place the call to the auction house?"

Leon nods and disappears while Arthur mourns the loss of a couple of million pounds.

When Christmas Day rolls around, Arthur finds himself waking up in Merlin's bleak and very cold apartment. His father is in Moscow, not scheduled back until after the New Year and Merlin insisted on staying at his apartment because apparently, Arthur's is too sterile and quote "IKEA Nazi-fied". Arthur eventually relented in exchange for a promise that they only had to stay at Morgana's for three hours that evening.

They're piled on Merlin's saggy couch, having tea and making out like teenagers when Merlin pushes him away and walks to the tree. There are ten very badly wrapped packages underneath the tree, none of which are for Merlin.

"I just got you one," Arthur says, suddenly shy. "But it's very good. At least, I hope it is."

Merlin turned back, only one package in his hand. "Oh, mine are all the same."

Arthur nods, even thought that makes little sense, and goes to his briefcase where he pulls out the small glass case he purchased the notebook in. He didn't bother wrapping it but Leon did go as far as to tie a thick red ribbon across the front of it.

They settle back on the couch and Arthur slides his gift into Merlin's lap. He's nervous but Merlin's cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the tea and their legs are tangled together on the couch so he can't find it in himself to hate this moment as much as he really should if he's going to be humiliated.

Arthur takes the camera from around Merlin's neck, avoiding look at his face while he looks at the glass case.

"Arthur," Merlin breathes out and Arthur takes a picture of his face, which looks shocked and awed but not in a bad way and Arthur feels something like relief. "Arthur is this..."

"It's the original manuscript of 'Howl'," Arthur says softly. "Your tattoo and," Arthur pauses as he works over the sudden lump of honesty in his throat. "I know I'm not the most aware gay out there. I might be the most apathetic but I want you to know that I notice. I mean, I know that it means a lot to you and after reading 'Howl' for the first time, I get it. I understand."

When Merlin looks up, there are tears in his eyes and Arthur wonders if he's fucked it up again. "God, Arthur. You read 'Howl'? For me," he says before reaching across the couch and places frantic but precious and sweet kisses all over his face. "You brilliant man."

They kiss, slow and wonderful and Arthur doesn't want to let go.

"I had help from Leon," Arthur admits.

"Can I take it out and read it?"

Arthur nods. "But you should do it somewhere clean and wear gloves. I mean, you don't have to. Do whatever you want because it's yours but that's just... it's a recommendation."

Merlin presses his forehead against Arthur's, their breath mingling together.

"You must have spent a fortune on this," Merlin says. Arthur nods.

"A small one."

"God," Merlin breathes out. "You're so fucking brilliant."

They kiss, lazy and languid but it makes Arthur hard and aching anyway. He wants Merlin so bad and he has no doubt that they'll get off after this but Arthur's been dreaming about fucking Merlin for weeks. He knows they should talk about it but it just hasn't come up yet and Gwaine is still around, still calls Merlin and texts him and they hang out and Arthur just isn't ready to ruin everything yet. Not yet.

"You're such a fucking sugar daddy," Merlin jokes and Arthur resists the urge to stick his tongue out.

Merlin takes pictures of Arthur's hands when they open up his present, which is so very like Merlin. Most people would take a picture of the expression of joy or elation when opening presents but Merlin insists that Arthur's hands do the talking. When Arthur opens his present—a brand of expensive condoms—he stares at the box before looking back up at Merlin. There is a beat of silence, Merlin still taking pictures before he pulls down the camera and Arthur looks back at the box and then back at Merlin.

Merlin, who is blushing. "The rest of the ones underneath the tree are different types. You know, colors and flavors and such."

"Merlin, what-"

"Arthur," Merlin interrupts with fluttering hands and a few nervous licks at his mouth. "I've hardly waited longer than a couple of hours to get fucked by anyone willing. You've had me waiting for four months."

Arthur frowns, opens his mouth and then closes it.

"Please," Merlin says across from him. "Please."

"But," Arthur starts, "what about Gwaine?"

"What does Gwaine have anything to do with this?"

