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Daily Mail, February 21

Prince Arthur: Sex Tourism Scandal?

The Prince of York’s return from Thailand has once more given room for speculation: While nothing is officially known about the Prince’s three week-long trip, there are independent reports from alleged eyewitnesses that he has visited the notorious gay red-light district of Boyztown in Pattaya during his stay.

Sources close to the Palace claim that Arthur “was looking exhausted and suspiciously bruised” at a semi-official birthday event for his cousin's smallest son, Prince Edward, on Thursday, giving more credibility to these allegations...

Merlin hates his job.

It’s 2 a.m. on a Thursday night and he’s tired and overworked and standing in the VIP green room of a London nightclub, handing out NDAs to the club manager as well as a spectacularly drunk twunk in too tight jeans and his two equally inebriated himbo friends.

On the sofa, the plague of Merlin’s existence, Arthur, Prince of York, is sprawled with his face smushed unbecomingly into the pillows, limbs inelegantly flung out as he snores softly.

Crouched on his heels next to him, his Royal Protection Officer Percy is waiting with a glass of water at the ready, discreetly attempting to shield him with his huge body, to no avail. Everyone in the room is just too aware that Prince Arthur, a member of the royal household, has made a drunken spectacle of himself and is now snoozing on a dodgy sofa in a stupor just a couple of feet away.

“Sign this,” Merlin firmly orders the champagne-giggly twunk in his no-nonsense-voice and stabs his index finger at the dotted line at the end of the six-page agreement. It takes the man some tipsy fumbling with his pen with unsteady fingers before he manages to scrawl his signature onto the paper. Just as soon as he finishes writing, Merlin rips the paper from his hands, placing another copy in front of him. “Now this,” he commands, having no patience nor feeling like he needs to show any kind of friendly attitude. The bloke brought it on himself after all.

“You know, you’re really hot when you’re angry,” the man says with a saucy, intoxicated smirk, and Merlin barely manages to hold in the retching noise that threatens to spill from his throat.

“Just - don’t,” Merlin advises him pissily.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the man mock-bows to him, wobbling on his chair as he does so. He seems to find his current predicament hilarious, not yet realising that he’s just signing the tightest non-disclosure agreement any lawyer in the United Kingdom is able to draw up.

Merlin is about done with this clown.

“It’s not me you should address with this honorific. You’re very close to being sued for lèse-majesté as it is, so you better stop joking around,” Merlin snaps. His dark glare and words of warning finally have the desired effect, and, muttering under his breath, the man signs the copy, then tosses the pen onto the table with as much attitude as there’s left in him.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Merlin presses out tightly, trying and failing to understand why Arthur felt tempted to make a move on the man in front of him. While he is unquestionably handsome with his pouty lips and dark hair, he seems excruciatingly vapid. Then again, this seems to be a signature requirement for the men Arthur picks up, as if Arthur is hard pressed to lure in the ones without a single brain cell in working condition.

Merlin often has a hard time trying to understand Arthur’s decisions—whether drunk or sober—and there’s no use in attempting to fathom the bad decisions of tonight. Satisfied that tonight’s ordeal is almost over, Merlin collects the rest of the NDAs from the man’s two friends and stuffs them into his backpack, before turning to send an encouraging look at Percy.

“We’re done here,” he announces loudly, jerking his head towards the exit.

Percy puts the glass of water down onto the small glass table beside the sofa, then reaches underneath Arthur’s arms and hauls him into an upright position with a practiced move. A moment of struggle indicates that Arthur is half-awake, his arms flailing as he protests the manhandling, but he relaxes at the familiar sight of Percy, his mouth twisting into a delighted pout of recognition.

“My knight in shining armour,” Arthur slurs with a rather intoxicated grin, his eyes half-lidded as he regards his bodyguard. He pats at Percy’s chest, tripping as he tries to take a step on his own. “Oops,” he murmurs, then snickers, his fingers digging into the fabric of Percy’s suit.

Merlin and Percy share a look - it’s hard to miss Percy’s less than subtle eye roll - before Percy throws Arthur’s arm over his shoulder and starts steering him towards the exit. Arthur is almost too drunk to walk properly, but Percy is strong and could support him, even if Arhur’s unsteady feet wouldn’t touch the ground. Merlin trails after them, frowning at the unflattering sight of Arthur, Prince of York, being dragged out of a nightclub by his bodyguard. Not that the sight or occurrence is a particularly new one, but apparently there are things he’ll never get used to. Arthur making a fool of himself is one of them. It’s such a shame, really.

Out back, Tristan has parked the car right in front of the nightclub’s back exit, idling with the back door invitingly ajar. Percy carefully manoeuvers Arthur into the back of the limousine, then steps aside and straightens, glancing at Merlin with both eyebrows raised.

“I’m just going to take a taxi—” Merlin protests Percy's unspoken invitation, but is interrupted by a familiar, slightly slurred voice from inside the car.

“Get in here, Merlin.” The way Arthur enunciates his name promises trouble.

“His Royal Highness demands your presence,” Pervical says unnecessarily, amusement at Merlin’s plight colouring his voice.

Merlin huffs out an annoyed sigh and threads a hand through his hair, tugging harshly at the unruly mess of it. He hates his job. He hates his job.

“Yes, because he needs someone to hold the paperbag in case he throws up. You know, this isn’t in my job description,” Merlin whines, but Percy’s expectant gaze is unforgiving and stifles any further objection.

He clears his throat impatiently and it’s obvious that he won’t step away until Merlin has entered the car. With a moan of defeat, Merlin crawls into the backseat, only to be assaulted by Arthur’s grabby hands, their heads banging together as Arthur yanks too hard on his arms pulling him forward.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes delightedly, apparently not even feeling the pain of the impact of their foreheads colliding, “So glad you’re here.”

“Yeah, I wish I could say the same,” Merlin mutters sarcastically and reaches up to rub his smarting temple, dutifully sliding into the backseat next to Arthur.

“You’re always here for me,” Arthur says with the happy tone of the truly inebriated. It’s a testament to how sloshed he is, because he would never say things like this sober. Being in full capacity of a sound mind, he mostly uses sarcasm and arrogance when dealing with Merlin, his insults cutting and sharp.

"Paid to serve, Your Royal Highness,” Merlin replies, hoping that Arthur isn’t too drunk to miss the way he takes extra care that Arthur’s honorific doesn’t sound very deferential. He turns his head to watch the way Arthur is sprawled in the seat, his legs parted widely, his head lolled back against the backrest, a content expression on his face. He seems quite satisfied with his work for the night, which once more consisted of behaving inappropriately in public and needing Merlin to bail him out of whatever situation he has gotten himself into.

The car starts moving and Arthur lurches towards him, one hand landing on Merlin’s upper thigh. The heel of Arthur’s hand digs in harshly as he attempts to straighten himself and Merlin winces, because there’s going to be a bruise and Arthur’s hand is too close to certain parts of his anatomy for comfort.

“Mhmmm-hmmm,” Arthur hums and slumps against Merlin’s side, his head coming to rest on Merlin’s shoulder, his right hand still placed comfortably on the inside of Merlin’s thigh, a touch Merlin is sure Arthur isn’t even aware of but which to Merlin feels like a brand.

Merlin inhales deeply, then lets out his breath in a measured exhale, trying to ignore the press of Arthur’s hands or the way he’s so neatly and intimately tucked into Merlin’s side. It could be worse, he thinks desperately. Arthur could be a maudlin drunk.

As it is, a drunk Prince of York is mostly high-strung like an eager puppy and maybe a bit handsy, which can be easily dismissed, because Arthur usually doesn’t hold back on letting Merlin know in excruciation verbal detail that he’s the clumsiest, most irritating man he has ever known. There’s no purpose to his actions when he accidentally fondles Merlin after a drunken night out and just because Arthur is hot and Merlin, in his weaker moments, fantasises about Arthur’s hands on him, doesn’t mean that Arthur’s drunken handsiness is welcome.

Blessed silence reigns for a couple of minutes and Merlin almost believes that Arthur fell asleep again, but when Tristan stops the car at a taxi stand so Merlin can get out and grab a car to Twickenham where he lives with his mother, Arthur puts up a sudden fight.

“You can’t leave me,” he protests, clutching at Merlin’s hoodie with both fists when Merlin attempts to get out of the car.

“You have two very capable RPOs about to bring you back to Kensington Palace. You’ll be fine,” Merlin tries to soothe him, reaching for where Arthur’s fingers are clutching at his clothes.

“But they’re not you,” Arthur says childishly, tugging at Merlin with astonishing force, his blue eyes blinking at Merlin with puppyish determination.

“That’s a very uncommon new appreciation you have for me. You’ll be fine without me.” Rolling his eyes and refusing to be swayed by Arthur’s wide-eyed stubbornness, he prys Arthur’s fingers from his hoodie and pushes him back into the seat.

“Have a good night, Your Royal Inebriation,” he says, quickly stepping out of the car and shoving the door into Arthur’s stupidly handsome face, before rapping the roof of the car twice for good measure to indicate they are good to go. He watches as the black limousine navigates away from the curb and back into the late-night traffic of Central London, feeling bone-tired and strangely down. It’s just another night working for this particular branch of the Royal Family, but the combination of late nights, frustrating royal behaviour and the fact that Arthur, besides his faults, is maybe the most enigmatic and attractive man Merlin has ever had the displeasure of spending time with, is a sure-fire way to drive Merlin into depressed insanity.

He has dragged himself halfway down the street to the taxi stand on tired feet when his phone starts ringing in his pocket.

Growling, Merlin reaches inside his back pocket and pulls out his work phone, confirming with a quick glance at the caller id that it’s indeed Arthur, before he dismisses the call, only to have it pop up again ten seconds later.

He dismisses the call again, then quickly calls Percy’s phone before Arthur can hit redial again. “Someone take away his phone before he can drunk-dial half of London,” he snaps, then hangs up and puts his phone on vibrate, tossing it carelessly into his backpack.

He can feel the damned thing vibrate quietly in his bag with calls or notifications for the next half hour all the way through his taxi ride to Twickenham, but he refuses to answer, stoically ignoring the attempts to contact him. It’s 2.45 a.m. and he’s too tired for this shit.

When Merlin took the job of junior PR consultant at Kilgharrah Communications one and a half years ago, he really had thought he had found the perfect entry into the world of PR. Little had he known that being put on the royal account isn’t all that it cracked out to be. While the account probably looks good on his resume, the suffering Merlin has to endure can only be disproportionate to the potential merits of the job.

Officially, he’s supposed to accompany Arthur to his few semi-public appearances and ensure he has all his answers at the ready. It should be about as exciting as a tv-show for toddlers considering that Arthur isn’t a working royal, but given Arthur’s propriety for scandal or accidentally being in the wrong place at the wrong time, it’s more like constantly dismantling a ticking bomb that might go off at a moment’s notice. It’s being called for duty at odd hours of the night, getting Arthur out of all the potentially monarchy-shattering situations he gets himself into, whether it’s picking up his drunken arse from a party, making sure his sexual conquests keep their mouths shut about their night with a Prince of England or simply ensuring that he goes from A to B without the press twisting everything he does into a newsworthy occurrence.

Add to that the challenges of navigating Arthur’s personality and trying to make sense of it - arrogant, impulsive, attractive Arthur who shows promising glimpses of wittiness, intellect and good-heartedness only to do something irrational, stupid and frankly frustrating the next moment- and Merlin’s feelings about his job are a confused mess more often than not.

I’m quitting tomorrow, Merlin thinks as the taxi finally comes to a stop in front of their run-down, semi-detached house.

He pays the driver, collects the bill to hand in for reimbursement and crawls out of the lumpy backseat. He’s grateful to get out of the car. The upholstery is smelling faintly like fried chicken and it reminds his suddenly rumbling stomach that he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch. With some luck, there are some leftovers in the fridge he can help himself to. It wouldn’t be his first after-midnight dinner this week.

In his backpack, his phone valiantly vibrates one more time.

Merlin wakes up on Friday morning to his blaring alarm and a pounding headache. Groaning, he reaches out with his arm, blindly feeling around for the buzzing alarm clock on the nightstand, patting at it until he hits the snooze button. He desperately desires to bury his head underneath his covers and go back to sleep, but the monthly long-term strategy check up meeting is today at 11, and he’s expected to show up, no matter yesterday’s long work-day. Needless to say that his overtime is insane.

With a low whine, Merlin slings his feet over the side of the bed and digs his naked toes into the worn carpet, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. He more crawls than walks down the narrow stairs to their small kitchen where he sinks onto his usual chair and thumps his aching head on the table, whimpering his early morning fogginess into the wooden tabletop. Faintly, he can hear the sound of Kay Burley’s Breakfast show running on the small television perched on his mother’s cupboard, a somewhat comforting, well-known backdrop to his early morning misery.

“Hard night?” his mother asks compassionately as she steps up next to him, placing cool fingers in his hair, gently carding them through the strands in a fruitless attempt to smooth his wild curls down.

“Arthur,” Merlin grunts before slowly pushing himself up from his slumped position, glancing at her from out of bleary eyes. She looks fresh and well rested, her hair up in a messy up-do, the occasional wispy strand escaping from the bun, but there’s worry written all over her features. He doesn’t like her expression—her worry is for him and it always makes him feel guilty.

She purses her lips and trails her hand down to his face to cup his slightly stubbled cheek. “I take it Gaius hasn’t yet reacted to your wish to be taken off the account?” she asks, displeasure evident in her tone.

Merlin twists gently from her caring touch, before pulling an empty bowl and the box of cornflakes towards him, scowling darkly when he thinks about his boss’s carefully guarded expression during their last development meeting. “He said he can’t find a replacement that quickly. Is it a wonder? Nobody wants to deal with Prince Prat,” he grouses, shaking cornflakes into his bowl, before drowning them in milk.

“Five years on a scholarship of Public Relations at Oxford, so I could babysit the black sheep of the Royal Family. We should all be glad he’ll never be king or the monarchy is doomed,” he mutters, dragging his spoon aggressively through his soggy cornflakes.

Hunith sits down in her chair, her face compassionate, yet motherly stern. “Maybe it’s time to look for another job, Merlin,” she suggests, not for the first time in the last months. In his weaker moments, Merlin has been telling himself the same thing, but when it actually comes down to it, he always, always chickens out from taking the crucial step.

“Kilgharrah Communications is one of the best PR firms in the country. They have so many great accounts,” Merlin reasons between slurps of milk, feeling a bit embarrassed for making excuses to stay on when he’s in fact complaining all the time. “I just wish they would consider me for one of them.”

His mother sighs, recognizing the conversation for what it is: a repeat performance of all the fruitless conversations they had about this very topic before. Merlin doesn’t need to look up to see her unhappy face at his inability to make some changes in his life, so he pretends to be concentrating on eating his cornflakes.

He reaches for the box of cornflakes again so as not to have to look at her, pouring more cereal into his bowl and willing his guilty feelings away.

The comforting background chatter on the telly is suddenly interrupted by the Breaking News jingle, and Merlin looks up to see the angry red of a news headline flashing on the screen.

“We’ve just received a news bulletin that the Royal Family has been in a deadly plane crash this morning,” the news anchor says, visibly shaken, her voice hoarse with incredulity and shock. “On board the private jet heading to the family home of Prince Henry in Scotland were King Owen, his son Henry, the Prince of Wales, as well as his wife Maria, the Princess of Wales with their two children, Edward and Philip.”

The spoon drops from Merlin’s hand and into the bowl, splashing milk all over his fingers. On the screen footage of the aftermath of the plane crash shows a smoking metal carcass in a field, with fire trucks approaching the place of the accident.

Next to him Hunith gasps, a hand coming up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with incredulity.

“Shit,” Merlin breathes, his heart suddenly galloping like a spooked horse.

Over the footage, the news anchor keeps talking with a wobbly voice. “The Palace has confirmed that all aboard have been killed on impact. The plane had been underway from London, when 35 minutes after take-off…”

Merlin doesn’t listen to the rest of the news, scrambling madly up from the table, upending his bowl in the process. He nearly trips twice on his way up the narrow stairs, his thoughts a frantic mess. He finds his phone tugged away in his pillows and reaches for it with shaking hands, groaning when he sees the many missed calls notifications on his screen. Only half of those are Arthur’s fruitless attempts at reaching him from last night.

His fingers are unsteady when he thumbs open his contact list, but the phone vibrates with another incoming call in his hand and he nearly drops it in surprise. “Shit,” he squeaks and scrambles for the phone again, managing to accept the call with shaking fingers, his breath coming out on a whoosh together with his voice as he answers. “Yes?”

“Oh thank God, Merlin,” Gwen breathes in relief. “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for fifteen minutes now! Did you see the news?”

“Yeah… I… I just saw it,” he stutters, still hardly able to comprehend the magnitude of what just happened.

“It’s absolute mayhem here!” Gwen says shakily. “Kilgharrah is bringing everyone in, pulling people from their other accounts to help handle it.” She pauses, then breathes out. “Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re working for the King now!”

Merlin blinks, because yes, that’s the logical conclusion, but hearing it spelled out is a bit of a mindfuck. He racks his brain and does a quick count, wincing as he thinks of Henry and Maria, as well as the little Princes, both of whom he has seen only once when he had accompanied Arthur to a semi-private function. With them gone, Uther is the next in the line of succession. Which makes Arthur… the future King of England. The thought is preposterous and Merlin suddenly feels horrible for joking about it just earlier.

“Shit,” he says again, and sinks down onto his unmade bed, suddenly feeling faint. He desperately wants to go back to bed and wake up to find this all has been a bad dream.

“Please come in as quickly as you can,” Gwen requests, sounding hurried and stressed out. “All our meetings today have been cancelled in favour of crisis communication. Freya and Deagal have been writing speeches and statements for the Royal Family ever since we heard the news. Uther will step in front of the cameras in about two hours.”

“Oh my God,” Merlin groans and shakily rolls off the bed again. His legs feel weak, like they are barely able to support him as he stumbles towards his dresser. He puts Gwen on speakerphone and tosses the phone onto his dresser so he can get dressed as quickly as possible without the hindrance of holding a phone.

“Some senior consultants will join our team to handle the situation with Morgana and Arthur,” Gwen explains, while Merlin rummages around in his drawers for something to wear. “This is a bit out of our league, I guess.”

“Obviously,” Merlin moans, then thinks, Shit, Arthur… and winces in sympathy. For all that Arthur is a complete prat and loves to rail on Merlin whenever he can, Merlin doesn’t like to imagine him suffering. The thought of Arthur being woken from a short night’s sleep on a massive hangover to receive the news of his family’s demise is horrible.

“I’ll be there in 30,” Merlin mutters, struggling out of last night’s boxer shorts and pulling fresh ones on. He could use a shower and a shave, but he needs to get to the office as soon as possible.

“Thank you. See you soon,” Gwen sighs, then hangs up.

Merlin pushes his legs into his jeans and pulls on the first jumper in his drawer he can find. In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth less carefully than he should, glaring at his pale, drawn face and the dark circles underneath his eyes.

When he comes down the stairs, his mother is waiting for him with a tupperware box full of hastily assembled sandwiches. She smoothes down his badly kempt hair, before pressing a kiss to his cheek, looking at him with sorrow in her eyes. “Take a taxi home tonight, if necessary. It’s probably going to be a long day.”

Merlin nods, not wanting to think of the amount of work ahead of him, or the emotional rollercoaster this day is going to be, and instead stuffs the food into his ratty backpack.

He takes a taxi into work as well, because the tube would take him too long, just another bill to hand in for reimbursement, inconsequential in the greater scheme of things, just like he does all the other times when an Arthur-related emergency demands a quick change of scenery.

In the car, the radio is on and there’s only one topic: the question of succession and the details of the royals’ tragic accident.

“The Duke of York, the late King’s younger brother, will step in front of the press in an hour. Everybody expects him to announce his accession. But what will a King Uther mean for Britain?” The reporter asks rhetorically. “Stay with us as we talk to an expert close to the Royal Family.”

“Shit morning,” the taxi driver says conversationally, glancing into the rearview mirror at Merlin and trying to catch his eye.

“You can say that again,” he mutters, thumbing through his work phone’s messages, his fingers hovering over the latest Signal conversation he’s been having with Arthur, staring at the messages from Arthur from last night.

Prince Prat: most annoyinng servant never at my disposal

the rather one-sided conversation starts, because Arthur and Merlin have taken to calling each other increasingly convoluted pet-names,

why did you leave you gormless traitor tothe crown

It’s kind of amazing how coherent he can text insults with only minimal typos while his speech regresses to sloshed babbling.

“I’m not a royalist, by far, but it’s a damn tragedy, that’s what it is,” the driver continues with a thick East End accent.

“Yeah,” Merlin says softly, then finally types in a heartfelt

I’m so very sorry. My most sincere condolences…

and sends off the text, feeling it’s an inadequate thing to say in the face of the tragedy that happened.

“... don’t forget that Uther was second in line to the throne for a long time in the past. He will have no trouble stepping up to the task,” one of the news reporters on the radio says. The other host makes an affirmative noise. “But what will happen when Uther dies? That’s what should worry us,” the first reporter continues.

Merlin grimaces, only half-listening to the trash talk on the radio, scrolling through the avalanche of emails in his work account on his phone and trying to make sense of all that is happening. Emails are pouring in faster than he can read them, so he starts with the newest batch, hoping to piece together the whole situation in the time he has to get to the office. It’s going to be a long, long day.

When Merlin steps into the office at 9:55, the frantic energy in the air is palpable. People are running down the long corridors, carrying boxes full of folders, hurrying from one room to the other, talking excitedly on their phones or staring at their phone screens, furiously texting. It’s loud—phones are ringing in almost every office, unanswered, as people run to and fro and there’s a frantic buzz of conversation in the air.

“Merlin, there you are!” Gaius, his boss and head of the Pendragon account, calls, sticking his head out of a meeting room. “Come in, come in!” he urges, gesturing for Merlin to step inside. Merlin nearly trips when he does. The generous meeting room is chock-full of people, crowded around the large table, sitting on additional office chairs brought in from the surrounding workplaces or standing in a third row at the back of the room. The last time Merlin has seen so many of his work colleagues in one place had been at the last annual Christmas party.

Up front, Mr. Kilgharrah, head of the communications firm, a tall skinny man with impressive worry-lines dug into his face and steel-gray hair, is standing in front of a large screen, in the middle of giving a briefing. On the screen, his assistant Annelise is presenting the latest news headlines from major news outlets from all over the world.

“... so the first step is to establish King Uther as reigning monarch. We will get help from the Royal Communications Office and will be closely working with Mercia Relations, King Owen’s PR representatives,” he says in his low, but gravelly voice. “As of this very moment, we’re already briefing King Uther on his first public appearance.”

Merlin bites his lip and thinks of Arthur, probably being prodded and forced into a somber suit in his Kensington Palace apartment while his household is in complete upheaval, trying to cope with all that is happening at once.

“Shaping King Uther’s public image will be a lot of work, but it won’t be the real challenge we’re going to face if we want to stay on this account,” Mr. Kilgharrah continues. “We’ve been working for the Pendragon line of the family for almost fifteen years now. We know their ups and downs. We were there when the Duchess died. We’ve proven to be loyal and discrete. But we’re not just working for a sideline of the Royal Family anymore. We’re working for The Royal Family.” Mr. Kilgharrah pauses meaningfully and lets his eyes swivel over his assembled workforce and Merlin watches as every single person in the room sits up a bit straighter or looks a little bit more attentive when his pale hazel eyes skim over them.

“So far, the first reaction of the public and the newspaper outlets is shock and sympathy,” Mr. Kilgharrah continues, and with a wave of his hand, Annelise clicks through her presentation with a couple of headlines: A Black Day for England, one says. The British Tragedy of the Century, another proclaims in dark letters. Mourning for Britain – How Britain lost it all.

“But already people are asking themselves what this tragedy means for the future of the monarchy.” Another meaningful pause, and Annelise’s presentation runs through another cycle of newspaper headlines, these ones assembled from clippings from the last couple of years.

Wincing, Merlin squirms on the spot as the well-known headlines are displayed in giant font on the oversized screen: Party Prince Pendragon: Another Bender on the Town?, the Daily Mail titles, with a horrible candid and pixelated picture of Arthur stumbling drunkenly out of a nightclub. Britain’s Snow White: The Princess of York in Rehab again, The Sun headlines. The headlines seem to be never-ending, and every new one makes Merlin shrink inside himself, the second-hand embarrassment almost making him sick.

“These are the things we couldn’t spin in the past, despite our hardest efforts,” Mr. Kilgharrah says, and reads out loud the damning headlines with unreasonable gusto: “Prince Arthur’s gay Sexapades. One of his Conquests talks. – The Happy Prince: What does an openly gay Royal mean for the Monarchy? – The Princess strikes back: Photographer at the end of Morgana’s fist. – Royal Streaker: Arthur’s naked Fun times at St. Andrews. – Royal Siblings flip off Paparazzi: The new Royal Style?”.

Kilgharrah pauses for effect, the grave silence lasting until someone in the back snickers helplessly, causing a couple of people to turn around and glare in disbelief.

“This, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mr. Kilgharrah continues in his droning voice, refusing to acknowledge the misplaced hilarity, “is what we’re up against! This is the real challenge.”

Merlin exhales a sigh when Annelise continues with her presentation and the headlines vanish from the big screen, feeling like he was forced to relive every failure of the last one and a half years, some of which he feels partly responsible for, because he wasn’t able to intervene. Then again, he’s just a junior public relations manager, and his job merely consists of preparing Arthur for public events and occasionally cleaning up after him. It’s not his fault that Arthur makes his task so difficult.

Red-faced, Merlin searches the room and finally finds Gwen standing on the other side next to Stuart from copy editing. She seems just as flustered as he is. Gwen’s been having a hard time dealing with Morgana’s sassy attitude, loose tongue and occasionally, equally loose fists. Their eyes connect and she grimaces, fidgeting on the spot. They shouldn’t be embarrassed that the people they are assigned to are stumbling from one ridiculous scandal into the next, but nothing shouts professional failure more than a glaring newspaper headline with three exclamation points.

Mr. Kilgharrah clears his throat and clasps his fingers in front of himself. “Over the next couple of weeks we will work much more closely with the Royal Family than ever before. I’ve assigned you to work on several focus points. Annelise, the spreadsheet, please…”

Annelise scrambles up from her desk and starts handing out a pack of xeroxed spreadsheets, passing them around so everyone can take one.

“There’s a clear outline for every focus group. You will present your first strategic plan tomorrow at noon for discussion. On Friday, we’ll be presenting our main strategy to the King and his family. – Go to work, everyone!,” he calls in his rough voice, clapping his hands together.

The meeting quickly dissolves as everyone hastens to run off towards their assignment. While usually, Gaius, Freya, Gwen and Merlin cover the Pendragon account on their own, they are supported by consultants from other accounts, some of them seniors like Gaius. Merlin is happy to find that Annis Caerleon, one of the most kick-ass senior partners and a woman he has been looking up to ever since he knew she was responsible for spinning some of the biggest scandals in recent history, was assigned to his team. Maybe, if he proves himself to be competent and useful, Annis is his ticket out of the account.

15 hours later, the team is not even close to finalising their strategy. It’s 1 in the morning, and Merlin is deeply exhausted and horribly fed up with talking about Arthur Pendragon and his various scandals.

Over the years, Arthur has raked up an impressive amount of scandalous behaviour and his popularity score is dismal. The fact remains: people don’t particularly like him. To top it off, he has never made it a secret that he’s gay, clearly scandalous as the Crown Prince’s cousin, yes, but completely unacceptable now that he’s the second in line to the throne.

One of the things that’s going to influence Arthur’s public image in the future is his performance as a working member of the royal family. Like every other working royal he will have to choose a topic that is dear to his heart. Fortunately, this particular decision is one Arthur is going to take together with the Royal Communications Office and it’s not something Kilgharrah Communications needs to consider. Since his stint in the military that ended after Arthur’s first 2-month-long tour in Afghanistan when it became public knowledge that the Prince was gay and Arthur had to step down from official service, Arthur hasn’t been involved in anything more substantial than going back to uni for a degree in Enviromental Studies.

Over the course of the day, they’ve come up with a couple of strategies to soften Arthur’s public image, taking into consideration that Arthur will be on strict supervision from the Palace from now on to avoid further scandals, but so far they haven’t managed to find the ultimate angle.

“We can hardly spin the fact that he’s gay,” Gaius says for the second time that night. “It’s a well known fact and there would be no use in trying to straighten him out, so to speak.”

“Well, it would get him sympathy points from certain corners,” Lance suggests, nibbling on a piece of pizza. He is a senior consultant added to their team just like Annis. “He’d be like a martyr, going straight for his People.” He looks thoughtful, his dark-brown eyes staring off into the distance while he chews slowly. Gwen, who is sitting next to him, is watching him with a somewhat dreamy kind of expression, her eyes fixed on his handsome, olive-skinned face. She’s been secretly harbouring a crush on Lance ever since they exchanged a couple of words at the Christmas party in December and Merlin thinks she’s probably excited to be working with him.

“No,” Annis says decisively, effectively interrupting Merlin’s thoughts on Gwen’s pining and bringing him back to the task at hand. “We have to think long-term. He’s going to be King of England one day.”

Merlin shudders and slides more deeply into his seat. The mere thought of Arthur leading the country in the future (even in the limited capacity of a constitutional monarch), makes him deeply uncomfortable. “So,” he asks hesitantly, sipping on his coffee that has gone cold about three hours ago, “we’re going to make the first openly gay King of England?”

“It appears that’s the endeavour,” Gaius sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “We have our work cut out for us.”

Annis wrinkles her nose in thought, before turning her gaze back onto her whiteboard, where they’ve written down favourable adjectives to aim for, none of which Arthur currently displays in the public eye. She straightens her back and cranes her neck, glaring at the whiteboard like it already holds all the answers, before she suddenly turns around sharply to face them, a look of triumph on her sharp-angled face. “Arthur definitely lacks a publicity score we could work off. We will need a sympathetic canvas people can project onto, someone to elevate him from scandalous rake to romantic figure.”

“A boyfriend,” Gaius says, his face lighting up with understanding.

“Good luck finding him one,” Merlin snorts out before he can help himself. “Arthur is about as romantic as a piece of mouldy cheese.”

“He needs stability,” Annis retorts, refuting Merlin’s words entirely. Despite the late hour, she’s still calm and poised, not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, Merlin feels like someone put him through a wringer and then totaled him with a truck. “We will find him someone relatable. Ideally someone from nobility with a boy-next-door vibe. Someone with good manners,” Annis continues as she starts pacing the conference room with long strides, hands in the pockets of her navy business suit.

Quietly, Merlin thinks that Arthur eats people like that for breakfast, but he refrains from voicing his opinion. He’s not doing a good job showing Annis that he’s ready to take on another account as it is, but he’s tired and cranky and he can’t believe he’s sitting here, having to think about a potential boyfriend for Arthur.

“Arthur won’t like this. He’s.. uhm… not really into boyfriends, and the type of person he usually goes out with is nothing like what you described,” Merlin offers diplomatically, feeling like he must give his opinion, considering he’s the expert on Arthur’s personality traits.

“Arthur knows what’s at stake. He will play this game,” Annis counters, stopping her pacing to look at each of them with finality, daring them to question her assessment.

Merlin secretly thinks that Annis—not having met Arthur in person yet—is probably underestimating Arthur’s harebrained stubbornness, but he decides to stop talking and instead reaches for one of the now-cold pieces of left-over pizza. Maybe the food will give him back some energy and fire up his brain cells again.

“So, where do we get a young, gay noble with good manners and a likeable personality?” Gwen asks, looking tired as she brushes a wayward strand of dark, tangled hair out of her eyes.

“Looks like we need a brainstorming session,” Lance suggests, grinning at her as he swings his long legs from the chair on which he has propped them up on, ever practical in his problem solving. “ We’ll need to collect suggestions.”

Merlin suppresses a whimper and bites into his pizza slice, chewing deftly and trying to steel himself for the upcoming brainstorming session with his colleagues. If there’s one thing Merlin really doesn’t want to think about it’s Arthur and his romantic entanglements. Over the last one and a half years, he has met more than a fair share of Arthur’s conquests and if the men Merlin had to deal with are any indication of Arthur’s type, they will never find someone Arthur will agree on. None of Arthur’s lovers had a boy-next-door-vibe or good manners. None of them were likeable, come to think of it.

Despite the late hour, it takes them only 10 minutes to drum together the best thinkers in Kilgharrah Communications, readily flocking into the room for the newest challenge. Sleep, Merlin thinks, as he watches his eager colleagues enter the conference room, is for the weak. Merlin braces himself for the inevitable, while Annis explains the premise. Merlin’s colleagues seem excited despite the late hour and having been interrupted during their own work, because it’s not every day you’re looking for a fake boyfriend for the future King of England, and soon the brainstorming session is in full swing.

“Remember, no comments while we collect the names, discussion later!” Lance reminds them of the rules, helming the whiteboard, a marker at the ready. “We don’t want to disrupt the creative juices flowing.”

Soon names are scribbled down on the whiteboard. Half-heartedly, because he’s expected to contribute, Merlin suggests Gwaine Green, a young noble Arthur met a year ago at Wimbledon, and who wasn’t half-bad in Merlin’s opinion, if somewhat of a playboy. He feels like taking a screenshot of the whiteboard and sending it threateningly to Arthur as revenge for everything Merlin has to go through in his service, but refrains from doing so. Arthur has just lost several members of his family and Merlin’s compassion overrides any vindictive feelings he might have.

He sends off a quick How are you? instead, but Arthur hasn’t replied to his earlier message yet and Merlin is quite sure he won’t reply to this one either.

Half an hour later, their brainstorming session peters out and a heated discussion to narrow down the names starts up, during which Lance strikes through several names with a flourish, eliminating Arthur’s potential prospects. There are pro and con lists and google research and calls made despite the late hour and it’s all so very silly and quite frankly disturbing.

It’s 2:30 when they have finally lowered the number to 7 confirmed bachelors with a respectable background, Gwaine Green not having made the cut. Merlin’s head is stuffy by now and he can barely keep his eyes open. Fortunately, the group disbands quickly after they’ve found their matches. It’s too late to take a taxi home, when Merlin is expected back at the office at 7, so he finds an empty sofa in one of their co-working areas and settles in for a brief night.

Just as he gets comfortable, his phone bings in his pocket.

Prince Prat: Thanks for your message.

Merlin’s fingers hover over the keys, but he doesn’t quite know what to say—their usual banter where Arthur is condescending and Merlin snappish doesn’t apply here.

Another message comes in even while he’s still contemplating if he might answer at all.

Prince Prat: It’s weird when you’re leaving off the insults. It makes me feel weak when you spare me. Don’t spare me.

Merlin feels the smile pull up the corners of his mouth even while he finishes reading Arthur’s message, reluctantly enjoying Arthur’s wry sense of humour, even in a situation like the current one.

If it makes you feel better, Merlin types, becoming Prat of Wales doesn’t change the fact that you’re a clotpole. Signed: Your dutiful antagonist.

Arthur sends him a thumbs up, but the phone stays silent after that.

Despite his exhaustion, it takes him hours to fall asleep, his mind whirling, thinking of the days ahead, of the men whose names are on the whiteboard in the large conference room, of Arthur, lying awake in his surely comfortable, big bed in Kensington Palace, grieving and faced with a very different future than the night before.

“... and really, I do support the women’s movement, but every life is sacred, so my stance on abortion will always be with the innocent,” Cedric, Earl of Pembroke, concludes his rant, his chin proudly held up high, his clear blue eyes blazing with righteousness.

“Uhmmm, good to know,” Gaius says, then lowers his gaze to note down something on his clipboard, his eyebrows doing a little displeased dance that means Cedric’s name has been crossed off the list of potential candidates. “Thank you for your time. We will get in touch with your office.”

“It’s no hardship,” Cedric says haughtily. “In fact, it would be an honour to serve the Kingdom in that capacity.” Kilgharrah Communications haven’t really gone into detail about what exactly is the scope of their interview rounds, mainly suggesting that they are looking for someone to accompany Arthur to a couple of official events, but even so, Cedric's words sound disturbing to Merlin's ears.

Merlin just so manages to suppress his retching, feeling sick to his stomach from the mere thought of Cedric standing by Arthur’s side—not that he thinks Arthur would agree to having that slimy git on his arm. He isn’t even handsome, and all he has going for him is that he’s a noble and a fervid royalist.

He heaves a sigh of relief when Cedric is escorted from the room, comfort that is short-lived, when Gwen mutters, desperation in her tone, “You realise that he was the last one?”

“What do you mean he was the last one?” Lance asks, sharply twisting in his chair to look at her, his olive-toned face losing a bit of colour.

“He was the last person we had for an interview. David Courtenay’s representatives sent us a message earlier to say he wasn’t coming, because when they told him it was about Arthur, he said, and I quote them quoting him...,” Gwen pauses to look down at her phone before continuing, ’No way am I playing house with that slag.’”

“Huh,” Lance breathes. “Guess he’s not a fan of Arthur’s.”

“I think Arthur had worse things hauled at his head,” Gaius suggests lightly, tossing his clipboard on the table with a sigh and reaches up to knead his fingers over his wrinkled forehead..

“So what do we do now? We have to present our strategy tomorrow at 10 to King Uther and the Royal Communications Office and we have to give them a name. At least one.” Lance gets up from his chair and lifts his arms overhead, joints cracking as he stretches his arms up and back. Merlin winces in sympathy at the sound, considering he has been sitting on this very chair for the last 9 hours, interviewing a parade of stuck-up and arrogant pricks, and his short-lived sleep on the common room’s sofa has been less than satisfactory.

“Maybe,” he suggests half-heartedly, suppressing a yawn that’s lurking at the back of his throat and threatening to split his words, “maybe we should go through some of his earlier conquests. See if we missed anyone?”

Across the table, Gwen gives an almighty sigh, but reaches for the projector’s remote and connects her laptop to the dongle. “I don’t have a better idea, so, brace yourselves,” she mutters, “here it goes.”

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the headache that has been pounding in his head with an ever-wavering intensity all throughout the day, and shakes himself, getting ready for another round of reliving the worst moments of his work experience. The whole affair seems custom designed to present Merlin again and again with his professional shortcomings, moments of overwhelming catastrophe and personal knock-downs.

On the screen, Gwen does a quick google search for Arthur’s candid pictures. It’s a rather endless succession of Arthur stepping out of nightclubs or bundled up in casual clothes at the airport returning from some far-away, exotic holiday destination, looking tired from partying.

“Remember what we are looking for,” Lance says, walking over to the whiteboard that had been facing the wall throughout the interviews and turns it around, so they can look at their objective written out in Annis’ bold letters, “We need a boy-next-door-type, someone who looks like you want to bring him home and feed him your grandmother’s best brisket, someone non-threatening.”

He pauses and places his hands on his hips, frowning at the pictures that fill the screen. None of the casual hookups caught on camera look like you’d want to bring them home to meet the family.

“Handsome,” Gaius reminds them. “But not too much so. Accessible.”

“More like cute, right?” Gwen suggests, clicking through the images.

“If we find someone who he’s been seen with before on one or two occasions, that could work to our advantage. It would look like something lasting,” Lance muses from where he’s still standing by the whiteboard, massaging his lower back with a grimace on his face. He looks exhausted and Merlin is quietly happy that he’s not the only one feeling the late night and extensive work hours.

“Nobles are apparently out, but a commoner would work well,” Merlin grudgingly admits, scanning the pictures quickly. It’s a horrible parade of badly-lit and grainy paparazzi shots with Arthur accompanied by various blurry, young men, none of whom Merlin thinks Arthur would be willing to ever see again. Or the other way around, come to think of it. “His mother was a commoner and people loved her. A favourable comparison to Ygraine wouldn’t be the worst that could happen.”

“How about that bloke?” Gwen asks, pointing at a picture of Arthur, a burly man outside a nightclub, and Merlin, supporting him as he stumbles on the curb.

“You mean Valiant?” Merlin asks, pulling a face. “They hate each other’s guts. They went out three times because Uther plays golf with Valiant’s father, but really, all they did was get drunk and hurl insults at each other. Nobody will believe they are lovers.”

“Shame,” Lance mutters.

Gwen is furrowing her brows, clicking through the pictures even faster, before she suddenly stills, whooping out on a eureka-moment, “Oh my God!” Her whole face lights up and she turns to look at them, triumph written all over her features. “Oh my God!” she repeats, almost squealing, “it’s Merlin!”

Merlin, taken aback by her sudden cry and confused by the way she’s beaming like she won the lottery, stares at the screen, showing himself and Arthur stepping out of a limousine, Merlin as always a step or two behind, a harassed expression on his face. Merlin remembers that day—Arthur had been adamant that he needed entertainment on the ride to a gallery opening where he had nothing to do but appear and look pretty and insisted that Merlin came with him, even though Merlin had a prior engagement. All throughout the car ride, Merlin had been finding ever more colourful insults to grace Arthur with, to Arthur’s great amusement.

“Yes,” he says slowly, uncomprehending what she’s getting at, “that’s me in that damn picture. It’s not a very good one, eh?”

“And here!” Gwen cries and clicks on another one, showing Merlin accompanying Arthur to a football match (it was actually a nice day, even if Merlin didn’t care for football.) “And here, too!” she says, excitedly, clicking to zoom in on another one.

“I happen to be in a lot of pictures, keeping His Royal Arse out of trouble,” Merlin says sullenly. “Mostly because Arthur is like a child, unable to—”

“It’s perfect,” Lance interrupts him, sounding awed and Merlin shoots him a bewildered look.

“No, Merlin!” Gwen huffs, laughing a little in elation. “It’s you, you are the boyfriend!”

“What?!” His voice doesn’t even sound like him, high-pitched and anxious.

“Oh my God, Merlin is the boyfriend!” Gwen repeats with glee, clapping her hands together.

“You’re right,” Gaius, who has been silent so far, says softly, like he has a revelation. “He’s a commoner, he’s accessible and likeable. He’s relatable, a bit awkward and clumsy—”

“Hey!” Merlin protests, apart from not liking where this is going, he’s not at all thrilled by the fact that his boss is calling him awkward and clumsy.

“—but in an endearing way,” Gaius adds with a raise of his infamous eyebrows. “Also,” he adds, turning to regard Merlin, “you two have been seen together already. We can spin a long-term attraction that is getting serious…”

“No.” Merlin finds he has stood up from his seat, his fists balled by his side. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh please, Merlin,” Gwen pleads. “You are our only hope.”

Appealing to Merlin’s love for sci-fi is just low.

“I’m not Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m not an idiot, either. And certainly no pushover,” Merlin protests, looking from Gwen to Gaius to Lance and back. “Besides, I’m really not Arthur’s type.”

