Missed Connections: Part Four
Aug. 29th, 2010 05:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Surprisingly, for staying in Prince Arthur's house, Merlin didn't see the prince all that often. In fact, he was more like a phantom presence in the way objects would be moved this way and that, or how Merlin's favorite biscuits would show up in the cupboard when he wasn't looking. All in all, it was quiet. He was very thankful for Prince Arthur's absence, since he hadn't yet gotten over his mortification of all the shouting about the shagging or the buggery or whatever.
He was still waiting for the ninja assassins to attack him in his sleep.
The flat itself was sprawling and furnished with expensive and slightly uncomfortable furniture. It was, for all intents and purposes, a glass house. It had no homey feel. Merlin felt like he had to be fully dressed when he walked around the house, just in case someone important dropped by. There was nothing about the flat that told Merlin anything about Prince Arthur. It was clean and pristine, and Merlin hated staying there. He desperately missed his worn robe and chipped mugs that littered his kitchen and bit into his lip when he sipped tea. He missed the soft material of his couch that sagged under his weight, and Will singing in the shower to some ridiculous American pop song, or the way the sun broke into his window because his curtains were too cheap to block out the strength of the light.
He just missed being home.
Unfortunately, he was having trouble staying upright for more than twenty minutes at a time before he felt like collapsing in exhaustion. Morgana refused to take him home, telling him that she didn't have time to visit him at his dingy flat when Arthur's was closer to work and her own flat. Merlin scoffed and tried not to grumble like a petulant child, but it was hard when all he wanted to do was be in his room, away from the sterile environment of a prince's home. Plus, Merlin was still afraid that one day he'd walk around the corner and see Prince Arthur doing something completely dashing, and any defenses Merlin had built up via his extreme pratliness would crumple, and Merlin would be left drooling over his perfect abs, his broad shoulders and his charming smiles.
Merlin was only human.
Because Prince Arthur's flat was close to Morgana's, it also had the downside of being close to Camelot, and even as Merlin was fighting exhaustion by making his own damn cup of tea, he was dead bored just lying about. He wanted nothing more than to write; his fingers itched, and his magic even perked up from its foggy haze of laziness to tug at him when he passed by the window that looked out onto the street, where Merlin could actually see the large warehouse building Camelot was located in. He almost thought about escaping there one night, when the flat around him finally settled down and Merlin was sure Prince Arthur wasn't traipsing around making dinner or tea or anything remotely human and adorable. Merlin thought about escaping to Camelot to sit in the loo stall and meditate, let his magic flow freely until the handkerchief man showed up.
Hell, Merlin was half convinced the only reason the handkerchief man even came about was because Merlin's magic compelled him to. The idea of his magic having that effect on anyone made Merlin tingle in a pleasant sort of way, but it was also scary. If he was doing it without thought, if all he had to do was close his eyes and let his emotions run their course, what would happen if Merlin willed his magic at someone? Would they do his bidding? Would they ignore their own desires and ambitions to bend to Merlin's will? The power was both intoxicating and sickening.
As much as he thought about it, he couldn't act upon it or even test his theory out because the one time he did try and sneak out, Kilgharrah had threaded around his legs with his stupid cat body and sent Merlin tumbling to the ground in the darkness. When Merlin had turned on the light, ready to yell, Kilgharrah was nowhere to be found, and Prince Arthur was standing in the doorway, blinking sleepily into the hallway lights. Merlin had looked at the prince, who was wearing sleep pants and a t-shirt so thin Merlin was afraid a swift breeze would disintegrate it, and then looked back at where he was reaching for his coat--his coat, that was hanging on the rack with many other coats that Merlin had seen in magazines. At that point he completely lost it, mumbling an apology and fleeing the room before the prince could ask if he was okay or yell at him for disturbing his sleep.
He hadn't seen any royalty around the house since. Not counting Morgana.
"Feeling any better, mate?"
Merlin looked up from where he was standing in the kitchen to see Will leaning against the door jam. Merlin smiled and waved him in, pointing to the kettle while he grabbed a mug from the cupboard.
"Not really, I still get tired so easily."
"Yeah, this magic business is tricky," Will said as he poured boiling water into his mug, letting it slosh and burn the tips of Merlin's fingers. Merlin glared, but there was no heat in it.
"Wait! How'd you get in here?" Merlin gestured to the sparkling flat around them. "I thought Morgana refused to give you a key."
Will smirked. "I think she's turned on that I might cause a scandal."
Merlin shook his head in defeat. Some things would never change, and that thought was oddly reassuring.
"I let him in," Gwen said as she swooped in and stole Will's cup, sipping as she grinned.
"Oi! You bloody thief!"
Gwen grimaced and gave the cup back. "Disgusting. Would you prefer some tea with your milk?"
Merlin tugged her away from Will's spiteful face to hug her. She went willingly, wrapping her arms around Merlin tightly. They hadn't talked about the magic or the secrets, but Merlin was sure that Gwen had already forgiven him. She just hadn't been around a lot when Merlin first started to wake up, and the result had been Morgana feeding Gwen most of her information from the conversations that she had with Merlin. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. Gwen was busy enough trying to get Morgana's office remodeled from the subsequent tiger damage to have to tend to Merlin's wounds. Especially since Gwen said that she was spending half her time convincing Morgana that getting wild animals for her office wasn't a good idea. Morgana was under the impression that it was just a fluke or that it was all Prince Arthur's fault.