"Merlin," Arthur says with a shake of his head. "I'm not like the rest of your friends-"

"Obviously."

"No, what I mean is, I don't sleep around with my friends and I'm not... I'm not into open relationships and all that new-age, liberal rot."

Merlin blinks. "Arthur, we've been dating for four months. I know you're a Stepford-fag."

Arthur's mind stumbles on the word dating but he's getting frustrated with Merlin's confused expression and more than a little hurt. God, he feels so incredibly pathetic but he just doesn't care anymore, not when Merlin's eyes are glittering against the fairy lights and it's Christmas.

"I don't want to share you," Arthur says, his fingers tightening over the condoms. "I don't want to share you with anyone, but especially not Gwaine."

"Arthur," Merlin says in a voice so soft and full of pity that Arthur jerks away from the hand that reaches out to touch his arm.

"Just imagining-"

And then Merlin kisses him, chaste but forceful, their mouths knocking together violently and Merlin pressing their lips together so hard that it actually hurts a bit.

"You stupid man," Merlin says against him. "You stupid, stupid man."

"What-"

Merlin kisses him again, hands pulling on his hair in an achy sort of way. "I haven't, with anyone, let alone Gwaine, since you called me after the party."

It takes a few moments to process the information. Merlin's face working into a huge smile, wide and innocent and truthful that Arthur doesn't have the sense to ask 'really' or 'are you sure' before Merlin is kissing him again and Arthur is literally carrying Merlin back to his shitty bedroom.

"You're amazing," Merlin says against his mouth and Arthur's shaking.

The next time Merlin drags Arthur to one of his parties, Arthur gets spectacularly drunk and hangs out with Gwen most of the night because Gwaine is there, putting his hands all over Merlin.

When Arthur's fist finally collides with Gwaine's jaw, Merlin's there to take the picture, lecture Arthur on neanderthal behavior before going back to Arthur's and fucking their brains out against the wall.

It's totally worth it.

"So," comes Morgana's dreaded voice from the door of his office. "You and Merlin."

Arthur thinks that if he runs fast enough, he'll knock her down and be out of the building before she can get up. Instead, he stays put and spends the next thirty seconds wondering how she got past Leon.

"I'm fairly certain that we've had this conversation," Arthur says sarcastically.

"Oh we have."

"Remind me again how you got past security?"

"My breasts," Morgana says casually and closes the door behind her. Arthur doesn't hide his groan. "We need to talk again."

"Is there any chance that I can say no and you'll go away," Arthur snaps. "I've got work to do."

"Merlin's putting together a collection that is going to blow his career out of the water. He's going to be famous. He's going to be wanted by everyone and anyone. This collection, from what I've seen, is probably the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

Arthur keeps his face glued to the computer. "He's mentioned his excitement," Arthur says carefully.

"Arthur," Morgana says with a smack of her hand on his desk that makes him jump a bit and actually look at her. "You have to tell Uther."

"Excuse me? Have you actually lost your mind?"

"When Merlin's done, he's going to sign with galleries and it's going to be everywhere."

"I don't see how that has anything to do with ruining my father's dream of continuing the Pendragon legacy," Arthur says drily.

Morgana moves to sit on his desk, her hip cocked and her eyes dark. "Arthur, this collection is... well, to be frank, it's the most epic love letter ever written and it will out you."

"Morgana..."

"It's going to be called Kingdom and it's going to have you, plastered over twenty different walls in various states of undress. Merlin is composing a declaration of love that is going to span fifty photographs and it's going to be enormous," Morgana says harshly. "What makes you think that when everyone sits up and takes notice, that you won't be in the lime-light too?"

"No one is going to care about me, this is about Merlin."

"You're fucking stupid," Morgana says bluntly. Arthur twists his face and hates her, just a little bit.

"Please, insult me because that always takes our conversations in a positive direction."

"You're going to be known as Merlin Emrys' muse," Morgana says softly. "You're going to be the subject that makes him famous. Everyone is going to care and everyone is going to want to talk to you."

"Morgana, I really need to get back to work."