“Which is why it’s perfect, can’t you see?!” Gwen says and gets up to step around the table and grasp his arms. “You’re perfect as Arthur’s fake boyfriend, Merlin. People will love you!”

Merlin shakes his head again, turns towards Gaius with a frown. “No,” he repeats. “You can’t make me.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re talking a considerable raise here, if you accept,” Gaius suggests without blinking, the dirty spin-doctor.

“Not even triple my current salary would make me consider this. Nay, not even ten times my salary would make me do it.” He can’t imagine something more horrifying than having to turn their usual inspired banter into mock-flirting and hanging onto Arthur’s arm for staged photo-ops.

“Six months of this and we can talk about a senior position,” Gaius adds, ever the negotiator.

Narrowing his eyes, Merlin thinks for a moment. “I want a senior position now. I want to be in on one of the larger Good Accounts,” he says slowly, challengingly. The Good Accounts is what they call the accounts for NGOs and Health Services. Merlin has always wanted to work for those, in fact it had been the reason he applied to Kilgharrah Communications in the first place. “The paps will investigate and even though I’m not a face on the website, they’ll find out I’m working for Kilgharrah. I can’t be working for Arthur then. Put me on one of these accounts officially right now,” he says shrewdly. “You want me to be likeable? Give me one of the Good Accounts.”

“Doctors Without Borders, then. Or the NHS,” Gaius says calmly, like he isn’t offering Merlin some of the most sought after accounts at Kilgharrah, and Merlin knows he has won. Gaius is really that desperate.

“Doctors Without Borders,” Merlin demands. Part of it is pro-bono work, but it makes no difference on his paycheck. “And after six months, I’m off the Royals for life. I want to be off this goddamn account.”

There’s a hint of hesitation flickering over Gaius’ face, but Merlin stares him down, knowing it’s his only chance of doing something different.

“Okay,” he finally sighs.

“It’s a deal,” Merlin announces, before he can really question his decision.

“Merlin, are you really sure this is what you want to be doing?” his mother asks for the second time in as many minutes.

“Doctors without Borders, Mum,” Merlin defends himself, threading a hand through his hair, his phone pressed to his ear as he’s having the inevitable, unavoidable conversation with his mother. He’s standing in the corridor outside one of the bigger conference rooms in the office, attempting to appear like his nerves aren’t completely wrecked and his stomach doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up any moment now.

In ten minutes, Kilgharrah Communications will present their strategy to the Royal Family and the Royal Communications Office, and Merlin is running on maybe 7 hours of sleep over the last 48 hours and he’s still wearing some of the clothes he put on two days ago when he left his house in the morning. At least Lance lent him a fresh shirt, but his trousers are wrinkled and there’s a grease stain from a pizza slice on his knee that he can’t seem to get out. His chin is nicked and irritated from shaving off his stubble with a disposable razor and cold water.

On the phone, his mother is less than thrilled about his newest work development.

“Merlin,” his mum sighs. “I know how much you want that account, but you’ve been complaining about Arthur ever since you started working at Kilgharrah. Apart from that - which really should be a dead give-away that this is a horrible decision - your last two relationships failed spectacularly because you’re always putting work before everyone else. It’s a step in the wrong direction! I just want you to be happy!”

“This is my chance, finally!” Merlin huffs, slumping in on himself, leaning against the wall for support, careful to not dislodge the small modern artwork displayed there. “So I’ll run after Arthur for another 6 months, saving him from making a complete fool of himself, it’s really nothing new. But after that, I’m finally free to pursue other opportunities.”

“It is different because before you weren’t pretending to be his boyfriend!” His mother sounds angrily resigned and Merlin bites his lip, feeling guilty for once more making her worry about him. “I don’t want you to get hurt, sweetheart,” she sighs, “I wish you would reconsider your decision.”

Merlin rubs a hand over his eyes, feeling tired and disheartened. He can barely back out now, not when everyone is counting on him. Before he can find the words to reply to his mother once more, he sees Gwen enter the corridor from their office, walking towards him, her laptop underneath her arm.

“I have to get off the phone now. The meeting is about to start,” he says instead, pushing himself off the wall.

On the other end of the line, his mother makes another long-suffering noise of displeasure. “Good luck, you stubborn fool,” she says, a hint of frustrated surrender in her voice. “But don’t come crying to me if it all goes belly-up.”

“I know I can count on you,” Merlin mutters, rolling his eyes, knowing his mother’s threats are just that and that she means well.

They say their goodbyes and he hangs up, sliding his phone back into his baggy jeans, before he looks up to find Gwen standing in front of him.

“Oh shit, Gwen, this is such a horrible idea,” he moans, threading his fingers through his dark curls, tugging on the strands in frustration.

“Stop with the hair tugging,” Gwen says, exasperated, and pries his fingers from his hair in an attempt to smooth the wayward strands. Merlin is pretty sure they resemble a bird’s nest, because he knows his hair and it’s usually a mess even when he’s not been sleeping on the office sofa for two short nights in a row.

“Why did I agree to this? Uther is going to have me for breakfast,” he whines, wincing when he thinks of Uther Pendragon’s steely-eyed glare. The man always looks vaguely disapproving when they meet even though Merlin is quite convinced that Uther has no idea who he is.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gwen soothes him, still petting his head, but it’s more to calm his nerves now than to make him look somewhat presentable.

“I can’t fake-date Arthur. He will never agree. Also, I might murder him in frustration and then I’ll be tossed into the Tower.”

Gwen rolls her eyes and shakes him none-too-gently. “Get a grip, Emrys. You’re taking one for the monarchy, you are a hero.”

“I don’t even believe in the monarchy! It’s an outdated, ridiculous concept of—”

“Hush now,” she says sternly. “Let your elders talk and look pretty.” She looks at him critically, pushing a wayward strand of hair out of his eyes, a gesture that reminds him frighteningly of his mother.

“I’m not—” Merlin starts to half-heartedly protest, but he shuts up when Stuart from copy editing passes and slaps a hearty hand on his back, droning a jaunty, “Lie back and think of England!” and chuckling at his own joke as he continues down the corridor.

“Very funny, dipshit,” Merlin calls after him, but lets himself be steered inside the meeting room and pushed into one of the conference chairs, much closer to where Uther, Morgana, and Arthur will be seated to receive their strategy briefing than he likes to be. He sinks down in the chair, sweating profusely, trying to control his cramping stomach. He’s been wondering all morning if the Doctors Without Borders account is worth this kind of hell and he’s ready to accept that it might not be.

Someone puts a cup of coffee in front of him and gives him a sympathetic look, like he’s the proverbial lamb before the slaughter, and he reaches for it with shaking fingers, spilling some on the tabletop just when Uther steps into the room, always punctual, accompanied by Morgana and Arthur. The three of them are dressed in somber black and there are dark shadows beneath Uther’s eyes and an unusual paleness to Arthur’s face. Morgana looks like an ethereal goth princess, her dark pantsuit complementing the usual milkiness of her skin.

There’s a moment where people are awkwardly shifting around in their seats and looking at each other, before they scramble to their feet hastily to stand before their King, their bows and curtseys unpracticed and awkward.

While Uther looks solemn, waiting for all of them to stop paying their clumsy respect, and Morgana’s pale face is slightly drawn, it’s Arthur who Merlin can read the most easily. There are dark bruises beneath his eyes and his lips are pressed tightly together. He looks exhausted and Merlin bites his lip, feeling weird just looking at him, knowing what he knows will happen in the next hour. Kilgharrah and Gaius will present their strategy, neatly outlined with the major points: Uther’s communication’s strategy, Morgana’s rehabilitation course and Arthur-turned-gay-Prince-Charming.

There’s another strange, austere moment when Uther sits down and everyone in the room gratefully sinks back into their respective chairs, protocol adhered to.

Merlin desperately wishes he were anywhere else but here, but because he can't get up and run—he’s not quite sure his feet would support him anyway—he sits and stares at the table top, trying not to watch the royal’s reactions to Kilgharrah and Gaius’ explanations and reasoning. There’s the occasional brief snort from Morgana, once an annoyed huff that clearly indicates that she’s none too pleased with what they have in store for her, but compared with Arthur’s strategy, her therapy sessions and public appearances in rehab centers are a walk in the park.

When Kilgharrah starts explaining how to turn the tide on Arthur’s popularity scale, Merlin sinks more deeply into his seat and wishes he could vanish into thin air.

“... and we will achieve this, by giving the public a canvas to project on,” Kilgharrah says, using Annis’ words from two days ago. “It’s a well-known fact that Prince Arthur is homosexual and we would not advise to spin that fact, because it would be an unreasonable request on one hand, but also unbelievable as well.” He pauses, and Merlin dares to look towards Arthur, who’s sitting stiffly, a muscle ticking in his jaw, a bit of red creeping onto his stoic face.

“But to tip the public’s favour, Arthur will need to appear accessible and relatable. Sorry to speak so candidly, Your Royal Highness,” Kilgharrah says with a nod of apology to Arthur, “but you’ve been in the public eye mostly for your indiscretions in the past. You will have to present another, more favourable picture in the future and therefore, we think it’s best, if the story the press is telling is that of a romantic courtship.”

Arthur, who hasn’t said anything so far, but stoically listened to everything that has been said, sits up a little straighter. “Excuse me?” he says, like he wants to make sure that he perceived Kilgharrah’s outrageous suggestion wrongly.

“We’re thinking of a steady boyfriend, Your Royal Highness.”

The room is deathly silent for a moment and Merlin wonders if he ever will be able to live down the heavy awkwardness, but then Morgana titters nervously and shifts on her chair, causing Arthur to glare at her from the other side of Uther, before addressing Kilgharrah with a carefully calm voice. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Mr. Kilgharrah, and I can assure you that I don’t want one,” he says, causing Morgana to snicker again.

Kilgharrah clears his throat, but he looks more amused than anything. “A fake boyfriend, obviously,” he says, and Merlin isn’t quite sure, but Kilgharrah sounds slightly condescending, like he doesn’t believe Arthur would be able to pull a real boyfriend with those manners of his anyway.

“That’s ridiculous,” Arthur snorts after a moment, and looks to his father for support, but Uther is leafing absentmindedly through the printed out concept paper like he isn’t even listening to Arthur’s protestations, and maybe, Merlin thinks, someone tipped him off about the finer points of the concept beforehand, because he doesn’t look surprised at all.

“We handpicked someone very likeable, a boy-next-door type, who—”

“No,” Arthur interrupts him, but Kilgharrah doesn’t even flinch and keeps talking.

“—is down-to-earth and relatable and most of all, hasn’t been linked with any kind of scandal—”

“No,” Arthur says more firmly, but he’s not looking at Kilgharrah anymore, but at his father, and he’s livid now, his face growing redder still, eyes blazing with anger. “Father, I will not!” he says determinedly and with that haughty air of his that makes Merlin want to smash his face in on some days.

“You will do what you must. Now don’t make a spectacle about it,” Uther says with a certain sharp edge that Merlin has never heard from him before.

Arthur is fuming, Merlin can tell, but he swallows down his anger and turns back to face Kilgharrah, his nose turned up, nostrils flaring. “And where did you find this absolute moron who is willing to play pretend?”

Merlin buffs out air in annoyance, glaring as his colleagues all twist to look at him and gauge his reaction to Arthur’s caustic words.

“We have found someone trustworthy and discreet and very loyal to you already. Mr. Merlin Emrys has accepted—after ample consideration—to act as your pretend boyfriend,” Kilgharrah says with gusto and Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, before he glares at Merlin across the table, a look of utter betrayal and disdain on his face.

“Who?” Uther asks confused, raising his head from his perusal of his concept paper, revealing that he was indeed listening and glances around the table. “Who is that man? Is he a noble? I don’t know a noble by that name.”

“This surely is a joke,” Arthur says flatly. “You’re having a laugh on me.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Merlin bursts out, irked by Arthur’s ungrateful reaction.

“No,” Arthur says determinedly, but he’s speaking to Kilgharrah now, glaring at the older man. “I mean, who would believe it?” He scowls and looks Merlin up and down, then throws up his hands. “Have you seen Merlin? He can’t even dress himself!”

“Excuse me!?” Merlin hisses and sits upright. “I’m sitting right here!”

There’s a collective gasp from around the table at the insolence adherent in his tone.

Once more, Arthur proves that he is a hare-brained, arrogant, pompous royal arse and Merlin is so done with it. He has half a mind withdrawing his participation right now. He wouldn’t even care if they fired him. Everything is better than being ridiculed by Arthur like this.

“Nobody will ever believe I’m dating Merlin!” Arthur counters, affronted.

“Yeah, because I’m far too good for you! – Also, stop talking like I’m not even in the room! Besides, nobody else wants to fake-date you. And believe me, we’ve tried finding someone. I’m your Obi-Wan Kenobi, you ungrateful—!”

“Merlin,” Gaius says softly, but his eyes are stern, and with a huff, Merlin deflates, crossing his arms in front of his chest, fuming.

“I’m afraid Mr. Emrys is right, though,” Gaius continues, turning towards Arthur, “and he has graciously offered to help you out.”

“Graciously,” Arthur mutters and glares over the table at Merlin, like Merlin is betraying him instead of helping him out. “What are they paying you?”

“Apparently not enough!” Merlin glares, and there are some furtive snickers from around the table, most prominently from Morgana, who is shaking with silent laughter at her brother’s plight.

Merlin has the sudden urge to childishly stick out his tongue at Arthur, but refrains from doing so, because the King has been staring at him with a puzzled expression on his face, like he’s trying to place him, but can’t.

“Please proceed, Gaius,” Uther finally says, then cuts off any further protest of Arthur’s by continuing, with a little side glance at his son, “your suggestions so far have been very astute and we will do what is necessary.”

Arthur crosses his hands in front of his chest and glares darkly, but he’s not saying anything else, listening to Gaius continue the presentation and going into detail, all the while glowering at Merlin as if the whole fake-boyfriend-plot was Merlin’s solitary suggestion.

When the briefing is over and Uther has signed off on most of the strategic points including the charade Merlin is to play a prominent part in, Merlin staggers out of the meeting room on shaky legs, feeling the stress of the last couple of days unload itself in bone-weary tiredness.

“You need to go home and sleep, Merlin,” Gwen says and gently pats his back as she all but escorts him down the hallway.

“My life is a horrible tragedy,” Merlin mutters sourly, thinking of Arthur’s hot, angry glare and the task ahead. How is he supposed to play at being a loving boyfriend, when Arthur finds him lacking in every regard? Arthur’s reaction is a blow to his not at all big ego, but surely Merlin can’t be that inadequate. “Arthur thinks I’m an idiot and not fit enough to be his boyfriend.”

“He should be so lucky to have someone like you!” Gwen protests, rubbing soothingly between his shoulder blades.

“Hrmpf.”

Gwen isn’t at all convincing, not when she’s petting him like he’s a rejected mutt waiting to be adopted at the animal shelter.

“He’s right about one thing, though. We need to get new things for you to wear,” she says, taking a step back and looking critically at his outfit, the baggy jeans he’s been wearing for days and Lance’s wrinkled shirt and his own scuffed trainers.

“I really don’t like this,” he moans, threading his fingers through his hair, which has the audacity to be both stiff and oily from lack of grooming.

“Ah, baby,” Gwen coos, still petting his back, “if you were a girl, you’d be jumping at the chance to get pretty, fashionable clothes and tailored fashion advice by a professional.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Merlin winces. “It sounds like hell.”

“I’m sure it’s fun!” Gwen says cheerfully, giving him a huge, beaming smile that’s apparently meant to be encouraging.

“Right.”

It’s not fun.

He’s allowed two days—which are busy with strategy meetings and preparations—before he’s being ushered to meet with Melissa Grant and John Barrows, two fashion advisors to several smaller and bigger celebrities, to discuss his new wardrobe. They are both kind and cheery, but he doesn’t like being scrutinised, and the way Melissa’s eyes rove over his body like he’s a slab of meat to be dressed isn’t very comfortable. They both belong to the special brand of people that always look very put together, the sort that have time to spend half an hour every morning carefully choosing and assembling their outfit like an armour.

Melissa is wearing a knee-length skirt and high-heeled, elegant boots in purple and overly large, square glasses, which should look ridiculous, but merely make her seem eclectic. John is carefully groomed, not a beard-hair out of place, his charcoal suit impeccable, his glittery shoes an eyecatcher.

“Where do you usually shop?” John asks, rubbing a hand over his bearded jaw as he assesses him, and the question already makes Merlin stutter and flush.

“Uhmmm, I don’t really have much time for that. My Mum just usually grabs some jeans for me,” he confesses. “And… and I think I bought a dress shirt at Marks & Spencer, or maybe it was uhmmm… what’s that store called? John&Jones… last year. I bought this shirt at a concert?” he offers, indicating the band shirt he’s wearing. It shouldn’t be a question, but his insecurity makes him raise his voice at the end of the sentence, like it is.

“Is this your usual style?” Melissa circles him like a predator, slow and measured steps and intense smoky eyes, and Merlin fidgets under her assessing gaze as she takes in his low-slung, comfortable jeans and indie band t-shirt.

Merlin is almost hesitant to answer, but he swallows down his pride and nods.

“Those trousers will have to go,” John condemns his clothing choices with a critical eye.

“Asos,” Melissa suggests, and John nods. “Everlane, for the sustainable touch,” she adds.

“Affordable, yet chic,” John agrees. “I think some basics from River Island.”

“We could try suits. He looks like he could look good in suits. Tall. Long legs. Good shoulder to waist ratio.”

“I… I don’t like suits,” Merlin stutters, shuddering when he thinks of the horrible, itchy and constricting suit he wore to their neighbour’s funeral last year.

“Hugo for the suits. Acne, maybe.” They aren’t really listening to him and Merlin realises he barely has any say as it is. Not that he knows what they are even talking about. It sounds like gibberish.

“Might be too hip,” Melissa replies, plucking at Merlin’s hair like it’s offending her. She twists his strands this and that way, then grabs his chin and tilts it to the side.

“Hmmm… the hair should be left longer. His ears are too prominent for a shorter cut. Good bone structure, though.”

“Maybe he could get an otoplasty?” John suggests, and really, Merlin has had enough now, because he’s not a show dog.

With a growl, he steps back, all but knocking Melissa’s hand away. “My ears are not up for discussion. I’ll wear your stupid suits, but leave my ears alone.”

Melissa huffs out a sigh like Merlin is a small, misbehaving child and they are compromising on how many sweets he’s allowed, but she lowers her hands and stops touching him, which Merlin feels is a victory.

“Well, then, let’s go shopping,” she says, mock-cheerfully and clasps her hands together.

Merlin just suppresses the fake-cheering and accepts his fate. He’s ushered into a cab and driven to Knightsbridge, while John and Melissa pore over a list on Melissa’s tablet, muttering amongst themselves, occasionally glancing up to look at him with twin gazes of critical assessment.

With a sigh, Merlin puts on his headphones and watches the livestream of the funeral on the BBC website, where right now the funeral cortège makes its slow way from Kensington Palace to Westminster Abbey. Eventually, King Uther and Arthur will walk behind the coffins to the abbey, where the funeral service will take place. It’s chilling to see the five coffins holding the royal family, but worst of all are the small twin-coffins for the little princes making up the rear of the cortège. Once more, Merlin contemplates sending Arthur a text, but they have been silent in their conversation ever since the doomed strategy meeting, and Merlin feels awkward attempting to make conversation.

Over the past few days, he has been sitting through several meetings with Royal Protocol where they established what is allowed and what isn’t, both in his personal interaction with Arthur, as well as representing a serious future spouse for a member of the royal household. (“Be glad you’re not a girl,” the woman who handed him the booklet of rules joked, “the list for women is even longer.”) Now that things seem to get real, he’s not entirely sure that agreeing to fake a relationship with the future King of the United Kingdom was that brilliant an idea.

Arthur, who usually sends him obnoxious memes at least once a day, hasn’t been in touch at all, and Merlin has been fretting every night over Arthur’s reaction to hearing that Merlin was going to pose as his boyfriend. Merlin has always known that Arthur was a pretentious prat, but it hurts to be told outright that one isn’t fit to play the part of boyfriend. Merlin has no illusion that he might be suave or sexy or mind-bogglingly fit, but he never had problems finding people that were interested in him or appreciated his looks. He has been called handsome in the past and he’s pretty sure those people weren’t all lying to his face. Maybe he just isn’t Arthur’s type, he consoles himself.

Melissa and John drag him through a series of shops and he spends all morning and most of the afternoon trying on clothes, feeling sweaty and harassed at being prodded and criticised. They give him cashmere sweaters and tight trousers and boring dress shirts to wear underneath the sweaters, and when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t know who it is looking back at him. He doesn’t recognise this person with the slicked down hair and the boring grandfather clothes, and he’s not sure he likes them either.

With a sigh, he steps out of the fitting room once more to face his tormentors dressed in the latest grandfatherly atrocity.

“This,” he says, sweeping his hands wide and indicating his sweater, “isn’t working. I just look uncomfortable and boring. I wouldn’t date me in these clothes,” he adds, pulling at his soft, dark-blue sweater.

John grimaces and wrinkles his nose, but he nods in agreement. “I think we have established that you are not the type for cashmere sweaters and slacks,” he sighs with a bit of a resigned note to his voice. “What would you pick out, if you were to go on a date with the Prince of York... I mean, the Prince of Wales?” he corrects himself, using Arthur’s new title just like everyone else is already doing, even though the letters patent making Arthur the Prince of Wales is still waiting to be signed.

Merlin shrugs and takes a look around at the nearby racks of clothes. “Where would we go?”

“A dinner at a nice restaurant, maybe?” Melissa suggests, watching him with narrowed eyes.

Exhaling an annoyed huff, Merlin walks down the aisle, brushing his fingers over the trousers hanging there. He can’t really remember Arthur doing dates at nice restaurants, but he knows what Arthur would wear—a casual suit paired with a t-shirt, looking effortlessly chic like always. He picks out a chambray suit he thinks Arthur would like to wear himself, and presses it into John’s hands.

“And if you were to go to a football match?” John asks, and there’s something challenging in his eyes.

Merlin hesitates only briefly before picking out a pair of soft-looking jeans, a black, simple t-shirt and a smart dark-brown leather jacket, tossing the items at Melissa.

“A club for dancing?” Melissa prompts softly.

It’s disgustingly easy to pick out a pair of dark skinny jeans and a tight-fitted shirt. He knows what people wear to clubs, he just never felt the need to add clubwear to his wardrobe.

“He might not be entirely hopeless,” John grins, and sends Merlin off to the changing room.

When Merlin comes out of the dressing room in the casual outfit, Melissa seems pleased. “This could actually work,” she says, reaching out and fiddling with the collar of Merlin’s leather jacket. “It’s not exactly what the protocol briefing said, but… it’s approachable. Definitely relatable. Maybe we need a button-down with this. He looks good, though.”

“The suit, next,” John says quietly and pushes Merlin back into the dressing room.

Merlin puts on the chambray suit and when he steps out from behind the curtain, Melissa seems pleased, clasping her hands together.

“Damn, we’re good,” she breathes, exchanging a satisfied glance with John, who hums in agreement.

Merlin wants to point out that he chose that suit and their involvement so far consisted mostly of alternately insulting or complementing his features, but they look so happy and relieved at a job well done, that he swallows down his answer.

Chapter Text

The Sun, March 5

Prince of Wales drinking away his troubles in South-East-London

Last night, the Prince of Wales was spotted out on the town in a bar in South East London with several close friends. Arthur’s entourage looked relaxed and stayed amongst themselves, but even though it seemed to be a laid-back evening outing, it begs the question: Is a mates' night out really befitting this time of national mourning?

The last two weeks have been insanely stressful for Arthur. Ever since the accident that took the life of his uncle and closest family, his life has changed irrevocably. If he likes it or not, he’s now second in line to the throne and one day will become King of the United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland.

It’s a burden he always had considered to be very unlikely to carry on his shoulders. The possibility of having to ascend the throne one day had dwindled with every cute, ruddy-cheeked offspring his cousin Henry fathered. He preferred it this way. It’s bad enough that he’s a public figure and everyone judges every little thing he does and says, but there has been a certain amount of freedom with not being expected to take over the throne one day.

Now, with Owen and Henry gone and Uther on the throne, Arthur has risen to a duty he never expected to have to fulfill. He’s been upgraded to working royal, which means Arthur won’t ever be able to pursue another calling. Having his whole future taken away in the blink of an eye takes some adjusting - it’s not something to be taken lightly. Over the last couple of days, he has warred with so many conflicting emotions. While sadness over the loss of his family had prevailed there had been bouts of anger and depression and a terrible helplessness: This is not what he wants.

Even before he can make his first official appearance as Prince of Wales, the public’s opinion of him is set in stone.

All over the media, people are condemning him to be the failure of the United Kingdom, casting him as the royal that’s going to doom the British monarchy to a fiery, hellish end.

Arthur would love to say that he’s immune to the scalding commentary, the fire and brimstone talk of the papers or the memes trending on the internet, but he’s not. What’s far worse than the public opinion is the fact that not even his own father nor his closest friends believe that Arthur could step into the role waiting for him in the future.

Arthur is no stranger to the criticism concerning his person and he’s the first to admit that he has been kind of aimless in his career decisions over the last couple of years.

There had only ever been one thing Arthur had been good at and it had been easy to follow a military career path like many of his ancestors before him. His choice had been a traditional one, as well as one almost unitedly accepted by the public. Royals served in the military - this had been the way for centuries, a tradition shaped by the image of the noble knight dying for his country on the battlefield. Considering Arthur’s personality traits, it had been easy to step into this role.

Arthur had thrived in the military, had enjoyed the camaraderie and the harsh training regimen. He joined the Blue and Royals and rose to the rank of Captain over the course of four years. There had been downsides to being a prince when it came to active duty, because the British Army was hesitant to put him into danger, but he had earned the respect of his trainers, his commanders and his fellow servicemen and had finally been allowed to go on active duty in Afghanistan.

For maybe the first time in his life, Arthur had felt useful. He was a good strategist, he kept a cool head even in the most dire of situations and he was as quick on his feet as he was with his brain. Sadly, about two months into his tour, a newspaper article about a brief relationship that had turned sour shattered all his dreams of advancing further in the military and he was called home abruptly.

With his military career stunted, Arthur had found himself without aim. For more than a year he had been more or less sitting at home, while his father and the royal advisors urged him to take up a field of study. A holiday in Greece and the devastating first hand experience of plastic pollution in the Mediterranean while scuba diving had finally rekindled his interest in studying. He had taken up Environmental Studies, to the protest of the royal advisors, who deemed it too political and would have preferred History of Art or something similarly inoffensive.

Arthur had always been someone who liked to take action, so actively participating in preserving nature’s reserves and fighting climate change were much more suited to his interest than just talking about them, but while he had spent the last years visiting various foundations, investing money in different conservation projects and actively working hands-on for causes he deemed important, he had yet to turn that interest into a career path.

Now it seems like his occupation has been decided for him and with it come all the rules and regulations he had hoped to shuck off with a career in the military.

He is aware of what the royal rules require of him, but now people actually expect him to follow them to a T. Neither he, nor Uther or Morgana are given any period of mourning. Instead they have to attend an endless series of meetings and briefings with Royal Protocol and Royal Communications. Morgana and Arthur are drilled about all the rules and regulations again, and if that weren’t bad enough, their lives have been excessively scheduled and a concise plan to turn around the public opinion was instigated.

Which is why, two weeks after the funeral, Arthur is sitting in a limousine driving down-town to Holland Park to have dinner. With Merlin.

Arthur sighs and rubs his temples, trying to massage away the headache that has been looming in his skull since waking up this morning. In another ridiculous twist of fate, he’s to start a fake relationship with Merlin, of all people, because someone at Kilgharrah Communications thought Arthur would be more likeable with a bumbling, clumsy idiot for a boyfriend.

It’s the most absurd concept anyone at that PR firm has ever come up with, and they’ve had some pretty drastic ideas in the past (something that had actually drawn Uther to choose them over the representatives preferred by the Royal Communications Office). Arthur doesn’t like this strategy at all, but the fact that they chose Merlin makes it even more preposterous.

Merlin is nothing like the men Arthur usually goes out with: he’s awkward and boyish, terribly unathletic, has a potty mouth, is insolent to the point of lèse-majesté, and unrefined in a country bumpkin way. How anyone could think he’d make the perfect royal boyfriend is beyond Arthur’s comprehension, but it’s been decided and Uther had been blind to Arthur’s vocal protest.

They arrive a little too early at their destination, so Tristan wordlessly and without needing to be asked drives a couple of rounds around the block, knowing that Arthur hates being too early, while Arthur checks his mobile, answering a couple of messages from Gwaine and Mithian. He half-expected to find a message from Merlin, chickening out on his task, but his conversation with Merlin doesn’t show any new messages until shortly after the accident. They haven’t been talking at all, even though usually not a day goes by that they aren’t in touch. Arthur isn’t missing Merlin’s constant eye-rolling and sass at all, he isn’t.

Two minutes after 7.30 p.m., Tristan stops by the door of the Flat Three Restaurant and opens the door for him. Arthur steps out and takes a deep breath, trying for a relaxed smile in case one of the paps that will have been tipped off about the time and place is already lurking around. He’s supposed to look like a man looking forward to spending the evening with someone special, not like he’s about to take a trip to the dentist.

He’s been at this restaurant once before, for Morgana’s birthday a couple of years ago, and the place is as sophisticated as he remembers, with dark furniture and soft lighting. He’s greeted with the deference one would expect and the service girl, albeit looking a bit flustered and curtsying awkwardly, is professional as she accompanies him to the small alcove with his table.

There’s a man sitting there in a chambray suit, staring at his phone, and only when he gets up, stumbling to his feet, his eyes wide and nervous, does Arthur realise that it’s Merlin.

The sight of him hits Arthur like a punch to his guts. It’s Merlin, all gangly limbs, tall lankiness and sweetly confused smile, and at the same time, it isn’t. He looks… good, Arthur admits to himself, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. Really good. Arthur lets his eyes travel over Merlin’s body, from his face with the day-old stubble and his very blue eyes, over his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and long legs. His hair is as untamed as always and curling around his ears and over his forehead in wispy locks. The fact that it is indeed Merlin drives itself home when his eyes land on the shirt Merlin is wearing underneath the suit, a Death-Cab shirt Arthur has seen on Merlin more than once.

Arthur snorts, says, “Hi, Merlin, good to see you already managed to defer protocol,” and is surprised how fond his voice sounds. So, maybe he missed him a little bit, but it was probably mostly because Merlin is the only one who isn’t reluctant to tell Arthur to his face when he’s an arse. It has always been rather refreshing.

Merlin swipes his tongue over his bottom lip nervously and gapes a bit, before taking a step forward with his arms lifted, like he’s going in for a hug.

“Sit down,” Arthur hisses quietly, and Merlin jumps back and nods, before sliding into his seat again.

Arthur sits down opposite him, and he’s amused to see that Merlin is flushing and chewing his lip.

“You look good,” Arthur observes honestly, delighted when the red on Merlin’s face deepens.

“You don’t need to actually flirt with me,” Merlin mutters sotto voce, like Arthur didn’t just pay him a compliment. “It’s just pretend.”

Arthur frowns, thinks of saying, “No, you’re actually gorgeous,” just to see Merlin shift awkwardly in his seat, but instead shrugs. “Fine. You look weird in a suit, then.”

Merlin’s face does something complicated before he sighs, placing his hands on the table. His fingers are long and elegant—and Arthur wonders how he never noticed that before. “Look, why don’t we have some food and just play nice so we can leave soon?” he suggests with that pissy little touch to his voice he gets when Arthur grates on his nerves. It’s a familiar tone and amazingly enough it does the trick of relaxing Arthur.

Shrugging, Arthur nods. “If that’s how you want to do it,” he agrees, and for some reason, the perpetual scowl on Merlin’s face deepens, before he seemingly catches himself and smoothes out his features with effort.

The waiter arrives, just as nervously professional as the service girl who accompanied Arthur to their table, fills up their water glasses and leaves them with a beautifully hand-written menu. Seconds later, another waiter brings white, crusty bread and tiny bowls of deeply green olive oil.

“Fuck, I don’t even know what half the things on here are…” Merlin mutters as he studies the menu and threads a hand through his wild locks, making them stand up.

Valiantly, Arthur attempts to brush off the smirk that threatens to twist his mouth. “That’s what the waiter is for.” Flat Three is one of the more luxurious restaurants, but not too high-end that it would be embarrassing — one of the rules for the Royal Family is to choose sophisticated, but not overly pricey restaurants when dining out officially. Tell the taxpayers you’re spending 300 quid on an hors d'oeuvre and you have an uprising.

“I just want a steak and a salad, is that too much to ask?” Merlin sounds petulant as he skims the menu.

This time, Arthur can’t help but laugh. He kind of forgot that Merlin is—besides aggravating—hilariously entertaining. “Then tell him that and he will tell you what you’re having.”

Having chosen his own meal, he tosses the menu down onto the tablecloth and reaches for a slice of crusty bread, dipping it into the small bowl of olive oil on his left side.

Merlin puts the menu down himself and watches him eat quietly for a moment, steepling his fingers on the table in front of him. “We should probably talk about the objective here,” he finally says, fidgeting a bit in his seat, even while he tries to look all business-like.

“The objective, huh?” Arthur says with amusement, pushing another piece of bread into his mouth, observing the way Merlin’s eyes darken at his teasing.

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, it doesn’t suit you,” Merlin says, and there’s enough contempt in his tone for Arthur to confirm that he managed to raise Merlin’s hackles.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur huffs. “It’s pretty easy, isn’t it? We have dinner—during which you will endlessly annoy me as usual— and afterwards we let the paps get some quality shots of us exiting the restaurant. What happens next is the usual hilarious gutter press shit I have to deal with on a daily basis. Seriously, do I have to explain your job to you? I’m pretty sure they gave you a proper briefing!”

Merlin’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something snide, but the waiter arrives and takes their orders and offers a wine choice to go with their main course.

When he leaves them alone, Arthur has almost forgotten what they’ve been talking about, but Merlin fixes him with a stare and says: “You don’t need to explain my job to me. Also, the pictures will be good, but the waiter who took our order? The girl at the reception? Even the kitchen help chopping our salad right now will be interviewed and asked to give their opinion on our time here…” He leans forward over the table and smiles mock-sweetly at Arthur. “So you better start behaving like you’re devastatingly in love with me. All the heart eyes, Your Royal Highness.”

There it is again, Merlin’s snippish insolence, and even Arthur’s title sounds like an insult.

Arthur looks at Merlin’s blazing blue eyes and feels his mouth suddenly and inexplicably go dry. He reaches for his glass of water, taking a careful sip, before attempting a smile.

“I don’t fall in love, so… enlighten me as to what that would entail so I do it right?” Arthur says with a carefully sarcastic tilt to his eyebrows, only half joking. He has long ago decided he’s not going to inflict the insanity of royal courtship on another human being. As there’s no one expecting him to produce an heir to the throne, he won’t need to marry and compensate his spouse with a lavish lifestyle to make up for the lack of privacy and all the craziness of being a royal in the British monarchy.

Merlin looks skywards in consternation, but he smiles in a way that suggests he expected Arthur to deliberately pose a challenge. “You’re very funny when you try to be obnoxious,” he says, reaching out for the bread basket as well, “but I also don’t want you to embarrass yourself. You might find some help useful in the future.”

“Oh, will I? Arthur asks and makes a ‘go on’ gesture, amusedly watching as Merlin pushes a piece of bread between his lips and chews artlessly.

“When you’re in love, you’ll lean a little closer,” Merlin says and shifts forwards in his seat as if he’s trying to demonstrate what that might look like. “You might laugh a little louder and more often. You are very focused on the person you’re in love with, you can’t look away in case you miss something. You might even mimic their movements,” he adds, reaching for his water glass and playing with the stem of it, just the way Arthur’s doing right now, unconsciously so.

“I’m impressed,” Arthur says and picks up his glass to mask the funny little hitch in his breath he experienced while watching Merlin’s fingers slide along the glass. “Maybe you won’t be that bad at faking it after all.”

Merlin laughs at that, a bright, brilliant thing of a laugh that makes his whole face light up. “High praise, indeed, Your Royal Prattishness,” he teases, just when the waiter comes over to deliver their wine.

In a split decision, Arthur reaches across the tablecloth for Merlin’s hand, turning it palm-side upwards and curling his fingers to stroke lightly over the lines of Merlin’s hand. Across from him, Merlin sucks in a surprised breath, but he doesn’t pull his hand away, and Arthur keeps stroking his palm while the waiter fills both their glasses and leaves the white wine in a cooler on a little side table.

“They said no PDA,” Merlin hisses through clenched teeth once the waiter, not at all giving any indication that he noticed their hand holding, has left. Merlin’s fingers twitch underneath Arthur’s ministrations.

“He will go to the service area and tell everyone he saw me stroking your hand, so I’d say, mission accomplished,” Arthur grins, enjoying the flustered look on Merlin’s face, the way there’s a flush staining his high cheekbones.

“I was very firmly told that PDA—” Merlin starts up again, but Arthur interrupts him.

“—isn’t encouraged in official appearances, but this is, by no means, an official appearance,” Arthur finishes for him, but he draws his hand back slowly anyway.

Merlin’s fingers twitch once more atop the tablecloth, before he slowly and carefully pulls his hand back as well, placing it firmly in his lap.

“Oh come on,” Arthur teases at the expression on his face, “you’ve touched me far more than this in the past!”

“Ugh,” Merlin says and grimaces, “don’t remind me. Because usually I’m hauling your drunken arse out of some club or petting your back when you retch into a toilet.”

Arthur’s grinning even more now, because the evening is turning out to be surprisingly entertaining. “See, this is infinitely better.”

Merlin snorts disbelievingly. “I wouldn’t go so far. No touching anymore without telling me, or I’ll file for employee’s harassment.”

“You’re utterly ridiculous,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin laughs.

“We’re trying to walk a fine line here, Your Majesty,” Merlin chides him. “I’m not sure the public is ready for PDA yet either.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and plays with the cutlery, rearranging it next to his plate. “I was touching your palm, how scandalous,” he teases. “But maybe you’re right and that’s already too much for the Royal Communications Office to handle. It’s naked skin touching after all.” He shudders mock-derisively, enjoying Merlin’s short bark of laughter.

“You’d be surprised what they’ve signed off on,” Merlin says, grinning lopsidedly. “You’ll have sleepovers at my place in the near future.”

“They want me to what?” Arthur asks, taken aback. “Don’t you live with your mother in … where is it that you live?”

“Twickenham,” Merlin says archly and picks up his glass of wine. “But I wouldn’t want to inflict you on my poor mother, so they’re getting me a flat in Islington.”

Arthur hums and picks up his glass as well. “What else?” he asks and takes a hearty sip from the chilled wine.

“More dates.” Merlin takes a sip from his glass as well, before carefully placing it back on the table, moving it back and forth over the tablecloth with precision, not really looking at Arthur, but at the movement of his hand. “Some more public than others. Presumably a press release. Maybe an interview. An official royal couple shoot. Pap shots from you leaving my flat in the morning. – Keep smiling,” Merlin advises in a different tone of voice, just when a waiter steps up to them to deliver their starters.

“I’m smiling,” Arthur says through a huge, fake smile, staring down at the carefully arranged sea bass tartare on his plate. The next steps Merlin has outlined quickly are necessary, but he’s not looking forward to it.

“That’s a good future king,” Merlin says, like he’s praising a puppy.

Arthur wants to pick up one of the white currents on his plate and toss it at him, but a food fight surely wouldn’t help their ruse, so instead he pops it into his mouth and tries not to scowl.

“Not bad,” Uther says when Arthur steps into the dining room the next morning for breakfast. It takes Arthur a bit too long to realise Uther is talking about the front page of the morning paper, because he’s tired and cranky that he’s required to rise just as early as Uther these days. It’s only 6.30 and it looks like Uther has already eaten and is now reading through the stack of marked newspapers the butler delivered from Communications.

It’s rare that his father approves of anything he has done. Sometimes, Arthur feels like his father resigned himself to not having any expectations in him at all, having written him off as a failure and not worthy of Uther’s time.

Uther lowers The Daily Mirror and tosses it over the table to come to lie next to Arthur’s plate. The front page has a large, grainy photograph of Arthur and Merlin stepping out of the restaurant last night, titled: ’Prince Arthur out on a date’ in large letters, while a smaller print proclaims ’Who is his companion?’

Arthur scoffs and leafs through the paper to the accompanying article which shows more photographs: Merlin and him walking down the street, both with carefully joyous smiles plastered on their faces, him holding open the door of the car like a gentleman.

The idea to frame Merlin as the pretend royal boyfriend doesn’t seem so laughable anymore with the proof of the successful ruse on the front page of the morning tabloids.

He has to admit, they look good together, both of them tall, Merlin’s dark, tousled head next to Arthur’s blond one. Merlin, Arthur thinks, looks especially good in his suit and with his five o’clock shadow, his eyes bright and blue in his pale face. He’s actually never seen Merlin in a suit before and it’s a surprise how well it fits him—it’s like he was made to wear suits with his long legs and broad shoulders.

Arthur has never really entertained the thought that Merlin could be anything more than a somewhat annoying employee, a hired hand to keep Arthur company in situations where he might have to deal with the press, a bastard child between a professional PR representative and a PA, someone to pick up his messes. He has Merlin firmly labelled as such and therefore, Merlin has been strictly off-limits and it didn’t matter that he was good-looking in a way that confused Arthur when he first met him. Merlin is nothing like the men Arthur usually goes for anyway, but he’s undeniably attractive, and it’s harder to ignore now that they are going out on dates, however fake they might be.

He thinks back to yesterday’s date, to the punch-to-the-gut reaction at seeing Merlin standing there at the table, tall and ridiculously handsome, and the same feeling churns through him now, like a flame in the pit of his belly. It spreads through him, making him warm and shivery all at once.

Arthur attempts to clear his head and downs a glass of freshly pressed orange juice, the tartness making him wince, before he turns the pages to the article accompanying the pictures. He rolls his eyes occasionally at the prose and speculation, before reaching for another paper, this one similarly titled, wondering about Arthur’s date. The journalists will probably already investigate, trying to find out about Merlin and finding the well-laid out breadcrumb trail on the internet Kilgharrah Communications has prepared: Merlin’s cleaned up Facebook and his updated page at the company’s website.

He eats his eggs quickly while skimming through the articles, before turning to the more serious reading material laid out for him: politics and economics, all the articles he’s supposed to read carefully marked for him with little post it-notes. It always irks him that he has to find the articles that really interest him - on sustainability and climate change - by himself, no matter how often he asks RCO to flag for those as well.