"How's the office?"
Gwen pulled away enough to roll her eyes and scrunch up her face.
"That bad?"
"It's not easy handling the phone calls, the design plans, the designers, the construction team, and Morgana's need for dangerous creatures," Gwen said, casually taking Merlin's tea and sipping at it. Her facial expression wasn't much better than when she had tried Will's.
"Why can't you guys just take your tea like normal Englishmen?"
Merlin grinned, snatching his tea back and gesturing toward the sitting room. He was already getting light-headed, and he didn't want to pass out in front of Gwen. She'd spend the rest of the day fawning over him and neglecting Morgana, which would lead to Merlin getting his ass chewed out for not taking care of himself and being ungrateful.
It had already happened twice.
A week went by with Merlin trying to move out of Prince Arthur's flat without much luck. He spent most of his time attempting to write, but with only memories of the handkerchief man to guide him, Merlin's muse wasn't budging. That inconvenient fact, paired with his increasing boredom and wellness, was driving Merlin crazy--crazy enough to change his normal hours and completely forget that he was avoiding Prince Arthur in his own damn home. Naturally, Merlin should have known that his luck would run out.
Merlin practically startled out of sleep, waking up slumped on the couch just as the sun was poking through the flat's windows. It was barely dawn, and Merlin staggered off the couch, scratching at his hip where his boxers had ridden up. He had spent the night rereading what he had wrote, trying desperately to draw out some inspiration for writing, but it seemed to have failed. Merlin didn't even remember falling asleep.
He rubbed at his eyes as he made his way into the kitchen, squinting at the bright light that was already on. Tiny spots scattered over his vision and then cleared, revealing Prince Arthur of Albion in a towel.
"Oh my God," Merlin heard himself gasp, unable to stop himself from taking in the prince's tanned back, his muscles rippling from where he was bending down at the ice box and looking at Merlin over his shoulder, surprised by Merlin and his screeching. Merlin felt his face heat as he stared at the cream towel around the prince's waist and the way he was cut, lines of muscle carving out his hip bones and making them look inconveniently lickable.
Merlin promptly squeezed his eyes shut and turned around. "Terribly sorry," Merlin said weakly. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Or shout."
He heard a light chuckle behind him and the sound of the refrigerator door click shut. He squeezed his eyes tighter as his imagination filled in the blanks, recalling what the prince was wearing or what he wasn't wearing. This wasn't happening to him.
"You weren't interrupting anything," Prince Arthur said smoothly, amusement evident in his voice. "You live here, too, I'm surprised we haven't run into each other before."
"I try to stay out of your way."
"Avoiding me, are you?"
"N-no."
Merlin blushed harder, feeling as if his soul were actually feeling the depth of his mortification. He wanted nothing more than to swipe that arrogant smile off the prince's face. He didn't need to have his eyes open to know what the prince's tone conveyed.
"Merlin, are you going to turn around?"
"Are you going to put on some clothes?" Merlin found himself spitting back at the prince, who laughed again and put something down on the counter.
"My, my! Is the elusive Mr. Emrys a prude?"
Merlin squawked and turned around, eyes still squeezed shut, and sputtered in the general direction of Prince Prat. "I'm an erotica author! I'm not a prude!"
Again, the only response was laughter, and Merlin shook his head, turning around to go back out the kitchen.
"Oh, don't go! Come on then, won't you stay for some tea?"
Merlin paused, his hands braced on the doorway. There was something in the prince's tone--vulnerability, maybe? Loneliness? Whatever it was, it prickled hot and sticky at the base of his spine in a way that provoked his magic to run across his arms, raising goosebumps.
"I promise to make it extra twiggy?"
Merlin turned around slowly and said, "How'd you know how I take my tea?"
Prince Arthur was leaning against the stove top, towel inching down his navel in a thoroughly distracting way. He looked so sodding domestic and relaxed that Merlin almost forgot that he had asked a question, lost in the way the prince looked outside of gossip magazines and ill-timed arguments. Merlin only remembered his question when the prince flushed, his cheeks pinking as he shrugged and looked away.
"Morgana must have told me," Prince Arthur said, but his tone was petulant, and Merlin grinned, happy to have a level playing field, or at least a place where Merlin felt his feet begin to return to solid ground. Naked royalty seemed to have an odd effect on his insides.
"You've been making me tea! Special! Just for me!"
"Have not!"
"Have so! You've been making me tea and leaving it for me like a little girl with a crush," Merlin accused with a little wiggle of his finger. "You, Prince Arthur, have a crush on me!"
It was the prince's turn to sputter, and Merlin laughed, falling against the counter top and giggling into his hand. It was only then, combined with Prince Arthur's flushed face, that he realized how naked he was himself. Boxers didn't seem to hide the way Prince Arthur's near nakedness affected him or the way his magic had reacted.