"I've already booked Kingdom for the end of June," Morgana plows on. "Merlin's got twenty different galleries fighting to have it next. You have until June to tell Uther but I won't keep a lid on Merlin's genius just because he's fallen in love with an idiot like you."

She's out the door before Arthur can process what she said. Hours later, he's gotten next to nothing done and he's still stuck on 'fallen in love'.

Arthur's exhausted when he gets home. His irritation with Morgana sort of exploded, he got in a proxy argument with his father that was pointless and completely his fault and yelled at an intern until she cried. Leon had to pack her in a cab and promise her a transfer to a different branch with a raise.

He is so happy to see the sight of his apartment.

All the lights are on when he walks in and it smells like vanilla and hazelnut. "Merlin?" he calls out as he unloads his briefcase onto the kitchen table, he hands up his coat and rolls his shoulders. God, he's sore.

"In here!"

Arthur loosens his tie, toeing off his shoes, as he makes his way toward the bathroom and Merlin's voice. The door is ajar and he can see a truly dangerous amount of candles littering every available surface of his bathroom. Merlin's bent over the tub, turning off the taps when Arthur pushes the door open.

"Hello," Arthur says, leaning against the door jamb.

Merlin looks over his shoulder and straightens up. "Hey, you!"

"What's all this?"

Merlin crosses the bathroom and hugs him. Just hugs him. Arthur's arms automatically circle Merlin's thin body, once again clad in boxer-briefs and a white v-neck. Merlin hugs him tight, his left hand rubbing rhythmically at the base of Arthur's neck.

"Leon called, said you had a crap day."

Arthur chuckles. "Something like that, yeah."

"I've drawn a bath with bubbles and the kettle’s on."

"Mmm," Arthur hums and turns his head to place a kiss to the line of Merlin's neck. "Very sweet of you."

"Get out of your clothes," Merlin says when he pulls back. "I'll bring you tea."

Arthur strips, doesn't bother to fold his clothes, and sinks into the deliciously scalding bath water with a hiss. He can feel the tension ease out of his shoulders with shocking quickness. His traitorous mind flickers back to his conversation with Morgana earlier.

"God," Arthur mumbles, slipping his head underneath the water and resurfacing to find Merlin with two mugs of tea and his Polaroid camera.

"Too hot still," Merlin says as he sets the mug on the side of the tub and slides down until he's opposite Arthur but outside the tub. His hand rests on the edge of the cool tub and Arthur doesn't hesitate to cover it with his own, bubbles squelching between their fingers.

"Hi," Arthur says and Merlin smiles, quiet and sedate.

"Can I take your picture?"

Arthur cocks his head. "You've never asked me before."

The blush on Merlin's cheeks is clear and Arthur takes in the way his eyes seem to dance, a shocking blue wreathed in gold by the candle light.

"Well," he says softly, like a confession. "I should have."

"You talked to Morgana," Arthur says flatly and Merlin nods. He looks so little, half naked in Arthur's bathroom.

For once in his life, he's aware of how important this moment is between them. He tries to imagine Merlin without a camera in his hands or without the smile that slides onto his face after he's taken a picture that he's particularly pleased with and it all feels wrong. It feels wrong for Merlin to ask Arthur for anything when Arthur knows that he should just take it because Arthur wants to give it to him. He thinks about his life before Merlin. He thinks about Merlin's fingers pressed against his and the way he gulps down cheap beer, drunk off the people around him. Arthur thinks about the way Merlin gasps his name when he's buried inside him, both of them on their sides in the early morning light and realizes that if there is anything to fight for, it might be everything Merlin stands for.

"Merlin," he says with equal softness. Merlin looks up from where he was staring at their fingers. "You never have to ask because the answer is always yes."

The water splashes all over the tile floor when Merlin climbs in, still half-clothed, to take Arthur's picture and to kiss him.

They don't talk about the gallery or the collection after that. Merlin takes pictures and Arthur kisses his smiles and they live.

Winter bleeds into Spring. Work is busy and demanding and Merlin goes to Paris with Morgana, Will and Gwaine. Arthur's doesn't have time to be jealous but when he mutters something about Gwaine, Merlin sucks his brains out of his cock and afterwards, he pushes come into Arthur's mouth with a filthy, slick tongue and dances out the door with a bag full of cameras and a promise to text him later.