His father leaves the breakfast table long before Arthur is finished with his reading material, giving him a short and curt nod of his head, the only acknowledgement that he was aware Arthur was sitting with him at the breakfast table at all ever since his brief and rare approval. Soon, even these brief morning meetings will be a thing of the past as Uther is preparing to move out of their family rooms and into Buckingham Palace.

The rest of Arthur’s day is scheduled with meetings and a public appearance at the opening of a NHS hospital. It’s one of his first serious public appearances since his father’s ascension to the throne where he has to give a speech, and when he stands up there on the little stage, giving the carefully prepared address that someone in Communications wrote, it dawns on him that things have really changed, and it’s not just Merlin’s absence, hammered home by his replacement, a dark-haired girl nervously wringing her hands three steps to his left. This is going to be his life from now on—one public appearance representing the monarchy after the other, prewritten addresses and statements for things both trivial and important.

He’s finally allowed to have some time for himself at around 5, which traditionally is tea time and sacred to the Royal Family, and he reaches for his private phone to skim through his messages.

There’s an avalanche of direct messages from friends and acquaintances, some teasing, some confused regarding this morning’s tabloids’ revelations and Arthur groans inwardly, because he didn’t realise at first that he was going to have to lie to his friends as well as to the public.

He made it a rule in the last couple of years that he didn’t go on dates. Arthur Pendragon went to nightclubs and bars with an entourage and he hooked up with whoever he wanted to, but he hadn’t gone on a single date with anyone in three years. Of course everyone took notice and asked why this bloke was different. If his past brief relationships have taught Arthur anything, it’s that there’s no sane person who is willing to openly date a royal and put up with the constant public scrutiny and he couldn’t inflict this kind of life on anyone with good conscience anyway.

Arthur answers messages from Mithian and Leon, his two closest friends, feeling bad about telling them a half-truth by admitting that yes, he was indeed out on a date and letting them believe he truly found someone worth his while. He swallows down the guilty feeling that squirms in his belly when both of them send back more texts full of excitement and congratulations, then scrolls through the numerous messages Morgana has left since this morning.

’The internet is so excited!’, one of her gleeful text messages reads, followed by several screenshots from twitter messages and tumblr posts from people speculating about his date.

’What we know so far’ someone has tagged a post, and Arthur is impressed by what those trolls have already gathered as information: Merlin’s name, the fact that Merlin had been working for Arthur but isn’t anymore. There are tons of pictures: from the paparazzi shots from last night to the recently taken photo on Merlin’s company profile page on the Kilgharrah website to several unflattering shots of Merlin standing around in the background of some of Arthur’s candid shots.

As usual, it’s highly uncomfortable seeing his private life splayed out on the internet for everyone to speculate on, and Arthur wonders how Merlin is dealing with his new, questionable fame. He hopes they really pay him well for having to suffer through this craziness.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he opens his contacts and video-dials Merlin’s number.

“Look at that, my questionable suitor is calling,” Merlin greets him as he answers, sounding slightly harassed and looking exhausted. His hair is a tousled mess on the top of his head and his button-down shirt looks wrinkled. The five o’clock shadow that made him ruggedly handsome last night has grown into a scraggly scruff and is somewhat making him appear even more drained.

“Are you okay?” Arthur finds himself asking instead of uttering a matching greeting in return.

Merlin huffs out a tired sigh and reaches up with his free hand to rub at his eyes. “It’s mayhem around here. I think there’s more paparazzi outside our office building than I’ve ever seen before in one spot. They all seem terribly interested in me.”

“Ugh,” Arthur echoes his sigh disdainfully. “Of course they are.”

“At least it’s all working out. We’re feeding them my official statement later tonight.”

“You have an official statement?” Arthur laughs, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s ‘No Comment’,” Merlin quips, and beneath his tiredness his usual humour shines through, the corners of his mouth briefly twitching upwards, his cheeks dimpling.

Arthur can’t help but laugh at that. “Very… elaborate.”

“I can hardly admit that I’m dating the Prince of Wales outright,” Merlin teases, and Arthur grins, enjoying how Merlin’s face brightens and he looks a little more awake already, his blue eyes shining with mirth.

Arthur hums in agreement and toes off his shoes so he can pull his legs up and put them over the armrest of the armchair he’s sitting in. He slides down a bit, getting comfortable, the tension from being so very present in the here and now slowly slipping from him, his shoulders relaxing.

“So, what’s next on the agenda?”

“I’ll be sneaking out the back entrance and will drive to my flat.” Merlin sounds playfully disdainful and there’s a sceptical expression on his face that tells Arthur all he needs to know about Merlin’s feelings about his new accommodation. “It’s kind of nice there, if somewhat impersonal. Like a hotel room. Small, because it should be affordable. They rented two flats side by side for when you’re coming to stay overnight, so you don’t have to really share a flat with me. I bet yours is more luxurious, too, even though it still might be a far cry from your palace accommodation,” Merlin teases.

Arthur retches and mimics a barfing gesture that makes Merlin’s lips curl into another smile. “Ehhh, don’t remind me I’ll have to suffer peasant accommodation soon.”

“I’d rather be home, too, you conceited, pampered clotpole,” Merlin mutters without heat.

It’s an insult Merlin has used a couple of times already, but somehow it never sounds mean and Arthur just rolls his eyes at his expected insubordination.

“Actually, I wanted to know what’s next on the agenda date-wise? Where will I take you next?” he drawls, making sure his voice is laced with indifference to indicate that dating Merlin is a duty, not a pleasure. It comes out a bit more sharply than intended, but it’s just as well.

“Hah!” Merlin exclaims and threads a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “So glad you feel just as excited as I am about going out with you again,” Merlin says mock-sweetly, a familiar, pissy expression taking over his features. His reaction is a delight and Arthur suppresses his grin just barely.

“They planned another dinner for Thursday. Your wooing, by the way, is a bit unimaginative. Royally boring, in fact,” Merlin complains, making a face, like the prospect of Arthur taking him out for fine food is abhorrent.

“People would literally kill for a date with me. Most eligible bachelor in Britain—oh well… before our little sham, anyway.” Arthur feels like defending choices he didn’t make. “Dinner dates are romantic and thoughtful,” Arthur offers reasonably, quite enjoying Merlin’s frustration, because it mirrors his own, but unwilling to give Merlin the satisfaction of agreement.

“I’d need to be really desperate to fuck you to go through a succession of dinner-dates at hoity-toity Michelin-Star restaurants,” Merlin says bluntly with a matter of fact expression on his face.

Arthur laughs uproariously, startled by Merlin’s candidness. “So what you’re telling me is that you only go out with me to get laid? What will the press say!” he crows with glee.

“They’d pity me if they knew what I have to endure to get in your pants!” Merlin shoots back, a glint in his eyes.

“But Merlin,” Arthur grins, highly amused, “you’re not getting in my pants.”

“See? Even more reason to pity me!” Merlin returns, but he’s grinning as well now. “I have to listen to your stilted conversation on boring, unimaginative dates and you don’t even put out!”

Arthur wants to point out that Merlin is in fact getting paid, but he doesn’t want to ruin the teasing mood. The day has been long and exhausting and it’s the first time since getting up in the morning that he’s able to let loose a bit.

“Don’t you have any say when it comes to the dates we are forced to go on?” he asks instead, sobering. “What would you plan for a second date, if this was the real deal?”

Merlin scrunches up his nose in thought, which is—God forbid—actually adorable, and Arthur certainly didn’t think that, before replying.

“If this were a real dating situation, I would take you to the museum. Or cook you dinner. See a movie. But well, I guess you’d find that lame, anyway.”

Merlin bites his lip, a strangely guarded expression coming onto his face as he blinks at the camera of his phone. Like he is indeed asking Arthur out on a second date… The thought that Merlin might be nervous suggesting fake dates to Arthur is ludicrous and Arthur brushes it off and considers the suggestions themselves.

“That sounds actually nice, not lame,” he admits, trying to picture going to a movie, not a premier, just a regular showing, eating popcorn and holding hands. He can’t remember ever doing that with anyone before.

“Which part?” Merlin asks curiously, raising one eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of Mr. Gaius, looking surprised by Arthur’s admission.

All of them, Arthur wants to say, realising with bafflement that he would probably enjoy all of the suggestions above. Even with Merlin. Even despite Merlin.

“Surprise me,” is what he says instead, once more inflicting his words with as much indifference as he can muster. Just like that, the teasing mood is gone and he feels himself wind down from their earlier hilarity, the mood becoming sober. He doesn’t want to think too much about what made him answer Merlin’s question so earnestly, made him reveal that part about himself. It feels much more intimate than everything else he has shared with Merlin so far and Merlin—being who he is—knows a lot of intimate and embarrassing details about him.

“I could probably persuade them to let us do something like that,” Merlin suggests, still biting his damn lip and looking a bit flustered.

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” Arthur says, trying to sound aloof and magnanimous.

“Yes, Your Royal Haughtiness,” Merlin replies and gives a mock-bow of his head.

“Don’t let the paps bite your skinny arse,” Arthur suggests, amazingly okay with Merlin’s butchering of his title. It almost sounds like an endearment.

“Excuse me?!” Merlin mocks, affronted, his face taking on an expression of indignation and this is much more familiar than a flustered, anxiously stuttering Merlin. “Who has been saving your royal bum time and time again from the paps? I’m a master at evading the paps!”

“Debatable,” Arthur comments sweetly, laughing when Merlin scowls at him, huffs out an insult and disconnects their call.

“So, a boyfriend, huh?” Gwaine Green says after their polo match as he takes off his helmet and shakes out his sweaty, shoulder-length hair like a mutt stepping out of water.

He sounds highly sceptical and Arthur doesn’t begrudge him his suspicion. They might not have been friends for long, but Gwaine has become a good friend, someone who probably knows how Arthur ticks much better than a lot of other people.

They’ve had a fling last year, a drunken one-night stand that had turned into a surprisingly easygoing and loyal friendship. Gwaine Green is the kind of bloke that gets everyone around himself in trouble, but his heart is in the right place and while he messes up, he goes to great lengths to right the wrongs. He’s somewhat of a sunnyboy with a heart of gold, a strutting, bisexual demi-god with a chiselled jaw and legendary hair who spends his days philantroping through upper class society and ensuring that his pet projects are perfectly funded.

“Yes,” Arthur finds himself saying, because he has been sworn to secrecy about the fake nature of his and Merlin’s relationship.

Gwaine makes an agreeable, humming sound. “It’s that cute PR rep, right? The one who handed me the NDA when we were…” Gwaine trails off and makes a lewd and aborted gesture with his fist and his mouth.

Oh God, Arthur thinks, because he vaguely remembers that and while he didn’t think anything about it before, because that’s what Merlin had been there for, he’s suddenly gripped with a wave of embarrassment for his past self.

“Merlin,” he says, taking off his own helmet and threading a gloved hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Next to him, his horse stomps and snorts, as if she’s amused by Arthur’s incapability to say more than one word at the time.

“Ahhhh. Merlin, yes,” Gwaine echoes and hands over the reins of his horse to a waiting stable attendant. “I kind of wondered why you needed me when you have a gorgeous and mouthy hottie trailing behind you at all times.”

“He is kind of mouthy, isn’t he?” Arthur sighs, petting his horse's neck, before handing it over to the stable boy as well. The trouble with Merlin is that he has no respect for nobility at all and his mouth always runs away with him.

“And what a mouth on him, eh?” Gwaine grins and winks suggestively, swishing his polo mallet through the air. “But then you would know about that…”

Unconsciously, as images of Merlin’s plush mouth come to him, Arthur licks his dry lips. The fact is, he doesn’t know, but now that Gwaine has mentioned it, he can’t help wondering: would Merlin’s lips feel warm and firm? Would his kisses be soft and wet or demanding and deep? And for the love of all that is holy, how would they feel wrapped around his cock?

He exhales a shaky sigh to clear his mind but his reaction just makes Gwaine guffaw and slam his hand down between his shoulder blades. “Mate, your face says it all!”

Still biting his lips and carefully avoiding Gwaine’s eyes, Arthur strips the riding gloves from his hands, flexing his fingers and feeling his heated cheeks grow redder still.

“I get it, he’s lovely,” Gwaine says, the hand that has come down on his back idly gripping at the nape of Arthur’s neck. Gwaine doesn’t seem to mind that he’s disgusting and sweaty and he’s always been obnoxiously indifferent about touching anyone. Gently, Arthur shrugs him off.

“So it’s serious then? Because otherwise you’d be telling me all about your conquest in excruciating detail instead of growing red in the face like some overripe tomato,” Gwaine asks as they make their way towards the dressing rooms.

Annoyed, Arthur grounds out, “He’s not a conquest. He’s a boyfriend, Gwaine. So of course I’m serious.” He’s surprised at the sharpness of his tone, the lie spilling easily from his tongue, the affront in his voice believable.

“That’s good,” Gwaine says happily. “You deserve something steady. And while I’m not yet ready to tie the knot, I wholeheartedly approve of your choice.”

At Gwaine’s honest affirmation, Arthur looks up, slightly startled. “You do?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Absolutely! I always thought that you would end up with someone vapid and noble, much like myself—“ here Gwaine gives a mock-bow, “—but instead you went out there and snatched up someone real.”

Someone real, Gwaine’s words echo in Arthur’s head. Yes, Merlin definitely was someone real, even if he was only Arthur’s fake boyfriend. The absurdity of it all makes Arthur laugh and he tosses his head back and snorts his frustration up towards the blue sky.

“Don’t congratulate me too early. He might just find out that beneath all my princely bravado there’s nothing substantial and he’s going to run and then you have to come and pick up the pieces,” he says, only half-kidding.

They reach the outbuilding with the dressing rooms and Gwaine holds open the door for Arthur. “I’m happy for you, Princess. Just don’t fuck up. You don’t want someone real like that to get away, do you?”

Arthur grits his teeth and is saved from having to answer by Gwaine spotting another polo player from their team by the lockers, taking off his knee pads. “Good match!” he yells and pounds over like an overexcited puppy, his long hair flopping, leaving Arthur to quietly start to remove his knee pads as well. He takes out his sports bag and puts his gear inside, before exchanging his riding boots for more comfortable loafers.

Later at the buffet, Arthur makes dutiful small talk.

“I heard a rumour you have settled down with someone?” Countess Elena Wellington addresses him over hors d’oeuvres. “You should be ashamed to make us all realise we never stood a chance,” she grins playfully, shoving a canape loaded with cream cheese and cress sprouts into her mouth.

“Elena,” Arthur says patiently and reaches for a salmon-topped scone, “you never stood a chance anyway because you’re female.”

She snorts out unladylike laughter, horse-like and too loud, making heads turn and Arthur grins as he bites into his scone, horseradish flaking off the top and spilling onto his white breeches.

“It’s true then. I saw the photos—he looks like quite a catch. Beautiful eyes. Perfect cheekbones,” she says and reaches around him for a tiny raspberry baiser.

Arthur smiles dutifully but doesn’t comment, wondering how many more people will congratulate him on getting with Merlin. It feels horrible accepting congratulations when it’s all fake anyway. He’d rather someone told him that Merlin, an obvious commoner, was beneath him and Arthur should be looking somewhere else to sow his wild seeds, but so far, everyone has only commented favorably about Merlin, calling him handsome and kind-looking and respectable.

They’ve been fake-dating for three weeks now, having had three dinners resulting in press coverage, the kind of press coverage that’s hardly exciting or scandalous, but gives just enough exposure that people talk. It should feel like work, going on fake-dates, but the only thing feeling like work is getting ready in the evening and letting his chauffeur take him to whatever high-end restaurant the Royal Communication Office has picked out this time. The moment he sits down at their table and Merlin starts talking, telling Arthur about his day and his new account or moaning about the elaborately titled menu options, tension leaks out of Arthur’s body and he forgets all about the ruse they are playing.

With surprise he notes that he enjoys Merlin’s company, which is simultaneously comforting and familiar as well as astonishingly entertaining. Merlin’s dry wit shines even more when he’s not pretending to hold back and he has a way with words that catches Arthur unaware.

Arthur makes another round of the buffet, shaking hands as he goes, making more small talk. There are several more comments on the articles that have surfaced over the last couple of weeks, and he reacts the way he was briefed to: not saying anything outright, but letting people believe they are onto something, gracefully accepting their well wishes for his new relationship.

Later, when he’s driven back to his apartment, he pulls out his phone and opens his messages.

To my Significant Bother: Everyone thinks you’re quite the catch. They clearly don’t know you, he types, sending a winky grin to soften his words.

My friends are asking me if I’ve gone mad , is Merlin’s quick and instant reply. They also think you must be great in bed, because it obviously can’t be your charming personality

I hope you’re telling them I’m absolutely blowing your mind

Arthur watches the three little dots indicating that Merlin is typing, but no message comes through. It must be the longest answer in history, because the three dots keep appearing and vanishing for what feels like an eternity, before Merlin’s answer is finally sent.

In your fantasies

It somehow feels thrilling to know that it took Merlin all of three minutes to come up with that short retort and Arthur stares at his phone screen, his stomach squirming, wondering what it was Merlin had wanted to say in the first place and chickened out of.

The day is lovely and warm, a perfect spring morning with the sun shining, the sky above vast and perfectly blue.

It’s still a work commitment, Arthur reminds himself as he crosses the gravel path to where Merlin is standing in the shade of a tree, his hair curling wildly around his ears, two cups of coffee in his hands as he waits for Arthur to make an appearance.

“When you said you were making sure that the dates became a bit more versatile, I didn’t think you meant nature outings,” Arthur says in lieu of a greeting.

Merlin rolls his eyes and presses a cup of coffee into his hands. “Oh please, it’s Hampstead Heath, it’s not like I’m dragging you all along the 200 odd miles of the Thames Path,” he says good-naturedly, taking a sip from his own coffee, looking much too chipper for 9 a.m. on a Saturday.

They are still in Phase 1 of their planned narrative titled “Clandestine Meetings”. There’s a list of appearances scheduled, perfectly designed to wet the press’ appetite and build up some mystery.

As if any appetite needed wetting, Arthur thinks darkly as he takes in Merlin’s already wind-swept hair, his olive parka and sensible hiking boots and the backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks disgustingly cute, even in casual clothes.

The press has been pretty excited already with what they’ve been given and social media is having a field day speculating about the nature of his and Merlin’s relationship down to very intimate hypothesis about their sex life. Arthur will never understand why people are so interested in who is putting a dick into whom, but there you have it: There are polls and the odds of getting fucked are in Merlin’s favour.

Arthur mutters a soft complaint about it being too early for the sake of it, because he doesn’t want to admit that Merlin hit the nail on the head with his date suggestion, because he loves going on a hike and he wouldn’t have minded the more demanding Thames Path either, and lifts the paper cup to his face, inhaling the fragrant smell of freshly ground coffee.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about anyway, you prat,” Merlin says archly, his mouth doing something funny as he looks at Arthur with a display of mock-displeasure. “The sun is shining, I got you coffee and you get to spend the next three hours enjoying a leisurely stroll with your utterly devoted and—if I may quote the Daily Mail—‘uncommonly attractive boyfriend’.”

“Don’t twist the facts,” Arthur grins, taking a sip from his coffee, a small moan spilling from his lips at the taste. No sugar and just the right amount of cinnamon, Merlin got it just right. “The papers called you ‘uncommonly attractive despite absurdly large ears’.”

“I stand by my ears, and you should support them, too,” Merlin quips and Arthur can’t help himself as he reaches out and flicks the body part in question, delighted when Merlin jumps back, flailing and almost spilling his coffee.

“Don’t touch them!” he hisses, glaring at Arthur.

“As your fake royal boyfriend I claim them. For England,” Arthur says mock-earnestly.

“England can bite my arse, it doesn’t get my ears,” Merlin growls and reaches up with his free hand to rub his earlobe. “They are sensitive, okay?” he mutters, and there’s heat creeping up his face as he ducks his head, his thumb and index finger still soothing the place where Arthur’s fingers flicked him.

“Arse biting but no ear touching, duly noted,” Arthur replies, his voice coming out a bit hoarse, because he has a sudden vision of blowing softly into the shell of Merlin’s ear, wondering what kind of reaction that would get him. It’s surprisingly easy to imagine Merlin shuddering and squeezing his eyes shut as his breathing speeds up. He would most certainly moan if Arthur dipped his tongue there, trailed it around—

Merlin rolls his eyes, makes a face and presses a backpack that had so far been resting on the ground next to his feet into Arthur’s hands. “Come on, we better get moving. We have a rendezvous with the photographers on Poet’s Lane.”

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, curiously, weighing the bag in his hand, glad for the distraction from his suddenly straying erotic thoughts.

“A picnic blanket and food for our romantic picnic on Parliament Hill,” Merlin says.

“I usually have people carrying these things for me,” Arthur lies just to aggravate Merlin, letting the backpack dangle from his fingers like it’s dirt. It’s worth it to watch Merlin’s massive eyeroll.

“If by people you mean me, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Arthur exhales a long-suffering sigh and hefts the backpack on his back. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You certainly don’t,” Merlin grins at him, slapping a friendly hand onto his chest. “At the end of the hike, there’s awesome food and you get to look pretty rolling around in the grass with that ‘uncommonly attractive boyfriend’ of yours.”

“Stop making promises you can’t keep,” Arthur mutters darkly, and Merlin snorts out laughter while he starts walking backwards, away from Arthur and down the gravel path. He’s looking much too cheerful and chipper, a wide grin splayed over his features, his blue eyes sparkling. The sun is warm on Arthur’s back and reluctantly, Arthur has to admit to himself that he’s going to enjoy the date. He can almost forget the presence of his Royal Protection Officer, hovering a hundred meters away, pretending to be invisible.

When Arthur finally gets his feet going, Merlin grins even wider and waits up for him until they are walking side by side.

The weather is pretty perfect and they walk through meadows and along nature paths. There are some other hikers underway, but most of them aren’t giving them a second glance. They walk towards the ponds, where bathers are courageously braving the cold water, unperturbed by the early spring chill still lingering in the air. Further on they follow a country lane, heavily shaded by trees and foliage. Arthur breathes in the fresh air and admits that he’s quite enjoying himself. He rarely gets to be out of the palace and while he likes to exercise and keep fit, he mostly does so in his home fitness studio that is equipped with everything anyone could want and comes with his own personal fitness coach. He forgot how soothing nature is and how good it feels to have the sun on his face and listen to the sounds of wildlife.

Next to him, Merlin has been chatting almost constantly, going on about Hampstead Heath like someone forced him to read a tour booklet in preparation for their outing, blabbing on about Keats and Coleridge and their impact on English literature.

“When it comes to the romanticists, I much prefer William Blake to Keats though. Blake was a visionary, a rebel, a very modern thinker, he was much more interesting than Keats and his mainly sensory writing.”

“Keats was only 25 when he died. Who would know what he could have achieved had he had more time,” Arthur suggests, and Merlin stops walking and turns towards him, his brows drawn together in a small frown.

“Are we really talking about poetry?” Merlin demands to know, swiping a hand through his thick, dark hair, pushing the curls back behind his ears.

“Yeah?” Arthur snorts. “You started it, if I remember correctly, blubbering about Byron and his dislike of Keats.”

“You’ve read Keats?” Merlin asks in the same tone of voice, sounding wondrous and slightly disbelieving.

“And Coleridge. And Byron. And Blake. And a couple of other poets. I’m not a heathen.”

“No, you’re the Prince of Wales,” Merlin says slowly, looking at him with a critical eye.

“Believe it or not, I actually went to school like everyone else. My favourite poet is T.S.Eliot by the way.”

“He’s not even British!”

“So?” Arthur shrugs at him and grins broadly.

“You should feel ashamed about that literary choice. If they ask you that officially, at least have the grace to suggest Dylan Thomas or Ted Hughes,” Merlin says in mock-indignation.

“Because I’m a royal and should be proud of my country’s achievements?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow and looking expectantly at Merlin.

“Yes. Although, you’re really just a giant turniphead. The crown seems accidental.”

Arthur can’t help the burst of delighted laughter. He probably shouldn’t enjoy being sassed by Merlin, but God help him, he does.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I think Keats is pretty boring, too,” Arthur admits.

“We don’t want boring,” Merlin suggests, looking at Arthur like he has never seen him before, his eyes lit up happily.

“No, we don’t want boring.”

“Never boring,” Merlin confirms once more, his voice soft, then starts as his phone vibrates so loudly in his backpack that they can both hear it over the sound of birdsong. “Oh,” he says. “It’s the pap alert.”

Arthur snorts out laughter at Merlin’s matter of fact words.

“Time to look madly in love,” Merlin adds, and there’s an odd look in his eyes, but it’s gone in a second and Merlin starts walking again, returning to his conversation about Blake and his Songs of Innocence and Experience.

Contrary to earlier, the conversation doesn’t flow naturally, because they are both aware that ahead will be photographers with high-profile cameras and close-up lenses and the pressure suddenly feels stifling. This is not a real date, the thought cements itself home in Arthur’s head. I could never have a real date, another thought follows.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing his shoulder against Merlin’s, who has become uncommonly still and tense beside him. “Don’t look so sour. Everyone will think we had a fight.”

“It’s just hard if you know that someone is waiting to snap an unfortunate pap shot of you,” Merlin says lowly, reluctantly.

“I know,” Arthur agrees, because he does, he really does. It’s his life, all the time. For the first time, he wonders how Merlin is holding up, suddenly being in the spotlight, his private life dissected, his face on every morning paper, every gossip magazine speculating about the nature of his relationship with the Prince of Wales. He thinks of the pap shots that will result from their outing at Hampstead Heath, can almost see the headlines and the pictures they will pick.

Something occurs to him, and the words tumble from his lips before he can hold them back.

“Hey, should we hold hands?” he suggests, his finger brushing lightly against Merlin’s as they walk.

The look Merlin bestows upon him is one of surprise. “You want to hold hands?” he cautiously asks, his eyes wide.

“It’ll look good in the photos, no? Because isn’t this what lovers do when they take a walk?” Arthur asks hesitantly, and why is he suddenly so nervous?

Merlin studies him for a long moment, before he glances away, watching his feet as they walk, before his gaze returns to Arthur’s face, contemplative. “Okay,” he says softly and licks his lips, and just like that reaches for Arthur’s hand, slipping his fingers between Arthur’s.

The touch travels through Arthur like a lightning bolt. In his hand, Merlin’s fingers are warm and solid.

“Good,” Arthur croaks, awkward and hoarse. It’s a relief when Merlin starts talking again.

“I can’t wait for the picnic. Not only am I hungry, but my backpack is heavy. I was told it is full of your favourite food, Your Royal Highness,” he says conversationally. The way Arthur’s title slips from his lips is odd—his tone partly mocking, partly fond.

“I’m pretty sure that isn’t true,” Arthur sighs, terribly conscious of Merlin’s hand in his. “If the Royal Food and Beverage Management planned our picnic basket, I’m pretty sure my favourite food isn’t in there.”

Next to him, Merlin laughs and looks at him with a startled, amused frown. “What, don’t they know what you like?”

Arthur halts his step, the movement tugging on Merlin’s arm and jerking him to face him. “My favourite food is döner,” he reveals like divulging a sordid secret, knowing he’s probably wearing a much too earnest expression considering the banal topic. His struggle with the food and beverage management is real, though. Real and ongoing.

Merlin bites his bottom lips, looking way too amused, his eyes twinkling, before he can’t hold it in anymore and hollers out a laugh. “Let me guess, you don’t get that from the royal kitchen.”

“No,” Arthur moans, and his plight makes Merlin laugh even more. “But I really like döner. With lamb and lettuce and lots of spices and garlic sauce. Really a crazy amount of spices. The royal kitchen is pretty plain. I like it hot. Tongue tingling hot. Burn-your-mouth-and-make-you-cry hot.”

Merlin is still grinning, his mouth stretched wide, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You think the food from the royal kitchen is boring,” he guesses.

“Horribly boring,” Arthur admits with a grimace.

“We don’t want boring,” Merlin echoes their earlier conversation and Arthur rolls his eyes in fond amusement.

Merlin smiles back and squeezes his hand almost absentmindedly. “I guess that’s our next date then. I’ll take you to the hottest döner food truck in London.”

“That sounds pretty good, actually, as far as dates go,” Arthur admits and starts walking, tugging Merlin along.

“I know this döner truck in Shoreditch. It has these tiny bottles of sharp chili sauce you can choose from. It’s graded from ‘just plain hot’ to ‘meat your maker’,” Merlin suggests, swinging Arthur’s arm as he walks. It’s a peculiar sensation, but it’s somehow nice.

“That sounds awesome,” is all Arthur says, and it makes Merlin snort with laughter again. It’s a pretty great sound and Arthur finds he’s enjoying himself a lot.

And really, it’s no wonder: It’s a beautiful day, the weather is perfect and suddenly, the obligation to hold hands with a handsome and entertaining bloke and pretend to be in love isn’t that difficult to achieve.

“Ugh,” Morgana mock-retches, tossing the morning paper onto Arthur’s empty plate as he sits down for breakfast. “What did you do? Call Merchant Ivory and ask them to write the script for your disgustingly sweet, gay spring romance?”

“Hah,” Arthur fake-laughs and rolls his eyes, briefly glancing up at his sister, who, despite the early hour, looks perfectly made up and is dressed for the day ahead in a chic dark green pantsuit, her hair bound into a sleek ponytail. He reaches for the paper, blinking at the spread of photographs on the double page in front of him.

It’s like he expected, but seeing it printed in the morning paper is something entirely different. The spread shows several photographs taken yesterday in Hampstead Heath: Arthur and Merlin walking hand in hand down Poet’s Lane and a couple of shots from their picnic on the meadow of Parliament Hill. For pap shots, some of them are really great, but then the Communication Office made sure to tip off contacts who could deliver high quality content. It’s probably the picnic shots that roused Morgana’s comment and Arthur admits they might be a bit misleading.

There are shots of both of them sitting cross-legged and facing each other, eating sandwiches, and they look content and in a splendid mood, but there’s also a shot of Arthur with his head pillowed on Merlin’s legs and well—it does indeed look like every romantic scene in every romantic movie ever made.

“There was nothing romantic about it, he was tossing mixed pickles at my head,” Arthur protests, remembering fighting with Merlin about the last of the pickles. It might have resulted in a bit of a tussle that ended with Arthur’s head on Merlin’s thigh and pickle pieces stuck in Arthur’s hair. Admittedly, it had been hilarious.

“Uh-huh,” Morgana says with that disbelieving tone of hers, sitting down in her chair opposite of Arthur at the breakfast table. “It’s totally not romantic that you cuddled on a picnic blanket.”

“We didn’t cuddle!” Arthur defends himself, inflicting the heinous word with as much disdain as possible.

Morgana quirks an eye, her mouth tugged into a little grin. “Right,” she quips and reaches forward to grab a freshly toasted bun from the basket.

There’s silence for a moment as Morgana butters her toasted bun, but Arthur knows his sister too well to really think she has dropped the topic and he’s confirmed when she looks up to reach for the raspberry jam, her expression sly.

“You are far better off than me. I just go to rehab therapy, you cuddle a cutie in public. It’s not really fair you got the good deal out of the two of us,” she says deceptively conversationally, slathering her bun deliberately with jam.

“It’s not like it’s not work,” Arthur defends himself - for what, he doesn’t know - realising he’s still holding the paper and looking at the picture spread. With a disgusted snort, he tosses the paper onto the table and reaches for the platter with eggs, mushroom and bacon to serve himself.

“Such hard work,” Morgana agrees and bites into her bun, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “It must be awful spending time with a hot bloke who pretends he’s madly in love with you,” she murmurs, licking crumbs off her lips.

Arthur feels his nose twitch at her tone and her words and he busies himself loading his plate, carefully not looking at her. That’s just it. It’s all pretend.

“Why don’t you fake-date him?” he asks snappishly, stabbing at a mushroom with his fork with maybe more aggression than under-spiced breakfast food deserves.

“Oh, would you go to therapy for me?” She grins at him over the table and Arthur is tempted to flick a piece of bean in tomato sauce at her.

“No, thank you.”

Arthur forks up some of his beans, freshly cooked from scratch,—and why he can’t just have a heated can of Heinz from the kitchen is beyond his understanding. He watches half of them drip back down onto his plate, dropping back into the runny tomato sauce.

He thinks of Merlin asking him about his favourite foods and laughing when he picked bits of pickle out of Arthur’s hair. Morgana is right, he wouldn’t want to trade places with her. Spending time with Merlin is definitely more enjoyable than sitting in therapy for having done coke once or twice. In fact, spending time with Merlin is actually a lot better than a lot of things. Except…

“At least you’ve not signed a contract that states that you won’t have sexual relations with anyone for the next six months, so as not to endanger this ridiculous fake boyfriend plan,” Arthur growls, dropping his fork into his baked beans and pushing the plate away.

“You did not…” Morgana says slowly, and when Arthur raises his eyes, she’s looking at him, genuine surprise written on her pale face.

When he doesn’t say anything, just keeps glaring at her, she snorts out a startled laugh. “Oh my God, this is priceless!”

“I was practically forced at gunpoint!” Arthur growls, and Morgana laughs again, the traitor, her green eyes sparkling.

“Don’t be such an overdramatic bitch,” she replies, rolling her eyes at him.

She bites into her bun again, then halts mid-chew like something only now occurred to her and wrinkles her nose. “Do you think they made Merlin sign one, too?”

The thought never occurred to him, but when he contemplates Merlin signing away his love life he feels both guilty and strangely satisfied. At least Merlin isn’t getting any either. And he’s getting paid.

“At least he’s getting financially compensated for not having sex,” he voices aloud.

Morgana hums in agreement, but her mouth is twitching and Arthur just knows the next insolent remark is at the tip of her tongue. “You’re right. Then again, I guess Royal Finances couldn’t have offered him enough money to actually sleep with you.”

Arthur narrows his eyes and glares at his sister, who is way too amused by her own—disputable—wit.

“Poor you,” she offers, refusing to be intimidated by his glare. “you should ask for compensation for your poor, neglected dick. However will it survive if you can’t put it into every twink with just one braincell you meet?”

“I’m not—” he starts hotly, but she silences him by saying, “Oh come on, Arthur, that’s exactly why you’re suffering this ridiculous fake boyfriend plot.”

“Sex is easy, but relationships aren’t,” Arthur defends himself, knowing he’s probably looking stormy by how he can feel his forehead tighten with frustration. “Who would want to date me, anyway, with all the baggage! You of all people should know how it is!”, he continues, maybe a bit too forcefully.

Morgana bites her lips and sighs, then lowers her half-eaten bun and carefully places it on her plate, before wiping her sticky fingers on a napkin.

“Even so, you’re much too clever to spend your valuable time with dumb himbos,” she says, frowning at him with exasperation.

“I’m not clamoring for a relationship, so it’s not important if they’re clever. It’s not like I want to hold a conversation about philosophy or art or literature…” Arthur trails off, frowning at the tabletop.

Morgana, heedless of the way Arthur’s thoughts are straying, is reaching for the yoghurt, laddeling some into a bowl. “Actually holding a conversation with someone might do you some good,” she suggests. “You might get to know someone without ruining your chance by proposing sex first.”

There’s another insult hidden in her words, but Arthur’s thoughts have drifted to all the little moments that made him enjoy the day at Hampstead Heath. He had always appreciated Merlin’s company, even when Merlin had been acting mostly annoyed with him, rolling his eyes and muttering thinly veiled insults under his breath on several occasions. But Merlin, contrary to a lot of people Arthur met, was smart and witty and it was a big bonus that he didn’t defer to Arthur ever, saying exactly what he meant, without tip-toeing around as if Arthur was a raw egg or a keg full of dynamite about to explode at the slightest provocation.

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t do dates,” Arthur mutters and gets up, not hungry anymore, the chair scraping back as he does so. “It’s like I’m trapped in a sexless marriage.”

“Maybe you can pick up meditation. Or tantric yoga. Or throw yourself into a hobby? Crocheting? Embroidery? I heard needle felting is all the rage right now…”

“Have a great therapy session, sis,” he says, enjoying the look of utter disdain coming upon her face at his words.

“Why do you hate me so?” she asks, mock-wounded, pressing a hand over her heart and fluttering her eyelashes at him doe-like.

Arthur blows her a kiss, not deeming her words worthy of an answer, before walking away from the breakfast table.

“When will I meet him?” Mithian asks during one of their bi-weekly phone conversations, sounding excited. “You’re going to bring him to my wedding, aren’t you?”

Arthur suppresses his sigh, glad that she can’t see his facial expression, and dips his head back against the backrest of his couch to stare up at the ceiling and the rosette moulding around the chandelier.

Mithian is Arthur’s third cousin twice removed, but apart from their familial connection, which is hardly surprising because Arthur is related to every single royal family in Europe in some way or the other, they’ve also been friends ever since meeting as kids at Mithian’s aunt’s wedding in Fredericksburg. He and Mithian had hit it off right away, because they had been hideously bored and it had been hilarious pulling faces at each other behind their parents’ backs. Their rapport is easy and comfortable and next to Leon, she’s probably Arthur’s best friend, even though the distance between them prevents them from seeing each other in person often.

“We’re not official yet. You know as well as I do that once you go public, there’s no privacy left,” he mutters, rolling his neck on the backrest to get out the kinks that have settled there from a long day of meetings and consultations with his father’s stuffy advisors.

“If Gareth can take it, so can Merlin,” Mithian says and Arthur can hear the grin in her voice. “My soon-to-be-husband is notoriously unsuited to be a public figure.”

Arthur thinks of Gareth, Mithian’s commoner fiancé with a heart of gold and the look of a typical northern himbo - tall, blond, and wide-eyed - and snorts. “Gareth is too besotted with you, he’d do anything you asked of him. If the monarchy wanted him to wear a pink tutu for official functions, he would, just to stand by your side.”

“I know,” Mithian sighs with happy exaggeration. “He would look lovely in a pink tutu.”

Laughing, Arthur sits upright and pulls his legs up to sit in a cross-legged position. “You could make him wear it for the wedding perhaps.”

“On our honeymoon,” Mithian suggests, sounding delighted and mischievous.

“Please, I don’t want to know what you two get up to in the bedroom,” Arthur whines, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.

She giggles and he can almost see her laughing eyes and impish smile in front of him. “Don’t distract me,” she chides him. “You still need to promise me that you’ll bring Merlin to my wedding. He looks really dreamy in the pictures I’ve seen and besides wanting to ogle him, I also need to grill him on his intentions.”

“Dreamy?” Arthur snorts in disbelief, thinking of last night’s date and Merlin’s clumsy fumbling with the cutlery, resulting in the spillage of a glass of white wine. Merlin’s embarrassed flush had been delightful though, his cheeks pink and eyes wide, but Arthur didn’t consider him dreamy then.

“If he’s only half as gorgeous as he looks in those pics of you at the picnic Morgana sent me…”

“His ears are huge though, aren’t they?” Arthur blurts out, desperate for people to stop telling him how they think Merlin is beautiful/perfect for him/the best thing that ever happened to Arthur/a real catch.

On the other side, Mithian laughs, a carefree, musical sound. “They are prominent, yes, but you know what they say about people with large ears…” she teases, her voice dropping to a naughty cadence.

“I’m quite sure they say that about people with large noses,” Arthur grumbles, and Mithian laughs again.

“Never mind. Just tell me - do you enjoy being with him? Is he making you laugh?” she asks, and she sounds soft and fond now. “Is he telling you off when you’re being a fool? Does he get you mad like no one else can?”

Arthur bites his lips, worrying them with his teeth, desperately quelling the urge to come clean to her. He wants to blurt out that it’s all fake, that Merlin is getting paid to pretend to be in love with him, that nothing about this is real and Arthur is as lonely as ever. He wants to tell Mithian about how Merlin confuses the hell out of him, how for some unfathomable reason he feels closer to Merlin than anyone else in a long time, how he’s been guiltily jerking off to thoughts of Merlin’s long-fingered hands on him last night because playing pretend is wrought with many intimate and upsettingly sexy moments, but in the end the only thing that comes out is a defeated, “Yes. Yes he does.”

Mithian squeals in delight, causing him to pull the phone from his ear quickly. “Awww, I’m so happy for you.”

There’s a knock on the door and Arthur looks up to find his father standing in the open doorway, unannounced, a serious expression on his face.

“Mith, I got to go,” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows at his father to ask for a little patience, “let’s talk more another time.”

They say their good-byes and Arthur nods at his father to step forward, watching as he crosses the room to Arthur’s sitting arrangements. Since becoming King, Uther has lost some weight, the long meetings and late nights taking their toll on him, but surprisingly, it makes him look sharper, more focused. He carefully places a folder on the coffee table in front of Arthur and sits down on the edge of the ottoman.

“You forgot the briefing,” he says with that carefully neutral air that tells Arthur that Uther knows exactly that Arthur left the folder behind on purpose when he left their last joint meeting for today.

Arthur clears his throat and puts his phone down on the coffee table, right next to the folder. “Thank you,” he says just as neutrally, but refuses to pick up the folder. Inside are five carefully prepared concepts for Arthur to choose from; five focus points for his future stint as a working royal, ranging from public healthcare to literacy in children and Arthur is expected to settle with one to pursue in the future. One of them is a topic close to his heart, a suggestion to turn his interest in environmental activism into his focus as a working royal. It’s a sensible idea, a logical idea even, but Arthur doesn’t want to use his real concerns for the environment to polish up his image. It’s not why he’s doing what he does and he had left the meeting angry and affronted, feeling like nobody was taking him seriously.

Uther’s jaw works for a moment as he silently regards him, before his posture relaxes and he exhales a breath. “Arthur,” he says, sounding exasperated, carding a hand through his graying hair, “they expect you to take a pick. It’s not that difficult. Pick a cause, any cause, so Royal Communication can do their work.”

Pursing his lips, Arthur shifts on the couch and digs his teeth hard into his bottom lip, pondering his words before he finally answers, opting for honesty.

“I don’t want to have to pick anything,” he says, unfolding his legs out from under him and sitting up taller. “I don’t want to publicly stand for a cause that means nothing personal to me!”

“Then pick the cause that means something to you!”, it bursts out of Uther in a bout of pent-up frustration.

His father looks furious now, and Arthur feels his heartbeat accelerate with stubborn anger in return. “I can’t! It will mean nothing. People will see me as the royal who polishes up his image with talk about climate change,” Arthur huffs, frustrated.

“If you don’t choose, I will,” Uther growls. “I expect you to announce your choice tomorrow morning.” Brute force is his father’s typical response if he can’t get Arthur to do something by his own free will.

Arthur clenches his jaw and presses his mouth shut, knowing that his father is ultimately right - they won’t let him get away with it - but he’s torn between the limited choices at his disposal. For a while they stare at each other, Uther fuming quietly and visibly disappointed by Arthur’s stubborness, before Uther gets up and reaches for the folder, slapping it against Arthur’s chest.