"Don't flatter yourself," the prince was saying in a tone that hinted toward his reversion back to prat. "I would never have feelings for--"
"--a commoner?" Merlin interrupted, now feeling self-conscious as he pressed his body against the counter. This was exactly why he avoided the prince. It was too confusing and more than frustrating. Merlin was supposed to be taking it easy, not spending his mornings flustered and dealing with unruly magical incidents.
"No. No, that's not what I meant!" Prince Arthur said, looking down at his hands before finally meeting Merlin's eyes again. Merlin almost gasped at the tenderness there. It stung as the prince coughed and looked at the tea kettle. It was simmering nicely but it hadn't reached the boiling point yet. Merlin ached for a distraction.
"That's not what I meant at all," Prince Arthur continued. "It's just, well, I never thanked you properly for saving my life."
Merlin looked up, shock flickering all over his features. His magic purred, as if it knew it was being complimented.
"You don't have to thank me," Merlin stuttered out. "Plus, I'm not sure tea is a proper thank you, your Highness."
The prince shook his head. "Arthur, please call me Arthur."
Merlin nodded, eyes lingering on the way Arthur's flush had spread to his toned chest. He looked almost bashful in the light, and Merlin felt the need to make his own confessions, desperately wanting this man to feel comfortable again. It was a strange sensation.
"Well, in that case, I hope you'll forgive me for arguing with you at that dinner thing," Merlin said. He wrung his hands together when Arthur arched a blonde eyebrow at him in surprise. "I probably didn't make a good impression."
Arthur laughed, a big belly laugh that had Merlin's magic sparking off his skin and charging the air. The prince was beautiful, even in the kitchen lighting at an obscene hour of the morning. Merlin shook his head, a grin transforming his face. This was beyond unreal.
"No, I suppose it wasn't the best of impressions to that lot," Arthur said, with laughter still hitching in his voice. Merlin shrugged and smiled.
"But neither was my behavior," he continued softly.
"I guess we bring out the prat in each other."
"Guess so," Arthur said, a fond smile stretching across his face that seemed to light him up from within. Merlin felt his breath literally hitch, and his magic surge around them until it popped, Merlin's skin glowing brightly as Arthur's eyes widened, his jaw dropping.
The kettle sung, shrill and outrageous, effectively killing whatever had happened between the two of them. Merlin sagged against the counter as the prince nodded and turned around, gathering another mug and going about fixing their tea.
It was only after the prince had left, an excuse of being late on his tongue and Merlin's eyes following his perky and shapely arse out of the kitchen, that Merlin noticed that his tea was made perfectly.
The thought had him smiling for the rest of the morning.
The rest of the week passed in a blur for Merlin, his days highlighted by moments with the prince that fueled his writing. His bloody magic came alive when the Prince Arthur was around, which annoyed Merlin to no end, since he couldn't even get it to warm his towels in the morning. He had been feeling so sluggish since expelling all that magical energy, and then the life-saving had really zapped it out of him. But whenever Arthur was around, with his charmingly sheepish smiles and his one crooked tooth and his deep, belly laughs--all of it sent Merlin's magic into some sort of fit. As annoying as it was, it was also refreshing to finally have a break from the dependence on the handkerchief man and his magical blow jobs of creativity.
It seemed, somewhere between daily tea with Arthur and the occasional lunch or dinner, watching telly or sitting in companionship as Arthur read over whatever stately documents he had and Merlin poured over a book of poetry, they had become friends.
At least, that was what Merlin would have called it if it wasn't for the fact that the person Merlin was becoming friends, nay mates with, was Prince Arthur, who now insisted that Merlin call him Arthur.
Arthur.
All the friendly moments when Arthur's gaze lingered too long, or when he put his hand on the small of Merlin's back, or that one time when Arthur had brought him tea and their fingers had curled around each other, had Merlin's imagination running wild. At least, that was the excuse he was giving himself because Merlin couldn't stop the dreams. In fact, every time he closed his eyes he was back in the stall of Camelot's loo with his cock in that hole and Arthur's mouth on the other side.
Each morning, Merlin would wake up with come soaked boxers and enough embarrassment to keep him from making eye contact with Arthur throughout their morning tea together.
Whatever was wrong with him needed to stop, because it was driving Merlin insane. His imagination and his magic had quite clearly gone rogue, because there was no way that Arthur had any interest in Merlin. Not only because Merlin was the wrong gender, but their relationship was clearly made out of convenience.
It was hard being a prince, that much Merlin could see. Arthur was always up and about the flat before the sun had fully risen and spent most of his day in meetings, doing charity events, or a number of other things he never talked about, and always came home well after midnight, looking tired but gentle in the night, and totally melting Merlin's heart. It was obvious that Arthur craved a little bit of a normal life, and Merlin represented that--he was a stand-in for a few minutes of sanity with a normal person, doing normal things.
There was no way they were more than friends of convenience, let alone more than friends. And Merlin needed a reality check, this much was clear. But it was so difficult when Arthur lit up like a child on Christmas morning every time he got home late at night and Merlin was still up, scribbling down lines of short stories and poetry. It was so hard to remind himself that Arthur was a prat and that he hated commoners and that he was just a posh piece of shit when he was all of those things but so much more.