It's perfect and wonderful and Arthur can't stop smiling like a loon.

It's May. It's raining buckets of drizzle that annoy Arthur to no end because he has trouble sleeping, his shoulder wound from university bothering him. He slips out of bed, where Merlin is drooling on his pillow and kicking like a puppy.

Arthur places a kiss on his shoulder and then leaves the bedroom.

There's a book on the table that Arthur's been avoiding for a couple of days. He knows what it is because Merlin told him, just in passing, knowing that Arthur would pay attention. It's the final submission for Kingdom. It's what he showed Morgana earlier in the week that made her cry and what will make Merlin famous.

Merlin hasn't stopped taking pictures and that's what intrigues him. The gallery book is final, it's what will be in the show and yet, Merlin is still taking pictures of Arthur whenever he feels the desire to. His smile hasn't faded and neither have his kisses.

It confuses him.

The rain pounds relentlessly outside and Arthur steps away from the window to open the gallery book. He knows that Morgana will choose the order and placement of the work but it opens with a picture of Arthur's face, eyes closed and peaceful.

Arthur's hands shake as he goes through the album.

There are so many pictures. He's actually in awe. Some of them he doesn't remember, others feel like a slap in the face they are so tangible in his memory. There are pages and pages of Arthur, sometimes he's with other people and sometimes it's just him or parts of him; the clip of his elbow, the whiteness of his knuckles or the straining tendons of his neck.

It's startlingly intimate and for the first time in his life, he's willing to admit that Morgana is right.

The first pictures, the ones that Merlin sent Arthur after he fled, are at the back. Arthur runs his fingers over Gwen's smiling face, tracing her curls spread out on the bed. The next one is of Arthur's come slick trousers and he smiles, remembering quite vividly that entire encounter. Surprisingly, or maybe not, Merlin has a knack for taking erotic photos and making them more than just porn. They're soft and loving and secret.

The last page is blank.

"Here's the last photograph," Merlin says from behind him, sleep gone from his voice. He places a photo down on top of the blank page. "It's not in here because it's going to be six feet tall, I had to take it to the printer today."

Arthur nods, but it's absent from intent. The photo is gorgeous, so divine that it doesn't even look like him. It's a photo taken not long ago: Arthur is facing away from the camera, framed by the cold steel of Merlin's balcony. He's wearing a pair of gray boxer-briefs, his arms stretched out to hold onto the frame of the door. The muscles in his back are flexed, his feet slightly apart and the light is flooding all around him in a golden haze that makes him seem like he's glowing.

He looks regal, awe-inspiring and the breath inside his chest stutters and stops because it's perfectly clear that this is how Merlin sees Arthur.

"Merlin," he gasps out.

There's a pause, a full beat before Merlin's hands, capable and strong and beautiful, they close the book and flutter until they land on Arthur's shoulder.

"Come to bed," he pleads and Arthur follows.

Merlin climbs onto the bed and Arthur trails after him, watching him settle on his stomach. Arthur hesitates before he pushes Merlin's v-neck up, baring his back, and pushes it over Merlin's bed-tousled hair. Merlin stretches out, cat-like underneath him and Arthur watches the thin muscles move over his bones.

"God, Merlin," Arthur breathes into his skin, pressing kisses to the top of his spine and trailing them down the long, lean line of his back. The kisses are not chaste, but open and wet because he's worshipping and gasping into Merlin's skin with every bow of his spine.

"Arthur," Merlin whimpers and Arthur presses his skin down the flanks of his body, pressing and pressing until the skin dances underneath his fingers.

"Let me."

He watches as Merlin nods, his head turning to the side as he moans loudly when he spreads his cheeks with his hands and places an open mouthed kiss here too.

"Fuck," Merlin groans out and Arthur nips at the curve of Merlin's arse, moving back to lave the flat of his tongue to Merlin's entrance. His frames press uncomfortably into his face and so he takes them off, flinging them over the side of the bed and hoping they survived the landing. He kisses and licks, running the flat of his teeth over the sensitive, puckered skin until Merlin sobs.