“Just pick one,” he urges, giving Arthur another stern look before turning on his heel, leaving Arthur frustrated and feeling helpless. Uther doesn’t slam the door shut, but his exit is forceful and final.

“Fuck this,” Arthur huffs, flinging the folder across the room, before throwing himself back down onto his saggy couch, feeling the strain in his shoulders travel up to his neck, a perfect start for a tension headache.

Chapter Text

OK Magazine, April 29

Prince Arthur’s new hottie: Is the Prince settling down?

Yesterday evening, the Prince of Wales was seen exiting Tate Modern and taking a stroll at South Banks towards The Globe, accompanied once more by PR executive Merlin Emrys.
The pair walked all the way to Borough Market, where they shared a couple of small plates at Brindisa Kitchen Bar, sitting at the counter. The Prince seemed to be in a splendid mood as they ordered a couple of spicy tapas.

“They were teasing each other and laughing a lot,” one of the kitchen staff revealed. “The Prince seemed to be besotted with Mr. Emrys. They were very much behaving like a couple in love.”

Emrys has been seen in the Prince’s company quite a lot these days, but both the Royal Communication Office and Emrys himself have not given any comment on their frequent outings. Despite the lack of official commentary, the question begs to be asked: Is the Prince finally settling down or is Emrys just another notch in the royal bedpost?

If anyone would ask Merlin what dating the Prince of Wales is really like and he were allowed to tell the truth, he would probably sum up the experience with ‘exhausting’. It’s suddenly being famous, not for something he has done, but someone he’s supposedly doing (there’s a joke in there, but Merlin fails to see the humour). He had to change his phone number because it got posted on the internet and he had gotten numerous calls where people asked him brazenly how Arthur was in bed or if he could get them an audience with the King like it’s the 1500s.

It’s long evenings out with one of the most challenging people Merlin has the pleasure of knowing instead of lazing around in front of his telly.

It’s sitting around on a Sunday afternoon in a ridiculously luxurious cabana on the lawn of Cowdray Park Polo Club in a light blue summer suit, two cabanas down from the King, trying to look smart and sophisticated and not completely out of his depth, while on the field, Arthur and his team of three equally elitist looking young men are preparing to go after a small ball on ridiculously expensive and just as elitist looking ponies.

The sun is shining and it’s a lovely day, but Merlin would rather be doing something, anything, else than sitting around and trying to look like he belongs. The whole day so far has been overwhelming: They arrived via helicopter, something which had reminded Merlin that he was afraid of heights and didn’t feel comfortable being up in the air at all. There was a quick second breakfast in a separate dining room at the Polo Club’s VIP lounge together with the King and Morgana, during which Uther politely asked Merlin all sorts of questions about his work with Doctors Without Borders and Merlin was barely able to eat his sandwich, too nervous and strung out and terribly afraid to make a fool of himself by spilling orange juice on the pristine white table cloth or soiling his new suit with mayonnaise.

Afterwards, he was ushered off to the cabana, while Arthur went to change and meet his fellow players before the game.

Someone had the foresight to allow Merlin to invite friends of his own, so he wouldn’t be sitting around awkwardly without knowing anyone, and that’s why Merlin took Gwen with him, who in turn needled Merlin for so long that he arranged for Lance to tag along as well.

It’s a relief to see some friendly faces and contrary to him, Gwen and Lance seem to be excited to be here. Then again, they don’t have to perform for the public. Gwen is wearing a summer dress the colour of eggshell and a hat with a wide brim, while Lance looks relaxed but sophisticated in a beige linen suit. They both are chatting excitedly, craning their necks to look at the people in the other cabanas as they try to get glimpses of the major and minor celebrities attending the polo match.

Meanwhile, Merlin is fidgeting on the cushions of the outdoor sofa, feeling like his limbs belong to someone else and sweating in his suit, nervous energy making him jiggle his leg. He feels like all eyes are on him and every move he makes poses an invitation for judgement.

He’s been under permanent observation since starting to fake-date Arthur. It’s been like this whenever he’s somewhere together with Arthur and, more worryingly so, it’s been happening more and more when he’s out on his own. If he likes it or not, just fake-dating the Prince of Wales has made him a minor celebrity. People have been buying him extra espresso shots at Starbucks or asking to take a picture with him (both of which he has been declining so far), but not every encounter has been pleasant. He has been called everything from a fool to a whore and once an old woman spat at his feet for ‘single handedly bringing down the British monarchy’.

His nerves only get worse when they are joined in their cabana by Leon, wild-haired and tall, one of Arthur’s life-long friends and the son of one of Uther’s best friends at the Royal Naval College and Gwaine Green, of all people.

Gwaine and Leon introduce themselves to Lance and Gwen, before taking a seat in their cabana.

“Merlin, my friend,” Gwaine says jovially and slaps a hearty hand on Merlin’s shoulder as he falls down in the seat next to him.

“Gwaine,” Merlin answers stiltedly, unsure of how to react to Gwaine’s friendly greeting. They haven’t seen each other in weeks, maybe months, and certainly not since Arthur and Merlin started fake-dating, and even before that, they hadn’t really interacted much, considering that Merlin was just a PR person accidentally tagging along.

“Ahh, cheer up,” Gwaine grins, slinging an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Your boy is out there on the field and he’s going to kill it.”

Merlin scrunches his nose, because it’s ridiculous that someone would call His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur of Wales, Merlin’s ‘boy’. Gwaine doesn’t seem to realise that Merlin is uncomfortable, but reaches for his drink, all but pulling Merlin against him like they are the best of friends.

“I must say, when I heard the news that you were brave enough to go out with Arthur, the first thing I did was congratulate him,” Gwaine comments, taking a sip from his glass of sparkling water. While Merlin still tries to find out if Gwaine is mocking him or being genuine, the other man keeps talking, sinking back into the sofa.

“We both know he isn’t the easiest person to date—not only because he’s a bloody royal—” at that Gwaine winks at him, “but because he’s an idiot and he doesn’t deserve you, which you well know, but I’m really happy for him, and if he ever does something stupid and you feel like breaking up with him, come to me first and I’ll set his stupid head right, all right?”

There’s so much going on in that sentence that it takes Merlin what feels like ages to get the gist of it.

Licking his lips nervously, he gently puts a bit of space between Gwaine and himself, half-turning to gauge the expression on Gwaine’s stupidly handsome face. If Gwaine is being insincere, he’s a very good actor, because his eyes are shining and he looks genuinely excited to be here with Merlin.

“Okay,” is what he finally says, and Gwaine tosses his wild mane of shampoo-commercial hair back and laughs, showing a row of pearly whites.

“Are you conspiring against His Royal Highness?” Leon asks from across the table, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Absolutely!” Gwaine answers, and Leon laughs just as uproariously and claps his hands together with glee.

“Shouldn’t you be giving Merlin the ‘hurt-him-and-you’re-dead talk’?” Gwen interjects their hilarity, looking from Leon to Gwaine with interest.

There’s a moment where both Gwaine and Leon seem to consider her words, before they snort out laughter again.

“No,” Leon says, grinning widely, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If Arthur’s going to ruin the first good relationship he’s had in years, we’re going to go to town on his arse.”

Merlin feels the blush rise on his cheeks, because apparently, Gwaine and Leon don’t know that they’re faking it, and it’s strange hearing them say he’s Arthur’s good relationship. There’s a bit of guilt creeping in too, knowing he’s lying to Arthur’s best friends.

He’s still trying to will his embarrassment down, when a waiter steps up to their table and takes drink and food orders. Leon and Gwaine order an insane amount of food for the whole table: a charcuterie selection, different pâtés, caviar and macarons as well as a bottle of champagne.

“Who is going to eat all that!” Gwen laughs when they have finished placing their order.

“You haven’t seen Arthur after a match,” Leon grins. “He eats like a pig.”

“Merlin can help him get rid of the extra calories, I’m sure,” Gwaine quips, jabbing an elbow into Merlin’s side.

“Hah!” Lance, who has been silent so far, says, but is silenced by twin-glares from Gwen and Merlin. He widens his eyes and hastens to stammer, “I mean, Merlin is obviously very talented in getting rid of extra calories.”

“Seriously?” Gwen wheezes, and Lance blanches even more under her withering gaze, his usual olive skin taking on a sickly hue. “I meant because he’s so thin…” he stage-whispers, but not quietly enough.

“Just shut up!” Gwen and Merlin both hiss, to the amusement of Leon and Gwaine, who are chortling like two lunatics once more at Lance’s foot-in-mouth moment.

The waiter returns with more sparkling water and the champagne and Gwaine presses a glass into Merlin’s hand with a wink. On the field, all the riders are lining up and the commentator introduces them.

“Look at your boyfriend!” Gwaine crows. “He’s so hot!”

Taking a sip from his glass, Merlin follows Gwaine’s line of sight to where Arthur is riding off to his start position after his rather modest introduction—apparently, there are no titles on the polo field. Merlin has to admit that his arse looks fantastic in his white polo breeches and there’s something to be said about the allure of knee-high boots and knee guards. He bites his lip, flushing, chafed at himself for finding himself staring at the very nicely featured body part in question. It’s no secret that Arthur is handsome and he has a natural talent for movement, making his motions look fluid and elegant. Also, really, the trousers hug him in all the right places and Merlin’s just a man. A very gay man.

Stop it, Merlin silently chastens himself, and he busies himself with picking up his glass again, noticing that Gwaine has topped it off already.

The match starts and soon Merlin figures that polo isn’t a sport he’s particularly interested in. It seems dull—a constant fray of horses pushing against each other, while the players swing their mallets at the ball. Sometimes, one of the players and their horse break free and there’s a bit of movement across the field until horses and players are locked in another confusing melee of horse legs and dangerously swung mallets.

Leon and Gwaine are commentating the game, something that sounds like they are talking in a different language altogether and surprisingly, Lance is seemingly able to hold his ground, saying things like, “what a typey horse” and “great neck shot” and “he’s outhorsed, what a shame” to fervent agreement of the other two men.

“What the hell is going on with him?” Merlin whispers, leaning forward over the table to Gwen, who’s snacking on olives and cheese squares. He never took Lance for being interested in polo.

She grins and ducks her head, leaning forward as well. “He was so nervous about this, he apparently read like twenty articles on polo to get the lingo right.”

“He has no idea what he’s talking about, does he?” Merlin asks with amusement, and Gwen shakes her head and snorts out pearly laughter.

“It’s terribly cute, right?” she grins, glancing sideways at Lance with a besotted look that’s so obvious that Merlin isn’t sure how Lance hasn’t been able to catch on by now. The thought occurs that Lance isn’t interested, but he has seen Lance look at Gwen the same way Gwen has been looking at Lance throughout their work meetings whenever Gwen hasn’t been looking his way, so it’s probably more a case of ridiculous mutual pining.

The good thing about polo seems to be that the rounds are short. At half time, they join the other spectators out on the pitch for divot stomping, glass in hand, a silly, but admittedly fun practice.

Through the second round of chukkas, Merlin slowly warms to the sport, mostly because the energy is getting more competitive and he also finds himself enjoying the competency Arthur displays as a horse rider and polo player. It’s foolish to feel proud of a fake-boyfriend, but there you have it: Arthur cuts a striking figure on horseback and he’s a good sportsman and it’s easy to cheer and play the part expected of Merlin.

When Arthur’s team ends up winning the game with a score of 5 to 4, the mood in their cabana is ecstatic and Gwaine orders another bottle of champagne in celebration. It’s then that Merlin realises that he definitely hasn’t had enough food for so much champagne in the early afternoon, because he’s already feeling the effects of the alcohol. He reaches for the food instead, even though he’s still nervous and not really hungry, refusing to touch his glass of champagne again and ignoring every attempt of Gwaine to make him pick it up again.

About fifteen minutes after the official statement, Arthur makes an appearance in their cabana to a round of cheers.

He’s ruddy cheeked and sweaty, his hair dishevelled and sticking up in tufts, but he’s practically glowing from within, and Merlin is struck speechless by how very gorgeous he is. He knows this, he has always known this, but with the warm Sunday afternoon light hitting the highlights of Arthur’s hair and his blue eyes sparkling with excitement, it’s difficult to remember that Arthur is also arrogant and spoiled rotten.

“Good job,” Leon greets him, and there’s a round of manly hugs and back claps between Leon and Gwaine and Arthur, before Gwaine steps aside, obviously making way for Arthur to step up to Merlin. There’s an awkward pause in which Arthur shuffles forward and then pauses, looking at Merlin with obvious hesitation.

“Uhm, hi,” Merlin stammers and Arthur bites his lips, seemingly unsure whether to hug him or clasp his hand. It’s horribly awkward, and Merlin is so bad with awkward social situations, so he decides to take action, only it turns out that the only thing his slightly tipsy brain comes up with is to stupidly dart forward and press a kiss to Arthur’s cheek.

“Awwww,” Gwaine coos, and his reaction makes Merlin stumble back, a flush rising on his cheeks so quickly it makes his head spin. In front of him, Arthur looks briefly thrown, his eyes widened, before he seemingly catches himself, a fabricated, sunny smile edging on his features.

Shit, Merlin thinks, he just kissed the Prince of Wales in front of everyone at Cowdray. On the cheek, but nonetheless. He’s pretty sure that there will be snapshots of this moment trending on every social media site in ten minutes or less and he just hopes that Arthur doesn’t look as shell-shocked when Merlin planted one on him as Merlin sure did afterwards. With effort, Merlin prevents himself from full-on-panic and sinks back into the cushions of the cabana, glad when Arthur sits down beside him and bends close to his ear.

“Smile, Merlin,” Arthur hisses.

“I just totally fucked up,” Merlin whispers back, mortified, feeling his face heat up even more.

“That’s why you should keep smiling,” Arthur sing-songs, his warm breath shivering over Merlin’s ear, practicing what he’s preaching by grinning widely at Merlin. His scent invades Merlin’s nostrils and his sense of smell must be champagne-addled as well, because Arthur smells devastatingly good, which is particularly disturbing because he’s soaked with sweat and there’s the faint odour of horse about him.

“Oh God,” Merlin moans softly. “Gaius is going to rip me a new one.”

Against his shoulder, Arthur shrugs carelessly and leans in again. “You only accelerated the very slow pacing of our public courtship, which I should probably thank you for because then it’s over more quickly… Prepare for the official photoshoot any day now.”

Squirming, Merlin tries to subtly shift away from Arthur’s hot proximity. “To think it’s only a kiss on the cheek,” he whimpers, feeling immensely stupid. “But with you, it’s not just a kiss on the cheek, no, it’s like a marriage proposal, it’s—”

Next to him, Arthur tosses his head back and laughs heartily and real. “It was really just a peck—”

“But royal protocol!” Merlin interjects with heartfelt frustration.

“Fuck royal protocol,” Arthur murmurs and rolls his eyes.

“That attitude is the very reason we’re here, together,” Merlin points out, unable to help himself.

“I’d love for you to stop bringing that up.” Arthur’s elbow digs into Merlin’s side none too gently, but when Merlin turns his head to glare at him, Arthur is still grinning.

“What are you two lovebirds whispering about?” Gwaine asks, leaning forward and pressing a glass of champagne into Arthur’s hands.

“We’re not—” Merlin starts, flustered, but Arthur brings his hand down on Merlin’s leg briefly and gently and he snaps his mouth shut, feeling terribly confused all of a sudden. The heat of Arthur’s palm is searing through the fabric of his summer suit and gone all too soon, but it leaves an imprint behind, something he feels long after the touch is gone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Arthur says to Gwaine, and drains his glass of champagne.

Merlin was right, predicting that he would have a stern talking to after what he himself likes to think of as ‘a lamentable incident’. Two days later, he’s sitting in the Royal Communications Office at Buckingham Palace in the smaller of the two meeting rooms, first receiving a dressing down, then having to explain himself, before the sour elderly woman from Royal Protocol reinforces his briefing of sensible behaviour in public when dating a royal.

Next to Merlin, Gaius sits with his arms crossed over his chest, a disapproving look on his face, the corners of his mouth tucked down while his eyebrows are arching high, unable to keep his expression neutral.

“We’ve decided to move forward, considering the recent press coverage,” the Head of Royal Communications says sternly, steepling his fingers on the oak desk in front of him. He’s an elderly man in an old-fashioned suit and stiff vest, a noble with the name of Geoffrey of Monmouth, with the looks of a very uptight librarian defending desecrated books. “His Royal Highness will make a public announcement tomorrow to reinforce that this isn’t just a fling, but a serious relationship. We can’t take the chance that people see you as anything less than an upstanding young man worthy of His Royal Highness’ affection.”

Suppressing a sound of annoyance, Merlin bites down on his lip hard. It’s just ridiculous that the world might consider him a slut for giving someone a peck on the cheek, but there you have it, the rules for royals are different and the gutter press is relentless. Technically, he knows this, because his job usually is to prevent press coverage like this from happening, but it hits differently when it’s him causing the bad press. “What does moving forward look like for me?” he asks, resigning himself to his fate.

“After the official announcement, we’ll arrange for an official photoshoot. We’re currently considering setting up a joint interview as well. Also, you will start accompanying His Royal Highness to official appearances.” Geoffrey of Monmouth reaches for a slim, maroon folder with the royal crest imprinted in gold and slides it over the table.

“It’s His Royal Highness’ schedule for the next two months,” he narrates, even though the files within are neatly and unmistakably labelled ‘The Prince of Wales’ Diary – Future Engagements’. “We’ve marked the ones you’re expected to attend.”

Merlin just so manages to keep in the sound of dismay as he quickly skims the list of dates, noting that most of his weekends and at least two weeknights a week are marked. He scowls when he sees the blocked entry in four weeks time that spans over several days.

“A wedding?” he moans and looks up to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s impassive face. “I’m expected to attend a wedding in Denmark on the 24th of June?”

“We’ve already put you down as his Royal Highness’ plus one. Chicken, I believe,” Geoffrey of Monmouth says and turns to his assistant, a mousy-haired girl with a nervous look about her, who briefly consults her papers, then nods fervently.

“I have work of my own,” Merlin protests. “I can’t just—”

“We’ll consult with your employers to arrange your work engagements around your royal schedule,” Geoffrey of Monmouth says with a little side glance at Gaius, who is almost daring Merlin to make a fuss about it, his wrinkled face carefully blank but for the sardonically raised eyebrow. It’s a clear indication that Gaius advises Merlin to not dispute the demands of the Royal Communications Office.

“I—” Merlin starts nonetheless, then decides to just shut up about it. “Fine,” he growls instead.

“Please clear any private appointments that might collide with His Royal Highness’ appearances. I suppose I must not stress that they take precedence over any prior engagements you might have had.” Apparently, Geoffrey of Monmouth and his team of unforgiving and uptight royal employees are done with the meeting, because without further ado, they get up as one.

“My assistant will book the appointments into your calendar and forward briefings for the events as well as instructions on what kind of attire you’re expected to wear. Mrs. Grant and Mr. Barrows are already briefed to help you select appropriate wardrobe pieces and will be in touch.”

This time, presented with the threat of having to go shopping for clothes again, Merlin can’t help the eyeroll, but gladly, nobody says anything to his subordination. He doesn’t understand how Arthur can stand this, day after day.

After they are ushered out of the meeting room by Monmouth’s assistant, both he and Gaius walk down the stairs in silence. They remain silent all through the way out of Buckingham Palace and while Gaius navigates them out of the guest parking spot near the gates. It’s only when they turn onto The Mall that Gaius speaks.

“We will have to figure out a way for you to fulfill your work commitments while also attending the required events. I’ll ask Annelise to reschedule your work calendar as needed.” He sounds calm and matter of fact, but Merlin knows Gaius well enough and he can hear the annoyance in his words.

“I promise, I’ll work twice as hard,” Merlin blurts out, suddenly afraid that he’s going to be pushed into the second row on his own main account.

Gaius says nothing for a moment, a concentrated frown on his face as he navigates them onto the right lane towards Trafalgar Square. “I know you will,” he finally says, briefly sending a side glance at Merlin. He doesn’t look livid anymore, his shoulders less tense than they had been when they drove to the palace. From his relaxed posture, Merlin figures that Gaius expected a worse outcome than a little reprimand and a rescheduling of Merlin’s work engagements. Maybe he had been just as worried as Merlin that they were going to expect Merlin to stop working on his main account and concentrate on his job as a royal fake boyfriend exclusively.

“I’m sorry I fucked up,” Merlin feels the need to say, even though he has been apologising profoundly for the last two days to anyone who wanted to hear it. It’s hot inside the car and he’s sweating in his sports jacket and buttoned-up, long-sleeved shirt. He reaches inside his collar, popping the top-most button and almost sighs in relief. “Arthur just makes me nervous. The whole place made me nervous. I just don’t fit in with the posh crowd and I really, really hate royal protocol. It’s tremendously stupid, out-dated, and prudish.”

In the seat next to him, Gaius huffs with wry amusement. “Nobody said it was an easy job, Merlin,” he says gently. “You are allowed to make mistakes. But I do believe this time it will work in Arthur’s favour. There are a lot of people who doubt Arthur is able to commit to a serious relationship, still firmly seeing him as someone to sleep around. I know royal protocol is always going on about PDA, but real life isn’t like that. People show their affection in public and they do kiss their boyfriends on the cheek or even on the mouth. There could be worse things than people believing what they see to be real.”

“But it’s not,” Merlin mutters, rubbing his sweaty fingers on the fabric of his chinos.

“You are right, it’s not,” Gaius agrees and changes lanes again to take the right exit on the roundabout at Trafalgar Square. “But you’ll make them believe it is and if Royal Protocol gets up in a snitch about it, so be it. They’ll have to learn to relax a little now that Arthur is on his way to becoming king or they’ll get an apoplexy.”

“It was an accident. You make it out like I planned this. I’m not so clever,” Merlin snorts, but he feels his good mood return. So he’s going to have some more dates with Arthur and he’s going to attend a wedding in Denmark with nobility, so what? There are worse things than going out with the future King of England, even if he’s a total prat, and who among his peers can claim they were invited to a royal wedding in Denmark?

“Just be yourself, Merlin,” Gaius says, sounding fond. “Remember, we picked you because you’re down-to-earth and people can relate to you. They definitely can relate to you kissing Arthur at the game. You’re doing just fine.”

Biting his lip, Merlin tries to temper down his smile as he stares out the window, watching Trafalgar Square pass, but it creeps up on his face nonetheless and he grins quietly, suddenly feeling much better about the upcoming weeks.

“Do you have a social media account besides Facebook, by the way?” Gaius asks, sending him a side glance from under bushy eyebrows.

“Uhm. Yes, I’m on Instagram,” Merlin says hesitantly. “Why? It’s set to private. I don’t post a lot.”

“We should review it and make it public. You might want to make the occasional post about your dates with His Royal Highness now that you’re an official royal consort.”

Merlin scrunches up his nose, not entirely happy with Gaius' suggestion nor the mention of his new status. He had kind of liked fake-dating Arthur in a subtle manner, making everyone guess if he was just the flavour of the week or someone Arthur was serious about.

“It will help cement the story we’re selling. We’re going to take over the narrative a little,” Gaius explains, obviously sensing Merlin’s trepidation.

“If you say so,” Merlin says doubtfully.

“I’ll set you up with Freya for a briefing on appropriate posts at this stage in your relationship.”

There’s no going back now, not when Gaius has obviously made up his mind about their next steps and Merlin sighs and resigns himself to having another part of his private life taken away in favour of playing the perfect ruse.

“Fake relationship,” Merlin corrects him quietly, but Gaius only hums, before concentrating on the traffic, their conversation done for now.

Merlin takes out his phone and sends off a quick text to Arthur.

To My Prince Uncharming: Prepare to suffer. Your Unwilling Royal Consort.

Just because Merlin has accepted his dual workload, doesn’t mean his days get any less exhausting. Just as announced, the Royal Communications Office scheduled an official photoshoot the week after the Cowdray incident and released a press statement in which Arthur announced that the rumours he was dating a PR executive from Islington were indeed true.

The pictures from the photoshoot were blown up on the cover of every magazine for weeks. Merlin hated those pictures. Arthur and him were sat in Kensington Gardens on a bench, turned towards each other, looking as bright and chipper as possible in their smart outfits, fake, gentle smiles plastered on their faces. It was hideously boring and utterly staged and when Merlin looked at the photos he couldn’t recognise himself in them, it was as if there on the bench, underneath the blooming horse chestnut tree, a stranger was sitting next to Arthur, smiling at the camera.

After the official press statement, all hell broke loose.

If Merlin had thought that things were difficult before the press release, he was sorely mistaken. Apart from the increased interest from the press and the general public, it felt like each and every person he had ever encountered in his life, regardless if he met them in kindergarten or during a work commitment, tried to get in touch with him and offer either their support, their congratulations or their wordy protest regarding his life choices.

I thought it were just stupid rumours, Gilli, one of his school friends wrote in an email, clearly not impressed with Merlin’s new boyfriend. But you really are shagging a royal, aren’t you?

“Always knew you were set out for something great, Merlin. I never knew a royal consort before,” his elementary school teacher, Mrs. Cooper, announced when she called him out of the blue (he didn’t even know how she had gotten hold of his number). “I’m telling all my friends about you. I can’t believe you were so timid you peed your trousers in class because you were too shy to ask to go to the bathroom? What an adorable little bean you were!”

It’s disgusting to think you’re banging that dumb, blond slut - you could do so much better than that stuck-up, posh arsehole, his ex-boyfriend Will let him know by text, as ever painfully direct in his comments.

Merlin has just gotten out of another call with his overexcited cousin Sefa who had asked him deeply intimate things about his (nonexistent) love life, when his phone rings again. Groaning, he scowls at the display that lets him know that “Prat of Wales” is calling. He has half a mind of refusing to answer, because he’s tired and hungry and Arthur probably needs something that will ruin Merlin’s evening, but his sense of duty wins over his exhaustion.

“Ugh, what do you want?” he asks, inflicting his voice with as much exasperation as he dares as he tries to ignore the way his stomach is growling.

“I’ve sent Tristan with the car to fetch you. My friends invited themselves over later tonight and I might have said something about you being here,” Arthur blurts out without saying hello.

“Oh God, you used me as an excuse to get out of a social situation! Please tell me I’m wrong.”

On the other side, Arthur huffs in indignation. “I’m tired, okay? I spent all day sitting in meetings and giving boring speeches and - I thought they’d let me be if they thought you were here.” He pauses, then all but growls, “But no, apparently, you’re an incentive.”

“I was just about to order dinner and call it a night!” Merlin protests, rubbing a hand over his face in annoyance.

“That’s an excellent idea. You should bring some dinner.”

“Oh, come on!” Merlin huffs out. “This isn’t on my official schedule. I’m not hired to fool your friends!”

“No, you’re hired to fool the world,” Arthur retorts snottily. “Tristan will be at your place in 5 minutes. Get your skinny arse in the car and come over.”

“You realise this is totally weird? How do you even have people “come over”? It’s Kensington Palace! Nobody just “comes over” to Kensington Palace,” Merlin complains.

Arthur is silent for a long moment before he speaks. “I actually live there, you idiot. Of course I invite friends over,” he mutters, like Merlin is simple.

“Stop insulting me, Prince Clotpole, or I’m seriously considering standing you up. You deserve it,” Merlin grouses, thinking of all the choice words he wants to call Arthur, but he’s apparently a pushover when it comes to pratty, hot princes, because he finds himself already reaching for his laptop and opening a tab, typing in the URL of his favourite Indian place.

“Please, Best of Fake Boyfriends, please come over to my palace and bring food,” Arthur says in a disdainfully sweet tone.

“I hope I’m the only fake boyfriend, you slag, “ Merlin mutters darkly, already looking through the online menu. “You owe me.”

I like it hot. Tongue tingling hot. Burn-your-mouth-and-make-you-cry hot, he remembers Arthur’s words about his favourite food, and despite his annoyance, he feels a smile coming up on his face as he imagines Arthur scooping up spicy lamb madras with a bit of naan, moaning in bliss around the bite.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Arthur promises shortly and it doesn’t sound at all sincere, but haughty.

“Uh-huh,” Merlin breathes in amused disbelief and disconnects the call before he can rethink his actions.

He quickly decides on two different kinds of curry, adds naan and an assortment of chutneys, then goes to checkout. He hesitates for just a second before giving the delivery address as Kensington Palace, Apartment 8, wondering whether Arthur ever ordered food into the palace and if the bike messenger will be able to get past palace security.

He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, because the clock is ticking and he’s still in his sweats. Grumbling, he changes into a comfy pair of jeans and one of his favourite Marvel t-shirts, drags a comb through his hair - a fruitless action considering the tangled mess of curls - and slips into a pair of sneakers, before grabbing his keys. Downstairs, one of the black cars Merlin is pretty used to by now is parking opposite his apartment building.

During the drive from Islington to Kensington, Merlin catches up with Tristan, whose wife Isolde is expecting their firstborn. They arrive at the gates of Kensington Palace twenty-five minutes later. At the security gate, a forlorn Deliveroo messenger is being held up, looking harassed as he holds a receipt into the security gate window.

“Stop, that’s my curry!” Merlin calls, and Tristan dutifully stops the car, allowing Merlin to hop out.

“Delivery for Apartment 8?” Merlin asks, and the bike messenger turns to look at him with a frown on his face.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, looking Merlin up and down, before eyeing the limousine behind him.

“Great, that’s for me. I ordered the vindaloo and the lamb madras.”

“You ordered curry to Kensington Palace?” the man asks, his eyebrows arching high, his mouth twisted in a semi-confused smile.

“You know, people actually live here,” Merlin sniffs, delighted to find that he managed to hit Arthur’s haughty voice spot on.

The man shakes his head, then reaches into his turquoise delivery bag for a paper bag. “Just so you know - we had a bet going whether this was a joke or not.”

Merlin takes the paper bag from the man’s hands, sniffing with delight at the wonderful aroma of indian spices, then presses a tip into the Deliveroo rider’s palm. “Hope you won some money, mate.”

“Uh-huh,” the bike messenger snorts and pockets his tip, before swinging his long legs back onto his racing bike and driving off.

Meanwhile, Tristan has cleared Merlin’s security detail, and Merlin hops back into the car. In his lap, the bag of food is semi-warm and the scent is to die for, making his stomach twist in anticipation.

Apartment 8 is on the left, a dark-brick three story with a white entrance. It’s actually two apartments, namely 8 and 9, and has been home to Uther, Morgana and Arthur for the last twenty years. Now, Uther is moving to the North Wing of Buckingham Palace, where Owen used to reside in a flight of 20 rooms or more, leaving the use of Apartments 8 and 9 to Morgana and Arthur.

Merlin hasn’t been inside, because there had been no need so far, but he’s pleasantly surprised that when he’s led into the entry hall, it looks less like a palace and more like a luxurious townhouse.

A large sweeping wooden staircase leads from the entry hall to the upper floors. The floors are hardwood, the walls are painted in muted colours, sage and grey and eggshell white. The ceiling is surprisingly low.

“His Royal Highness is awaiting you in the roof garden,” the stern looking woman who let him in says primly, eyeballing the paperbag in his hand with suspicion. She’s dressed in somber, well fitting clothing and has ‘no nonsense’ written on her face.

“The roof garden,” Merlin snorts and to his delight, the woman doesn’t bat an eye, but starts climbing the wooden staircase ahead of him, obviously expecting him to follow.

Merlin doesn’t glimpse much of the rooms on the ground floor, but at first glance there seems to be a dining room and a library and what looks like an office. The first floor hallway is spacious and the walls hold oil paintings of nature scenes and family photographs, among them several pictures of the Duchess of York, Arthur’s late mother. The space is surprisingly normal, if of course luxurious.

He’s chaperoned up another flight of stairs towards the second floor. The ceiling appears to be even lower here. Last but not least, they climb a small circular staircase at the end of the hallway and step out onto what actually is a roof garden. In Kensington Palace.

Blinking, Merlin looks around, surprised to find a green garden oasis with a large garden sofa combination, sun loungers and a hammock underneath an awning covered by climbing ivy. Raised flower beds and ornamental, tall grasses in pots offer a colourful, cheerful atmosphere. Arthur is lying on the garden sofa, his sockless feet crossed at the ankles, a concentrated, yet peaceful expression on his face as he reads a book. He looks graceful and able-bodied, vulnerable and strong at the same time, and his tousled blond hair shines in the last light of the late afternoon.

The sight of him makes Merlin’s belly churn with an unknown emotion and he finds himself standing dumbfounded, bag of curry in his hand, until Arthur seems to notice his presence, because he turns his head to look over his shoulder.

“Ah, perfect,” Arthur says, and a smile spreads on his face as he sits up and turns toward Merlin. “You brought… curry?” he asks, sniffing the air with a delighted expression.

“Mouth-tingling hot,” Merlin croaks out, and for a moment he isn’t quite sure if he’s talking about the food.

“Fucking brilliant,” Arthur mutters and smiles again, so bright and friendly, that Merlin’s belly flips strangely once more, like it does when he’s on top of a rollercoaster and the car tips over downwards. He takes a couple of uneasy steps forward and flops down in a lounge chair, before surrendering the paper bag to Arthur’s grabby hands.

“Oh my God,” Arthur moans once he looks inside, inhaling the fragrant scent deeply. “Oh my God, this smells so good!”

Smirking, Merlin watches as Arthur takes out the trays and rips open the lids, surveying the food with delight, his blue eyes sparkling.

“This is a lovely place,” he notes, looking around the roof garden, taking in the vibrant greenery and comfortable vibe of mismatched garden chairs and loungers.

“My favourite place. Now that you’ve seen it, I have to get you killed, sorry,” Arthur murmurs absentmindedly, still studying the food with appreciation, but he looks up when Merlin snorts out amused laughter.

“Cutlery is in the small chest over there,” Arthur says and points to somewhere behind Merlin without looking up from perusing the food selection. “Oh, this is going to be amazing,” he mutters, already shredding a naan to pieces and dipping it into the lamb madras.

“Don’t they feed you anything here?” Merlin wonders sarcastically, pushing himself up and crossing the few steps to the chest.

“Food here is boring, I told you,” Arthur manages a bit muffled between two bites of naan. “You are - without doubt - the best fake boyfriend, ever,” he starts, dipping his naan into the other curry, before he amends, mumbling around the bread, “even if somewhat annoying at times.”

With a snort, Merlin offers a fork and spoon to Arthur and sits down again. “Does this mean you’ll suggest that I get a raise with my employers?”

“If you bring me amazing curry more often, we can talk about it,” Arthur quips, finally looking up from his food and grinning at Merlin. There’s a little bit of curry smeared on his upper lip and Merlin has the sudden urge to lean forward and lick it off. The vision of him doing so combined with the contemplation of how Arthur’s mouth would feel leaves him slightly dazed.

“Here, you’ll have to try this vindaloo. It’s out of this world.” Arthur offers a dripping bit of naan to Merlin, holding it out for him to take a bite.

“You know, there’s cutlery,” Merlin tries to protest, but Arthur just looks at him encouragingly, until he allows him to push the bread into his mouth.

“Good, right?” Arthur asks, looking at him expectantly, and Merlin chews and nods, trying not to blush. He just let Arthur, Prince of Wales, hand feed him. It’s definitely going on his top-weirdest-moments-of-his-life list and the list has been expanded quite a bit lately.

“I know,” he says hoarsely, swallowing around the spicy mouthful. “It’s from my favourite Indian place.”

“We should go there on one of our next dates,” Arthur decides and picks up a fork and starts eating out of the trays.

“This is so undignified,” Merlin mutters softly, watching him with amusement, but Arthur doesn’t reply, too busy spooning up curry and shoving it in his mouth. A bit louder he adds in answer to Arthur’s question, “It’s a hole-in-the-wall place in Farringdon mostly doing take away. They have three rickety tables on an uneven cast plaster floor and the toilet has been famously out of order for years.”

“Sounds perfect,” Arthur grins, and spoons up more vindaloo. “If we go there, it should be a nice business boost for them.”

“We can give them a boost right away,” Merlin suggests and takes out his phone.

He snaps a quick picture of Arthur’s hand with his signature silver ring mopping up curry with a piece of bread out of the paper tray, then posts it to his instagram account. “Curry fit for a prince,” he narrates loudly as he types, then adds a mention of the Instagram account of the Indian place and hits send.

When he shows Arthur the post, Arthur tosses his head back and laughs uproariously.

Merlin grins and picks up a spoon himself and starts rooting around in the trays, thinking by himself that eating take-away with Arthur out of paper trays on a warm, late May evening on the roof of Kensington Palace is probably one of the best things he has done so far as the Prince’s fake boyfriend. He could even get used to it.

Kensington Palace, Apartment 8 and 9, is surprisingly homey, Merlin thinks as Arthur gives him a small tour after their dinner. There’s a library, a media room with soft sofas and a large tv-set, a dining room where Arthur says he and Morgana take their breakfast and sometimes have dinner with the King, a fitness room equipped with everything one could want in a home gym, as well as a drawing room with a grand piano that clearly nobody has really used in decades. Uther’s office tract downstairs is closed off and will undergo renovation once it’s clear what they are going to do with it. Of course, everything is much more luxurious than Merlin’s own home in Twickenham, and where Merlin only has one small bedroom, Arthur has three rooms and an ensuite on the second floor to himself.

Arthur’s rooms are a surprise as well. His office slash living room - while decorated in a sleek and modern style of dark gray walls, black and white photography - is a mess of overflowing bookshelves. In fact, there are books everywhere. The walls are full of bookcases, modern, sleek ones and old-fashioned, sturdy ones. Books are lying in stacks on a small set of couch tables and upon sideboards and lining the walls in towers where there’s no more space for a bookcase. There are even books cluttered on the couches, a mismatched arrangement of 18th century upholstered ottomans and wide, comfortable modular style couches and armchairs. It’s a complete mess, a booklover’s paradise, and it’s certainly not what Merlin expected.

The room is chaotic and looks well-lived in and Merlin can tell that this is probably the room Arthur spends most of his time in. Most adorably, Arthur is a bit embarrassed when he shows it to Merlin, furtively attempting to straighten a stack of old National Geographics that threatens to tumble from where it’s heaped tall on a chair.

The second room is comparatively tiny, a private, cosy media room with a modest tv-set and a soft-looking sofa, but just like in the other room, every free space is crammed full with books and magazines.

Last but not least, Arthur’s bedroom is airy and inviting with a walk-in wardrobe and a surprisingly old-fashioned four-poster bed that - with its rich dark-red bedspread and brocade drapes- looks fit for a king.

“I didn’t expect that,” Merlin says, grinning as he looks into the room from the doorway. There’s books here, too, on every available flat surface, even stacked beside the bed in uneven towers of dog-eared paperbacks and heavy looking hardcovers.

“It’s an heirloom,” Arthur says, defending his choice. “And it’s terribly comfortable.”

“No doubt about it,” Merlin grins. “Looks inviting. If I sneak off during the evening, it’s probably to pass out on this comfy looking bed.”

“Hmmm,” Arthur says, and steers Merlin out by placing a warm hand at the small of his back.

They walk back into the messy, chaotic office slash living room and Arthur calls the kitchen to bring them up post-dinner drinks, while they lounge around on the sofas. The one Merlin sinks into is terribly worn and sags underneath his weight, but it's comfortable.

It’s weirdly intimate, spending time with Arthur like this, like they are really friends or maybe more. Merlin asks questions about the pictures on the wall and the books on the sofa table while he sips on his gin and tonic, and Arthur tells him about his holiday plans.

“You’re going to Belize for voluntary work on marine conservation?” Merlin asks, astonished. “Has the Royal Communications Office set this up as a PR gig?”

There’s a small storm cloud surfacing on Arthur’s face at his words. “No,” Arthur says, and the words come out sharp and slightly angered. “I’ve been doing this for three years every June. This is a private holiday. It’s a project I’m financially supporting.”

Merlin blinks and stares, taking in Arthur’s suddenly shuttered face and red ears. All of a sudden, the exotic holidays Arthur has been on during the last two years appear in a new light. How many of those were done solely for pleasure, Merlin wonders, frowning as he ponders the implications of the revelation.

“Wait, you’re telling me, you voluntarily go pick up plastic trash in the Caribbean and spearfish lionfish?”

“Invasive lionfish ruin the reef's ecosystem. It’s important work,” Arthur says lowly, and his voice sounds dangerous and challenging, like he had this conversation a couple of times in the past and had to defend his decision.

“And nobody has reported on this - why?” Merlin asks, aghast. From a PR perspective, it’s madness that this isn’t used to promote Arthur’s positive image.

“Because it’s my private thing and it’s not something I want dissected and thought of as a PR gig,” Arthur says stubbornly, his arms crossed in front of his chest, suddenly looking sullen.

“I see,” Merlin says softly, suddenly understanding what Arthur means. He wets his lips and nods. “You realise that kind of exposure would be beneficial to-”

“I don’t want people to think I’m just doing it for my image, so fuck off about it. I get enough of this from my father and his advisors,” Arthur says darkly, that same challenge in his eyes.

Merlin huffs out a breath and relents. “I guess I deserved that,” he says slowly. “But you should consider speaking up about this one day. Maybe not so much to further your public image, but so your voice gets heard. You shouldn’t underestimate the kind of impact you could have by speaking up about issues.”

Arthur looks at him for a long time over the sofa table, his posture still a bit stiff, until he relaxes visibly. “Maybe one day,” he allows, hushed, but he looks at Merlin with such a strange expression, that Merlin feels overcome with the same, churning nervousness in his stomach he felt earlier on the rooftop, only this time it’s not because he wants to inappropriately get his tongue on Arthur.

They both jump when there’s a sharp knock on the door.

“Come in,” Arthur calls, and the door opens and the stern woman who accompanied Merlin up to the roof garden steps inside.

“The Duke of Northumberland and the Earl of Lytton have arrived, Your Royal Highness,” she says stiffly, holding herself perfectly still.

“Who?” Merlin laughs, and the woman shoots him a forbidding look, like she finds him lacking in every regard.

“It’s just Leon and Gwaine and probably Sophia, Leon’s girlfriend,” Arthur snorts and gets up.

“We’ll be right down, thank you,” he says to his stern housekeeper and she curtsies primly before retreating, closing the door quietly behind her.

They drain their drinks, before walking down the stairs to meet Leon, Gwaine and a pretty girl with long, soft wavy hair in the drawing room.

The rest of the night is surprisingly comfortable, and Merlin admits that while he wasn’t happy about having to step out again after his exhausting day at work, he’s enjoying himself. They have a couple of drinks, catching up with each other, before Morgana joins them and they retreat to the large media room on the first floor to watch several episodes of Firefly - apparently a marathon rewatch they had started three weeks ago. It’s so absurdly normal, like an evening with his own friends at someone’s house or flat, that Merlin soon forgets that he’s in Kensington Palace and that he’s sitting here with the Prince of Wales and the Princess Royal and other nobles.