He was delightful.
"Oh God," Merlin moaned into the very expensive couch cushion, sure that any minute ninja assassins would jump out to deliver him the reality check he so tragically needed. He clutched at the dragon-embroidered handkerchief. It was, literally, the only link Merlin had to reality. The handkerchief man was not a prince. He was a real person, who was probably ugly as fuck but had a lovely mouth and provoked his magic just like Prince Arthur. It wasn't just a... princely thing.
Merlin breathed deeply before sagging into the couch and declaring dramatically that he was doomed.
"What's wrong with you now?"
Merlin sat up quickly at the sound of Arthur's voice, amused but smooth and deep enough to make Merlin's naughty bits tingle in a way that had nothing to do with his magic. Merlin blushed and shook his head, trying to think of something to say that wasn't too close to the truth but wasn't a lie. Merlin wasn't sure he had it in him to lie to Arthur. Not now, not with his magic practically out there on the table between them and Arthur not running in the opposite direction or putting him in some sort of institution. It felt... comfortable between them.
"Oh," Merlin said, as he fought to keep control of his blush. "I was just thinking about my writing."
Arthur nodded and settled on the other side of the couch, way too close for Merlin's presence of mind right now. He felt himself start to panic as Arthur shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie, undoing the top three buttons of his button-up shirt and completely unraveling what was left of Merlin's composure.
Merlin started to babble. "I was just, seeing this guy--I mean, not really seeing so much as sleeping with but it was really helping my writing, and by helping, I mean, I've never written like that before, not since you and this, and I just really miss it, and I'm annoyed that he has this power over me and I--"
Merlin took a deep breath and wondered when he had turned into Gwen. Arthur looked bewildered, but his face quickly scrambled, going through an array of emotions Merlin didn't recognize before settling on amused.
"You haven't seen him since you've been here?"
Merlin shook his head frantically. "It's not a conventional type of relationship."
"What is that a euphemism for?" Arthur settled back into the couch and turned his body toward Merlin, looking for all the world like he was simply having a conversation about something normal, with someone normal, instead of Merlin, who had clearly lost his mind if he was having this conversation with the Prince of Albion, whom Merlin might have a big gay crush on.
"Glory holes," Merlin blurted out. "I met him in a glory hole loo and he gave me this handkerchief, and..."
Shame. A new fragrance inspired by Merlin Emrys.
"--and I guess that's it. That's my last dirty secret that you've managed to squeeze out of me with princely charm. I can't believe I just told you that," Merlin finished with a defeated sigh. He pressed the soft cloth to his face and tried to smother himself with it.
Arthur was silent beside him.
"God," Merlin said into the handkerchief. "I should have never told you that. See, we had a normal friendship where we talked about the weather and how Jonathan Ross was ace, and now I've gone and fucked it up because I over-shared. I'm that person, the over-sharer."
Merlin felt the mortification down to the depths of his very soul. "You're a prince! I always forget that you're a bloody prince and don't want to hear about all of my pathetically cliché gay tendencies. I mean," Merlin said with a strangled laugh, "how much more cliché homo can I get? Glory holes, right? Wow. I'm so sorry, I can't seem to stop talking."
Merlin waited for whatever circle of hell was ready for him to swallow him up. He peeked at Arthur's face, which was a carefully controlled blankness. Merlin shifted on the couch and let the silence stretch between them, even though he was desperate to fill it back up with anything but this awkwardness. Merlin smashed the handkerchief back against his face as Arthur cleared his throat in the space between them. However, when he spoke, his voice was still choked off and rough. Merlin wanted to die. He had finally embarrassed Arthur, Prince of Pratly remarks, into strangled silence.
"A handkerchief?"
Merlin dragged the aforementioned cloth completely away from his face. "After all that, and you pick the handkerchief to be amazed by?" Merlin stared at Arthur, who looked flushed and beautiful, even if his eyes were a little glassy and his body poised as if he were ready to fight or get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. It surely was an improvement from controlled blankness.
"After I just confessed my whole sordid tale of debauchery to you, you ask me about the handkerchief?"
Arthur shook his head, as if clearing it. "You didn't give me any details, Merlin. You were talking about a mile a minute, you're lucky I made out anything more than glory hole."
Merlin whimpered. The way Arthur's posh and infuriatingly royal accent just curled around the words 'glory hole' was enough to undo him. If Merlin hadn't still been warring with totally humiliation, he probably would have come in his trousers. It was absolutely a filthy sin for Arthur to say anything remotely dirty.
"Let's see it then," Arthur said, and held out his shaking hand. The slight tremble in Arthur's confident hand had Merlin sighing.
"I've freaked you out," Merlin said. "You don't have to pretend to be interested. I'm sorry I even said anything."
Arthur's eyes flashed angrily. "Merlin, just let me see the damn handkerchief before I strangle you."
Merlin reluctantly handed the soft piece of cloth over. It was strange to let someone else touch it. Even though the handkerchief man probably let other people use his embroidered cloths, Merlin had considered it something of his own personal gift. Letting Arthur touch it felt both exhilarating and uneasy, as if Arthur could take it all away with a blink of an eye: their friendship, the flat, the pleasantly tingling magic, and the handkerchief that inspired so much out of Merlin.