He blows air over the twitching hole when he's mouth gets tired and pushes a finger in, watching the mess of Merlin's hair trash against the pillows to the tune of Merlin's desperate whines and thick moans as Arthur curves his finger, twisting until he finds Merlin's prostate.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Merlin curses when Arthur presses down too hard. His upper body scrambles to search underneath the pillows as his lower half fucks itself onto Arthur's finger. "Here, oh god, please here," Merlin begs as he shoves the lube down to Arthur's level.

"So good," Arthur whispers, pushing a second finger, slick and cool up into the inferno of Merlin's body.

"Arthur," Merlin whispers and Arthur nods, mouth at the crease between Merlin's arse and thigh. "Please, more, pleaseplease."

Arthur slides a third finger in, the slowness of the fingering easing into the quick fuck of his fingers into Merlin's hole. He knows Merlin's arse must be burning from the stretch but he finds a condom anyway, letting Merlin's thrust himself down onto Arthur's fingers as he busies himself with fitting the condom over his leaking cock.

"Inside," Merlin says, pushing himself up to his knees for leverage. "Inside before I come."

Arthur wastes no time, pulling his fingers out that earns him a whine from Merlin, slicking up his cock and pushing in so slow that Merlin sobs out another nonsense of words that are more desperate sobs than they are English. Arthur groans, burying himself inside Merlin and stilling.

Arthur waits until Merlin's stopped trembling so badly before he pulls out until only the tip remains, thrusting back in with a grunt.

"Fuck, yesyesyes," Merlin cries out, loudly and Arthur latches his teeth into the soft skin of Merlin's neck.

Arthur keeps the slow pace until Merlin's pushing back, cursing him and demanding more. Arthur sucks a bruise on his neck that will last for a week and Merlin moans, "So close". Arthur drives into him so hard that Merlin's knees knock out from underneath him, laying him flat on the bed with a filthy groan and words that could be Arthur's name but aren't complete.

The angle puts Arthur's cock in line to hit Merlin's prostate with every stroke and it takes less than four strokes before Merlin is coming, hands twisted behind him to thread into Arthur's hair and tug, moaning into this orgasm as Arthur's fucks him into the mattress.

Arthur comes seconds later, hips frantic as they thrust without rhythm, milking the pleasure from them both until they're both gasping, sweat slick between them when Arthur collapses on top of Merlin's back.

When Arthur finally pulls out, Merlin winces and Arthur gets rid of the condom quickly, pressing a kiss to Merlin's temple with a soft, "stay". He leaves the bed and comes back with a wet flannel, wiping them both down with broad sweeps of his palm. When he's done, he tosses the cloth to the side and curls around Merlin, pulling the duvet over them and pulling Merlin's thin body close enough to him that he doesn't have to sleep in the wet spot.

It's quiet and brittle between them so Arthur clings too hard.

"I'll turn them down."

"What?" Arthur breathes into Merlin's damp hair.

"I'll turn them down. I won't do the show if you want me to," Merlin says quietly. "I love you and I won't do this without you."

"God," Arthur says, eyes squeezing shut as he pictures the photo of himself, golden and shining from Merlin's eyes. "God, Merlin."

"I do, love you that is."

"I know."

"You mean more than fame or glory or whatever Morgana said to you."

Arthur holds him tighter until Merlin turns in his arms, wrapping around him like an octopus and making cooing noises that remind Arthur of his old au pair. Merlin strokes his fingers through Arthur's hair, pressing his face into Merlin's damp neck until their hearts slow to match a pace and pattern that is familiar and warm.

"All right," Arthur says finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Arthur kisses into Merlin's ear. "Let's do this."

The week the collection is supposed to open at Morgana's, Merlin says yes to three more galleries. New York, Paris and Berlin want him so badly that he almost chokes on the figures.

"I'm going to be rich," Merlin says in awe, looking at the contracts. Arthur scoffs from the kitchen.

"You're already rich," Arthur calls over the running sink. "You just don't act like it."