Next to him on one of the sofa’s, Arthur is laughing his booming, unrestrained laugh and scattering crisp crumbs all over the both of them. He’s a warm presence all down Merlin’s side, and every time their naked arms brush, there’s a spark travelling through Merlin’s body like a little shockwave.

At some point, Arthur’s arm comes up on the backrest of the sofa and when Merlin glances sideways, Arthur gives him a brief, reassuring smile, but keeps his arm there, the fine hair on his forearm tickling the nape of Merlin’s neck. It’s difficult to concentrate on the show afterwards, and Merlin sits there and tries to relax. When he shifts and looks around to see if anyone is noticing how uncomfortable he feels, he finds Morgana’s eyes on him, a smug smile on her face.

He stubbornly holds her gaze, watching her smile grow, before she finally looks away, an amused expression staying on her face.

It’s getting late when they all file out, and Gwaine offers to take Merlin home, because he’s going in the same direction. There’s an awkward moment in the hallway, where they all say goodbye and Merlin waits stiffly, afraid of making the same forward mistake as in Cowdary, even if only Arthur’s friends are watching here.

“I had a great night,” Arthur says softly, standing in front of him. “Thanks for the curry. The next time, I’m ordering and paying.”

“Yeah, me too,” Merlin answers honestly, surprised that he truly means it. Once again, spending time with Arthur didn’t feel so much like a work commitment.

“Well, then... “ Arthur says hesitantly and fidgets on the spot. “Good night?” When Merlin nods, Arthur quickly darts forward and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

It’s more a friendly peck than anything else, but heat travels through Merlin and makes him blush. He can feel it burning in his face and reddening his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Good night,” he whispers and it comes out hoarse and nervous.

Merlin doesn’t remember how he gets out of the house with any grace. In the car, Gwaine keeps talking about Firefly and the Serenity movie and what sci-fi shows he wants to watch next, kindly ignoring how Merlin isn’t particularly good company.

“Sorry, I’m just tired,” Merlin offers at one point, and Gwaine just laughs.

“Should have stayed over at your boyfriend’s then,” he grins with a little side glance at Merlin, before concentrating on the traffic again. “But I guess there’d be not much sleeping then, would there…”

Merlin blushes some more and Gwaine snorts out laughter, before returning to his earlier topic.

Merlin is tired. He’s had a long, long day at the office, solving one problem after the other. He had been late to a meeting with a new client Gaius wanted to introduce him to because the subway had been closed due to a bomb threat. There was a typo in one of the proofs from the printers and he had to get a hold of the graphic designer to make last minute alterations so the flyers could be printed on time. He had to prepare an urgent and time critical statement about the use of donations following allegations of donation fraud.

He comes home later and orders in food, then relaxes in front of the TV, shovelling Pad Thai into his mouth while he rewatches an episode of Stranger Things. He’s ready to head off to bed when his phone suddenly rings.

“Yes?” he asks cautiously, noting the call is from Percy.

“Merlin, you’d better come here,” Percy says, and Merlin has the worst deja-vu ever, because this is exactly the kind of call he used to get from Percy when he had to bail out Arthur somewhere.

“Where’s here?” he asks warily, his heartbeat accelerating. He has a feeling his night won’t be as relaxing as he thought it would be. He certainly won’t be going to bed right now.

When Percy answers with the name of a well-known gay cruising club, Merlin huffs out a groan of utter frustration.

“Oh God, what happened? Has he been found dead out on the curb? Drowned in a public toilet by one of his boytoys? Don’t tell me he cheated on me already!” Merlin groans, affronted that Arthur would do something so irresponsible. “Tell him if he cheated on me, I’ll dump his royal arse without remorse.”

“He’s fine,” Percy says haltingly, like he’s embarrassed. “He’s maybe a tiny bit drunk and… well… you better come here.”

“Why did you even take him there?” Merlin explodes, carding a hand through his hair in vexation.

“He’s our boss,” Percy defends himself. “He wanted to get a drink.”

“He wanted to get a drink?” Merlin echoes Percy’s words with a growl. “He never just wants to get a drink! How can you let him do something possibly monarchy-damaging and… No, don’t answer that. I’m coming. Fuck.”

With effort, he pushes himself up from the lumpy sofa he inherited from Will’s older brother (while the Crown is happily paying his rent, nobody provided him with furniture and his paychecks are currently going towards the kitchen appliances he had to buy) and moves towards his bedroom and his wardrobe.

“Don’t let him do anything stupid in the meantime. Don’t let him go to the backroom with anyone. Don’t let anyone so much as touch him. If anything happens, I’m going to make you personally responsible!” he snaps, before disconnecting the call and tossing the phone onto his bed.

He takes a deep inhale, then slowly and measuredly releases his breath through his nose, before he opens his wardrobe and picks out a pair of skinny slacks and a dark-gray t-shirt. For just a moment he mourns his comfy Thor-pajama bottoms, wishing he didn’t have to step out tonight, but there’s no sense in complaining. He doesn’t want to lose his job. If Arthur didn’t make it so damn difficult all the time…

He dresses quickly, then rubs some product into his hair which only makes it look even more like a birds’ nest. There’s no time to brush his teeth or put on some cologne, so he just pulls on his better-looking sneakers and heads out the door.

The Underground Club isn’t too far away from his flat in Islington and it takes him only fifteen minutes to get there. There’s a queue outside the club, but Merlin has somewhat of a VIP status here - which is laughable, because he himself isn’t cruising nightclubs, it’s just not his scene - so he gets in within a couple of minutes.

Percy is waiting near the wardrobe. “Thank God, you’re here,” he breathes, looking nervous and fidgety, which is ridiculous, because he’s a tower of a man, 4 inches taller than Merlin who isn’t small either and with bulging bodybuilder muscles. Then again, gay nightclubs usually make him uncomfortable, because he certainly looks some kind of type and he usually gets a lot of attention.

Merlin sends him an unimpressed look, then lets Percy lead him into the club proper, following him down a narrow staircase and through a hallway. The club isn’t called The Underground Club for naught - the club itself is two stories deep beneath ground level. The rhythmic thump of music is getting louder the deeper they walk into the club, and when they round a corner and the hallway opens into a large, cavernous space, Merlin is assaulted with strobing lights and music. For a brief moment, he’s overwhelmed as always, but soon his body relaxes and gets used to the assault on his senses.

Percy carves a way through the crowd for them and together, they make their way towards one of the barcounters in the back. Merlin would know Arthur’s broad back in a dark suit everywhere, and he feels his temper rise at the sight of the tall, muscled man chatting him up - he’s clad in dark leather, and Merlin’s first thought is that Arthur wouldn’t usually go for him, but then again, Arthur is clearly not in his right mind, because this is far too public. While the darkness of the clubs usually lend a bit of anonymity, it’s still a stupid, reckless thing for Arthur to do.

Merlin is practically gnashing his teeth, he’s so angry, as he strides forward, overtaking Percy.

He steps up behind Arthur and slides his arms around his waist, leaning over Arthur’s back to hook his chin over his shoulder.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting this long,” he announces, his anger sharpening the tone of his words and belying their content.

Against him, Arthur jerks in surprise, then relaxes. “Merlin,” he says, his words more a sigh than anything else. By the tone of his voice he isn’t that drunk, and he doesn’t smell particularly like alcohol. In fact, he smells kind of good, a bit spicy and musky at the back of his neck and underneath his ear.

The man Arthur had been talking to raises both eyebrows before shooting Arthur an unimpressed look. “You didn’t seem like you were waiting for someone,” he says, briefly glancing at Merlin, before his eyes settle back on Arthur, a mildly disapproving expression on his face.

Merlin wants to thank God and the Monarchy for hapless idiots, who wouldn’t recognise the Prince of England if he were right under their nose, but he wants to forestall any kind of moronic comment Arthur might utter, so he grins back at the man sunnily.

“He was, so, thanks for keeping him company.”

“I -” Arthur starts to protest, wriggling in Merlin’s embrace, which just makes Merlin tighten his arms more and lean forward to hiss softly in his ear. “Shut up, you cheating, horny fool and let me take care of this, because you obviously can’t.”

The man in black leather snorts in amusement, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he regards them. “Well, I wish you gentleman a great evening,” he says, then clasps Merlin’s shoulder briefly to press in an iron grip. “You should not leave him waiting, mate, there are plenty of people willing to take your place at a club like this.”

“Oh, don’t I know it! The pain of my existence,” Merlin answers, completely honest, and the man chuckles and winks at them both, before walking off, obviously not too disappointed to have wasted his time with Arthur.

Against his chest, Arthur struggles again, and Merlin releases him with a non-to gentle shove.

“Are you mad?” Arthur asks, twisting around on the barstool and turning stormy blue eyes on him, the colour in his cheeks high. He looks an interesting combination of furious and embarrassed and something else that Merlin is unable to place.

“No? Are you?” Merlin shoots back, glaring. “What were you doing with Tom of Finland, anyway? I didn’t think he’d be your type.”

“He… he isn’t. He was just nice,” Arthur huffs, but he’s blushing even more, and he rakes a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “I needed to get out and talk to someone -”

“And you choose a cruising club to have a conversation?” Merlin asks in disbelief with raised eyebrows.

“I-”

“People go to cruising clubs to get fucked, Arthur, not to have a chat,” Merlin huffs brazenly, enjoying the way Arthur flinches at his words. “Let’s get out of here, I can tell you all about how stupid and irresponsible you are on the drive back to Kensington.” He grabs for Arthur’s hand, tugging him harshly from the barstool, his fingers circling his wrist. He’s so full of anger he feels like he’s going to explode with it. Nothing has changed. Nothing. He’s still rescuing Arthur Pendragon from notoriously monarchy-damaging situations.

When he starts walking, Arthur rips himself free from his grasp, but he keeps following him nonetheless like a sulking, badly subdued puppy, flanked by Percy, who emits a relieved air and is already on his phone, calling Tristan to the club’s back entrance.

Merlin’s anger is still going strong once they step out of the club and get into the car, Merlin sliding with Arthur into the backseat. Just seconds after Tristan pulls the car away from the curb, Merlin snaps.

“How could you, Arthur!” he hisses, sending a disbelieving glance at Arthur, who’s sitting beside him stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips pursed with displeasure. He’s equally fuming.

“I didn’t ask for you to come ruin my evening,” Arthur huffs angrily.

“Oh, so you admit you were cruising!” Merlin grounds out, satisfied when there’s not an immediate answer forthcoming.

For a minute they sit in deafening, tense silence. Merlin glares at the dark partition that shields the back of the car from the front where Tristan and Percy sit, glad they aren’t privy to this conversation, even if they heard Merlin berate Arthur often enough.

“You cheating, feckless bastard,” Merlin mutters, unable to help himself. He should have never taken on this ridiculous extra job.

“I didn’t cheat!” Arthur hisses. “How can I cheat when I didn’t do anything? How can I cheat when this is a fake relationship?”

“At least you could try and keep it in your pants for the 5 to 6 months required while I make a fool of myself in public, pretending to be in love with the tart of the monarchy!” it bursts out of Merlin, harsh and unfiltered. He wants to take it back the moment the deeply insulting words are out of his mouth, but Arthur visibly deflates, his tense posture relaxing, sinking back into the upholstery.

“Apparently, you are well above all that,” Arthur says quietly, and when Merlin looks to his right, surprised, Arthur is biting his lips and glancing back at him, a curious, expectant expression on his face. “Does that holier-than-thou-thing work out well for you? Because I know the details of the contract you signed.”

The nerve of that man, Merlin thinks. “Seriously? It’s only been 12 weeks since we started this. Also, I have a functioning right hand and the last time I checked, you had, too. Don’t tell me a little masturbation is beneath the Prince of England?”

When Arthur just glares, unimpressed, Merlin barges on, relentless and dismissive. “Or maybe you could ask a trusted friend who won’t blab. Why don’t you call Gwaine? I’d bet he’d help you out of your misery.”

“Gwaine is my friend,” Arthur says in a deceptively calm voice, but his eyes are blazing, outrage written on his face at Merlin’s suggestion as if it deeply offends him.

“If he’s your friend, you can surely count on him for a booty call. It wouldn’t be the first time,” Merlin huffs, although the thought of Arthur and Gwaine together makes Merlin’s stomach squirm unhappily.

Arthur is silent for some time and Merlin glances sideways, trying to make out if Arthur’s just quietly seething or simply decided to stop talking, so Merlin will too, when Arthur speaks up again, his words clipped.

“Gwaine and I are better off as friends. Our affair was pretty short-lived due to different expectations. While he’s not very partial about who is sucking his cock, he doesn’t fuck men.”

He says it so matter of factly, that every thought of further agitating Arthur flees from Merlin’s mind.

“Oh,” Merlin says softly, blinking down at his lap, suddenly feeling embarrassed, heat rising to his face. There’s things he felt like he didn’t need to know about Arthur, and this is one of them. His mind is racing though, dissecting the possible implications of Arthur’s words, and damn his mind, because he’s suddenly thinking about Arthur in the sack, his infuriatingly handsome face twisted with pleasure as Merlin… as Merlin… Fuck, Merlin thinks, wiping a hand over his forehead as blood rushes through his body and to the entirely wrong body parts. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, trying to wrest himself free from the images of Arthur, with his knees up by his ears, panting and writhing underneath him.

They are silent for a bit as Tristan navigates them through the streets of nighttime London, but Merlin’s mind is a veritable goldmine of porny one-shots all staring the Prince of Wales.

“It’s ridiculous,” Arthur suddenly says. “I’m the most sought after unmarried man in the United Kingdom, and I can’t get any. Thanks to that stupid arrangement and the fact that you’ve got me shackled with an iron chastity belt.”

“My heart bleeds for you, Your Royal Horniness,” Merlin shoots back, putting as much sarcasm in his voice as possible, considering he’s fighting a hard-on and the very enticing visions of Arthur being fucked in ever more creative positions.

Arthur doesn’t respond immediately, but when Merlin glances sideways, he sees that Arthur is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down so hard on the flesh, colour bleeds from it.

“I don’t expect you to understand how I feel, but I wish you would try,” he says quietly, glaring at the dark glass partition between the backseat and the front like he wants to make it explode with his mind. “If I were a normal bloke, nobody would even blink at me going out on dates instead of being in a monogamous relationship. But because of who I am, my love life is given up for public discussion.”

Arthur snorts with derision. “And now this. Another case of invading my privacy and controlling my life in an aspect that has nothing to do with whether I’d be a good constitutional monarch or not. Everyone expects me to fail anyway, to fuck up this ridiculous assignment. My father, your employers, the public. Why should I try to be someone I’m not when everyone is just waiting for my next misstep. Even you. Especially you.”

With his last words, he turns his pale blue eyes back on Merlin, and there’s enough accusation in his gaze that Merlin feels bad. Suddenly the mood has shifted and the air is heavy with tension between them. Merlin’s earlier naughty thoughts have been successfully banished.

“I don’t expect you to fail,” Merlin says automatically, but he realises that it isn’t entirely true and his lack of trust in Arthur this evening has proven it. He has gotten to know Arthur a lot better these past few weeks, but he’s still not entirely convinced of Arthur’s ability to become the next King of England, a fact that makes him feel slightly guilty. Some impressions are hard to shake, and Arthur has been leaving some really bad ones in the past.

Next to him, Arthur snorts humorlessly. “You couldn’t possibly understand the pressure on me. I’ve dealt with it all my life. I’ve been the black sheep of the royal family for years. I couldn’t possibly ever live up to anyone’s expectations of what a prince is supposed to be. So I never tried. It was easier giving everyone what they wanted to see, anyway.”

His words are quiet and calm and Merlin swallows nervously, aware that Arthur is laying his soul bare in a way he never has before. It’s shocking and humbling and Merlin feels goosebumps travel up his arms. He doesn’t know how to answer, but Arthur takes his silence as a permission to continue talking.

“And now the pressure is even greater. I can’t get out of it. I’m suddenly supposed to be it, the perfect prince with the perfect manners and the perfect representation and the perfect boyfriend.” Arthur’s voice sounds bitter and there’s a self-deprecating smile on his lips that Merlin doesn’t like at all.

“I’m fucking lonley,” Arthur continues, spitting out the curse word. “I’m fucking lying to everyone. To my few close friends. The only people I can talk about all this with are the people working for me or closely related to me. So excuse me for not bringing my A-game all the time, for fucking up, for being human.”

“Arthur…” Merlin murmurs, and before he realises it, he has reached out, placed his hand on Arthur’s leg, squeezing.

Arthur gazes down to where Merlin’s hand rests on his thigh, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, his jaw working. With a jerk of his leg, he throws Merlin’s hand off. “Anyway, yeah, I’d probably fuck around,” he mutters with a hint of an edge to his words, “so you better brace yourself for the fallout. You won’t be around all the time to prevent me from doing something - or someone - stupid.”

His words raise Merlin’s hackles, not just because Arthur is reacting sullenly and childishly once more, but because Arthur seems to have so little faith in himself. He’s tired and confused and he doesn’t know how to deal with this kind of Arthur - bitter and honest and self-deprecating.

“Yeah, before that happens I’d rather fuck you myself,” he mutters sotto-voce unable to help himself, but apparently not sotto-voce enough that Arthur hasn’t heard him.

“Excuse me?” Arthur’s words are high, and he looks at Merlin with both his eyebrows raised, stunned.

“Look, I-” Merlin starts, ready to take back his sarcastic slip of tongue, but interrupts himself because Arthur is looking alarmingly enraged, colour rising to his cheek, his eyebrows furiously knitted together, his face a stormcloud in the making.

“I pour my fucking heart out to you and all you can do is make one joke after the other?” Arthur explodes. “What is fucking wrong with you?!”

“Oh God,” Merlin moans, frustrated beyond belief by Arthur’s pissy, complicated mood. “I take it back - I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. Is that better?” he groans, ready to scratch his eyes out in frustration.

“Even your apologies are insulting!”

Merlin growls, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop insulting me by ridiculing my feelings,” Arthur huffs, glaring, a look of betrayal on his heated face. “You know, I always appreciated that you were honest with me, that you didn’t suck up to me, that you let me know when I overstepped a line. But if you want to make fun of me-”

“I wasn’t!” Merlin protests. “But you’re being a sulky, irritating bastard-”

Arthur’s face turns a deep shade of red, his eyes blazing. “I’m the fucking Prince of Wales and you’d better start addressing me with respect-”

“- and there are only so many forgivable things because you’re devastatingly hot, and no, I wasn’t making fun of you and God help me,” Merlin talks over Arthur’s verbal explosion, before his voice rises and he’s all but yelling out his frustration, “but I would definitely sleep with you, and not just because it would probably do the trick and shut you the fuck up!”

Merlin’s words ring in the silence of the car, and wide-eyed, Merlin watches as Arthur blinks and stares back at him, looking strangely deflated, quite obviously searching for an answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is small. “What?” he says, almost tonelessly.

Merlin licks his lips nervously, keyed up, confused by the roller coaster of feelings this evening has been so far. He’s trembling with it, with anger, compassion, arousal and the mindblowing realisation that he wants the infuriating man sitting next to him, wants to desperately have him and see him fall apart, crack him open to reveal the real Arthur, the Arthur he has seen in bits and pieces and tiny glimpses. The thought that Arthur would go to someone else to get what he needs is unbearable.

“Fuck it,” he breathes, then lunges forward and palms the sides of Arthur’s face, pressing his mouth onto Arthur’s before he can rethink his impulse.

Arthur makes a needy, surprised sound against his lips, but he’s eagerly parting his lips for Merlin’s tongue to curl inside his mouth and his hands come up to thread into Merlin’s curls, fingers tightening on the strands, like he has been secretly waiting for it. Relentlessly, Merlin pushes forward, crowding Arthur back into the upholstery, licking the startled noises from his mouth.

Whimpering, Arthur pulls away with effort, like he just now realised that they are doing something uncommon, harshly panting out air in the small space between them, his breath puffing against Merlin’s wet lips. Even though he drew back, his fingers are still curled into Merlin’s hair and his eyes are half-lidded with desire.

“What the hell? What are you doing?” he whispers, breathless, a delightfully confused expression on his flushed face.

“Hate-kissing,” Merlin offers snappishly, his eyes darting between Arthur’s wet, plump lips and his hazy, unfocused gaze that speaks volumes about how Arthur really feels about the kiss. His tongue darts out to lick across his lip, unconsciously so.

“You’re very good at it,” Arthur murmurs huskily, eyes flitting to where Merlin wetted his lips, and Merlin laughs hoarsely and surges forward again to nip at the tempting bow of Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur sucks in another startled breath and tugs at his hair as Merlin curls his tongue to meet Arthur’s, delighted when Arthur makes a small sound low in his throat and kisses back. He wants Arthur to make that same noise again - a soft, desperate whimper that sends heat travelling through Merlin’s body and lights him up from the inside - and he grazes his teeth against the fleshy part of Arthur’s bottom lip, before licking softly inside his mouth, deepening the kiss.

The slow, deep kissing turns Arthur’s posture loose and pliant, his fingers loosening their grip on Merlin’s hair, mouth slack as he lets Merlin eat his moans from his lips. Arthur’s reaction is unbearably sexy and Merlin becomes aware of how hard he is, his dick pressing against the fly of his jeans uncomfortably. Another low moan rumbles from Arthur’s throat and Merlin fists his hands into Arthur’s shirtfront, curling his fingers into the labels of his smart suit and hauling him even closer, delighted when Arthur just sinks against him with a pleased sound, boneless.

One of Arthur’s hand finds its way onto his thigh, closer to where Merlin wants his hands to be, fingers digging hard into the muscle, the other is still tugging at his hair, and Merlin laps into Arthur’s open mouth, sloppily and deep, slow and sexy, unable to comprehend how this is happening, turned on beyond belief.

A part of him - the part that is still fighting to think rationally - is already frantically protesting his actions, but Arthur feels so good, tastes so good and Merlin’s head is swimming and all he wants is to keep drawing out those breathy, noisy moans from Arthur’s lips and feel him melt against him.

“Fuck,” Arthur groans between kisses, breathing his name hoarsely, fingers scratching along the inside of his thigh.

“You drive me crazy,” Merlin huffs, like a plea for Arthur to excuse his actions, gasping the words against the hollow of Arthur’s throat, before he starts licking up his neck to his ear, enjoying the way Arthur trembles beneath his ministrations. He bites a path from Arthur’s neck back to his mouth, plunging his tongue back into the warm, wet heat, amazed by his own carried-away reaction. He wonders if it’s as good for Arthur. If he could make Arthur come in his dress trousers just from kissing. The thought sends a hot possessive jolt through his body and he hauls him closer, causing Arthur to groan in appreciation.

He’s thrown out of the moment, when the car’s intercom crackles to life and Percy’s voice interrupts their harsh panting. “Merlin? Erm… we’ve arrived.” There’s a pause, before Percy adds, sounding embarrassed, “Do we drive somewhere else or are you getting out?”

Percy’s words are like an icy shower, and Merlin jerks back, staring wide-eyed at Arthur next to him. Arthur, who is looking dishevelled and splotchy, hectic red on his face, his mouth swollen and wet. Arthur, who he just kissed, because apparently, it’s not only Arthur who’s horny and stupid.

“Fuck,” Merlin mutters, his eyes widening as common sense returns and he scrambles for the door. He nearly tumbles out onto the curb, his body unwilling to work properly. With effort he straightens himself by pulling himself up with help from the car door, his face heating so quickly with embarrassment it feels as if he’s on fire. Just as he finds his footing again, Arthur’s slightly anxious, flushed face appears in his field of vision as Arthur leans out of the car.

“Are you alright?” he wonders, his voice raw and breathy.

Merlin blinks, stares at the bite marks on Arthur’s neck and his kiss-swollen lips and winces. “No,” he croaks, acutely aware of his tented trousers and obvious arousal that not even the interruption paired with the sudden onset of embarrassment have been able to reduce. “No, I’m definitely not okay. I fucking kissed you!”

“What-” Arthur starts hesitantly, but Merlin shuts him off before he can finish his sentence.

“You should go,” he pants out, hating his irregular breath, smoothing down his shirt and willing his erection to go down, flustered by its insistence to remain painfully noticeable.

“Merlin-” Arthur whispers, sounding completely out of his depth, looking kiss-flushed and confusedly aroused.

“Good night, Your Royal Highness,” Merlin says, attempting at finality despite the shaking of his voice, stepping away from the car before he can become tempted to crawl back inside and tackle Arthur into the upholstery.

He stumbles into the direction of his frontdoor, wobbly knees and arousal making it difficult to walk, confused and out of sorts, wondering what the fuck he thought he had been doing, all but mauling the prince like that, overstepping every professional line and behaving like a complete, horny fool. He really shouldn’t have taken on this job. His Mum had been right.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls to him, but Merlin refuses to acknowledge him, already reaching inside his pockets to retrieve his key.

Behind him, Arthur curses quietly, before the door of the car is pulled shut. With a sigh of relief, Merlin pushes the key into the lock and lets himself inside the building.

Chapter Text

The Sun, June 22

The Dirt on Prince Arthur’s Boyfriend

Little is known about Merlin Emrys, the enigmatic dark-haired man who captured the prince’s heart and has officially been confirmed to be in a relationship with His Royal Highness last month, causing a media frenzy (this newspaper sold out its morning edition with the couple’s official photoshoot in less than 3 hours).

Mr. Emrys has been living with his mother in Twickenham until relocating to central London earlier this year. Even though his background is humble, he’s no stranger to palace life nor Arthur’s various scandals: The two of them met while Merlin was working for the PR representatives Uther confided in in the past.

Merlin meanwhile has gone on to work for other accounts, but apparently, the two of them couldn’t quite forget about each other.

“He never had a serious long-term relationship. It just never worked out for him,” a close friend to Mr. Emrys told The Sun. “I don’t think he has ever been truly in love before. But the way he talks about the Prince you can tell there’s something real there. I wouldn’t be surprised if this one’s going to last.”

Next to Arthur, in his first class business flight seat, Merlin is fidgeting and shifting restlessly as he watches an episode of a sci-fi show on the inflight entertainment system. Arthur doesn’t recognise the show, but there’s tons of shit being blown up in a giant space fight, which is utterly ridiculous considering that scientifically, there shouldn’t be explosions in space.

Merlin’s fingers are twitching where they are resting on his thigh and he’s staring straight ahead at the screen with empty, unseeing eyes.

It’s been three days since they kissed in the back of Arthur’s car and it’s all Arthur has been able to think about. A shiver travels through him as he remembers Merlin’s hands on him, his long-fingered, elegant but strong fingers gripping his biceps, cupping his face, tugging at his clothes. The kisses had been desperate and wet and just thinking about Merlin’s tongue in his mouth makes Arthur twitch with arousal. He’s been having a hard time going about his day without sneaking off somewhere to lay a hand on himself, frantically jerking off to relieve the tension in his body, recalling the way Merlin had been looking at him: like he wanted to turn Arthur inside out.

When Arthur looks at Merlin now, it’s difficult to see the same, slightly dorky PR junior he’s known professionally for almost two years. His perception of Merlin has changed since they started pretending to be boyfriends, after all, he has gotten to know him very well, but even so, Arthur should still consider Merlin to be strictly off-limits. Yes, Merlin is gorgeous (if somewhat uncommon looking). Yes, Merlin is smart and witty (if terribly irritating). And yes, Merlin is sexy (in the moments when he isn’t clumsily falling all over himself.)

Arthur’s unlucky attraction shouldn’t matter. They are in a working relationship. It’s just very unprofessional to lust after a man who has been his pseudo-employee and now is essentially a co-worker, but Arthur can’t help it.

With the memory of their snogging session lingering persistently, Arthur can’t unsee anymore that he is very much drawn to the man. It’s an unhappy revelation to know he’s ready to jump Merlin’s bones at the slightest indication that Merlin wants him to.

Right now, Merlin doesn’t look like he wants him to. Not with how tightly he holds himself sitting next to him, his smiles not reaching his eyes and his gaze shifty. They haven’t talked since it happened. Arthur considered sending one or two texts, mostly memes he would have usually forwarded to share a laugh with Merlin, but he didn’t dare initiate first contact. And now they are on their flight to Denmark to attend Mithian’s wedding, a confused, awkward silence between them.

The steward brings a selection of drinks to choose from, and Arthur gets a coffee and a glass of sparkling water. It’s an early morning flight and they get served a quick European style breakfast, white, crusty bread with butter and ham and a small danish. It’s plain, especially for business class, and not very tasty, but Arthur is always hungry on flights, regardless if he ate before. Arthur could have taken a private plane, but he usually refuses, too aware of the economic footprint of such a flight.

Next to him, Merlin is sipping cautiously on his orange juice with a pale and uneasy face. He’s had some trouble with the take-off, claiming he gets airsick, and hasn’t been very talkative all morning.

Arthur watches Merlin furtively out of the corner of his eyes while he eats. Merlin is wearing a maroon, tight-knit sweater and slacks and the sweater clings nicely to the muscles in his arms and chests. You wouldn’t think that Merlin packed muscle if you saw him in anything less form-fitting, but there’s no mistaking the outline of his biceps or the rise of his pectorals. He has made an attempt to tame his mane of curly hair but it’s been misbehaving and wayward locks are sticking up from his inky strands at odd angles. Arthur has the sudden urge to get his fingers back into Merlin’s hair, to smooth down his black locks or maybe, quite contrary, tousle them even more.

Arthur finishes his danish and wipes his mouth with a napkin, before he clears his throat.

“Look, last time in the car-” he starts, and Merlin immediately twists to look at him with his eyes widened comically, the greenish tint on his face intensifying.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Merlin blurts out, a look of panic adding to the unhealthy colour on his handsome face. “I don’t know what I was thinking! I was so angry with you.”

“Some kind of anger,” Arthur says dryly, but Merlin’s reaction stings. He wasn’t prepared for Merlin's very vocal, very immediate admission of regret.

“I didn’t mean to …” Merlin lowers his voice and leans slightly sideways and into Arthur’s space, “do that, you know?”

Arthur takes a sip from his coffee and plays with the little paper cup to stall for time in order to get his emotions under control and gather his thoughts. He doesn’t know what he expected when he brought it up, but certainly not this. “You didn’t,” he says slowly, and he’s not sure if he’s posing a question or asking for a confirmation.

“No!” Merlin says, hushed. “I don’t know - it just happened.”

Arthur swallows and plasters on a small, teasing smile which feels a bit fake, because his stomach churns with rejection. Humor seems to be the only way to deal with the situation if he wants to pretend he isn’t hurt by Merlin’s reaction. “Well, next time you’re angry with me, don’t hold back, just sock me in the eye or something like a normal person.”

Merlin blinks at him from underneath sooty lashes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking stressed out and ready to run, shifting uneasily in his seat. “It’s just weird, you know? Pretending to be your boyfriend.”

Arthur sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his mind suggesting several interpretations of Merlin’s statement. Merlin’s fidgeting restlessly, all but squirming, and Arthur has so many questions. He averts his eyes, giving Merlin space to clarify his answer, his own stomach dropping with nerves. He shouldn’t have brought it up now, but the day ahead is already planned out with a tight schedule and they won’t be able to talk much before they are out in public, performing for all the world to see and the kiss between them is making everything awkward.

Is it weird because I’m a prince? he wants to ask. Because you think I’m an arrogant prat? Because you believe I’m unattractive? Because fake-dating me put you off men forever?

Merlin’s words hang in the air between them for a long moment, before Merlin speaks again. “Things get… kind of muddled sometimes,” he says hesitantly and Arthur sucks in a short breath at his admission and looks up from where he had been staring at the little white tray where the rest of his sad breakfast waits to be retrieved.

“Muddled?” Arthur asks, just as quietly, feeling the tension suddenly crackle in the air between them.

“Muddled,” Merlin confirms softly. He gazes at Arthur for a moment, before his eyes slip away and he laughs a short, slightly deprecating laugh.

“You may not be the only one who hasn’t had any in months,” he says softly, but rushed, like the words pain him, “and you have to admit, we’ve been spending an awful lot of time together…You are not exactly unattractive and… ” He trails off, the words hanging in the air between them.

Goosebumps trail up and down Arthur’s bared forearms where he rolled up his shirt sleeves. He wets his lips and is just about to say something - what does “not exactly unattractive” even mean - when the plane lurches and there’s a collective gasp from the passengers, followed by startled, nervous laughter. Next to him, Merlin grips the seatrest hard in a white-knuckled grip and moans, “Oh, no.”

The “Fasten Seatbelt” sign lights up above their seats and the intercom cackles to life. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” a cheerful voice says, “this is your co-pilot speaking. We’ll be experiencing a bit of a bumpy descent due to strong winds. Please fasten your seatbelts. There’s no need to worry. We’ll be arriving in Copenhagen airport in 15 minutes.”

Merlin’s face has taken on even more of a greenish tint and his breathing has accelerated. “I hate flying,” he whimpers. “I get airsick even if there is no turbulence.”

Arthur sighs, feeling like the rest of their conversation isn’t going to take place now, even though he desperately wants to know what Merlin had started out to say. He reaches into the seat compartment and pulls out a folded paper bag and shakes it open, before pressing it into Merlin’s shaky hands.

“Here, take this,” he suggests softly, wrapping Merlin’s fingers securely around the bag.

“No,” Merlin moans unhappily, but despite his meager protest, he’s clutching the paper bag in sweaty fingers.

The steward comes to collect their empty cups and plates, smiling reassuringly at Merlin’s sweaty face.

“You don’t need to worry, Sir,” he says as he dumps their trash into the compartment of his trolly. “We’ll start to descend in a moment and you’re going to be standing safely on the ground in no time.”

Merlin’s answering smile is weak as the plane lurches again and Arthur reaches out unconsciously to pet his arm, rubbing his shoulder and biceps in what he hopes is perceived as comforting.

Merlin turns watery eyes on him and is about to say something, when he suddenly doubles over and presses the paper bag to his mouth, retching pitifully, his back heaving.

Great, Arthur thinks, then runs his hand from Merlin’s shoulder to his back, stroking softly as Merlin empties his stomach into the paper bag with a couple of pathetic noises.

Gladly, the car ride into Copenhagen is brief, as the airport is located barely 8 km from the city centre. Even so, Merlin is still noticeably more pale than usual, glancing out the window at the crowded streets, curiously watching the busy bike lanes. They don’t continue their conversation from during the flight and Arthur is still wondering what Merlin had wanted to say, but the moment to bring it up has irrevocably passed.

They check in at the Nimb Hotel in Indre By to freshen up and get dressed for the wedding at Copenhagen Cathedral. The Danish Crown has arranged a laundry and valet service for their wedding guests and in-room service awaits them with hot coffee and a luxurious breakfast selection. It’s Arthur’s third breakfast of the day, but he still nibbles on a pastry. Official royal functions sometimes have the disadvantage of being very demanding without providing proper meals, so it’s always a good idea to eat ahead just in case.

After he finishes dressing, Arthur checks himself over once more in the mirror, startled when the connecting door to his room flies open and Merlin strides in, dressed in a sharp, forest green suit, tugging on his tie, a harassed look on his face.

“This is ridiculous,” Merlin says in lieu of a greeting, and Arthur notes with relief that colour has returned to his face. “We’ve checked into rooms in a hotel we won’t be staying at!”

Arthur bites his lips in order to not laugh out loud when Merlin comes to stand in front of him, a look of indignation on his flushed face. Arthur can’t help but note that he looks gorgeous like that, eyes blazing and cheeks flushed, a puzzled frown on his handsome face.

“That’s because the wedding party is in Frederiksberg and we’ll stay there,” he explains, taking in Merlin’s appearance with an appraising eye. His dark green suit is well chosen, elegant and formal, but with a bit of a trendy quirk with its slim tie that fits him well.

“The valet strangled me with the tie!” Merlin complains, grimacing as he tugs some more on the offending article of clothing. “It’s much too tight!”

With a snort, Arthur reaches out and pats Merlin’s hands away from the knot on the tie, effectively loosening it so it doesn’t sit quite so tightly at Merlin’s throat.

“Here you go,” he says quietly, and Merlin breathes a sigh of relief, his eyes softening as he regards Arthur.

“Thank you.” Merlin is standing so close, Arthur can feel the wash of his breath on his face. Merlin smells good - freshly showered and with a hint of cologne. They are nearly the same height, with Merlin maybe an inch taller, and tension prickles up Arthur’s back, making the air between them heavy and thick.

Hastily, Arthur takes a step back and gives Merlin another critical once over. It should be illegal how good Merlin looks in a suit, even if he’s feeling uncomfortable. There’s one thing that just isn’t right, though.

“Shit, your hair,” he laughs, blinking at the pathetic attempts made to comb Merlin’s locks into submission. His hair has been parted on the wrong side and flattened down with some kind of product and the result makes Merlin look like a slightly manic accountant.

“I know,” Merlin whines and turns towards the mirror, gazing at himself with a scowl.

“Allow me,” Arthur says before he can think twice about it. He steps behind Merlin and reaches out, placing his fingers in Merlin’s hair like he has been secretly dying to do all day now. He muses it up gently, carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair until the curls return and Merlin looks more like himself.

Merlin’s strands are buttery soft to the touch and he lingers with his fingers longer than strictly necessary. When he finally slides his fingers from Merlin’s hair, Merlin’s eyes have a glazed over look as he stares back at Arthur in the mirror, something half-lidded and sensual in his gaze. His mouth is gently parted and it looks so plump and inviting that Arthur longs to spin Merlin around, push him up against the mirror and press their mouths together to find out if he tastes as good as he remembers.

Their eyes lock in the mirror and Arthur feels his fingers twitch with the need to reach out again. The moment stretches and lasts while Arthur wonders what the hell they are doing, but just when he’s about to lose the battle of resisting the lure of Merlin’s mouth, there’s a sharp knock on the door.

Arthur startles badly, all but jumping back to put some much needed space between them. His voice is shaky as he calls out for the person in front of the door to step inside.

“The car will be outside in five minutes, Your Royal Highness,” the valet, who helped him get dressed before, announces, his eyes flitting over Arthur and Merlin, unable to hide the curious expression on his face as he takes in the way they are still standing way too close.

“Thank you,” Arthur manages and the valet gives a short bow, before retreating.

When he turns to regard Merlin again, a look of nervousness has once more taken over Merlin’s features, replacing the slack-jawed, lustful expression from before.

“Are you nervous?” Arthur asks him unnecessarily. It’s Merlin’s first big official appearance as his boyfriend and it’s kind of a big deal, so of course Merlin is bound to be anxious.

Merlin shrugs and pulls himself together visibly. “I’m looking forward to it about as much as I would for a trip to the dentist with a festering root-canal problem,” he says jokingly, tugging at his suit jacket to straighten it, eyeing himself in the mirror once more critically.

“The worst will be the ceremony, because it’s going to be long and hideously boring,” Arthur divulges with a wink, and Merlin snorts out a laugh at his words.

“I’m terribly afraid I’ll fuck up when we meet the royal family and everyone’s going to hate me forever,” Merlin says dramatically, wrinkling his nose. “I could forget to bow or use the wrong title… or something.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to laugh. “Whenever have you been nervous about insulting royalty? Also, that would be difficult, seeing as Mithian is already head-over-heels for you and she hasn’t even met you.”

Merlin scrunches up his nose even more, his eyebrows drawing together with worry. “Why did you tell me that? Now the pressure is even worse!”

“You could trip over your own two feet and take down one of her bridesmaids in the process and she would find it adorable.” Arthur rolls his eyes when he thinks about his last phone conversation with Mithian, where she gushed endlessly about Merlin and her excitement about getting to know him, finally.

It’s a bit adorable when Merlin flushes and ducks his head, averting his eyes. “Stop giving me ideas just about how to fuck up…” he says abashedly, but when Arthur laughs again, a small, pleased smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “I would rather stay here at this nice hotel and hide out.” Merlin’s eyes sweep the room and take in the timeless and sophisticated dark and white interior. Arthur follows his gaze, swallowing when his eyes skim over the large inviting bed that nobody will be using tonight.

The thought occurs that he’d rather stay here too and make use of that bed, preferably with Merlin. He can almost envision Merlin’s pale, long, lean body spread out on the dark sheets, head dipped back in bliss and mouth parted slackly as Arthur rides his cock.

Heat rises to his face quickly, making him light-headed. There’s no denying it anymore: If given the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate to fuck his pretend-boyfriend, no matter what a ginormously bad idea that would be.

Arthur mentally shakes himself to get rid of his unwanted fantasies about tumbling Merlin into the sheets, trying to concentrate on the task ahead, the one where he needs to make a good impression or might cause international scandal.

“You and me both,” he says with forced hilarity, swallowing thickly as he carefully banishes all thoughts of Merlin dragging him onto the bed. “I guess nobody wants to be at that ceremony, least of all Mithian.”

“It’s her wedding,” Merlin wonders with a puzzled frown. “Shouldn’t she want to be there?”

“It’s an official function,” Arthur corrects him, thinking quietly that for all his brush with royalty, Merlin still has so much to learn. “First the wedding at Copenhagen Cathedral. Then the official wedding party at Frederiksberg. The real party is tomorrow. I bet she’s looking forward to that.”

“What a drag,” Merlin mutters, mouth twitching. “Even now, being inevitably wrapped up in royal life myself, I sometimes forget how every part of your lives is being dictated by duty.”

Arthur has nothing much to add to that. “And thus duty calls,” he comments dryly and leads the way towards the door.

Just as Arthur predicted, the official ceremony seems to last forever, but Merlin holds himself perfectly, not even glitching on the royal titles nor the few Danish words Royal Protocol has drilled into him. Arthur would never tell him, but he’s pleased with how Merlin is performing his role and he bets that Royal Protocol is too, probably congratulating themselves on licking Merlin into shape until they have eradicated Merlin’s inbred capacity for bringing on social disaster.

Mithian looks every way a princess in her white, flowing gown and delicate veil - and Arthur can almost forget that she’s the uncrowned queen of earth-shatteringly loud burps - and Gareth, her husband, while obviously nervous, is well-prepared for the special insanity of a royal wedding.

Arthur has known Gareth for three years now, and while they don’t meet very often, they both share an interest in foreign cultures and environmental issues. He spent three weeks with Gareth together in Borneo on a reforestation project and it brought them closer together and cemented Arthur’s opinion that Gareth was the right husband for Mithian, because he was humble and steadfast as well as someone who went about problems with a very hands-on approach.

After the ceremony, they are driven to Frederiksberg Palace, where the official wedding party takes place in a spacious garden tent. It’s the middle of June and while sometimes the weather in Denmark can be kind of capricious, the day seems blessed with a clear sky and a very balmy 25 degrees. Arthur is still sweating in his suit, but protocol doesn’t allow him to get rid of the jacket and tie just yet.