Merlin watched with wide eyes as Arthur ran his hands over the cloth, his fingernail catching on the embroidery.
"He gave this to you?"
Merlin nodded, still entranced by the way Arthur ran his hands over and over the cloth. "Yeah, he had two of them. The other one was the opposite colors."
Arthur hummed as his hands worked the cloth over and over. Merlin couldn't help but watch his large hands move over the silky cloth. Merlin was torn between watching the prince's hands and his face, which was pensive as much as bewildered. Merlin wanted to nip at Arthur's bottom lip. It stuck out in what would charitably be called a pout.
"Arthur?"
Arthur looked up and Merlin was absolutely floored by the desire there. He felt his magic tremble and all the air go out of the room. It was as if he were transported back to his dreams, where the line between Arthur and the mystery man in the bathroom blurred beyond his control.
"Right," Arthur said abruptly, breaking the silence between them, and then the handkerchief was back in Merlin's lap and Arthur was gone. Down the hall, the sound of Arthur's door slamming shut vibrated throughout the house, and Merlin blinked.
Merlin stared at the handkerchief in his lap and then at the hallway, his mind playing over the last moments of their conversation and how Arthur had gone from pandering to Merlin's delusions to suddenly not. It was plain that Merlin had missed something important.
Kilgharrah appeared out of nowhere, stalking towards the window and looking at Merlin as if he was a particularly unique brand of stupid.
"What just happened?" Merlin asked aloud.
The cat leapt onto the window, tail curling with disdain and pretentiousness.
"I'm afraid if you can't figure this one out on your own," Kilgharrah said in his most condescending tone, "then there is not much hope for you after all."
Try as he might, Merlin couldn't bring himself to disagree. Instead, he played the scene over and over again in his head, trying to come up with some sort of logical conclusion to Arthur's sudden disenchantment.
Hours later, Merlin fell into a sleep that twisted him through dreams of the handkerchief man and Arthur, their faces blending back and forth as they fought over the small piece of embroidered cloth.
It was not the most restful sleep of Merlin's life. But that didn't stop him from coming in his boxers before he woke up, Arthur's arousal-blown eyes burned into his mind's eye.
A week and a half was apparently how long it took Morgana to reclaim her ruthlessness, because the next morning, after scrubbing the inside of his boxers for a good twenty minutes (as if that would purge the image of Arthur's lust-blown eyes from his memory), Merlin checked his inbox to find five subtly annoyed messages from Morgana about his writing.
The first two inquired about his progress, the third demanded to know if he was avoiding her and to inform him that avoidance would not stop her from sacrificing him to the latest pagan goddess Morgause was obsessed with, and the fourth email told him to go stare at Arthur, and if he wasn't around, there were baby pictures in the hallway closet.
The fifth told him that if she had to wheel him into the club and up to the glory hole herself, then she would.
"She's insane," Merlin said to his laptop. He hadn't had the heart to make himself tea in the morning when he woke up and walked to the kitchen to find Arthur gone, only the still-warm kettle a sign that he had been there for any length of time. Instead, he had dragged himself back to bed and pouted for a good hour before Kilgharrah made his way into the bedroom to annoy the fuck out of him.
Being an annoyance to anyone with two legs was Kilgharrah's favorite pastime. Merlin was still confused as to how the blasted cat had got to Arthur's flat in the first place. According to Will, who had just glared at Merlin when he asked and told him Kilgharrah was nothing but the devil incarnate, the cat had jumped into his car when he was being driven back home from the Palace, where Arthur was attended to by the royal physician after Morgana's tiger tried to eat him. Although Arthur had spent a good twenty minutes trying to get it to leave him alone, he eventually tired of the meowing.
And the talking.
Merlin could understand the sentiment.
"They told me you were intelligent, boy."
Merlin turned to raise an eyebrow at Kilgharrah, who was lying prone and belly-up next to Merlin in bed.
"And who exactly is this ‘they’?"
Kilgharrah stretched, flicking his tail against Merlin's leg in annoyance. Merlin was ignoring the cat's obvious want for belly-scratching attention on principle.
"The fates, my boy. How many times do I have to tell you? The fates," the cat purred again.
Merlin rolled his eyes. "And what do the fates have in store for me now?"
"Starvation," Kilgharrah said, deadpanned.
Merlin pushed him off the bed with a hasty flick of his wrist, happy when his magic actually obeyed him. It was a good sign. Maybe if his magic were obeying him more, then he would feel better enough to leave. There was no need to stay at Arthur's place anymore. Not when Merlin had obviously freaked him out the other night, and the dreams were getting increasingly more vivid.
"I am writing," Merlin muttered to himself. "I'm writing more than I was before the handkerchief man."