"This is going to be huge," Morgana says as she bursts into Arthur's flat.

"Where the fuck did you get a key?" Arthur glares over the breakfast bar. Morgana ignores him in favor of flocking to where Merlin is sitting at the table and showering his face with kisses and hugging him so hard that Arthur can see his eyes bulge a little.

She throws down three magazines. "All of them have articles about Kingdom."

"Really?" Merlin says and flicks through them, eating up the words and giggling over the picture of him and Will that is published in one of them. Arthur peers over his shoulder and laughs as one of the magazines has a picture of Merlin at the age of fourteen.

"Where did they get this picture?"

"Who cares!" Morgana says with a smile so wide and genuine that Arthur laughs, kissing Merlin's cheek and returning to the kitchen, letting them talk and generally be ridiculously excited.

Later, when Merlin has fallen asleep in Arthur's lap, Morgana slips her shoes back on and gives him a significant look.

"Your name’s in those articles too."

"I know," Arthur whispers. "I have a meeting with Father over my sabbatical tomorrow."

"Sabbatical?"

Arthur nods, his finger absently playing with Merlin's ear. "I'm taking a six month sabbatical so I can go with Merlin."

"You're going on the gallery tour with Merlin?"

Arthur is almost afraid that Morgana's eyebrow might fall off with how fast and hard she arches it.

"Will's coming too," Arthur says softly but Morgana is smiling like she's proud and sweeping out the door.

"Spain, too," Arthur whispers in the quiet of the room.

Arthur falls asleep like that, on the coach, hands tucked up against Merlin's skin.

"Imagine my surprise when I found out that not only is my only son dating a man but that he's going to be making a fool of himself all over the world," Uther says with a cold hardness that greets Arthur in the morning. His father is sitting in the chair across from Arthur's desk, the rigid line of his body matching the tone of his voice and tensing Arthur's jaw immediately.

He had planned to a have a bit more time before confronting his father. In hindsight, he should have known that Uther's PR department would be diligent. Especially since he hasn't exactly been discreet.

"Father," Arthur nods, setting his briefcase down and going to sit at his desk with a careful breath. "I was under the impression our meeting was set for ten."

"Do not be coy with me, Arthur."

Arthur feels the tick in his jaw but he turns on computer with faux casualness. It's easy to ignore everything around him when he's with Merlin because his dopey smile and skinny jeans block out reality. One of Merlin's talents is twisting reality into fantasy with a snap of his fingers or a press of his lips but sitting here with his father, it brings the severity of his situation into a harsh light. A six month sabbatical? Being out of the closet to real people, not just hipster rejects? Spending extensive time with Will? Taking a stand against his father?

"If you actually read the press releases, you would see that I'm not going to be making a fool of anyone," Arthur grinds out.

"Arthur," Uther forces out, his face severe. "Don't be rash, I know you've had your dalliances before but this is your life we're talking about. I will not stand idly by while you tarnish the Pendragon name for some fool of a boy because you can't control yourself."

Arthur looks away from his father's mouth, twisted and sour with what looks like hate and something shifts, shutters to stillness. He looks at the meticulous blankness of his desk; the carefully constructed piles, no trace of photos, the bland and impersonal wave of the area around him and he knows, quite plainly, that he won't miss any of it if he has to let it go. He hasn't thought about work outside of his workday since Merlin strolled into his life and as much as he enjoys making money, being successful and knowing that he is good at what he does, this isn't the entirety of his life anymore. This, being Uther Pendragon's son, isn't the sum of his life any longer.

He shifts and meets his father's gaze, hard and solid. "Kingdom is not foolish—just because it's not what you're used to or what you want doesn't mean it isn't right for me. Merlin is not foolish and neither is our life," Arthur says with a tone that sounds so like his father, he shocks himself. "You loved Mum, even though she was completely different from you—from the life you've raised me to lead."

"Excuse me?"

Arthur holds his father's gaze, even if the older man is reddening in his face and his left eye is twitching. God, he hopes mentioning his mother isn't a mistake but the first thing Merlin had said, eyes bright and hopeful, when he pulled out the photos of Arthur's mum from the back closet of his flat was: "She looks like she'd like me."