“You’d think there’d be real food at some point,” Merlin moans as he shoves another miniature- seized smorrebrod into his mouth, chewing artlessly, bread-crumbs clinging to his lips. Now that they aren’t strictly in the limelight anymore with about one hundred photographers snapping candid shots of them from all angles, he’s diverted back to his usually laid back personality and while Arthur was happy with Merlin’s public representation, he has to admit that he likes this version of Merlin a lot better.

Arthur laughs and leans in to speak his next words directly into Merlin’s ear. “Don’t let anyone hear you. Rye bread is a national dish here and the Danish are very proud of it. But don’t despair - there’ll be more food at the formal state dinner later.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Merlin whispers back, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I really don’t feel like changing my suit again.”

“Evening suit for the seated wedding dinner, I’m afraid.”

“Let this day be over!” Merlin begs dramatically and crams another bisket-sized piece of smorrebrod between his lips.

“Your word in God’s ear,” a booming voice says from behind them, and when they both twist around, Merlin with a smear of cream cheese on his upper lip, Gareth is standing behind them, broad-muscled and bearded, looking like a particularly well-groomed viking.

He goes in for a manly hug, slapping Arthur’s back heartily and defying royal protocol all in one fell swoop. Arthur grins into his shoulder and knocks his fist against Gareth’s upper back in retaliation until Gareth lets him go.

“You must be Merlin,” Gareth says loudly and extends his hand for Merlin to shake. “Mithian has talked about you quite a lot. She’s still caught up in the official wedding drama, but I bet she’s coming over to grill you about your intentions with Arthur as soon as she can free herself from accepting well-meaning advice about the wedding night.” His grin broadens some more and he winks.

Arthur is enjoying the surprised expression on Merlin’s face immensely, watching him closely as he carefully licks the cream-cheese from his lips before he reaches out to grasp Gareth’s hand.

“I only have noble intentions,” Merlin says, shaking Gareth’s hand with a hearty grip, “So Mithian shouldn’t find anything to take offense.”

“Oh, if all your intentions are noble, she will surely take offense!” Gareth returns grinningly, and Merlin’s eyes widen, before he chances a perplexed side-glance at Arthur, as if he’s looking for help.

Attempting not to laugh, Arthur places a hand on the small of Merlin’s back.

“He’s lying,” he says to Gareth. “There’s nothing noble about Merlin nor his intentions.”

“Hey!” Merlin protests, but he’s laughing, amused indignation written all over his face.

“And I’m glad about it,” Arthur adds mischievously, making Gareth chortle and Merlin roll his eyes at him fondly.

“You prat,” Merlin mutters.

“See?” Arthur quips, to which Merlin jams his elbow into his side.

Gareth starts talking about their wedding holiday plans - a safari in Namibia - and Arthur reveals his plans for Belize. Talking about faraway places immediately leads them to reminiscing about their time in Borneo and soon they are both entertaining Merlin with their stories about car failures, fly-infested latrines and unintentional river baths. When Mithian finally appears at Gareth’s side, they have gone through most of the - many - embarrassing or noteworthy moments on that trip and the mood is jovial.

Mithian almost immediately and without any attempt at masking her real intentions, whisks Merlin off to the side. For just a moment, Arthur feels a bit sorry for Merlin, but he reminds himself that being harassed for his relationship with Arthur is just the thing Merlin is being paid for. The thought sobers him immediately and his stomach swoops. Stupid, he tells himself. Stupid. Merlin isn’t his real boyfriend and he’s only here because he signed a contract to pretend to be with Arthur. In a couple of months, their contract is over and Merlin will go on with his life, pursuing real relationships.

Despite his attempts to stay indifferent, Arthur is only half-listening to Gareth and Kay, a friend of Gareth who joined them not long ago in conversation, occasionally sending a worried glance over to where Mithian is talking to Merlin in the shade of a large tree, gesticulating wildly with her small hands, Merlin nodding along earnestly.

“Don’t worry,” Gareth tells him when he notices him looking, “she’s not going to kill him. You’ll get him back in one piece.”

Arthur joins in Kay’s and Gareth’s laughter, but quietly he thinks that Mithian might just kill him if she ever finds out about the sham they are undertaking. When Merlin and Mithian return, the look of relief on Merlin’s face is palatable.

“She gave me The Talk,” Merlin whispers as he bends close to Arthur’s ear. “I feel really bad about it.”

“Don’t let her intimidate you,” Arthur hisses back, his mouth accidentally brushing the shell of Merlin’s ear. “You could take her in a fight.”

Merlin draws back, his face flushed and his ears red, but he’s looking at Arthur like he has grown a second head. “I’m not going to fight the Princess of Denmark!” he says, affronted as if Arthur is making an outrageous suggestion. Clearly, Merlin doesn’t know how ruthless Mithian is.

“She plays mean laser tag, but I’ll train you to be better,” Arthur retorts to which Merlin just shakes his head, flabbergasted.

“You fucking weirdo,” Merlin says with appreciation.

“You love it,” Arthur retorts, enjoying the way Merlin tsks in surprise, an unguarded and unbecoming snorting noise. “But we should probably tone up the PDA a bit. She can totally tell when I’m lying to her face and I really don’t want her to pose any questions.”

Merlin kneads his bottom lip between his teeth and looks at him for a long time and it’s so scrutinising, that Arthur shivers underneath his gaze.

“What?” he asks, alarmed, then remembers their conversation from this morning, Right. He’s sorry.

He watches as Merlin’s tongue darts out to wet his newly released lip, and then Merlin leans forward, bringing their faces intimately close together.

“How much?” he asks, voice low, and Arthur blinks in incomprehension and sudden arousal, caused by the dark timbre of Merlin’s voice.

“How much what?”

“How much do you want to tone it up?”

Merlin’s tone is harsh, like he’s angry with Arthur, and his eyes are dark and intense and dangerous.

Arthur swallows soundly, takes in the way Merlin’s eyebrows are knit tightly together as he contemplates Arthur with a challenging expression on his face.

“As much as it takes for Mithian to have no doubt about our relationship,” he says softly and watches Merlin’s eyes darken further at his words.

“Okay,” Merlin says, clipped, and just like that, the smile is back on his face as he straightens. He stays close, their bodies brushing together almost absently whenever one of them moves. Merlin’s subtle, but he’s occupying Arthur’s space differently than before. There are fleeting touches, whispers into the back of his neck and when they sit down on one of the garden sofas, Merlin pulls Arthur into his side, even though there would be enough space to sit a bit further apart. It’s not enough to be scandalous, but it clearly gets the message across that they are more than just friends.

Three hours later, Arthur is cursing his suggestion about playing it up for Mithian’s sake. It seems like Merlin takes a perverse pleasure in touching Arthur as intimately as possible considering they are in public and it’s slowly driving Arthur insane. There’s the hand on his arm lingering too long. The soft brush of Merlin’s lips against his cheeks as he leans in to tell him something. The thigh pressing against his as they sit. He becomes so acutely aware of Merlin’s body that every tiny touch sends licks of confused heat through him and soon, Arthur wonders if he looks as flushed as he feels.

When Mithian corners him at the bar after she successfully tossed her bouquet of flowers into the crowd, he’s almost relieved to have an excuse not to return immediately to Merlin’s side.

“He’s more gorgeous than I thought,” Mithian says conversationally, leaning against one of the barstools. Despite the long, exhausting day and the threat of the state dinner still ahead, she still looks radiant. “Kinder, too. Brave. Witty. Has brains. I don’t know how you deserve him.”

“Shame you’re already married to that dumb nordic himbo, huh?” Arthur says sarcastically and signals the waiter for two glasses of white wine.

Mithian giggles, her eyes automatically searching the room for her husband, which isn’t too difficult, seeing as he’s towering at least half a head over everyone else. “He’s my dumb nordic himbo now. It’s fine. Although this wedding is worse than I imagined. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

Smiling, Arthur leans back against the bar next to her, following her eyes to where Gareth is making small talk with Mithian’s ancient uncle looking uncommonly earnest and behaved. “He’s a good catch. And you knew that wedding never stood a chance.”

“You’ve been fishing quite successfully as well,” Mithian remarks, lifting her chin to pointedly look at Merlin, who stands in the shade of a tree, deep in conversation with Mithian’s older sister, Caja. He’s smiling as he listens to Caja talk and he’s looking unfairly attractive with his dark hair that glints bluish in the early evening light. “It’s about time you found someone and he’s such a good choice. I’m really happy for you.”

Arthur hums non-committedly, but Mithian isn’t really awaiting an answer.

“By the way, you can thank me tomorrow. I’ve rearranged your bookings, so you don’t need to sneak around at night,” she says lightly. “Silly old British monarchy, requesting two separate rooms, those bloody ancient sphincters.”

“What?” Arthur asks, alarmed, his eyes widening as he slowly gets her meaning.

“Gareth needed an extra room anyway for his aunt. She decided she wasn’t yet too old for travel. Lucky for her, I could rearrange your accommodations, because the hotel is completely booked.”

Arthur gulps and reaches for one of the wine glasses the waiter has put down next to him and drains half of it.

“That was,” Arthur flusters, “uhm… very thoughtful of you.”

“Anything for you, babe,” she says, smiling at him sweetly. “Enjoy your rest of the night. I’ll have to make the rounds again and get some more photographs taken.”

“Erm, do that,” he says, then watches as she walks away, still holding herself regal, even though she’s been standing around or walking with her feet in strappy high-heels all day long.

His eyes slide over to where Merlin is still chatting amicably to Caja, and he’s surprised to find Merlin looking back at him, a goofy smile on his face when their eyes meet.

Arthur takes a deep breath and picks up the two glasses of wine, steeling himself for the rest of the night ahead: more of Merlin driving him mad and the prospect of spending the night sharing a bed with the cause of his frustration.

Arthur can’t sleep, staring into the dark at the hotel room ceiling, too acutely aware of Merlin lying awake beside him, not an arm-length away, shifting restlessly from time to time and pulling on the blanket. It’s 1 a.m. and he should be sleeping after the exhausting, unnerving day he has had, but he’s still wide awake, his body buzzing with frustrated arousal.

More than once he has thought about getting up and going to the bathroom to beat off in order to calm down, but because Merlin is still awake as well, he’s reluctant to do so and thereby reveal his intentions. It would maybe be too transparent and he figures he’d feel silly, standing around in the bathroom with his pajamas around his ankles, masturbating furiously, while in the next room Merlin waits for him to return, probably catching on to what is going on.

The mattress dips as Merlin turns from his side onto his back again with an annoyed, little huff, like it’s Arthur that’s keeping them both from finding some sleep.

“Will you stop fidgeting already and go the fuck to sleep!” Arthur hisses into the dark.

Merlin’s answer is quick and equally filled with frustration. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness. It’s just that I can practically hear you thinking from over there and it’s fucking loud!” Merlin snarls back, then sits up and punches his pillow into submission, his forceful actions making the whole bed shake.

“Oh really!” Arthur mutters challengingly, feeling tension coil through his body. “And what am I thinking about, please do tell!”

“How your sheltered life is so fucking unfair and you have to spend a night with me instead of inviting some alluring Danish stranger into your bed for a quick tumble,” Merlin suggests bitingly and with another pissy grunt flops back down onto the pillow.

Arthur snorts out laughter at Merlin’s words. “At least then I would probably already be asleep,” he says, “because I doubt they’d be fidgeting as much as you!”

“Ugh,” Merlin moans in disgust. “Please don’t bring up your boring one-night stands when I’m trying to find some rest.”

“My one-night stands were never boring! Also, you brought it up!” Arthur protests with indignation, tempted to pick up his pillow and smother Merlin with it.

“They must have been if you never found a guy who was good enough to stick around!” Merlin growls viciously and makes another abrupt movement that makes the too soft mattress wobble.

“I’ve had good sex. I just don’t think good sex and good relationships necessarily have to go together!” Arthur retorts sharply, glaring into the darkness. “I don’t need to elope with every bloke just because he gives good head.”

“Oh please,” Merlin mutters disdainfully, but doesn’t elaborate and Arthur grinds his teeth, wondering what Merlin meant by that.

“What?!” he finally asks, unable to let it sit, pushing himself up in bed. “What do you mean by “Oh please!””

Next to him, Merlin sits up as well and reaches behind himself, turning on the lamp on his nightstand. The light spills warmly across the white bedsheets and Merlin’s pale face, highlighting the blueish tint of his hair, which sticks up in crazy angles.

“One night stands are boring by design! You just don’t have great sex with someone you don’t know,” Merlin claims with annoyed determination audible in his tone. The duvet slips from his torso, revealing his washed out shirt of a band Arthur has never heard of. Its black colour has long ago faded to grey from too many washes and it’s tight around Merlin’s surprisingly broad shoulders, highlighting the contours of his chest. It’s an unfairly enticing shirt, for being so ugly, Arthur finds, briefly distracted by the shift of Merlin’s muscles as he turns towards Arthur.

Meanwhile, Merlin isn’t finished with his rant, apparently unaware of the surprising allure of his shabby nightclothes.

“And you,” he says almost accusingly, stabbing a finger at Arthur’s chest, “haven’t had anything but one-night stands as far as I know since I met you. So by default, your sex life is terribly boring, which probably causes you to seek out one bloke after the other.”

“That’s nonsense. I’ve had plenty of good sex,” Arthur insists stubbornly, even though there’s a grain of truth in what Merlin is saying, because there’s sex and there’s intimacy and intimacy is hard to come by when you’re a prince.

“That’s because you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Merlin announces snottily and with a mightier-than-you little smirk that Arthur just kind of wants to wipe off his face.

“Oh, wow, thanks for insulting me. Again. How novel,” Arthur mutters. “Obviously, you’re an expert on good sex, so please enlighten me, what did I miss?”

Merlin’s eyes darken perceptively and he bites his lip, glancing at Arthur with a strangely shrewd look on his face. He takes too long to answer and Arthur feels the mood shift between them, turning from annoyed bickering to something else, something potentially dangerous as Merlin contemplates his answer. He thinks of being in the car with Merlin a couple of days ago, of feeling his body move against him with purpose, of the excitement of feeling his dick poke his thigh when Merlin hauled him closer, and he licks his lips, unconsciously so, shivering when Merlin’s eyes follow the swipe of his tongue like he knows what Arthur’s thinking about.

“Do you want to find out?” Merlin asks boldly, and he’s still staring at Arthur’s lips, like he can’t take his eyes away.

There’s something in his tone that makes Arthur instantly hard, feeding on the arousal he’s been feeling all evening long, even while he’s enraged that Merlin seems so sure about his own ability in bed. He gasps out a small breath of air, speechless, his cheeks heating as he stares back at Merlin, who is looking triumphant, having tossed a gauntlet at Arthur’s feet, waiting for him to pick it up.

“I thought… This morning you said… ” he starts hesitantly, his voice wavering.

“I said,” Merlin says with an insufferable reasonable voice, “things get kind of muddled.” He huffs out a laugh that sounds gratifyingly nervous, belying his earlier bold words, before continuing. “But I would lie to say I wasn’t tempted to fuck you.”

Arthur swallows nervously, confused and blindingly aroused once again by Merlin’s bluntness.

“You are aggravating and a prat,” Merlin continues almost conversationally and he shifts forward, his hand sliding over the space between them until he finds Arthur’s thigh in his pajama bottoms, squeezing hard. “Most of the time, anway,” he amends softly, holding Arthur’s gaze as he slides his hand up the inside of his thigh to where Arthur’s cock is lying hard and twitching, “but you’re really hot and you’re probably going to be much more bearable if you get laid, so-”

“You’re not really selling this well-” Arthur protests weakly, because he feels like he needs to do so, but his body is humming with need, trembling with anticipation for more of Merlin’s touch.

“- so,” Merlin interrupts him determinedly with a mock-reasonable air, his fingers trailing closer to where Arthur desperately wants them, “despite everything that speaks against this - “

“Are you suggesting a friends-with-benefits situation?” Arthur blurts out.

“A fake-boyfriends-with-benefits situation,” Merlin says evenly, his mouth twitching, and Arthur can’t help the needy little breath he sucks in at the tone of Merlin’s low voice and the damning way Merlin’s fingers haven’t yet reached their intended destination.

There’s a strangely satisfied expression on Merlin’s face at his reaction, something triumphant in the way the corners of his mouth are curled up. Merlin stills the movement of his fingers and gazes up from heavy-lidded eyes with a look that sends confused sparks of arousal through Arthur’s body, as if he’s daring Arthur to put a stop to his advances, before his hand suddenly slides the rest of the way into Arthur’s lap, gripping him through his pyjama bottoms, like he wants to confirm that Arthur is interested.

“Fuck,” Arthur whines, his hips jerking upwards, into the warm press of Merlin’s hand.

“Yes,” Merlin breathes, and “okay” and then leans forward, tipping them over sideways and tumbling Arthur into the sheets. For a moment, Arthur mourns the loss of Merlin’s hand, but then Merlin’s body settles against his, a welcome, warm weight and Merlin’s mouth finds his.

Merlin’s kiss is fierce and commanding and full of pent up frustration for a moment, his mouth bruising, but it gentles and deepens when Arthur responds and turns into the kind of slow, open-mouthed kissing that makes Arthur’s toes curl. He fists the back of Merlin’s t-shirt, pulling him closer roughly, moaning unashamedly against Merlin’s lips. Merlin tastes amazing and he smells so good Arthur could happily drown in his scent. Arthur’s legs fall open and with a hum of approval, Merlin slots himself between them, making himself at home. Against Arthur’s hip, Merlin’s cock is a hard, hot presence, evidence of his arousal and when Arthur shifts, Merlin bucks against him with a pleased little sound.

Against his mouth, Merlin’s kiss grows shallow and gentle and unbearably sexy, just a slow slide of lips and tongue that leaves Arthur panting and chasing after Merlin’s mouth, his fingers digging harshly into Merlin’s sides. A chuckle rumbles from Merlin’s chest and he nips at Arthur’s bottom lip before teasingly licking inside his mouth again. He’s a good kisser, playful but thorough, and Arthur slides one hand up from where he’s been gripping Merlin’s shirt and threads his fingers through Merlin’s hair, loving the groan he elicits from Merlin.

Soon enough they are all but rutting against each other. Through the thin cotton of Arthur’s pajamas, Merlin’s skin feels heated and his hard length slides enticingly against Arthur’s hipbone, the shape of him exciting and substantial. When Merlin draws back to gasp out a raspy breath, Arthur’s head is swimming. He watches breathlessly as Merlin sits up in his lap, his face becomingly flushed, eyes shiny and dark, his lips full and wet.

He looks beautiful, staring down at Arthur with a glazed-over look in his eyes and Arthur bites his lip and lets his eyes slide over Merlin’s cotton-clad chest and down the lean lines of his arms. He sucks in a breath at the obvious bulge tenting Merlin’s loose boxer shorts, feeling desire course through him.

Merlin’s mouth quirks in a small, lopsided grin and he reaches down for the hem of his shirt, pulling it upward and revealing inch by inch of pale, lightly muscled stomach and chest.There’s a smattering of dark hair leading from the center of his chest down over his belly button towards his groin and Arthur licks his lips, unable to deny that he’d love to follow that line with his tongue. Merlin slides the shirt off and tosses it aside carelessly, emerging with a tousled head, his curls sticking up every which way.

“Fuck, Merlin,” Arthur mutters with appreciation, reaching out to lead his hands up Merlin’s lean but strong thighs.

Merlin’s eyes darken and he licks his lips, staring back down at Arthur with a heated gaze.

“Please tell me to continue,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

“Please, continue,” Arthur breathes, rubbing his fingers over the curly, dark hair on Merlin’s thighs until he can slip them underneath the hem of his boxers.

“Good,” Merlin whispers, then reaches for Arthur’s pajama top, fisting his hand there and pulling him roughly upwards, until they are face to face once more. “Because I really want to fuck you and I’d hate to stop now.”

“It’d be the sensible thing,” Arthur comments half-heartedly, licking his lips in anticipation of another kiss, body shivering with need at Merlin’s brazen words.

“Boring, though,” Merlin mutters, his voice just as low and his breath fans out against Arthur’s face. “We don’t want boring.”

“We don’t want boring,” Arthur agrees and Merlin huffs out a laugh and hauls him in again. They crash together and it’s so good, heated and sloppy and desperate with arousal. Merlin’s hands are harsh in Arthur’s hair and Arthur’s fingers map out the contours of Merlin’s torso, scratching over his wiry body hair and skimming over pert nipples and tight muscles. Merlin makes short work of Arthur’s pajama top, then gives him a firm push in the middle of his chest, sending him sprawling back onto the sheets once more, panting, before following him down, his mouth latching onto Arthur’s collarbone, then moving down over his heated skin.

Arthur watches Merlin’s dishevelled head move lower, groaning when Merlin nips against the soft skin of his belly and dips his tongue into his belly button. Merlin’s hands are rough when they pull down his pajama bottoms, revealing his erection to the cool air of the room just before a hot mouth brushes over the head of his cock, flat tongue licking against the crown.

“Shit,” Arthur hisses between clenched teeth and reaches down to pet Merlin’s wild hair, urging him to continue.

Merlin moans softly, then dips his head further, taking more of Arthur into his mouth. The heat and wetness of him is incredible and Arthur can’t help but steal glances to watch where he slides between Merlin’s plush lips.

“You taste amazing,” Merlin says hoarsely when he draws back, licking his lips with heated eyes. “Your cock is amazing,” he adds, reaching out and circling the base of it with his hand.

Arthur hums and slides his fingers from Merlin’s locks down his cheekbones to his mouth, where he thumbs at the seam of his lips, delightedly surprised when Merlin nips his fingers before sucking it into his mouth, trailing his tongue against the sensitive skin between his digits.

“Let me see yours,” he whispers, amazed at the rawness of his voice, thinking of the prominent bulge in Merlin’s boxer shorts.

Merlin releases his finger with a lewd little wet sound and grins, before pushing himself up to his knees. He reaches into the waistband of his boxer shorts and lifts the fabric away from his body, before drawing it down, revealing his dick to Arthur’s gaze. He’s a bit clumsy when he peels the fabric off his long legs, but it doesn’t deter from the fact that Merlin is fucking built in the downstairs department.

“Fuck,” Arthur moans, unashamedly staring, because seeing Merlin’s hard length is different to just feeling his not unsubstantial size rubbing against him. Arthur’s definitely not a size queen, but Merlin’s cock is objectively alluring and the thought of Merlin putting that cock to good use makes Arthur’s mouth dry with want.

Merlin grins that soft, lopsided grin again and swings his legs over Arthur once more, then reaches for Arthur’s hand and wraps their combined fingers around his length. In his hand, Merlin’s dick is soft skin over steely heat, and Arthur watches Merlin’s eyes flutter closed as he strokes the circle of their hands upwards, then down.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur breathes, unable to hold that observation back. “And surprisingly sexy for being such a clumsy oaf.”

“Shut up,” Merlin moans and moves his hips, fucking up into the circle of their hands, his head dipped back, a blissful look on his face.

Arthur feels his mouth twitch in a smile and he swipes his thumb over the head of Merlin’s cock where his foreskin is pushed back and precome is gathering. Merlin shudders in his lap before his hand shoots out and he stills the movement of Arthur’s fingers by grabbing his wrist in an iron grip.

“Stop,” he says softly and his blue eyes fly open. “I promised to fuck you, didn’t I? You can get me off like this another time.”

“You did.” Arthur’s words come out soft and shivery at the promise inherent in Merlin’s tone, and when Merlin pushes his hand away, he obediently pulls it back to his side.

Above him, Merlin is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with his accelerated breaths, his face flushed.

“Turn over,” he says, and it’s not really a request, more a command. Merlin’s hand comes down on his hip, already urging Arthur to move. Arthur does so willingly, because this is Merlin, not some random encounter in a club, and he thinks he knows Merlin, even if they’ve found themselves in a situation they’ve never been in before with each other. Excitement races through him at the touch of Merlin’s warm hand against his thighs and he settles with his head pillowed against his folded arms.

On his skin, Merlin’s hands are reverent but sure and Arthur’s skin prickles where Merlin smooths his palms upwards. Arthur’s breath comes out in short, laboured pants and he moans unabashedly when Merlin’s fingers find his arse, palming his glutes.

“So pretty,” Merlin says, and Arthur shivers when Merlin pulls on the cheeks of his arse, cool air washing over his pucker. Merlin strokes a single digit against the furled muscle and Arthur trembles, feeling heat rise in his face and burn the tip of his ears.

“Do you enjoy being rimmed?” Merlin asks and his voice sounds a bit dreamy.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes out, shocked by Merlin’s intimate question.

“Yes or no,” Merlin says simply.

“Sometimes,” Arthur whines, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden, but when Merlin leans forward and drags his tongue up the crack between the globes of his arse, he curses and relents. “Yes. Fuck. Yes.”

A small chuckle vibrates against Arthur’s sensitive skin and Merlin’s warm, wet breath washes over him, before Merlin’s tongue is back, dragging lazily over his pucker.

Arthur jerks against the bed, biting down on the moan falling from his lips. Merlin seems quite determined to perform a rather thorough rim job on him and soon, Arthur is pushing back against Merlin’s mouth and into the slick, insistent touch of his tongue, stifling his sobs into the pillow.

“Don’t hold back, let me hear you,” Merlin whispers, pulling at his hips and circling the tip of his tongue past the tight ring of muscle.

Arthur moans in relief and pushes back against the touch, his head swimming, his hesitance losing momentum with every stroke of Merlin’s tongue licking him open. It’s not something he usually does with one-night-stands, but with astonishment he realises that he trusts Merlin, more than maybe most people. Coherent thought isn’t his forte with Merlin taking him apart anyway and Arthur grips the sheets and let’s go of his inhibitions, his brain turning foggy.

The noises spilling from his lips seem to spur Merlin on somehow and Arthur gets lost in sensation. It’s like falling when Merlin suddenly withdraws, leaving Arthur’s crack spit-slick, cool air washing over his arse and back.

“No,” he whines, and what he means is, “don’t stop.”

Merlin snorts softly behind him and the bed wobbles before there’s the twin-thump of Merlin’s naked feet hitting the carpet.

“Where ‘re you goin’?” Arthur protests, his voice sounding drugged and slow to his own ears.

“Back in a moment,” Merlin says cheerfully, but there’s a gratifying breathlessness to his voice. With effort, Arthur cranes his head to look over his shoulder and finds him rummaging through his suitcase.

“You came prepared?” he asks dumbly, watching as Merlin produces a box of condoms and a bottle of lube and stalks back towards the bed in all his naked, aroused glory.

“You didn’t?” Merlin shoots back with that insufferable tone of his, raising both of his eyebrows mockingly even as he rips open a condom and rolls it onto his cock with a practiced movement.

Arthur bites his lips and scowls, because he did pack stuff to the memory of Merlin kissing him in the back of the car playing out in his mind.

The bed dips as Merlin knee-walks back onto the mattress and the clicking sound of the lube being opened is enough to let Arthur’s slight irritation fade, replaced by the mad rush of want.

“Up on your knees, Your Royal Highness,” Merlin quips with a gentle touch of his hands to Arthur’s hips and Arthur growls at the insubordinate use of his title but still he follows Merlin’s order almost blindly, pushing up to his knees, anticipation and arousal making him feel weak and shaky.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Merlin mutters, all the teasing gone from his voice, raw need shining through. He reaches out, stroking a hand up Arthur’s flank almost reverently and Arthur can’t be too sure, but it feels like Merlin’s hand is trembling.

Merlin shifts behind him, one hand settling on Arthur’s hip, and then there’s blunt pressure at his opening. Arthur sucks in a harsh breath, shaking as Merlin presses forward, his hand petting Arthur’s skin almost soothingly.

“Fuck,” Merlin repeats, and his voice sounds gratifyingly hoarse. He shifts on his knees and they both groan when the head of Merlin’s cock slips inside. “Oh God, Arthur,” Merlin whines and both of his hands slide up Arthur’s back, stroking and petting, like Arthur’s something to be cherished.

Panting, Arthur hangs his head and bunches his shoulders, trying to get used to the feeling of Merlin breaching him open. He doesn’t dare move, not at all confident to take Merlin smoothly, but Merlin does, pushing forward another inch or so on a hiccuping breath. Hissing, Arthur sways briefly, and Merlin’s hand settles on his hip, gripping him hard. Behind him, Merlin’s breath is wet and loud and when he rocks his hips, Arthur’s breath hitches again and he claws his fingers into the sheets beneath him, feeling like he’s flying apart underneath Merlin’s touch and the press of his dick.

Cursing, Merlin grips him tighter and slides forward the rest of the way, bottoming out on a hoarse groan. “Ah shit,” he whimpers, sounding stunned, slumping against Arthur’s back. “You feel incredible.”

Arthur gulps in a careful breath, hadn’t even realised he had been holding it. “Move,” he begs, surprised how desperate he sounds, how raw.

“Okay, okay,” Merlin mumbles wetly between his shoulder blades and then he does, too sudden and fast.

It punches the breath out of Arthur’s lungs and he huffs in surprise, digging his fingers into the mattress.

“Sorry,” Merlin murmurs, petting Arthur’s lower back soothingly, stilling his hips. The weight of him inside Arthur feels overwhelming and intimate and he pants softly, bracing himself for Merlin’s next movement.

Merlin draws back slowly, and it’s clear he’s being considerate, but nonetheless Arthur is overwhelmed by the long slide and drag of his dick.

Soon, they find a rhythm and Arthur starts getting used to the way Merlin drives into him and he rocks back, meeting Merlin’s increasingly forceful thrusts until they are moving fluidly with each other. Pressure builds in him and he cries out whenever Merlin surges forward, his cock rubbing unerringly across his prostate. Merlin’s hands are still skimming along his sides and stroking up his spine, while Merlin verbally showers him with praise. Arthur isn’t sure if Merlin is aware he’s doing so, but he wouldn’t want him to stop.

“Shit, I love being inside you,” Merlin breathes, grunting as he shoves forward again. “You’re fucking tight and perfect and ....” He trails off on another moan, pressing a sloppy, wet kiss into the small of Arthur’s back as he bends over him. “Oh God, the sounds you make…”

Once more, he’s being swept away by sensation and when Merlin pulls out of him and rolls him over, he feels disoriented and confused for a moment. He blinks up at Merlin’s flushed face and wide, hazy eyes, surprised at the way Merlin looks unravelled and taken apart. Merlin paws at him clumsily, hiking one of his legs up, before sliding back between his thighs. Arthur grunts on an exhale when Merlin shoves back inside with a moan and he wraps his arms around Merlin’s trim waist, holding on to the corded muscles of his sides.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, sounding wrecked, and then he’s seeking out Arthur’s mouth and they’re kissing, sloppy and frantic, just like Merlin’s hips driving into him. Arthur gets one of his hands back into Merlin’s hair, holding him close to better kiss him, delighted at the way Merlin’s eyes blaze whenever he tugs too harshly. From so close, Arthur can watch the emotions flitter over Merlin’s heated face, and he loves the breathless, open-mouthed, fucking stunned look on him.

There’s the fumble of Merlin’s hand between them, gripping Arthur’s trapped cock, and Arthur’s eyes cross, his body tightening as he spills himself on a shout, surprised when Merlin follows suit, cursing against his parted mouth as he shudders into his body with jerky movements.

For a while they lie panting and heaving. Against his body, Merlin is trembling, his skin sweat-slick and hot. Arthur slides a hand through the dampness on Merlin’s spine weakly, before he flops it back down onto the mattress, feeling boneless and sluggish. He’s startled when Merlin suddenly all but sobs against him, but it isn’t tears that move him. Delighted laughter spills from Merlin’s lips and his whole body shakes where they are still connected.

“Are you alright?” he asks, because Merlin sounds slightly mad and unhinged.

Merlin is still shaking when he carefully draws back, slipping from Arthur’s body. He sits up on his haunches and deals with the condom, ties a knot into it and drops it onto the nightstand.

“Never better,” Merlin grins, looking down at him with a somewhat fond smile. “How ‘bout you?”

Arthur’s mouth twitches, somewhat infected by Merlin’s hilarity. “It was okay,” he allows teasingly, reaching out to drag a line down Merlin’s sweat-slick chest, wiping at the come on his stomach.

“Bwah,” Merlin huffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re a filthy liar. It was the best fuck of your life,” he says brazenly.

“I wouldn’t go as far,” Arthur retorts, but he thinks it’s definitely up there among his top five.

“Well, we don’t need to do this again,” Merlin taunts, taking his nightshirt and wiping his stomach, where Arthur’s come is smeared into the dark curls. He’s still smiling, a boyishly satisfied grin on his face, and he looks glowing and beautiful with the soft light of the bedside lamp spilling over him.

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur says and sits up, taking the shirt from Merlin’s hands and flinging it somewhere onto the carpet. “Come here and stop being so awfully smug about it,” he growls, grabbing Merlin by the biceps and flipping him over, landing him in the messed-up bedsheets on his back.

Merlin licks his lips and Arthur can practically see how he’s preparing himself for another one of his mouthy retorts, so he leans forward and shuts him up preemptively with a kiss. It’s his turn to feel triumphantly satisfied when Merlin’s body melts underneath him on a moan and Merlin’s hands come up to fist in his hair.

Chapter Text

Daily Star, June 25

Wedding bells for the Prince of Wales?

Will there be a British royal wedding next summer?

It doesn’t seem so unlikely these days and the Prince of Wales’ attendance at the royal wedding of Princess Mithian of Denmark to Gareth Johanson, a Swedish veterinarian from Stockholm on June 24th in Copenhagen together with confirmed boyfriend Merlin Emrys clearly lends itself to speculations. They both looked dashing in carefully corresponding outfits at the royal parade, but are they ready to tie the knot themselves?

The Star asked its readers if they think a royal wedding is in the cards for Britain's most watched lovebirds.

“A gay royal wedding? I’m here for it! Arthur, get your man,” Christian commented in a tweet that featured pride hearts emojis.

“Absolutely unnecessary,” Gina, a mother of two from Brent wrote in her email. “My daughter doesn’t need to see our Prince marry a man. He needs to marry a Princess.”

“Let me say it with Beyonce: He should put a ring on it!,” Mira let us know in our comments section.

Merlin wakes to the image of Arthur’s sandy-haired tousled head on the pillow next to him. Mid-morning light is filtering through the blinds and casting a halo on the sheets, hitting the highlights of Arthur’s hair. His face looks soft and slack in sleep, his fair lashes resting on his cheeks. From this close, Merlin can make out the alluring, tiny, coffee-coloured freckles dotting the bridge of Arthur’s nose.

“Shit,” he says, as memories of last night flood back into his consciousness.

“Hmmm?” Arthur murmurs sleepily, smacking his lips softly before blinking one eye open.

Merlin wants to curse again, but he settles for a scratchy “Good morning,” that surprisingly brings a smile to Arthur’s face.

“Oh, I guess it is,” Arthur mumbles with a satisfied air, before he stretches his arms overhead, the sheet slipping from his torso to reveal his broad chest, lightly dusted with dark-blond hair. There’s a love-bite the exact size and shape of Merlin’s mouth blooming above his collarbone and his mouth looks red and stubble-burnt.

Arthur is beautiful the morning after and his rumpled appearance makes him seem even more irresistible, bringing with it perfectly detailed recollections of their night together.

Merlin bites his bottom lip hard and remembers how Arthur had looked beneath him, eyes blown with lust, face twisted in pleasure as he spilled between their bodies. He swallows, wondering if he’ll ever be able to forget his expression when he came. If on the day that Arthur, an older, bearded version of Arthur with the first grey in his hair, will be crowned in Westminster Abbey, he’d think of that night and the way Arthur had come apart beneath him.

Merlin ponders what he’s going to do, if he’s supposed to say something, maybe laugh off their tumble in the sheets. If maybe he needs to sign one of the NDAs he used to hand out. He wracks his brain, trying to remember if the NDA he signed when he took on the job as fake royal consort included clauses on sexual relations with the prince. There had been a rather lengthy paragraph on sexual relations in general and how he had to confirm that he wasn’t in a relationship and would refrain from actively pursuing a sexual relationship until two months after the end of the contract. There hadn’t been anything in the contract explicitly forbidding him from having sex with Arthur, though.

He’s thrown out of his musings at the touch of Arthur’s hand cupping his cheek and when he glances up, Arthur is looking at him with a small frown creasing his forehead, a soft smile playing around his lips. “You’re fucking gorgeous. How dare you,” Arthur mutters, low and bemused.

Shivering, Merlin leans into the touch, sucking in a breath when Arthur’s thumb strokes over his bottom lip.

“I take it you wouldn’t mind repeating all the bad decisions we made last night?” Merlin suggests hoarsely and licks his lips, flickering his tongue out to boldly graze Arthur’s fingertips, encouraged by the tone of Arthur’s voice and the heat in his eyes.

“In my book they were glorious decisions,” Arthur breathes, his eyes zeroing in on Merlin’s mouth, pupils widening. “And I think we should make some more. Very bad but glorious... Decisions,” he adds huskily, dipping his finger into Merlin’s mouth, feeling his way over Merlin’s tongue like he’s mapping out uncharted territory.

“Fuck, I want to suck your cock,” he moans, his eyes going half-lidded.

His words have the effect of a lightning bolt, striking Merlin with a surge of unbridled desire, chasing away any trepidation he still might have in the light of the new day, and growling, he throws himself forward, pressing their mouths together impulsively.

Against his mouth, Arthur hums out a noise of content, returning the kiss with equal eagerness. Arthur tastes good, warm and salty-sweet, and Merlin lets himself drown in sensation, feeling light-headed and swept away by the touch of Arthur’s tongue against his. He allows Arthur to push him back and down in the sheets, his breath accelerating when Arthur kisses a path from his mouth down over his jaw, before licking into the hollow of his throat, then lower and ever lower.

Panting, Merlin watches Arthur’s head travel down his body, hissing when Arthur briefly pauses to lap at his nipples, before moving on, sucking kisses along his treasure trail and into his lower belly, causing him to tremble and goosebumps to break out on his skin. He whimpers in frustration when Arthur draws back and sits back on his haunches, and Arthur’s mouth curls in a satisfied smirk at the sound, his eyes glittering mischievously as he glances at Merlin, stalling for a moment.

“Come on,” Merlin encourages him impatiently, his voice hoarse, and Arthur’s grin turns feral, his eyes darkening, before he bends his head and takes him into his mouth without further preamble.

Merlin makes a rather embarrassing sound of both grateful relief and overwhelmed overstimulation and pushes himself up on his elbows, looking down the line of his body where Arthur’s dark blond head is bobbing up and down gently as he takes in his cock. Against the pale skin of his stomach, Arthur’s fingers rest, shockingly tan in comparison. Arthur’s mouth is wet, sloppy heat and the press of the fingers of his right hand against the base of Merlin’s cock feels steady and grounding.

When he starts stroking upwards, his tongue pressing in underneath the crown of Merlin’s cock on the upstroke, Merlin moans and fists his hands into the bedsheets, his head rolling back against his neck. He whimpers with longing when Arthur pulls off entirely and opens his eyes. “Why’d you stop?” he whines, but it comes out rough and breathless.

A quirky smile sits on the corner of Arthur’s wet, red lips, but he doesn’t say anything, just reaches for Merlin’s hand and places his fingers into Arthur’s soft strands, before he bows his head again.

“Oh fuck,” Merlin breathes, testing his grip, his teeth coming down hard on his bottom lip at the vibration of Arthur’s moan when he tugs at his hair. He shifts to a half-sitting position and watches himself slide between Arthur’s lips. Saliva is dripping down his length, making everything slippery and good, and Arthur hums around him whenever he curls his fingers against his scalp, his mouth working him over enthusiastically. Arthur’s free hand, formerly splayed on Merlin’s stomach, slides down underneath Arthur’s body and Merlin hisses in appreciation when he feels the jerky movements of Arthur’s elbow digging into his thigh as he starts stroking himself.

There’s something to be said about knowing that someone is really enjoying bringing you off with their mouth, and Merlin twists his fingers more harshly in Arthur’s hair, pulling until he slips from between his lips. Arthur looks positively wrecked, panting as he looks up at Merlin, his eyes dark and moist, a far-away look in them.

His reaction is all Merlin needs to know and he guides Arthur back down onto his cock carefully, pushing himself over Arthur’s tongue by tilting his hips. Arthur makes a gratifyingly needy sound, but his jaw relaxes, taking more of Merlin, allowing Merlin to set the pace.

“Oh God, your mouth,” Merlin whines, setting up a slow, shallow rhythm, his fingers gripping and releasing, guiding. Arthur’s mouth goes slack and he swallows reflexively, making Merlin slip deeper into his mouth. Gasping, Merlin holds him there, before drawing back and pushing forward, Arthur’s tight, wet heat and breathy moans bringing him closer to the edge.

“Can I come in your mouth?” he breathes out, short-winded, his groin tightening in anticipation as he pushes deeper once more.

Arthur nods jerkily, making an affirming, hot little noise, his elbow jostling Merlin as he strokes himself.

Merlin allows himself to let go without consideration, thrusting carefully but deeply, and it doesn’t take more than a few more strokes over Arthur’s tongue and into his mouth before he’s convulsing, coming in short spurts, his fingers clenching in Arthur’s soft hair. His moan is echoed by Arthur’s and he relaxes his fingers, his muscles untensing as he drops backwards onto the bed, his vision hazy.

Above him, Arthur is panting, shifting over his thighs and settling into his lap. When Merlin glances up, he’s struck with the image of Arthur above him, hand curled around his erection, his mouth swollen, hair dishevelled and wild, his face blotchy, heat in his cheeks. Merlin reaches out, wraps his hand around Arthur’s fingers on his cock and applies pressure. With delight he watches Arthur’s eyes darken and he digs the fingers of his other hand into Arthur’s thighs, urging him to shift further upward.

Arthur is gasping and trembling, his hips twitching forward into their hands, precome slicking their fingers.

“That’s it,” Merlin mutters encouragingly, licking his lips as he thinks of Arthur’s come hitting his skin. His legs feel shaky with the want of it and his eyes flit between where Arthur’s cockhead is sliding through the circle of their fingers and the wanton expression on Arthur’s face. With a cry, Arthur comes, spilling onto Merlin’s chest and as far up as his bottom lip, making Merlin groan in appreciation. He looks beautiful, face blissfully slack, body arched, his thighs strong and lean, dusted with blond hair, cock dripping its last spill onto Merlin’s flushed skin.

Grinning, Merlin darts his tongue out to swipe over his bottom lip, catching the few drops that landed there.

“Oh, wow,” Arthur pants, looking down at him with a heated and curious expression, before laughing. “You look a right mess.”

“Mhmmm,” Merlin hums, then reaches for Arthur’s fingers and brings them up to his mouth, sucking them between his lips and licking his come off them.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes, watching him with wide eyes.