But the fact was that even though his magic went frantic when Arthur was around, it wasn't anything like the connection he had with the handkerchief man. That sort of intimacy had a specifically moving reaction inside of Merlin; he could still feel the phantom warmth of that mouth around his fingertips, as well as other parts of him, and it was enough for Merlin to ache. The dreams were obviously just a manifestation of Merlin's desire for the man in the loo, combined with Merlin's long standing crush on Arthur. It had nothing to do with the real Arthur, charming Arthur who liked his tea proper and English, and loved to sing along with Jonathan Ross' Four Poofs and A Piano, and wore a ring on his thumb that his academic mother gave him when he was at Uni. ArthurArthurArthur.
Arthur, who was straight and completely untouchable because he was the Prince of Albion and straight.
It frightened Merlin how much he had to remind himself of the prince's orientation. He treated Merlin just like he treated his footie mates, not that Merlin had met any of them, but Arthur was just affectionate because he obviously had so little of it growing up in the Palace with no mother and bloody King Uther as a father ( Merlin was sure that King Uther actually could turn people to stone with his eyes and still employed medieval punishments on his critics). But there was no point in dwelling on Arthur's affectionate smile, or the way he made Merlin's tea, or any of the million touches that Merlin could remember from the past week. None of it meant anything. Arthur was just being nice and thanking Merlin for saving him from rabid tigers.
"God," Merlin moaned, as he tried to type a response to Morgana's horrid emails. "How is this my life?"
Kilgharrah hissed from the doorway, where he looked to be eating a bird. Merlin didn't want to ask how the cat had got into Arthur's super secret flat with a million security precautions with a dead animal. He looked to be tearing the thing to shreds. Merlin felt ill.
"Seriously. How is this my life?"
"It's not!" Kilgharrah protested between gleaming teeth. "It's your destiny."
Much to Kilgharrah’s dismay, Merlin’s aim was spectacular. Merlin didn't even feel bad for getting his pillow covered in bird blood.
Merlin had battled with himself and what was left of his dignity, trying to decide if he was going to stay up for Arthur's return that night. He didn't want to seem embarrassed by the handkerchief man because Merlin was anything but embarrassed to be gay--even if glory holes were fairly embarrassing. And he didn't want to make things awkward by making Arthur think that he was avoiding him. But Arthur's abrupt leave of their conversation the night before was odd and confusing and not something that Merlin wanted to think about, as his mind would always stray to the most unlikely reasons because he liked to torture himself in the endless sea of homosexual longing.
Plus, he was almost ready to venture outside of the cocoon he had been in. He had stood for most of the day, trying to write a love scene (without luck because he kept angsting himself into his characters and totally ruining the mood) and as he was pacing the length of the apartment, he hadn't felt the need to lie down or to pass out. It was progress. Not that he would be feeling that way for the rest of the week, but baby steps were essential to magical recovery. Or at least that was what Kilgharrah kept telling him. Merlin was convinced that the cat just liked Arthur's couch better.
In the end, Merlin stretched out on the couch in the living room with a book and BBC One on mute. His writing was slow going, and sending Morgana sentences were not appeasing her. If she weren't so busy doing whatever it was that Morgana did when she wasn't harassing Merlin, he was sure that she would come over and force his magic to get the handkerchief man to meet him somewhere. According to Morgana, Merlin didn't write fast enough when Arthur was around, because Merlin was too distracted by making cow eyes at Arthur to get anything productive done.
Merlin wanted to protest, but he couldn't. He was inspired to write when Arthur was around, and when they were quietly sitting together in the living room, Merlin wrote as much as he could. Although, to be honest, it was hard to write when Arthur was making witty comments about what was going on in the world and then having to explain the entire situation to Merlin because he was woefully ignorant on anything that wasn't the new Richard Siken collection or a shit review on his latest book. Merlin would spend half of his time trying to listen to Arthur, but then Arthur would start explaining with his hands and Merlin would get very, very distracted by the loveliness of his fingers and how much lovelier they would look on Merlin's skin.
But then Arthur would laugh at one of Merlin's facial expressions, or a question he asked, and Merlin would feel so compelled to write, just to capture that moment of Arthur's laughter and his smile. It amazed Merlin how bright Arthur's smile was, how full of sunshine and joy each committed action was to Arthur. It was so adorable, it made Merlin sick.
Merlin started as the phone rang. He'd never heard a house phone ring in the entire time he had been staying at Arthur's flat. When it rang again, Kilgharrah jumped up on the back of the couch and stared at him. Merlin ignored him, pulling the notebook closer to him and hovering over the blank surface.
The phone rang a third time and Kilgharrah flicked his tail in Merlin's ear.
"You should answer that," he said. Merlin shook his head.
"It's rude to answer someone else's phone, Kilgharrah."
"It's for you."
"Don't be ridiculous. The only people that know I'm here already know my mobile number," Merlin said offhandedly.
Kilgharrah purred evilly. "Arthur doesn't know your mobile."
Merlin stilled. The phone rang again and Merlin jumped up, catching it before it stopped ringing.
"Hello?"
"Yes, sir. I'm inquiring for a Mr. Emyrs," a gruff but proper voice said on the line.
"That's me."
"Quite. I'm afraid to inform you that Prince Arthur will not be able to make it home for your plans."
Merlin choked on his own spit. "Plans?"
"Yes," the voice drawled, as if Merlin had a mental deficiency. "He sends his regards and invites you to a late dinner. Do you accept?"