It's hard to argue with earnest truth.

"I'm taking a sabbatical to go with Merlin to the other three gallery openings after Morgana's show," Arthur says slowly.

"You will do no such thing."

"Then, after Berlin, Merlin will be taking his bi-annual road trip with five models, William Williams and me. He's picked Spain," Arthur says with more confidence, a smile gracing his face just thinking about it.

"This is madness!"

Arthur looks at his father's face, fury barely concealed and feels a pang of pity inside his chest. Yes, he supposes it is a bit insane but it's the kind of happy mania that comes from loving Merlin.

"Father, you can either accept the terms of my sabbatical or you can fire me," Arthur says, matter-of-factly. "But if you do fire me, you'll be hearing from my solicitor about wrongful termination."

"On what grounds?" Uther sneers out and this moment feels like coming out in the most official way because being with Merlin is something entirely different than announcing to the world that he's gay.

Then again, he's never one to do anything by halves. It's something his father taught him.

"Sexual orientation discrimination," Arthur says smoothly.

Uther slams the door so hard on the way out that all the pictures fall off the wall and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, reaching for his phone just as Leon peeks in the wake of Uther's exit.

"That went well," he says with an arched eyebrow.

Arthur's smile is tight across his face. "It could have been much worse," he says, bringing the phone to his ear and listening to Merlin's comforting ringback: "...to the window! To the wall!"

Arthur gets back from his meeting in a temper.

"Sir," Leon says, looking a bit nervous. "In your office-"

Arthur flares, "I thought I said no more meetings for the rest of the goddamn day!" Arthur bursts into his office to find Merlin eating strawberries and holding a cactus.

"Hi," Merlin says with a red stained lips and a juicy tongue. "Come here often?"

"I've got work to do," Arthur says without heat. It's hard to be mad when Merlin's smiling his lopsided grin, like nothing in the world could bring him down.

The amazing thing is, Arthur knows he could. If he wanted to, he could ruin Merlin's day and watch the smile disappear.

"I brought you a pressie."

"Did you?"

"Yeah," Merlin says, reaching out and snagging Arthur by the loops of his trousers. "But you'll have to make out with me very inappropriately in your office before you can have it."

Merlin's mouth tastes like strawberries, tart and sweet with sticky juice. But it's nice and so Arthur kisses him a bit longer than necessary, especially if his father has spies around but he doesn't care because Merlin lets his mouth be plundered with a soft moan.

"Where's my present?"

"Take the rest of the day off," Merlin says with a coquettish smile.

"Why?"

"Because Will got a hold of peyote," Merlin whispers. "So I made some peyote tea."

Arthur blinks, his eyes following the stain of Merlin's mouth when he talks. Even when he's talking nonsense he's delightful. "You want me to cut work to take hallucinogens?"

"And go to the Tate Modern with me."

Arthur looks down at the basket of strawberries, the thermos of what he assumes is peyote tea and the cactus. "What's the cactus for?"

"I just liked it so I bought it at Tesco," Merlin says with a dopey smile. "Its name is Mordred and he's going to live in your office if you don't get fired."

Merlin kisses him on the cheek and puts his arms around Arthur like he's hugging him. Merlin and the hugging—it's strangely attractive and endearing. Not that Arthur would ever say anything.

"Please," Merlin says with another kiss to his cheek. "Will hates Tate Modern, he always tries to tag up the walls and last time he set fire to a chips stand."

Arthur laughs, because it's inappropriate and lovely and he really, really wants to hold Merlin's hand.

"Where are you?"

Arthur tries on another tie.

"Getting dressed," Arthur says curtly.

"Well, get your arse over here!"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Morgana, I do understand the concept of time."

"If you don't get over here in ten minutes, I'm letting Will dose Merlin with ketamine," she says before hanging up.

Arthur grabs the paisley blue tie that Merlin loves (Arthur thinks it’s ghastly) and makes his way down to where Tristan is waiting for him.