“There’s more,” Merlin points out mischievously, delighted by Arthur’s stunned and raw reaction, swiping Arthur’s fingers through the come pooling on his chest, before bringing it back up to lick off his fingers. Arthur’s eyes darken and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth with a small hitch of his breath, but he seems to get the idea, taking back his hand and gathering up more of his come, before offering it to Merlin on the tips of his fingers.

Merlin holds his gaze for a moment, enjoying the awed, breathless quality of Arthur’s expression, before accepting them into his mouth, sucking off Arthur’s release, still warm and bitter. He lets Arthur repeat the action until his chest is clean, if still somewhat sticky. Arthur’s eyes on him are intense, full of heat and something else, something Merlin can’t begin to understand. There’s a strange solemnity in the air between them, charged and deliciously dirty and shockingly intimate.

The spell breaks when Arthur lowers his fingers for the last time and huffs out a little, disbelieving laugh, before dropping down on the sheets next to him.

The train on safer sex has definitely left the station, Merlin thinks once he feels his brain cells kick in again, and he would feel truly stupid about it, if there hadn’t been a mandatory STD check on both sides in his contract. Come to think of that, maybe that kind of answered the question about sexual relations with the prince.

“So, that was amazingly… “ Arthur pauses, apparently looking for a word to describe the sensation, “successful. For a bad decision.”

Merlin flings out his arm, smacking Arthur’s sweat-slicked stomach. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am. Surprised, actually,” Arthur mutters, twisting his head on the pillow to look at him, his blue eyes sparkling in the early morning light. “I mean, we have a long, complicated history of getting on each other’s nerves, I wouldn’t have thought we’d work so well together between the sheets.”

“It’s because I’m an amazing lay,” Merlin suggests, mockingly.

“You keep pointing out your prowess. You don’t have me convinced just yet.”

“I’m not beyond proving myself again and again.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “That’s an offer I’m not going to refuse.”

Grinning, Merlin pulls his arms over his head and stretches along the frontside of his body, his toes curling languidly. “I was right, you know.”

“About what?”

“About you being much more bearable when you’re getting laid.”

“Says the man who was successfully cockblocking me for months.”

“Someone had to keep you from making the same mistake over and over.”

“My saviour,” Arthur mutters deadpan.

They are both silent for a bit, until Arthur moves, kicking away the bundled up sheets towards the end of the bed and sits up. “We should get going. We’re invited to lunch in an hour and you look…” he pauses and gives Merlin a long, considering glance, “well, you look a particular way and should probably give yourself a good wash.”

“Speak for yourself, Your Royal Highness,” Merlin quips, smirking at the way Arthur’s hair is completely out of control, standing up in sweaty, spiky tufts.

“That use of my title right now is just really inappropriate,” Arthur huffs and slides out of bed, crossing the room towards the bathroom in all his naked, fine-muscled glory.

Still smirking, Merlin watches the morning light paint warm stripes over his strong back, round arse and lean thighs, feeling strangely content and also ridiculously fascinated by the shift of Arthur’s glutes. There’s no doubt about it - Arthur is a ridiculously attractive man.

He’s rudely awakened from his lazy reverie at the sound of his phone ringing on the nightstand and he reaches for it, glancing briefly at the display, before accepting the video-call, choosing to not turn on the camera for obvious reasons.

“Merlin!” Gwen’s face appears on the screen, looking chipper and awake. “How was your first royal wedding? How’s Princess Mithian?”

Merlin smirks at the tone of her voice and takes a moment to stretch out his limbs before answering. “Boring. And oh God, Gwen, I think she hated her own wedding!”

“She didn’t!” Gwen protests, affronted. “In the pictures and on tv it was so beautiful!”

“She hated it,” Merlin repeats. “At least the official part yesterday.”

“It probably wasn’t so bad. I mean, have you even been to a wedding before?” Gwen asks, frowning, showing her displeasure. “Also, what’s wrong with your video? Are you too hungover to show your face?”

“Something like that,” Merlin comments dryly, raking a hand through his sweaty hair.

“Arthur’s recent polls came in, by the way,” Gwen says conversationally, twirling one of her curls around her fingers in a gesture Merlin knows too well, a kind of stalling when she has news to divulge that might be of interest.

“Oh,” Merlin prompts politely, and Gwen lets go of her curls and smiles.

“His polling data is definitely improving, so congratulations are in order for your work. It’s not a complete success yet,” she amends after a pause, “but he definitely won points, the main reasons being: sympathy for losing half of his family and - and this is your doing - his relationship status. I’d say it’s working.”

“I’m glad,” Merlin mutters. “Otherwise, playing his boyfriend would be absolutely unbearable.”

“Of course some bigot wankers are put off by him dating a man,” Gwen huffs, “but general consensus is: Good that he settled down.”

“Hmm,” Merlin hums, listening to the sound of the shower in the next room, his mind only half on Gwen’s words, instead vividly imagining Arthur underneath the spray, washing himself down. Maybe he could join him and-

“Don’t you want to know what they say about you?” Gwen asks exasperated, pulling an annoyed face at Merlin’s apparent lack of interest.

“What do they say about me?” Merlin asks dutifully. “I bet they have a couple of choice words about me. Will sent me some highlights from all over the internet.”

“They think you look reliable and like a nice person. Women especially find you very swoon-worthy. Also, Will is a sore person and always remember that he broke up with you.”

“I bet their exact words weren’t ‘swoon-worthy’. And I would have stopped dating me if I was Will, I can’t fault him. I was a shit boyfriend,” Merlin admits truthfully, grimacing a bit when he thinks of that failed relationship.

“At least you’re doing a good job as a fake boyfriend,” Gwen suggests, shrugging.

“I try. It’s hard,” Merlin mutters, feeling his face heat up, caught in a lie, helplessly fishing for words. “I mean, you know Arthur.”

“Yeah?” Gwen prompts, wrinkling her forehead at him quizzically. “I don’t think you should be complaining. You got a great account, they pay for a flat in Islington, you got like a million new outfits and you’re flying around the world with a very hot bloke. It can’t be all that bad.”

At that moment, Arthur steps out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel, otherwise blissfully naked.

“No, not all bad,” Merlin murmurs, his mouth going dry at the sight. He watches as Arthur crosses the room over to the bed, then squawks as Arthur tosses his wet towel at his chest.

“Are you all right?” Gwen wonders, wrinkling her nose at him. “You’re weird today.”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was attacked.”

“By what?”

“By whom. A prattish would-be-monarch.”

“Oh, hi Arthur!” Gwen calls, smiling. “Can he see me?” She waves, putting on a sunny smile. “I just told Merlin your polls are fine!”

“Despite his worst efforts?” Arthur asks, grinning, and Merlin reaches behind his head and flings a pillow at him, scowling when Arthur hops aside with too much agility, evading the projectile.

“You should post a picture from the wedding on your instagram, Merlin,” Gwen suggests, obviously not knowing how to react to Arthur’s teasing.

“The wedding is boring,” Arthur answers in lieu of Merlin. “Nobody would want to see pictures of that.”

“Oh, people most certainly do!” Gwen protests. “It’s weird if I can’t see you guys. Does Merlin really look so horrible that he can’t show his video? Where are you even?”

“Merlin is an absolute wreck,” Arthur says with gusto, rummaging through the cupboard for his clothes.”He overslept and now we’re late, so I thought I would try and get him going.”

‘The fuck?’ Merlin mouths, wide-eyed, gesturing at the phone, then back at Arthur.

“And there I thought he was doing a good job!” Gwen laughs, obviously charmed by Arthur’s lie.

“Gwen,” Arthur says reasonably, slipping into his briefs and giving Merlin a perfect view of his nicely shaped arse, bringing back all kinds of explicit memories of fucking him last night, “you know he’s the worst.”

“I’m going to kill you…” Merlin hisses, flinging another pillow at Arthur’s back, delighted when Arthur wobbles and has to catch himself on the edge of the writing desk.

“Behave, Merlin Emrys,” Gwen says with a motherly stern look of disapproval, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“He started it!” Merlin protests, but she just laughs it off.

“Seems to me you guys are having fun. You should definitely post some pictures later. People love that shit. You realise your instagram follower count has exploded since you posted that first picture of Arthur and the curry? You’re almost as famous as one of the official royal accounts by now.”

Merlin sighs and pushes himself up into a sitting position, knowing they should definitely be going or they will really be late. “Will do.”

“Good,” she says, sounding satisfied. “Something cute though. People love that.”

Merlin chooses to agree once more and Arthur wisely holds his tongue, too busy selecting his suit for the day (he brought three to choose from, which is ridiculous. Even Arthur doesn’t need three suits in a day). Merlin says his goodbye to Gwen, before hopping out of bed, stretching his arms over his head.

In front of the wardrobe, Arthur stands in socks and briefs, a freshly ironed shirt hanging open over his shoulders. It’s a weird sight, intimate and private, maybe even more so than what they shared last night and this morning. Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Merlin finally averts his eyes and crosses the room towards the bathroom to take a shower.

Lunch is served in the beautiful gardens of the Louisiana Museum on long tables, an astonishingly laid back affair in between green trees and priceless sculptures. Contrary to the state wedding yesterday, this event is solely for family and close friends and while it still amounts to a party of a hundred and fifty people it feels intimate and private.

“This is so much better than yesterday,” Merlin notes with appreciation, unable to hide his appreciation for the lobster bisque with aioli on his plate. On the chair next to him, Arthur snorts out laughter.

“You just think the food is better,” he suggests, scooping up some of his beef tartar and leading it to his mouth.

“Oh, the food is definitely better,” Merlin moans around another bite, uncaring that he’s eating messily, aioli dripping back down onto his plate from the forked up heap of lobster. “But really, this feels more like a celebration than the stuffy official affair we had to endure yesterday,” he murmurs, chewing with delight. “How you royal lot stand it... really.”

Arthur laughs again, a short, indulgent little laugh that makes Merlin smile around his bite, before he puts down his fork and turns in his seat.

“You’re making a mess again,” he chides in a mocking tone of voice and reaches out, wiping at the corner of Merlin’s mouth with a thumb. With a grin, Arthur brings his digit back to his own mouth, holding Merlin’s gaze for a moment, before licking off aioli with a satisfied little smirk.

“Shit, you’re evil,” Merlin whimpers after a stunned pause in which desire spreads like fire through his belly, heat licking through his veins. He can feel his cheeks grow red and warm as his thoughts return to this morning, vividly remembering the taste of Arthur’s come on his tongue.

He has no idea where they really stand now, but the way Arthur is behaving doesn’t make him think their night and morning together was a one-off. If given the chance, Merlin would repeat what they’ve done in a heartbeat and without regret. He can still feel the buzz of orgasm in his loose limbs and whenever he glances at Arthur, it feeds the low hum of arousal in his body. When it all comes down to it, Arthur is a very hot bloke and he’s also the only one Merlin is probably legally allowed to have sex with right now. There’s really no question where Merlin’s concerned.

Arthur’s lips quirk and he leans in, bringing his mouth close to Merlin’s ear, his breath washing hotly over the sensitive lobe, causing Merlin to shiver and nearly drop his fork on the plate. “I can still taste you, you know,” he whispers and Merlin shudders, feeling his face grow even redder when Arthur’s words mirror his own thoughts.

“That’s a lie,” he says weakly, breathlessly. “You brushed your teeth.”

“Sense memory,” Arthur whispers back, relentless, and obviously uncaring that Merlin is popping a boner next to him during a semi-public event.

“If you don’t stop now, I’ll have to drag you off to some far-away bathroom and do something incredibly inappropriate,” Merlin threatens hoarsely, trying to keep his voice low. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

Arthur pulls back and grins at him, his blue eyes twinkling. “Maybe,” he suggests lightly, his hand coming down under the table to reach for Merlin’s thigh.

“You two are adorable,” Caja says, interrupting Arthur’s blatant and highly improper semi-public flirting, leaning over the table, her fork poised above her plate as she smiles at them. “When Mithian told me Arthur had a boyfriend, I didn’t believe her. I thought it was fake, like something you’d do for a lark, or maybe the press.”

“Hah,” Merlin bursts out on a fake laugh, “who’d do that? That’d be ridiculous.”

Arthur is much slower in answering, reaching for his glass of water to take a careful sip, a technique Merlin knows he uses to stall for time and think about an appropriate reply.

“You are right,” he hums, and Merlin turns to him, trying to hide his confusion at Arthur’s words. “I wasn’t really looking for a boyfriend. I don’t have a good track record with relationships. But then this -” he gestures between the two of them, “happened, and… well, it just feels right.” His eyes land on Merlin and he looks so earnest that Merlin forgets for a moment that they are playing pretend.

Swallowing, he keeps up his carefully fake smile and turns back to Caja, nodding slowly in affirmation.

“I’m happy for you,” she says, sounding truly delighted. “And Merlin, there must be something about you that has captured Arthur’s interest.”

“He’s just really good in the sack,” Arthur deadpans before Merlin can answer, and Merlin, who had reached for a glass of water to wet his dry mouth, splutters, spraying water over his plate.

Across from them, Caja laughs, apparently used to Arthur’s unfiltered humour. Even though Merlin has been working with the Royal Family for two years now, he’s still sometimes not used to the fact that they are just like everyone else behind the carefully constructed public image, ready to tease and prone to dirty jokes.

Later, they stroll through one of the galleries side by side, pretending to look at the artworks but mostly just to be away from prying eyes for a bit and enjoy some time alone.

The Danish Royal Family has rented the museum exclusively for the private function and apart from the occasional warden walking the galleries with a bored expression, they don’t encounter anyone else. It’s a privilege and one Merlin is well aware of. Both the artworks and the museum’s modern and light-filled architecture are stunning and Merlin would be enjoying himself unconditionally if it wasn’t for the prickling sensation of Arthur’s body moving next to his, of the uncertainty that comes from the new development in their relationship.

They are pausing in the Giacometti Gallery in the North Wing, where large bay windows look out over an enchanted lake view. Arthur is standing in front of the windows with his back to Merlin, his hands thrusts deep into the pockets of his dress trousers, watching a bird dive towards the water surface, while Merlin walks behind him, just pretending to look at Giacometti’s archaic, long-drawn figures, when in fact it’s mostly Arthur he’s watching. Arthur, who’s looking regal and beautiful and tall in his summer suit, his posture relaxed.

“We need to talk about last night. And this morning, I guess,” Arthur’s voice startles Merlin out of his superficial contemplation of a sculpture of a striding man with impossibly long legs and he turns around to find Arthur is still speaking towards the window.

“Okay,” he agrees, crossing the space between them and coming to stand next to Arthur, close enough that their hands could touch if either of them shifted.

“So, it was good, right?” Arthur asks, and he’s not looking at Merlin, but still out at the lake, where the wind gently ripples over the water’s surface, making the leaves of the birch trees sway in the breeze.

“Kind of an understatement, but yes,” Merlin admits softly, sucking his bottom lip in his mouth and waiting for Arthur to maybe make a quip about his comment, but none comes.

Instead, Arthur’s voice is earnest. “I don’t want this to become messy,” he says, half-turning to glance at Merlin with a thoughtful, sober expression on his face.

It’s Merlin’s turn to want to make a joke about it, something along the lines of ‘it already got messy this morning’, breaking the strange earnestness of the moment, but he thinks his words wouldn’t be received well, so he lets them slide in favour of acting like a grown-up.

“Me neither.”

Arthur hums in satisfaction and turns to fully face him. “But I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t want to do it again.”

Merlin wets his lips and takes a step forward, into Arthur’s space until he can feel his breath on his face. “The whole world is thinking we’re doing it, anyway. And it’s not like we can fuck anyone else. Might as well do each other,” he suggests readily, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s anything but on board with Arthur’s veiled proposal.

“I think your reasoning is very sound,” Arthur says softly, but Merlin can tell he’s already distracted by their closeness, his eyes flitting down to where Merlin is chewing on his lip.

With a huff, Merlin reaches up to cup Arthur’s face and presses their mouths together. Arthur takes a stumbling step before returning the kiss with equal amounts of fervor and Merlin crowds him back until Arthur’s back hits the glass wall behind them with a thunk. Air escapes Arthur’s lungs on a gasp and his hands are frantic as they grab the fabric of Merlin’s suit jacket.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” Merlin breathes as he finally manages to draw back, enjoying the far-away look of stunned desire on Arthur’s face.

“Mithian and Gareth are planning their honeymoon escape for 5 p.m,” Arthur gasps breathlessly, his eyes half-lidded and drugged, mouth kiss-plush.

“Maybe we should indeed look for a far-away bathroom,” Merlin whines, only half-joking, pawing at the lapels of Arthur’s suit impatiently.

“I’m desperate, but we can do better,” Arthur mutters heatedly, darting forward to nip playfully at Merlin’s lips, before licking deep into his mouth, his tongue sloppy and wet. He’s panting when he pulls back, eyes glazed over. “We head out after the happy couple leaves for their honeymoon. I’m pretty sure everyone will understand if I want to show my boyfriend the sights if it’s his first stay in Denmark. We’ll get a room in Copenhagen. Forget the rest of the party,” Arthur suggests roughly.

“I want that bed. In the Nimb. I’ve had thoughts about rolling you on that bed all throughout the dull reception yesterday,” Merlin whispers, sliding his hands into Arthur’s jacket and over his starched, white dress shirt, enjoying the heat coming off Arthur’s body and the feel of solid muscle under his fingers. “It’s been a bloody shame not putting that bed to good use.”

“They also have a great bathroom. You can fuck me in that bathroom, if you’re so very keen on bathroom sex.”

“The tub,” Merlin proposes hoarsely. “I want you in that tub.”

“Did you have thoughts about the tub also?” Arthur asks, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

“The bed. The tub. The writing desk. The sofa. The mirror. I’m not very picky,” Merlin mutters, leaning forward to nuzzle an open-mouthed kiss underneath Arthur’s ear, breathing in his scent, delighted at the appreciative groan spilling from Arthur’s lips at his words.

“Maybe we should make it two nights.”

“Or we could see how much ground we can cover in one.”

Arthur tosses his head back and laughs in delighted surprise, his mouth open and teeth gleaming. “If I had known you’d be so much fun in the sheets, I’d have propositioned you years ago,” he laughs, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Aren’t you glad you thought me boring. We wouldn’t be here if you had made a move on me.”

Arthur sobers briefly, but he’s still smiling softly when he shakes his head. “You are many things, Merlin, but I never thought you were boring.”

There’s the clutter of high-heeled feet on the stone floor from above in the gallery, and Merlin loosens his hands carefully from Arthur’s clothes before taking a step back, clearing his throat.

“I never thought you were boring either,” Merlin says, brushing down his rumpled suit jacket absentmindedly. “But I thought you were a clotpole. Albeit a sexy one.”

Arthur winks and cuffs Merlin’s shoulder, pushing him to move. “Come on, we should join the rest of the party again. I still need Caja to dish the dirt on the family’s reaction to Mithian’s decision to marry Gareth. Mithian herself has been kind of unwilling to talk about it, so I bet it has been hugely entertaining.”

“I’m shocked you’re such a gossip monger,” Merlin says, surprised when Arthur reaches for his hand, gently pulling him along as he pushes himself aways from the windowed wall.

“Family scandal is really the only fun thing about being a royal. Everyone - including the press - always gets so worked up about banal shit,” Arthur says.

“Is that why you strive to provide your family with scandal so extensively?”

“You’re adorable when you try to be funny, Merlin,” Arthur mutters and narrows his eyes in exasperation, but his hand is warm where it wraps around Merlin’s fingers and he’s still wearing a smile.

Mithian and Gareth leave for their honeymoon at 4 p.m. Shortly before 5 p.m. Merlin and Arthur check into the Nimb Hotel in Copenhagen and at 5.12 p.m., Merlin has Arthur up against the front door with his dress trousers pooled around his ankles, their combined movement rattling the door in its frame, Arthur crying out with every thrust.

“We didn’t make it to the bed,” Arthur gasps afterwards, red-faced, his legs trembling as he kicks off his shoes and steps out of his trousers, swaying on the spot. His dress shirt is ruined, soaked with come and sweat.

“It’s only a matter of order,” Merlin pants, circling his hand around Arthur’s wrist and hauling him across the room to the large four-poster bed. Arthur staggers after him and without further need for words, they both start struggling out of their clothes in a hurry, letting them fall where they land.

Merlin drops onto the bed, spreading his arms out wide over the mattress, unable to keep in his delight.

“This bed is so good,” he moans, flailing his arms and legs like a starfish. “I love this bed.”

“Let’s wreck it,” Arthur suggests relentlessly and crawls up between Merlin’s legs on all fours, nearly kneeing him in the groin.

“Careful!” Merlin hisses, but when Arthur’s settled over him, he yanks him down for a kiss impulsively, causing Arthur to lose his balance and tip over. They crash-land in a heap of tangled, naked limbs and Merlin is sure he’s going to have some spectacular bruises from Arthur’s sharp elbows. Arthur guffaws out laughter against his neck, his wet breath tickling Merlin’s sensitive skin. He squirms and giggles, skimming his hands down the warm, broad expanse of Arthur’s back. Still chuckling, Arthur licks his neck, a sloppy, puppyish wash of tongue that despite its intended playfulness makes Merlin moan and tilt his head aside to give Arthur better access.

Arthur’s teasing licking becomes more purposeful and he trails his tongue up to Merlin’s ear, tickling the lobe with his tongue, before dipping it inside, causing Merlin to convulse with pleasure.

“You said you had sensitive ears,” Arthur whispers, delight audible in his tone.

“Y-yeah,” Merlin stutters breathily, shuddering once more when Arthur licks into the shell of his ear again, his warm breath loud in Merlin’s ears.

Arthur grounds down against his groin where Merlin’s erection is rapidly filling once more. “Fuck me again,” he whispers, breathing the words intimately into Merlin’s ears, before gripping Merlin’s shoulders and rolling them over in a smooth motion, until Merlin is lying atop of him.

With a groan, Merlin takes his mouth, kissing the taste of arousal from Arthur’s lips, before sitting up on his haunches, his fingers reaching down between Arthur’s legs to skim over his pucker. The muscle feels hot to his touch and Arthur exhales shakily, but still spreads his legs open, reaching behind one knee to pull it up and reveal more of himself to Merlin’s gaze.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Merlin moans, turned on beyond belief by the shameless way Arthur is offering himself, but he still hops from the bed to retrieve the lube from where it’s been tossed to the floor by the door and slicks his fingers, before trailing them along Arthur’s taint. There had been a belated - considering their prior sexual encounters - brief safety check, Arthur whispering, “I don’t do it bare, ever. I trust you. Do you trust me?” to which Merlin had foolishly stopped fiddling with the box of condoms and hiked up Arthur’s leg.

Now, he watches two of his fingers slip easily into Arthur’s body, past his puffy, flushed rim, curling them, before pushing another finger carefully underneath the first two. He’s not yet fully recovered from his orgasm, but he wants to give Arthur anything he wants. For long minutes he fucks Arthur on his fingers, mesmerized by the increasingly filthy moans spilling from Arthur’s mouth and the look of bliss on his face.

When he’s growing impatient, not satisfied anymore with feeling Arthur’s wet heat on his fingers, he pulls them out and wipes them on the sheets. Arthur’s gaze is heavy-lidded on him as he waits while Merlin squeezes lube on his cock, his legs still easily splayed. The image of him nearly undoes Merlin, and he reaches for Arthur with unsteady hands, pushing his legs up and pressing inside. Arthur opens around him on a long-drawn groan, and Merlin bites his lips nearly raw, watching him take his dick slowly.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Arthur moans, his hand shooting out to dig fingers harshly into Merlin’s biceps.

They’ve fucked just ten minutes ago, but still Arthur is tight and hot around him and it takes some adjusting now that he’s apparently a bit sore from their first, too hasty round against the door.

“You feel incredible on my cock,” Merlin whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to keep himself from just surging forward, but it’s Arthur who bucks up his hips at his words, taking him deeper in one smooth motion.

Hissing, Merlin leans forward to cover Arthur’s body with his own, placing both elbows at Arthur’s side, comfortably settled between his legs. From this close, Arthur’s eyes look incredibly blue with tiny flecks of sea-green and his mouth, red and swollen from kissing, beckons invitingly. A small frown sits between his brows, a frown that deepens when Merlin rocks his hips. Arthur’s mouth falls open and he pants, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Merlin’s struck speechless by the intimacy of the moment, and mesmerised, he watches every flicker of expression on Arthur’s face. He starts rolling his hips into Arthur gently, listening to him pant softly in return, but when Arthur starts pushing back, he stills his thrusts briefly, before snapping forward hard, pushing in deep. A startled cry falls from Arthur’s lips and Merlin finds a slow grin tug at the corners of his mouth at his wanton reaction.

The slow, wondrous answering smile pulling lopsidedly at Arthur’s lips makes him grin even wider. They fall into an easy rhythm and soon, Arthur fists his hands into Merlin’s hair and pulls him down for an open-mouthed, breathless kiss.

For a long while they move together, kissing.

Merlin loses every sense of time, lost in the motion, in Arthur’s body underneath him. Sweat slicks their bodies, pooling between their stomachs, squelching with every movement. Gone is the frantic urgency from earlier, replaced by a slow, deep rhythm that makes both their breaths short nonetheless.

Soon, kissing becomes impossible and they both draw back, breathless. Arthur’s fingers are still tangled in Merlin’s hair and he keeps them there, panting quietly as he looks up at Merlin, something trusting and open in his eyes.

He manages to wedge a hand between their bodies, grasping Arthur’s length where it’s painting sticky wetness on his lower stomach. Underneath him, Arthur is writhing on his cock, one hand still fisted in Merlin’s curls, the other scratching at the bedsheets. His face is beautifully flushed and he looks up at Merlin with unerring solemnity, gasping quietly, so different from their needy, loud coupling against the door just earlier.

Merlin presses his forehead against Arthur’s and closes his eyes, unable to keep their eyes locked, to feel Arthur’s sincere gaze on him.

When he comes, he’s surprised at the intensity of his orgasm and he shouts and bucks, just as Arthur’s body arches beneath him, trembling. They cling to each other, Arthur’s hand heavy on the back of his skull, his chest heaving beneath him.

For a while, Merlin floats on a wave of contended bliss, enjoying the connection of their bodies. Even the sweaty stickiness of Arthur’s body against him is nothing but perfect.

“That was… intense,” Arthur breathes against his ear, slowly loosening his fingers from Merlin’s hair.

“Hnnn,” Merlin agrees, then grunts as he pushes up before dropping onto his back next to him, causing Arthur to hiss in displeasure.

“Ouch,” Arthur complains, closing his trembling thighs and rolling onto his side to face Merlin.

Wincing, Merlin twists his head on the pillow and looks at him. “Sorry.”

“Shower,” Arthur manages, his breath still coming fast. “Carry me.”

“You’ve got 30 pounds on me, easily. You carry yourself, Your Lazy Highness,” Merlin snorts softly, rolling his eyes.

“That's a new one," Arthur snickers. "Servants these days,” he adds lightly and uses a corner of the sheet to wipe himself off.

“Ugh, you’re messing up the bed!” Merlin groans, prying the linens from Arthur’s hands. “I still want to sleep in this bed. I also want to have more sex in this bed.”

He drops his hands, exasperated, but he can’t help but enjoy the relaxed, dreamy expression on Arthur’s face, an expression he put there. “You know what,” he suggests, giving in, “I’ll draw you a bath.”

“You just want to fuck me in the tub,” Arthur murmurs sleepily, a glowy, stupid smile playing on his lips.

“I’m definitely not or you won’t be able to walk tomorrow without giving away what we just did,” Merlin laughs. “I can totally see the headlines. “Prince Arthur’s walking funny - His Royal Highness’ Spicy Times in Denmark.”

Arthur guffaws out laughter, the bed shaking beneath him. “You could have a successful career as a gutter press journalist.”

“I’ve been following your press coverage extensively, it really taught me,” Merlin grins, unable to take his eyes away from Arthur’s relaxed, content expression. He looks smooth and young and untroubled, his hair sticking up wildly, a healthy tinge of red on his cheeks, the miniscule freckles on the bridge of his nose and underneath his eyelids standing out boyishly.

“Anyway, let’s get you into that tub. I’m pretty sure we’ll find other things to do than your arse,” Merlin says and on a whim, slaps the tempting body part in question, delighted when Arthur yelps in surprise.

“Hah, funny,” Arthur says, mock-rolling his eyes, but when Merlin pushes himself up, he follows, stumbling after him to the bathroom on unsteady legs.

“You could be doing me,” Merlin says conversationally as he bends forward and opens the industrial-style faucets, letting water into the modern stand-alone tub.

There’s a suspicious pause from behind him, and when he glances over his shoulder, Arthur is standing behind him, a flummoxed expression on his face.

“Or not,” Merlin amends, unable to entirely hide the disappointment in his voice as he turns back to perusing the options of shampoo and bath gels offered by the hotel. Despite what they’ve done so far and what Arthur has revealed about his sexual appetites, Merlin had hoped that Arthur would be a bit more versatile. He reaches for the small bottles of complimentary shampoo and bath gel, pretending to study the labels, before selecting one, emptying it into the water and setting the other back down on the little ledge on the wall.

“Oh, no, no, that’s not it,” Arthur amends, his words coming out rushed, and Merlin straightens to look back at him with a questioning frown.

“I definitely want to do that,” Arthur says, reaching out for Merlin’s hips to turn him around and pull him closer. “Fuck,” he grins, his face lighting up, “you’re fucking perfect as a fake-boyfriend-with-benefits.”

Merlin sucks his bottom lips into his mouth, trying to hide his pleasure at Arthur’s words. “Yeah, the benefits are… very beneficial,” he quips, grinning.

Arthur sends his gaze skyward for a moment, his mouth pulled into a smile, then spins him around again and shoves him towards the slowly filling tub where bubbly foam starts to form on the water’s surface.

“Get in the tub,” Arthur orders, giving him another small push. “I expect you to wash my back.”

“And we’re back to being bossy,” Merlin mock-complains, folding his long legs into the bathtub and scooting back to make room for Arthur.

“I was born this way.” Arthur climbs into the tub to Merlin’s exasperated huffing, yelping a bit when Merlin reaches out and yanks him down to settle between his legs.

“How’s this, Your Royal Highness,” he teases, wrapping his calves around Arthur’s legs and pulling him to sit against his chest, one of his hands sliding over his chest and stomach, washing away the come caked there, before swiping more warm water over Arthur’s limbs.

“I really don’t care how insolent you are, as long as you keep doing that,” Arthur sighs, resting his head back against Merlin’s shoulder.

“That’s the spirit,” Merlin affirms, hooking his chin over Arthur’s shoulder and pressing a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against his salty neck. It’s just because Arthur’s skin is right there, he tells himself.

Hunger drives them out of their suite around 8 p.m. and they stumble into the Tivoli next door, drunk on sex and ravenous for food and something cool to drink.

“We could have ordered in room services,” Merlin complains half-heartedly, watching lazily as Arthur shoves a polser - one of the local red-tinted hot dog sausages - into his mouth, smearing ketchup along his upper lip. “We could have stayed in bed. You could have fed me. I wouldn’t have needed to move a limb.”

“Too many good things here to try, stop complaining,” Arthur moans sinfully around his mouthful, then holds out the hot dog for Merlin to try, pushing it against his lips. “Here, I’m feeding you.”

Merlin eyes the sausage suspiciously - its red colour looks highly artificial - but relents and takes a bite, dripping sauce and roast onions onto his hands, while Arthur crows in triumph.

“Shit,” he laughs, chewing and sucking mayonnaise off his fingers.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Arthur asks, a delighted glint in his eyes, and Merlin has to admit he’s right. Between them, they finish off the polser, before Arthur drags him to the next food stall for more food to share. The shawarma is just about as messy to eat and Arthur heaps so much chili on it that it’s nearly inedible, but even though Merlin’s eyes are streaming from the heat and his mouth burns, he’s enjoying eating take-away at small high tables with a flushed, excited Arthur, virtually anonymous in the crowd. Their last food-hall stop is the Mexican stall, and Merlin grins at Arthur’s choice of tacos as he picks out the chipotle style offer.

“You really weren’t lying when you said you like your food spicy,” Merlin observes, washing down his fish taco with a light craft beer.

Across the table, Arthur is glowing with pleasure, his lips red and swollen from the stingy spices.

“Like my men,” Arthur says cornily, and wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, before wolfing down the rest of his taco with gusto, foregoing any kind of table manners.

Merlin makes a sound of embarrassed disgust. “You’re ridiculous and disgusting and one day in the distant future, when my NDA expires, I will dish your filthy, repugnant habits to the world.”

“I had worse things publicized about me,” Arthur says lightly and steals the rest of Merlin’s beer, draining the bottle.

“Which really says a lot,” Merlin mutters dryly and tosses a wadded-up wrapping paper at Arthur’s head, missing him by inches.

Arthur hums, slides from his high stool and bends to retrieve the paper, unable to hide a slight grimace as he moves. Merlin tries, but obviously fails to mask his possessive smirk, because Arthur shoots him a dark, unimpressed look when he straightens. “That’s unbecoming, seeing as just earlier in the bathroom, you were begging me to “fuck me harder, Arthur, come on, I can take it”.

“Shush,” Merlin hisses and carefully takes a look around to see if anyone heard Arthur, feeling his face heat up. He might have been a bit too enthusiastic and vocal earlier when Arthur bent him over the sink in the bathroom, but in his defense, it had been quite a while and while he leans more towards being on top, he enjoys getting plowed. And Arthur had delivered, until they had sunk down on the heated tiles of the bathroom in a tangled heap, both of them shaking, Merlin gasping for air, the cleanliness the bath had provided a thing of the past.

Arthur grins and reaches for his hand, pulling him out of the food hall and into the fresh night air. It’s getting late and the sun is slowly sinking, casting a beautiful rose-shaded hue in the sky, but most of the rides are still open, even though the lines have thinned as people naturally gravitate towards the restaurants. For a while they walk along the aisles, glancing at stalls and shops and rides, before Arthur drags him towards the Star Flyer, a high chain carousel.

“Absolutely not,” Merlin protests, glancing upwards where 80 meters above, the current ride is circling around the pole, but Arthur tugs him forward.

“You must,” he says determinedly. “The view is phenomenal.”

“It’s too high,” Merlin whines, but Arthur just laughs at him and shows their ride ticket at the ticket counter.

“I’ll hold your hand,” Arthur mocks him, squeezing the body part in question.

It’s only then that Merlin notes that they are still holding hands. He briefly marvels how he didn’t even realise they were doing it, so used to Arthur’s body in his personal space. He’s not usually too keen on holding hands, especially not in public, but here they are, and he hasn’t even noticed he was doing it.

“Is this supposed to calm me down?” he asks, gently pulling back his hand and letting it swing by his side. It feels empty and awkward, dangling there without Arthur’s fingers wrapped around his.

“I can’t help how holding my hand makes your heart all pitter-patter,” Arthur grins. “We’ll take a picture for your instagram up there,” Arthur suggests as they wait in line. “You’ll look adorable, all wide-eyed and frightened, clinging to me, your knight in shining armor.”

“I should have taken one of you stuffing food inelegantly into your mouth,” Merlin shoots back. “There’s really only a slob behind that princely facade. Also, you fart in your sleep.”

“I do not,” Arthur says with indignation. “This is slander.”

Merlin smiles, but doesn’t comment as the current ride slowly sinks down. He watches the faces of the people slowly descending, but they all look quite happy, their faces flushed from laughter and the wind, their feet dangling and swinging.

“Come on!” Arthur nudges him and reaches for his hand again, pulling him along and towards the seats.

Merlin can’t help but feel nervous while they wait, and he checks the chains connecting to his flimsy metal seat, feeling like even though it’s made of steel, it looks fragile and insubstantial. A man makes his round, making sure the front chain is secured, before the carousel starts to move and the seats rise up.

“Oh God,” Merlin moans at the feeling of his feet leaving the ground.

“Give me your phone, quick,” Arthur urges him, and Merlin reaches inside the pockets of his slacks and presses his phone into Arthur’s hands.

“Don’t drop it,” he begs, biting his lips and looking down at the ground, which they are quickly leaving behind.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur smirks, sounding all too happy.

“This is so high,” Merlin whimpers, unable to help himself.

“I got you.” Arthur’s hand comes down on Merlin’s thigh, a warm, grounding presence. “Nothing’s going to happen. You’ll enjoy it.”

The carousel is starting to move not only upwards, but sideways, and Merlin bites down on his lips to keep in his surprised yelp, even though he knew it was coming. The ride picks up speed quickly, and he feels the centrifugal force pull at his legs, his stomach doing an anxious flip.

Next to him, Arthur whoops with joy.

The wind rips at Merlin’s hair and tears at his clothes. From above, the city looks magical and large. Beneath them, the other rides appear tiny, the people in them like small insects.

Arthur slings one arm over the back of Merlin’s shoulders and holds out Merlin’s phone, the screen facing them.

“If you drop it, I’ll commit regicide,” Merlin shouts, his words taken away by the wind. Arthur’s answering laughter rings out loudly, to be equally swept away.

“Okay, scream out your fear,” Arthur shouts over the wind, and Merlin does, and so does Arthur, yelling at the camera like mad. It makes Merlin chortle, and soon he’s laughing, loud hiccuping breaths leaving his mouth, his anxiety forgotten.

He swings his feet and looks out over the city, feeling terribly alive. Next to him, Arthur is a comforting, warm presence.

Much too soon, the ride is over and they descend slowly. With surprise, Merlin finds that he’s sorry it’s already over. His feet feel wobbly when they touch the ground and he needs to reach for Arthur’s shoulder to steady himself when he takes his first step.

“Tell me it wasn’t amazing,” Arthur crows, his face flushed, eyes blazing with excitement.

“It was fucking amazing,” Merlin agrees, adrenaline rushing through him.

“Your hair looks mad. It’s fascinating how it always does that,” Arthur grins fondly, reaching up and tousling Merlin’s curls, and Merlin’s heart skips a beat, before continuing to pound crazily in his chest. Maybe it’s still the excitement, he thinks, but he has no time to contemplate his reaction, because Arthur is dragging him to the next ride, talking excitedly about all the carousels he has been on and how the best one is still the old carousel at Brighton pier with the painted horses. Merlin has the sudden vision of Arthur, Prince of Wales, riding an old-fashioned carousel horse in full royal regalia, and he snorts in amusement.

Arthur, despite his love for carousels, pulls him on a rollercoaster next. Merlin isn’t sure what makes him agree, considering he can still remember getting sick yesterday on the plane from a bit of turbulence, but it probably has something to do with Arthur’s infectious excitement and the way he’s glowing. All the way up to the highest point he clutches the rails in a white-knuckled grip and curses Arthur to seven hells and back.

“I’m not so sure about it myself,” Arthur murmurs suddenly, clutching the rails next to him. “Maybe we should get off. It’s called The Daemon for a reason.”

“What do you mean “get off”?” Merlin hisses, hating how his stomach is swooping crazily in anticipation of the drop at the top of the incline. It’s steep. It’s damn steep.

“This was a bad, bad idea.”

“Are you doing this to mock me?” Merlin growls, but Arthur shakes his head.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“You made me fucking do it!” Merlin yells, exasperated.

“I didn’t know it was so steep!”

“You could see it from below it’s fucking steep!”

“We’re going to die,” Arthur says tonelessly. “On a ride at Tivoli.”

“Don’t be so fucking overdramatic,” Merlin murmurs, but his voice lacks heat due to his impending doom. He licks his lips nervously, his heartbeat accelerating as they are pulled to the highest point.

“Oh no…” Arthur whines, but Merlin has no words left in him, staring wide-eyed at the drop ahead of them as the car tips. For a moment it feels like it’s never going to happen, but then the car starts falling and Merlin’s stomach swoops hard.

“Oh my God,” Arthur moans next to him and then the car accelerates and goes into a curve at breakneck speed. From then on, it’s one rush after the other, and Merlin clutches the rails and screams and laughs all through the curves and the one loop until it’s over in an amazingly short time that still feels ages.

They stumble out of the cars on weak legs, Arthur snorting out laughter, Merlin clutching his stomach.

“Never. Again,” he heaves, steadying himself at Arthur’s shoulders before bending over, debating with himself if he’s going to lose the content of his stomach or not.

“You deserve a treat after all the excitement,” Arthur says cheerfully, rubbing his back, and Merlin can almost forgive him for dragging him onto the Daemon ride.

“I’m afraid what you’ll come up with,” Merlin whimpers softly, straightening himself slowly.

He’s surprised when Arthur takes him on the Ferris Wheel, buying a paper bag of popcorn
beforehand.

“Are you feeling better?” Arthur asks as they make the first round and colour has returned to Merlin’s face. The sun has sunk during their last ride and from up here, the city looks beautiful, a glittering sea of lights.

“Yes,” Merlin offers, watching Arthur shove a handful of popcorn into his mouth, eating messily, spilling half of it onto the floor. “You’re spilling popcorn everywhere.”

Arthur shrugs and carelessly wipes some crumbs from his jeans with a flick of his wrist.

“Watch this,” he says, then sends one piece of popcorn flying in the air and snatches it up with his mouth.

“You bloody poser,” Merlin groans, rolling his eyes, then yelps when Arthur sends a piece of popcorn in his direction, hitting him on the cheek. “Watch it!”

“You watch it!” Arthur returns, sending another kernel his way. On the third try, Merlin manages to catch it on his tongue and Arthur whoops and holds out his hand for a high-five.

Merlin mutters another insult under his breath, but he’s secretly having fun, so he meets Arthur’s hand for a resounding slap as they start their second round on the wheel.

Arthur sends him a brilliant smile, before leaning over the gap between the seats and pressing a kiss to his mouth, a salty, brief brush of lips, a kiss that is unexpected and unprompted and that leaves Merlin flummoxed. Arthur draws back almost immediately and continues to munch on his popcorn, getting distracted by the view below, oblivious to Merlin’s confused expression, like he didn’t just do something strange and out of the ordinary.

“We need to have Waffles at Nyhavn tomorrow morning. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in Denmark so far,” Arthur claims, then crows with happiness, as nearby in the park, a firework sets off, illuminating the night sky in a burst of colours. “Oh wow, look at that!”

Merlin is surprised when Arthur reaches out and pulls him to sit by his side, one arm slung casually about his shoulders. Next to him, Arthur’s body is warm and his naked forearm brushes against Merlin’s shoulder, fingers dancing over Merlin’s elbow. Arthur keeps pointing out the little bursts of lights, delighted and excited like a child, and Merlin feels his eyes drift from the fireworks to contemplate Arthur’s face.

He’s been fake-dating Arthur for more than three months now, but this small moment here feels closest to what it might really feel like to really date him. He’s just a bloke like everybody else, albeit a gorgeous, funny, sexy, clever bloke. With tons of baggage and a very strict, high-profile career path.