"What?"
"Mr. Emyrs--" the voice said with plain annoyance and a hint of disdain. Merlin shook his head and cut him off.
"Of course. Of course I'll join him," Merlin stuttered out, his notebook dropping to the ground. "Where should I meet him?"
"I see how the prince would find you amusing," the voice deadpanned. "Leon will arrive to pick you up in thirty minutes."
The line promptly went dead, and Merlin stared at the receiver.
"I can't decide if that was really cool, or if I'm about to get kidnapped and killed by someone very posh," Merlin said aloud. Kilgharrah curled around his ankles and purred.
"You should wear your blue jumper," the cat said.
Merlin looked down, his mind slowly wrapping itself around the fact that he was meeting Arthur--Prince Arthur--for dinner because he couldn't make it home for their plans, as if they had plans to sit around and read together. It was, on the whole, too much to process for his relatively simple mind.
"Right," Merlin said.
"Come along then, let's pick you out something that isn't ghastly inappropriate," Kilgharrah said as he trotted down the hall to where Merlin slept, Merlin's clothes having been brought over by Morgana. In fact, Merlin was fairly certain that she had thrown away most of his old clothes, because nothing in his closet looked remotely familiar, and Morgana had a bad habit of loathing Merlin's fashion decisions as if he made conscious wardrobe choices.
As if he had dates with princes.
"I think I'm hyperventilating." Merlin gulped.
Kilgharrah scoffed, or as much of a scoff as a cat could voice, and said, "You can't hyperventilate over your destiny, Merlin. That's absurd."
After wrestling himself into a soft blue jumper and trousers that weren't too offending, Merlin went to wait by the curb--because 'destiny did not like to like to be kept waiting' (Kilgharrah's words). True to whoever had instructed him on the phone, a black town car pulled up five minutes before Merlin was instructed to be outside, and a very tall, very attractive man stepped out. Merlin tried to not stare too hard at who must have been Arthur's driver, who was bloody gorgeous in a scruffy way, his body obviously fit and muscular underneath the dark and perfectly tailored suit. He would have looked completely nondescript if it weren't for his dark blue eyes and his crooked smile, which he threw on when he opened the door for Merlin.
Merlin simply nodded and stepped into the car, settling in the soft plush of the bench seat. There was a black privacy screen that was rolled up between the backseat of the vehicle and the front. Merlin waited until the car started to move, realizing that the driver wasn't going to put down the privacy screen, before he awkwardly leaned forward and tapped on the window. It rolled down obediently.
"Yes, sir?"
Merlin shifted and leaned until he could see the driver's face in the rearview mirror. "Um, sorry, but where are we going?"
The driver quirked a smile, and Merlin's heart melted a little bit. "The Kitchen."
"The kitchen?"
"Yes, sir."
Merlin shifted on the obviously expensive leather seats. Seriously, they felt like butter.
"And we'll be meeting Arthur there?"
"You are Merlin Emyrs," the driver said with another quirked smile, "aren't you?"
Merlin blushed. "Oh yes. I just, some incredibly posh and rude man called me, who wasn't Arthur actually if you can believe it, and rather cryptically forced me into dinner with Arthur, and I'm not sure if we're going to dinner or if I'm being offed."
The driver laughed, a wheezing but pleasant sound. "He said you were feisty."
"Feisty?" Merlin hissed, mildly offended. He really didn't appreciate Arthur talking about him like he was some broad he picked up in a club, to his driver, of all people.
"Spunky, if you will."
"God, he's such a prat!"
The driver laughed again, his hand slapping the steering wheel. "I take it you have no idea who I am then?"
"You could be a ninja assassin for all I know," Merlin said grumpily.
"Well, I can assure you that Prince Arthur doesn't have any ninjas under his control," the man said, with the same sparkling charm that Arthur exuded on the first night they had met. Merlin couldn't decide if he was charmed or just annoyed. "Although, I can't say the same about the King."
"I'm not meeting King Uther for dinner. I'm meeting his prat of a son," Merlin protested. He was starting to feel like he was ordered to dinner.
"At The Kitchen, a private restaurant that caters to the royal family."
"Do you think they will have tuna and macaroni with cheese?"
The driver raised a bushy eyebrow.
Merlin frowned. "What? I have a craving!"
"I'm sure they will be able to accommodate you, sir."
"Please don't call me that. I've not yet passed the age of eighty."
The driver chuckled again, and Merlin set back in his seat as grumpily as possible. Once again, he didn't like to be at the arse end of posh people's jokes. It wasn't his fault that they did everything with a veil of mystery, as if going out to dinner were such a super secret activity that needed code words and drivers and crotchety old men to lecture Merlin over the phone.
"You can put up the privacy screen," Merlin said tetchily. "I'm sure Arthur makes you drive around by yourself all the time, picking up random people and making you take them places."
The driver didn't laugh this time, he only smiled and said, "You're the first person I've picked up in a while, Mr. Emyrs. Prince Arthur's life has been rather dull lately."
This time, Merlin laughed. The screen went up as he thought about hungry, man-eating tigers, and the casual brush of Arthur's fingertips against his skin, magic sparking between them.