When Arthur walks into the gallery, he's shocked at how beautiful the gallery is. Each of the photographs are outlined with a thick gold line and the lighting is almost blinding. It's beautiful and Arthur barely recognizes himself in all the photos but he certainly recognizes Merlin staring back at him in each picture.

Will is, predictably, tagging in the middle of the floor with blue and gold paint. He sneers cheerfully when Arthur passes him and Arthur flips him two fingers. Lance and Gwen are talking in the corner and when Arthur rounds the corner, and Gwaine is making a very crude gesture to Morgana who is laughing and not running for the door or calling the police.

"Where's Merlin?"

Gwaine looks up and says, "Trying to drown himself in the loo".

"Cheers," Arthur says sarcastically, wondering if he'll be picking Merlin off the floor in a ketamine haze or not. But when he gets to the bathroom, Merlin is just sitting by the sinks, hyperventilating.

"Merlin?"

Merlin doesn't look at him when he approaches, keeps staring at the stalls behind them. Arthur slides his hands up Merlin's thighs. He's wearing black trousers and a white button up that's actually Arthur's and so it fits him poorly. He's also wearing a skinny tie.

Ridiculous hipsters.

"All right, then?"

His hair is a mess and he tilts his head until he's meeting Arthur's gaze, unblinkingly. "It's just, I've never wanted to take pictures of someone like this before. Hell, I've never wanted to be in pictures with someone before. Not until you," he says almost sheepishly. "So, this is kind of important."

"You weren't this nervous last time," Arthur replies and Merlin shakes his head.

"This time it's different."

"Mr. Pendragon, thanks for sitting with me today."

Arthur smiles, tight across his face and nods to the woman across from him. She's clearly insane but very pretty and the first thing he thinks is that she and Morgana would be get along beautifully, which should make him run in the other direction but he promised Merlin he would do this. Obviously, he's regretting it now.

"Thank you for inviting me," Arthur says smoothly.

"How did you become Mr. Emrys' most famous subject?"

"Well, I guess I became his boyfriend first," Arthur says matter-of-factly. "Besides, Kingdom wasn't really about me. I mean, all of Merlin's work is about Merlin. He has the ability to channel this massive self into his photographs."

"Did you meet while he was finding a subject for Kingdom?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Not at all. We met at Merlin and Will Williams' show Ealdor, which my step sister Morgana put on."

Morgause nods, making some notes on her pad. "Do you feel connected to Will Williams' work?"

Arthur is, thankfully, saved from answering that question as Merlin bursts into the room. His hair is windswept, his face ruddy with flushed cheeks and his smile is just as loony and infectious as ever.

"Sorry I'm late," Merlin says in a whoosh, sitting down next to Arthur and turning to kiss him with too much teeth and a little bit more tongue that was strictly necessary. "What are we talking about?"

Morgause opens her mouth but Arthur beats her to it. "About the first night we met."

"Oh yeah?" Merlin says with a smile that was two parts filth and all parts joy. "Well, performance art was really what brought us together. See..."

Arthur leans his head back until it knocks against Merlin's, who is giggling, his shoulders convulsing against Arthur's.

"Morgana hates Paris," Merlin says sweetly, his hand reaches up to entangle with Arthur's and they're both a little cold.

"She's here all the time," Arthur says harshly. "She can't hate it that much."

"She thinks the Eiffel tower is a symbol of patriarchy and phallic domination," Merlin says with another burst of giggles, twisting and pulling their hands until he can bring them to his mouth. Arthur's shoulder whinges from the angle but he lets it happen because he’s laughing and stupid in love.

"Phallic domination, eh?"

"Mmmhmm," Merlin sings. "Sounds nice, doesn't it?"

They sit in silence for a while, watching the leaves swirl and people walk hand in hand around the park. It's autumn and it's very, very beautiful.

"Tell me this lasts forever," Merlin says, placing kisses all over their joined hands. "Tell me this feeling lasts forever."

Arthur smiles and it hurts. "It does," he says truthfully. "What time does the gallery open?"

"We don't need to be there for a few hours," Merlin mumbles back.

"Good. Let's go get a cupcake."