Yes, dull life indeed.
The drive to The Kitchen took longer than Merlin had expected, and he soon found himself nodding off in the back of the car, the smell of expensive cologne and the softness of the leather lulling him to sleep just as he was toeing off his shoes, leaving his feet bare against the soft carpet of the car. It was a dreamless sleep--for that, Merlin was grateful, but he drifted in and out of consciousness as the black town car toured the city, the lights barely shining through the heavy tint of the windows. The sleep felt like minutes, but when Merlin opened his eyes, Arthur was sitting beside him. Merlin startled, trying to sit up, but Arthur just smiled and waved his hands.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly. Merlin rubbed his eyes, slowly taking in Arthur's pinstriped suit and the way Merlin's feet were buried underneath Arthur's warm thigh. Merlin wiggled his toes, provoking an awkwardly charming grin from the Prince.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," Merlin said. "How long was I out?"
"Two hours."
"Two hours?" Merlin sat up and leaned forward, casually brushing his hand against Arthur's shoulder in a way that was utterly delightful because he could do that; Arthur was real.
"I'm sorry I asked you to dinner when you were this tired. You should have said no," Arthur said quietly, almost shyly.
"The man on the phone was very abrasive."
Arthur snickered, his eyes soft in the barely-there lighting of the car. "Gaius. The man on the phone is Gaius. He's my personal attendant."
"What's that mean?"
"He's a spy for my father," Arthur said with amusement. "He plans my schedule, makes sure I'm where I'm supposed to be on time, and tries to keep any of my extracurricular activities out of the paper and off my father's radar."
"Well," Merlin said with cheek, "he's got a stick up his arse."
Arthur laughed this time, a full belly laugh that had Merlin grinning like a goon. "Gaius said the same thing about you."
"I can't imagine Gaius saying 'arse'."
"True. He had the same sentiments as you," Arthur amended.
Merlin wrinkled his nose in response just to see Arthur laugh again, his hair falling into his eyes and making him look years younger. He looked as if he were having fun, sitting in a car with Merlin after he had stood him up for dinner. Merlin felt a surge of affection so strong his toes curled underneath Arthur's thigh.
"I wanted to come," Merlin said suddenly. Arthur tilted his head, acting as if he was lost in the conversation, but Merlin knew he wasn't. It was something that annoyed Merlin because Arthur forced people to be honest in ways they normally wouldn't be. He acted ignorant and lost when he already knew what they were trying to say; he just wanted to hear it out loud. Merlin also attributed this character flaw to his emotional constipation due to being royal... and having a father like Uther.
"I wanted to come to dinner with you," Merlin continued, poking his toes into Arthur's thigh. "Not just because Gaius intimidated me or because you had a driver pick me up."
"Yeah?"
Merlin looked into Arthur's eyes, which were tired from a day's work, surely, but also bright with something Merlin had trouble identifying. Whatever it was that Arthur wanted, Merlin wanted to give to him. So Merlin smiled and nodded, feeling suddenly shy and out of place. All at once, it didn't seem to matter exactly what was happening, only that it was happening and it involved Arthur. Whatever the details contained, whatever the situation turned out to be, Merlin found that he didn't really care, as long as it had something to do with Arthur being close to him. Although it was all rather pathetic when Merlin thought about it constructively, he still didn't care. He wanted to know who could look at Arthur, bright and smiling, and not want to know him, not want to be closer to him and give him whatever he wanted if he asked for it.
Royalty really did inspire loyalty, and quickly. No wonder Arthur's picture was in the tabloids so often. Not even a week spent with Arthur had Merlin's knees weakening and his heart threatening to secede from his body to take up residence with Arthur--for once in his life, Merlin felt like a girl in the tabloids, utterly taken aback by this glorious contradiction of a man.
"Are you still hungry?" Merlin said, matching Arthur's soft voice.
Arthur shrugged and asked, "Are you?"
"Only for tuna with macaroni and cheese," Merlin replied with a grin.
Merlin wiggled his toes again when Arthur didn't say anything in response. "Do you want to go home?"
Arthur looked thoughtful for a few seconds before shaking his head again and asking, "Drive around with me?"
"You mean, sit in the back and let your driver chauffeur us around?"
"My driver's name is Leon."
"I'm sure he's already given you his opinion of me too, then?"
Arthur grinned. "He has indeed. Apparently, your sass is good for me."
"Rubbish."
Merlin settled back into his seat, moving his limbs around until his feet were lodged safely beneath the prince's thighs, and Arthur's smile stretched wide across his face. Merlin closed his eyes, letting magic fill him up in the way that it wanted to when Arthur was around. He let it swell until it seeped out, and when he opened his eyes, that unfamiliar but desire-filled haze clouded Arthur's vision.
"Let's drive," Merlin said softly. He noted the soft glow of the town car and the way everything felt honey-lazy and warm. Arthur nodded, his body stretching to reach the privacy screen, and tapped twice. The car rolled off immediately, and when Arthur settled back into his seat, Merlin felt the warm weight of his hand on his naked ankle where his trousers had ridden up.
Whatever was happening, Merlin was along for the ride.