He watches Arthur, the way his face is so handsome, illuminated by the lights, his hair shining in a multitude of colours and feels something pull in the pit of his stomach, a bit like the swooping he experienced on the rollercoaster earlier, only now he’s pretty sure it’s not the height or the movement of the ride’s doing.

Shit, Merlin thinks, blinking stupidly at the side of Arthur’s face, feeling a bit of panic curdle the blood in his veins, things are indeed getting muddled.

Arthur says something, forcing him back to attention, and Merlin startles, causing Arthur to spill popcorn from the half-empty bag. They laugh and try to save what they are able to pick back up from their laps, but Merlin’s heart is beating way too fast and the sick feeling in his stomach isn’t going away.

Later that night in bed, with Arthur snoring quietly beside him, one arm resting comfortably on Merlin’s hip like it belongs there, always, Merlin has to think of that moment again. Of his panicked realisation and the swoop of his stomach.

Thinks are getting so fucking muddled..

Chapter Text

Cosmopolitan, online edition, July 27th

Summer Bucket List Goals: Merthur’s Date Night at the Tivoli

What better way to spend a great summer evening than going to the fair? Prince Arthur and boyfriend Merlin Emrys did just that, in style! The pair was seen at the famous Tivoli in Copenhagen, snacking on fast food and braving rides and most of all, as you can see from our picture spread, having fun.

Merlin’s Instagram is a veritable treasure grove for all your needs on the celebrity romance of the summer and his rising follower numbers indicate that interest in this modern royal love story is still going strong!

So grab your gal or guy and head out to the closest fair to rekindle your romance or even spark a new one!

It’s a beautiful, sunny, not-too hot late July Sunday and Merlin’s living room and kitchenette is illuminated by the soft light of early evening, the rays hitting his dark hair and tinting it in an arresting blueish-black as he moves around, chopping scallions and mixing sauces, a pot of water coming to a boil on the stove.

Arthur is sitting on the narrow kitchen island that separates the kitchenette from the living room and co-functions as a table, his bare feet dangling, watching him. In his Ghost-in-the-Shell shirt and short, wide-legged khakis, Merlin looks boyish and not at all like the usually polished image he needs to present in public as a fake royal boyfriend. The shirt is old and thin, much like the washed-out nightshirt Arthur remembers pulling off that very first time, clinging nicely to his frame, outlining his lightly-muscled body below. Arthur likes the way the khakis hang loosely over the swell of his arse.

“I wish I had a larger kitchen,” Merlin sighs, looking for a place to put a dirty bowl and ending up placing it in the sink atop a toppling tower of unwashed dishes. “With a huge range oven and a giant kitchen island in the middle, dark, sleek cupboards and gleaming appliances and beautiful oakwood. I’d have copper pans and one cupboard full just for spices.” He sighs again, a dreamy, happy sigh and mutters, “Someday. Someday, I’ll have a beautiful seating area to invite half of London and I’ll give lavish feasts.”

“I hope you can live with the fact that my wontons look lopsided,” Merlin says, and turns around to present a wonky, wrapped up parcel of uncooked noodle dough to Arthur.

“I really don’t care how they look,” Arthur grins, chewing on his lip and observing the way Merlin is eyeing his wonton with a frown, before placing it back down onto his wooden cutting board.

He turns back towards Arthur with a small bowl of chili oil sauce, dipping a finger into it and holding it up for Arthur to taste wordlessly, an expectant, heated gaze on his face.

Still grinning, Arthur takes Merlin’s finger into his mouth, sucking off the chili oil, enjoying the way Merlin’s eyes darken. Merlin steps closer, between Arthur’s parted legs. Arthur tongues Merlin’s finger a bit more than strictly necessary to suck off the flavour, his smirk widening at the way Merlin’s mouth parts on a shaky breath.

“The sauce is very good,” he says lowly, and Merlin exhales with a soft sigh and puts the bowl down on the counter next to him before leaning forward, crowding Arthur back and pressing their mouths together.

With a low hum, Arthur opens his mouth and lets Merlin kiss him, warm and strangely familiar by now, Merlin’s palm settling on his knees to stroke up his thighs. Arthur gets his hands into Merlin’s perpetually messy hair, curling his fingers into the strands, loving the way they slide through his fingers. It gets heated pretty quickly, Merlin’s erection poking his inner thigh, which - as always - is an incredible turn-on, and Arthur is about to wonder if they are going to fuck right here, on the kitchen island, his mind running through several enticing scenarios where Merlin eats him out as an appetizer, when Merlin’s phone rings right next to them, making them both jump.

Merlin pulls back and looks at the display, his brows knitting together in confusion. “It’s Gaius,” he says, frown deepening, “I should take this,” then steps back, out of the circle of Arthur’s legs and picks up.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Arthur watches him as he paces between the kitchen island and the counter, his bare feet making slapping sounds on the tiles, raking a hand through his curls, dishevelled from Arthur’s hands, his phone pressed to his ear.

“What?” Merlin says, stopping dead in his tracks, voice high and loud, and Arthur wonders if something bad happened with Merlin’s account for Gaius to be calling him at 7.30 on a Sunday night.

Merlin turns, shoots an indecipherable look at Arthur, listening silently to what Gaius is telling him on the other line.

“Okay,” he finally says, his eyes still resting on Arthur, then, with a somewhat mischievous expression, “That won’t be a problem.”

Frowning, Arthur blinks at him, wondering what is going on for Merlin to be looking at him like that. Maybe it has something to do with him, and not with Doctors Without Borders? Maybe he should check his own phone, forgotten somewhere in the folds of Merlin’s couch where they stumbled to for a rather memorable welcome snog that would have ended with both of them naked, hadn’t Arthur’s stomach chosen the very moment Merlin fumbled with his trousers to growl embarrassingly with hunger.

“I can handle this,” Merlin announces, recommencing his pacing. “How far can I go before Royal Communications sends an assassin after me for despoiling the Prince in public?” he asks, and it would be funny if he didn’t sound completely earnest.

He hums at Gaius’ answer, then turns and steps closer to Arthur again, chewing his lips and ignoring Arthur’s wide-eyed confusion. “Okay,” Merlin says again, then, “he’s with me, actually. I’ll tell him.”

Impatiently, Arthur glares at Merlin, reaching out to paw at his t-shirt, tugging. He desperately wants to know what’s going on, but Merlin just looks at him with a solemn expression and exchanges a couple of more mysterious words with Gaius, before finally hanging up.

“What?” Arthur asks, knowing he sounds impatient and annoyed.

“We got the heads up that The Daily Mirror is publishing an expose in the morning edition about how our relationship is fake. We think it’s one of the nobles we interviewed in the beginning breaking their NDA,” Merlin says, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.

Arthur curses quietly, then says, “What’s going to happen? What are we going to do?”

Merlin contemplates him for a long moment. “We have an official breakfast date tomorrow morning here in Islington around the corner of my flat. Instructions to look cosy and… well…,” he pauses, rolling his eyes a bit, “post-coital, although Gaius used a much more elegant term.”

“To which you said ‘That won't be a problem’,” Arthur guesses, remembering the half of the conversation he heard.

A smirk tugs at the corner of Merlin’s lips and blossoms on his face. “I’m pretty confident about that actually,” he says, wry humour in his voice.

“What else?” Arthur prompts, carefully deciding that he doesn’t find Merlin’s sexy smile and twinkly eyes cute at all.

“I think,” Merlin says with a shrewd expression taking over the smirk, picking up his phone and waving it in front of Arthur’s face, “when the world’s going to read the article in The Daily Mirror tomorrow morning, the status of our relationship will be indisputable.”

Arthur licks his lips, a bit nervous about the meaning of Merlin’s words. “If you think I’m going to partake in a dirty video or any-”

In front of him, Merlin breaks out into a bout of laughter. “I wouldn’t suggest anything so drastic or affronting,” he says, looking way too amused for Arthur’s liking, “but I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to walk the fine line between suggestive and porn, especially because we don’t need to pretend. Just some pictures on instagram, nothing more.”

“My father won’t like this,” Arthur mutters, knowing he’s probably looking doubtful.

“Your father won’t like a fake relationship scandal either.” Merlin steps forward, back between Arthur’s legs, and it’s a dirty trick, because Arthur’s dick, which had been pretty excited earlier about kissing, decides it hasn’t been completely waylaid by the news.

Merlin seems to realise that Arthur could be easily convinced and presses a brief, wet kiss to his lips. “You can trust me. You choose the pictures I’m going to post. It’s just a narrative, nothing dirty or embarrassing.”

Arthur’s stomach takes this moment to growl again and Merlin laughs and darts in to kiss him once more, a sweet peck that has Arthur crave more of the same. It surprises him, because he never considered himself to be a fan of just kissing, but he could spend hours with Merlin’s lips on his and he doesn’t think he’d get bored.

“Come on, I’ll finish dinner. We’re not going to do anything different than what we wanted to do, anyway,” Merlin says once he draws back, turning back towards the stove. The water is bubbling merrily, and Merlin tosses the wontons into the water, before reaching into his cupboard to put a pan on low heat.

“Okay,” Arthur hears himself agreeing, and wonders if he’s doing so because Merlin’s shirt has risen up in the back, revealing the enticing small dimples on his lower back, right above his arse. Those dimples are calling to him, he thinks desperately, his fingers twitching where they are resting on his thighs.

Merlin turns and grins at him, then picks up his phone from the counter and snaps a picture. “You look good on my kitchen counter, Your Royal Highness,” he comments, checking the picture on his screen, before tossing the phone aside, picking up a jar full of sesame seeds from which he adds half a cup to the pan to roast.

Arthur watches him silently as he gently tosses the sesame seeds in the pan with a practiced flick of his wrist. He looks like he knows what he’s doing and he’s actually cooking for Arthur. Arthur can’t remember the last time he ate a home cooked meal. He doesn’t consider palace food to be home cooked. The kitchen caters to the Royal Family’s very British and very bland taste, and it is always perfectly well done and beautifully arranged. He can’t wait to taste Merlin’s lopsided wontons.

They have dinner sitting at Merlin’s small kitchen island on high chairs, slurping wontons in chili oil. It’s messy and sticky, and Merlin isn’t very good with his chopsticks but insists on using them anyway. It’s the best thing Arthur has eaten in a while.

Smiling, Merlin takes a picture from his bowl, then another from Arthur licking chili oil from his lips.

After dinner, both of them too full to move, they retreat to the couch to watch a movie, Merlin’s feet in Arthur’s lap. It’s nice, in a very domestic way, Arthur thinks, like maybe hanging out with one of his friends, only with his friends, he’s not itching all over in expectation of what might come next. He wouldn’t start tracing his fingers over their naked feet, either, tickling his index finger over toes and ankles.

Halfway through the movie - they decided on Guardians of the Galaxy, because Merlin has a taste for comic adaptations and is in fact pretty geeky, not something that comes as a great surprise - it dawns on Arthur that this is what a date is like. This is a date, a regular boyfriend date, just hanging and eating and chilling. It’s infinitely better than most of their official dates - with maybe the exception of the Hampstead hike, because that was really nice - and it’s also not even on a level with the hookups Arthur orchestrated over the last years.

He starts losing interest in the movie and watches Merlin instead. He’s lying on the couch with his hands folded behind his head, his t-shirt stretched over his chest, his tousled head on a throw pillow, feet comfortably crossed in Arthur’s lap like they belong there. When he laughs, his eyes crinkle up and he shows a row of white, small teeth and his body shakes with it.

Arthur snatches up Merlin’s phone from the table and snaps a picture, then another when Merlin turns his head to look at him, a soft, amused expression on his face. Merlin smiles softly, before the smile slowly slides off his face, replaced by another, more stealthy expression. He sits up, pulling his feet out of Arthur’s lap and crosses the space between them, then slides onto the carpet between Arthur’s legs, pushing them apart with his hands to settle there.

With a crooked grin, Merlin slides his hands up Arthur’s thighs to his waistband, popping the button when Arthur doesn’t protest. Arthur’s breath hitches and he allows Merlin to pull down his trousers together with his briefs, shimmying his hips for Merlin to get them off entirely. Merlin’s grin widens and he kisses a path up the inside of Arthur’s naked thighs, hot, wet presses of his lips. Arthur is almost completely hard when Merlin arrives at his intended destination.

Merlin exhales a shivery breath over his heated dick, before taking him into his mouth. Groaning at the touch of Merlin’s hot mouth on him, Arthur lets his head loll back against the backrest of Merlin’s saggy, slightly shady brown corduroy couch and slides his hands up Merlin’s arms to his shoulders and further up to cup his slightly stubbly face. It’s illegal how good Merlin looks with a bit of stubble on his cheeks. While Arthur usually looks like some kind of reddish fungus is growing on his face and therefore prefers to go clean shaven (also something that’s written into Royal Protocol), Merlin is ruggedly handsome when sporting facial hair. He also looks like he could grow a respectable beard if he wanted to, something that fills Arthur with some jealousy.

Merlin doesn’t mess around, just taking him deep and giving him a thorough, purposeful blowjob, his hands sliding underneath Arthur’s shirt, fingers curling against Arthur’s abs. His dark lashes rest low on his cheeks and he hums contentedly. He’s beautiful. Arthur curls his fingers around Merlin’s right ear, not thinking them too large anymore, rubbing his thumb against the lobe and up his helix, watching through half-lidded eyes as Merlin sucks him off.

It doesn’t take long and Arthur comes, moaning Merlin’s name like it’s precious. He has half a mind to feel embarrassed about the needy desperation in his voice, but Merlin just pulls him up, wipes the back of his hand over his lips and takes him to the bedroom.

Arthur hasn’t been to Merlin’s bedroom before, but he only has a few seconds to orient himself before Merlin pushes him down onto his bed and follows him down, crawling on all fours over him. With the edge taken off by his earlier orgasm, Arthur feels more grounded when Merlin pushes into him slowly, and he plants his feet into the mattress, watching the emotions on Merlin’s face as he sinks into him with his teeth digging hard into his bottom lip. There’s a small crease between Merlin’s eyebrows and his lashes flutter, his breath held as he breaches Arthur.

Merlin curses quietly, then resets his hands next to Arthur’s hips and pushes forward once more until Arthur feels his drawn-up balls press against his backside as he settles inside him with a groan.

“You feel incredible,” Merlin whispers, and when he opens his eyes, they are blue and intense and dark, pupils blown.

Arthur’s breath hitches, both from the fullness of having Merlin inside him and Merlin’s hoarse words and he draws one knee up, causing Merlin to slide deeper with the movement, an action that makes them both groan and Merlin dip his head, resting the crown of it on Arthur’s shoulder, panting wet breaths over Arthur’s skin. His hair tickles Arthur’s neck and he smells sweat-salty and musky, and Arthur breathes him in like he could get drunk on him. They lie like this for a couple of breaths before they start moving together, in sync like they are performing an often rehearsed choreography.

It’s amazing how their bodies fit together. There’s nothing clumsy or uncoordinated about having sex with Merlin, Arthur thinks, and most of all, Arthur never feels awkward with him, never feels like he just wants to get it over with, not even after he already came. Instead there’s an intimacy between them, sometimes needy and desperate, sometimes playful and teasing, but no matter what the mood, Arthur always comes hard, feeling boneless and content and safe afterwards. Knowing that Merlin isn’t going to try and sell his night with him to the tabloids makes everything so much better. It makes him feel good about sex, good about something that often left him ashamed in the past. Maybe that’s the best thing about having sex with Merlin, par the spectacular, shout-out-loud orgasms.

Merlin sits up and slides Arthur’s hitched up leg onto his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts, his eyes roving hungrily over where their bodies are joined. The look on his face makes Arthur blush, but still he tilts his hips, glancing down at where Merlin is driving into him. Merlin’s eyes meet his and there’s a grin there, a dirty, amazed grin, like they are sharing a secret. “You are so hot,” Merlin murmurs, “lying here spread out and letting me take you like this.”

With a shaky sigh, Arthur reaches up, sliding his thumb over Merlin’s parted lips, smiling a bit when Merlin nips at his fingers. Groaning, Merlin leans forward to catch his mouth in a kiss, then flips them over, sliding from Arthur’s body in the process. He guides Arthur to sit astride him, watching him expectantly, and Arthur reaches for his cock and takes him in, sinking down on him with a moan. The angle is new and it’s intense and overwhelming and he digs his fingers into Merlin’s abs and moves carefully, hissing at the renewed but delicious stretch and pull of Merlin’s cock seated inside him. Underneath him, Merlin watches him open-mouthed, eyes glittering, panting slowly. His gaze is too much, too raw, too earnest, and Arthur dips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut and just thinks about the feeling of Merlin in him, under him.

He rides him hard, until Merlin is shaking and cursing and lifting his hips to meet him like a bucking horse, and Arthur holds his hips down and takes him, grinding down on him until Merlin comes with a shout, shuddering through his orgasm. A hand reaches for his cock, but he bats Merlin’s hands away and keeps moving, deep and slow, making Merlin whimper and hiss, and only when Merlin’s oversensitized noises become moaning again does he reach for his cock, jerking himself off with a couple of perfectly pressured strokes until he paints Merlin’s sweaty skin with his release.

He slumps down on Merlin’s body, delighted when Merlin is heaving for air again, his cock still hard where they are connected. “You arse,” Merlin whispers against his ear, before biting his lobe in vengeance, and Arthur laughs and squirms around Merlin’s dick, feeling Merlin’s come trickle from him.

He’s still boneless when Merlin slides out from under him and he settles in the sheets on his belly, turning his head into the pillow, inhaling the scent of Merlin’s shampoo and the enticing odour of his body. Behind him, Merlin’s hands slide down his spine, trailing over vertebrae and muscle, before he parts his arse cheeks and dips a finger into his crack, poking at his pucker, making Arthur twitch and sigh. He cranes his head to look over his shoulder, grinning when he sees the contemplative expression on Merlin’s face, the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips.

“You don’t need to be a gentleman,” he taunts, smirking. “I know I haven’t been.”

Merlin’s eyes darken and he shifts forward, pulling on Arthur’s arse cheek to blow a breath over his stretched hole, making him shiver, before he sits up again on his haunches, kicking Arthur’s legs apart. “No, you haven’t been,” Merlin says softly, but he’s already lining up his cock with Arthur’s pucker, brushing the head of it against the twitching muscle in a teasing caress. “Shit, I want to come inside you again. I love that you let me. That you’re all wet because of me…”

“Go on,” Arthur whispers, and turns his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes. He grunts when Merlin presses forward with a hot, needy little sound, his fingers harsh on his hips, hauling Arthur back on his cock roughly.

He lets Merlin take him like that, with his face pressed into the pillow, body loose and pliant, while behind him, Merlin fucks him with increasingly long, hard thrusts, murmuring dirty praises into his shoulders. Arthur floats on a wave of contented arousal, the kind that’s ebbing away, but still feels so pleasant and he doesn’t mind Merlin’s rough and desperate pounding. He grins when Merlin pauses the harsh thrusts of his hip, grinding and twitching into his backside, before letting out a long-drawn groan, reaching between them to pull out. Come splashes wetly onto his lower back before Merlin pushes his cock back inside, cursing as he pulses with slow, shallow thrusts.

“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck,” Merlin whimpers, slide of his dick deliberate and slow, then slumps over him, his heart pounding crazily against Arthur’s back, panting into Arthur’s neck. “That was… porn-worthy, oh my God,” he moans, smushing his heated face into the sweaty hair at Arthur’s nape. “Spank bank material for the next millenia.”

“For the next millenia?” Arthur wonders, laughing.

“So good,” Merlin murmurs, sounding exhausted. His cock pulses as it softens, a peculiar sensation, and Merlin’s whole body seems to untense as he grows heavy on Arthur’s back.

“You’re heavy,” Arthur notes, shifting his hips, grimacing when Merlin slips from his body and come trickles from his spasming pucker. Behind him, Merlin mutters a sound of agreement, then pushes himself up with a grunt.

“Ugh, we need a towel,” he says, then slides from the bed, cool air shivering over Arthur’s naked and sticky body.

Arthur sighs and rests his head on his arms, feeling drowsy and boneless. He’s practically purring when Merlin returns from the bathroom with a warm towel and starts cleaning him up, wiping first his lower back, then his thighs. Arthur flushes hotly when Merlin starts running the towel between his legs, carefully cleaning him up where he’s hot and leaking, for some reason embarrassed now, but when Merlin asks him to turn over so he can wash his front, Merlin’s expression is so soft and affectionate that he lets him do whatever he wants without squirming.

Merlin finally flops down next to him and stretches, his long, lovely body on display. He’s still sweaty and he reeks like sex, and if Arthur wasn’t so exhausted, he’d reach for him again.

“We need to post these pictures before I fall asleep,” Merlin sighs, then rolls out of bed and walks over to the door to retrieve his phone from his jeans pocket.

“I don’t care about that stupid article right now,” Arthur murmurs sleepily. “Let them write what they want.” He drowsily opens an eye to find Merlin pointing the camera phone at his face.

“Seriously?” he asks, rolling his eyes.

“You look… very fetching,” Merlin says, biting his lip as he taps the screen. He reaches out a hand and cards it through Arthur’s hair, before taking another picture, then lifts the screen to his face, frowning at the display.

He lies back down next to Arthur with his head on the pillow and extends his arm to take a selfie of the both of them.

With a furrowed brow, he looks at the display, then grins, showing it to Arthur. “God, why do you always look so good?” he asks rhetorically. “It’s so unbecoming of you. At least you look well fucked in this one,” he says, sounding quite content with himself. “It makes you a bit less insufferable.”

“Wow, your cowlicks have cowlicks,” Arthur remarks dryly, amused by the way Merlin’s hair sticks up in stubborn tufts, then adds, “Weaponized hotness isn’t for everyone.”

“Weaponized hotness?” Merlin laughs, eyes twinkling.

Arthur stretches his arms over his head and yawns. “If you need more pictures of my weaponized hotness, hurry up.”

“Can you please stop saying ‘weaponized hotness’, Your Royal Smugness,” Merlin growls without heat, then snaps another pic of the two of them, before examining it.

“You’re just sour because you will post a picture of yourself with ridiculous cowlicks and nobody will know about your Big Dick Energy,” Arthur taunts, suppressing a yawn.

“Your silly sex-face, which will be on display all over Instagram, is a walking advertisement for my Big Dick Energy. I’m definitely not sour!” Merlin protests, reaching out and tousling Arthur’s hair in retaliation, making the sweaty strands stand up every which way.

Squirming, Arthur tries to evade him, laughing when Merlin’s fingers dance over his ribs instead. “There, you got crazy hair now as well,” Merlin crows in triumph and snaps a picture of the both of them again.

“This one,” Arthur agrees when Merlin turns the screen to show him the recent snapshot. They are both grinning, flushed and dishevelled, and there’s just a hint of Arthur’s naked, freckled shoulders and Merlin’s pale collarbone in the shot to make it unmistakably intimate.

Turning on his side, Arthur watches with sleepy eyes as Merlin thumbs through his gallery and assembles a post. He should be nervous about this, but he’s tired and he wants to go to sleep and not care about the fact that people want to know things about his private life.

Biting his lip, Merlin shows him the post he just made: A series of pictures, starting with the one of Arthur sitting barefoot on the kitchen counter. Another picture shows their dinner, the one after that is a shot of Merlin’s legs in Arthur’s lap in front of the TV. A shot of Arthur in profile, flushed and sleepy, a content smile on his lips. Finally, both their faces, ridiculous sex-hair, grinning into the camera. Underneath the post, Merlin has written, “He ate my ugly wontons and rubbed my feet. Don’t trust him when he says he’s weaponized hotness, he’s just a royal prat. #datenight #cookingin #helovesmycowlicksevenifhemakesfunofthem”.

“Nice,” Arthur murmurs sleepily.

Even while they are reading the post together, hearts and comments are pouring in in a steady stream.

“I’d say we’re about done here,” Merlin grins, then tosses the phone onto the nightstand, switches off the light and turns to face Arthur, his hands folded underneath his cheek.

“Thank you,” Arthur says softly, and Merlin laughs, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

“It’s my job,” he mutters. “Also, don’t think I’m not enjoying shitposting trashy gossip for all the world to see. I’m glad my expensive Oxford education was worth something, especially because it was a part scholarship. You know, giving back to the public.”

“For tonight,” Arthur clarifies hoarsely.

“Oh,” Merlin murmurs quietly, sounding surprised, blinking at him with wide eyes, another furrow creasing the skin between his brows.

There’s a brief pause, then Merlin says, “You’re welcome.”

Arthur waits for him to say more, or maybe Merlin waits for him to say something, but when neither of them does, Arthur turns around on the pillow, pulling up the blanket and curling up on his side. The bed smells like Merlin, familiar and comforting, and Arthur soaks up the scent, nuzzling his face into the pillow.

Behind him, Merlin exhales a small breath that stirs the soft hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck, breathes, and settles in to sleep as well.

Four weeks later, Arthur stands at the airport in Placencia, waiting for Merlin to make it through customs, trying to ignore that Percy is standing 50 meters away, pretending to read a leaflet on Belize’s national parks like he’s just another tourist in shorts and a tank top. His discretion is valuable, especially because there’s no way Percy hasn’t caught on that there’s something going on between him and Merlin by now, and Percy wouldn’t be ditched as easily as the Danish security detail in Denmark. He tries not to feel embarrassed about his RPOs knowing what’s going on, but then again, there’s no judgement coming from Percy, Tristan or the other officers occasionally helping out, and Arthur knows he can trust them completely. Percy has been by his side for many trips both mundane and adventurous and you can’t feel indifferent towards someone who saved your arse on more than one occasion.

His body is pleasantly achy, but the last two weeks snorkeling at Moho Caye and helping with coral restoration on the reef have been just as satisfying as his last visit. Tremendous progress has been made since last year and while the bleached areas of the reef still make him feel sad, there are also many parts where life returns. The organisation he supports is the only reef restoration effort in Laughing Bird Caye National Park. He can barely wait to show Merlin around, take him on a snorkeling trip to show him the coral nurseries and go kayaking with him.

Surprisingly enough, he’s antsy and impatient to have Merlin arrive. He’s been feeling like this for the last three days and it has gotten progressively worse. He could have sent a car to pick Merlin up, but the need to see him has gotten under his skin like a persistent itch. Arthur doesn’t want to examine the implications of this desire too closely, preferring to insist to himself that it’s just his sexual appetites missing Merlin. Of course, if it had only been this, he could have easily bedded the brunette, gay marine biologist diving with him on a daily basis, but horrifyingly enough, the thought hadn’t even occurred.

Arthur is training himself to push ponderous thoughts away, when his phone rings in his khaki shorts. It’s Morgana, who rarely calls him as it is and usually doesn’t bother contacting him when he’s abroad.Curiosity piqued, he picks up.

“Hey, how’s your trip?” she asks, sounding energetic and cheerful.

“Good,” he says carefully, wondering what it is she wants. He hadn’t expected her to call at all - they don’t exactly have that kind of sibling relationship where they tell each other every little detail about their day. “How are you?”

“I just finished my last rehab therapy session!,” she laughs proudly, and the reason for her good mood becomes apparent.

“Congratulations,” he says honestly, settling back against the wall he’s standing at after a quick glance at the arrival board. Merlin’s plane has landed ten minutes ago, but it still might be some time until he’s through baggage claim.

“I’m free!” Morgana whoops, and Arthur laughs, imagining her doing a little happy dance outside the rehabilitation office. She’s been going to bi-weekly therapy grudgingly for the last 4 months now, an ordeal that had been suggested by Kilgharrah Communications together with a couple of public appearances and voluntary work at a drug center for homeless youths. Surprisingly enough she had complained only about the therapy and never about her voluntary work.

“You’re free,” he agrees, then amends, “well, as free as being a Princess allows.”

“The only thing left to do is that ridiculous big interview in which I talk about my experiences and my success in overcoming my addiction and to set up a foundation for young drug users.”

“Which is a great thing to do,” Arthur offers, hearing the slight vexation in her voice.

“It is,” she allows with a heartfelt sigh. “You know how it is, though. I mean, I wouldn’t exactly compare my experience of doing drugs maybe three or four times at a party to the problems a young person faces who is doing sexwork to provide them with their daily fix. It’s really not the same. I feel like a fraud.”

Arthur hums in agreement, knowing that feeling too well.

“Maybe your foundation can make a difference and that’s really all that matters?” he suggests.

“Oh, wow, are these your words or did Merlin rub off on you with his terrible earnestness about good causes?” she wonders, her tone turning light and teasing. “Speaking of your boo: I heard he was coming to join you today! Are you excited?”

“He’s not my boo and I’m not,” Arthur mutters stubbornly, feeling red creep up on his face at her words.

Morgana laughs, clearly not believing him. “Where are you?” she asks slyly.

“Nowhere,” he mutters sullenly, and Morgana chortles again, her laughter causing his blush to intensify.

“You’re at the airport, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re at the airport waiting for his flight to come in,” she giggles, elated, “don’t lie.”

Arthur purses his lips and doesn’t deny it anymore, giving up. “What do you want?” he asks, exasperated by her hilarity and observance.

“He’s been talking Gwen’s ear off about spending time with you in Belize and how you’re doing such important work. That boy is gushing about you like one of your brain-washed fangirls on the internet,” she says gleefully and with gusto.

“That’s nonsense. He thinks I’m a prat. He insists on calling me names,” Arthur retorts, but his traitorous heart picks up speed as he imagines Merlin talking to Gwen about him. He’s pretty sure Merlin didn’t gush about him, but he still wonders what the two of them talked about, what Merlin thinks of him.

“Pet names, maybe,” Morgana suggests lightheartedly. “You two looked really cosy on the post that broke the internet. Even I have to admit that your bedroom pictures were pretty convincing.”

Merlin’s Instagram post about their date-night at Merlin’s flat had had the desired effect to nullify any allegations about their fake relationship, but Geoffrey of Monmouth had nearly had a coronary when he saw the post and some royal advisors had even called the instance Arthur’s little sex scandal.

“It’s called make-believe,” Arthur mutters, feeling heat staining his cheeks.

“I’m glad you’re having fun. Enjoy the rest of your holiday with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Arthur insists.

Morgana is silent for a long moment, before she blurts out. “Oh my God. You’re shagging him.”

“What?”

“You are,” she says wondrously. “You’re protesting way too much. You’re sleeping with him and you’re in love with him.”

“It’s not like that!” Arthur protests, feeling cold sweat break out on his skin as panic rushes through him. Damn Morgana, for being much too observant.

“What’s it like, then?” she asks tauntingly, smugness radiating in her voice.

“I’m not in love with him, that’s ridiculous.”

“But you admit that you’re sleeping with him?”

When Arthur doesn’t answer, frustrated by the conversation and feeling cornered, she says, “I get it, he’s sexy. I’d shag him, if he swung that way. I bet he’s great in bed. He looks like he’s great in bed.”

“Shut up,” Arthur moans with embarrassment, wiping a hand over his face.

“Oh, Arthur…” she grins, sounding like a proud mother hen. “I’m so happy for you.”

“He’s getting paid,” he reminds her. “Also, it’s not like that. We’re just friends with benefits.”

“He’s not getting paid to shag you and disgustingly gush about you to his best friend. Gwen says he’s lost all professional objectivity when it comes to you.”

“Obviously, Merlin’s an idiot,” Arthur grouses.

Morgana cackles. “I have to go - I’m meeting Father for dinner. Enjoy your romantic holiday.”

Arthur sighs and cards a hand through his hair. “I’m still not admitting anything,” he claims, rolling his eyes at Morgana’s amused laughter.

They say their goodbyes and Arthur slips his phone back into his shorts, feeling unsettled about the conversation, suddenly questioning his coming here to fetch Merlin from the airport. He’s definitely giving the wrong impression. He’s about ready to turn around and slink out, when Merlin steps out from baggage claim amidths a bevy of other travellers, dressed too hot for the local weather, a scarf slung around his neck and dragging a trolley behind himself.

Every urge to leave flees Arthur’s body at the smile that’s lighting up Merlin’s face when he spots him, a smile that encompasses his whole face, dimpling his cheeks and crinkling his eyes. His presence hits Arthur like a sucker punch and Arthur’s hands get sweaty and his heart skips a beat. Merlin is gorgeous, standing out like a beacon amidst everyone else, shining bright, and Arthur feels an answering smile pull on his face.

He tries to tamp it down, but it breaks free nonetheless and he knows he’s grinning stupidly when Merlin stops in front of him.

“Did you come to fetch me?” Merlin asks curiously and with a tilt of his head.

“Don’t be absurd,” Arthur hastens to say. “You wouldn’t be able to find the hotel if Percy and I didn’t come to get you.”

“Hmm, of course,” Merlin says, glancing over Arthur’s shoulder at Percy, who’s still pretending to not witness their reunion, looking at postcards at the small kiosk. Merlin’s still smiling despite Arthur’s deflection, like he doesn’t believe Arthur one bit.

“The taxi is out front,” Arthur murmurs, feeling awkward and hating it, watching as Merlin pulls off his scarf with a huff.

“Fuck, it’s hot,” he murmurs, loosening the top button on his button-down and reaching to fold up his sleeves. A drop of sweat travels slowly down from under his ear, rolling down his neck and Arthur licks his lips unconsciously, forcing himself to look elsewhere.

Elsewhere turns out to be Merlin’s muscular forearms. It takes Arthur a beat to notice that he’s staring at the shift of tendons and muscles under his lightly tanned skin, remembering how they move when Merlin jerks him, and he snaps out of it and says roughly, “You can change at the hotel.”

“l need a shower,” Merlin groans and absentmindedly wipes at his neck with his scarf, soaking up the little droplet of sweat before it trickles into his collar.

“Right,” Arthur mutters, helplessly aroused, thinking of Merlin naked in the bathroom, freshening up. His mind has pleasantly relocated to the gutter and refuses to leave.

“How were the flights?” he mutters, making an effort at conversation even though he’s in all seriousness contemplating dragging Merlin to a restroom somewhere, as he starts leading Merlin out of the small airport, conscious of Percivial shadowing them like always.

“Wow, the last one with the small airplane sucked,” Merlin says honestly, laughing. “But I didn’t barf this time. Success! The things I’m willing to do for you.”

Arthur doesn’t trust himself to answer, climbing into the taxi behind Merlin. It’s a short drive to the resort he moved to this morning. Usually, when he stays in Placencia, he chooses a much more modest location, preferring to room in the same accommodations the few other volunteers chose, but he’s spending his last week in Belize holidaying with Merlin, a rather insightful suggestion by Geoffrey of Monmouth and therefore rented a two bedroom beach house in an eco resort. If Monmouth knew that Arthur planned to shag Merlin silly on every available surface, he certainly wouldn’t have proposed the holiday, but as it is, they are on a sanctioned semi-public romantic trip with instructions to post a couple of pictures (“But keep it discreet, nothing like last time.”)

Merlin freshens up after a quick tour of the beach house while Percy retreats to his cabana next door. Afterwards, because the day is still young and Merlin not yet suffering from jetlag, they make it out to the caye and Arthur shows him the coral reef tanks where corals are grown on the shore, before the go for a kayaking trip to start off Merlin’s introduction to the national park.

Merlin takes one picture after the other, delightedly pointing out a manatee and being generally so excited, that Arthur finds himself beaming like a fool, only able to somewhat control his features because he knows Percy is in the kayak ahead of them with their tour guide.

“Being your fake boyfriend definitely has its benefits,” Merlin says grinning and snaps a picture of him, before checking it on his phone display.

“I thought we’d already agreed there were benefits,” Arthur shoots back, waggling his eyebrows to convey his meaning.

Merlin looks confused for a moment, before he snorts out loud. “Oh, you mean the sex,” he says, playfully flicking a bit of water at Arthur with the tip of his paddle.

“Don’t flick water at me! If you want a water fight, we go for Percy!” Arthur suggests, and starts pushing his paddle into the water harder.

Merlin, still a bit uncoordinated, follows suit, and they manage to catch up to Percy and the tour guide with a bit of combined effort. When Arthur twists in his seat and looks back at Merlin, Merlin is smiling impishly, his hair curling in the wet heat, and he mouths an encouragement, before turning forward and splashing Percy with his paddle from behind, Merlin following his example instantly. After a moment of disorientation, Percy and the tour guide turn their kayak around to fight back, relentlessly and with great gusto. Soon, Arthur is completely drenched, sputtering salt water. Behind him, Merlin is laughing so hard he’s practically hiccuping.

When they return to the resort in the evening, they are both pleasantly tired and Merlin’s nose is peeling with sunburn, his cheeks rosy and his shoulders bright red where they weren’t covered by his loose tank top.

“I told you to put more sunscreen on,” Arthur chides him gently, rubbing after-sun lotion into Merlin’s shoulders after dinner, enjoying the way Merlin’s muscles feel underneath his hands.

“Worth it,” Merlin says sluggishly, his lack of sleep catching up with him. They retreat to their private veranda with cocktails from the bar and stretch out on the sun loungers side by side, looking over the resort towards the sea.

“It was such a good day,” Merlin sighs contently, sipping slowly on his cocktail, looking drowsy.

“I’m glad you had fun,” Arthur says, slurping on his own drink and looking out over the sea. It’s good to unwind for what feels like the first time in months, and it’s surprisingly delightful with Merlin by his side. He wouldn’t have stayed at a resort just for himself, but together with Merlin, sharing all the excitement Placencia has to offer, it’s the perfect way to reward himself. He thinks of the days ahead of them, the things he has planned. Snorkeling and scuba diving, showing Merlin the reef and other cayes as well as the amazing Moha river. There’s plenty to do and they will barely fit all into the six days they have together.

Merlin is silent next to him, and when Arthur twists his head on his pillow to turn towards him, he sees that Merlin has put down his cocktail on the little side table and is fast asleep, turned onto his side towards Arthur, his sun-burned face slack with exhaustion.

Arthur feels his mouth twist into a smile, a soft, stupid thing of a smile, and his stomach swoops nervously at the accompanying emotion. He bites his lips, trying to calm his suddenly wildly beating heart.

You’re in love with him, he hears Morgana’s words echoing in his head from this morning’s phone conversation and he balks, forcefully looking away from Merlin’s form, reaching for his drink again. He stares out towards the sea, trying to calm himself down, telling himself it’s nothing, but when he once more glances sideways at Merlin, the same surge of fondness grips him.

It’s lust, he tries to tell himself, because Merlin is hot and Morgana was right, he’s great in bed. Merlin, with his perpetually tragic bedhead hair, his high cheekbones and plush mouth, bravely defying dress protocol one pair of colourful trainers or band shirt at a time, who is by far and in all honesty the best fun Arthur ever had between the sheets.

But Arthur is lying to himself when he makes it just about that. There’s something more, something real about Merlin: His witty sarcasm and sharp tongue make for great conversations that never seem to get boring, no matter how mundane their content is. Merlin doesn’t cut him any slack just because he’s a royal either - he speaks his mind openly, challenging Arthur to be better if he fucks up. Contrary to most people in Arthur’s life, he seems to be genuinely interested in Arthur’s feelings and thoughts, appreciating Arthur despite his convoluted, messed up problems.

Arthur finishes his drink, dreadfully and with growing horror listing all the things he likes about Merlin, then takes both his and Merlin’s empty glass inside to the kitchen, before stepping back out onto the veranda. He crouches down by the side of the sun lounger at the level of Merlin’s face, wincing at the way his kneecaps click, and looks at his sleeping form, wondering how to get him inside. A lock of Merlin’s hair has fallen over his forehead and Arthur’s fingers itch to reach out and brush it away.

“Hey, Merlin, hey,” he says softly, gently touching his shoulder.

“Mhmmm?” Merlin murmurs, befuddled, blinking drowsily at him.

“You fell asleep. Let me get you inside.”

Merlin moves sluggishly, his eyes barely open, and Arthur helps him get up and leads him inside the bedroom, where he pushes the blankets down while Merlin struggles with his clothes behind him, half-asleep and flailing about dangerously.

With a roll of his eyes, Arthur turns to help him undress and directs him under the covers, snorting a bit at how Merlin sinks into the bed with relief, burying his head into the pillow, one arm flung out over the sheets as if he’s taking possession of the bed.

Merlin murmurs something that might be a ‘thank you’ before he goes under again, and not much later, his breath evens out. Arthur gets ready for bed as well, even though it’s still relatively early. He slides into bed next to Merlin, settling on his side to watch him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “fuck,” when he feels that same emotion resurface, something infinitely tender and gentle. The list of things he likes about Merlin pops up again and Arthur makes a face in the dark, forcing himself to examine it.

His laugh. His sparkling eyes. The small dimple near the corner of his mouth. How he says His Royal Highness and makes it into an insult. His witty sarcasm. How he pants when Arthur tongues the helix of his ear. The fact that he shares Arthur’s love for spicy food and even cooks for him. His geeky shirts. How he kneads his bottom lip between his teeth when he’s insecure. The little frown between his brows when he’s thinking hard. His amazing dick. The praise he showers Arthur with when they fuck, making him feel special. His clumsiness when it comes to walking without keeling into something. His humour…

The list goes on and on and Arthur curses again quietly, staring at Merlin’s face in the dark, wondering how the hell there were no warning bells shrilling.

The urge to press a kiss against Merlin’s lips is overwhelming, and with shaking hands, he reaches out, cupping his cheek before brushing a kiss over his mouth, feeling crazy and guilty and all kinds out of sorts.

Merlin makes a small, contented noise and reaches out in his sleep clumsily, pulling Arthur towards him and sloppily kissing him back.

“Glad I’m here,” Merlin whispers sluggishly, his fingers finding their way into Arthur’s nightshirt as he curls closer, his head coming to rest on the edge of Arthur’s pillow, his untamed salt-water stiff hair tickling Arthur’s nostrils.

“Yeah, me too,” Arthur murmurs, and presses a kiss onto Merlin’s temple where he smells like sun and salt water and sweat, unable to help himself.

It takes hours to fall asleep.

On day four Merlin has had enough scuba diving practice for them to take a tour of the Barrier Reef at South Silk Caye. Arthur can’t help but be proud showing him the coral nurseries and out-planting sites, knowing that he plays a tiny part in re-seeding the reefs. They meet stingrays and nurse sharks as well as turtles, with spotted drums and other colourful reef fish, arrow crabs and lobsters hiding between the corals.

Merlin takes one picture after the other with the digital underwater camera they rented at one of the shops, smiling inside his mask like a lunatic. They finish the day snorkeling in the warm water of Turtle Ray Alley before heading back on the small boat towards Placencia. Merlin is grinning as he transfers the photos from the camera to his phone, his dark curls crusty with salt water as they dry in the heat.

Despite his usually pale complexion, he’s darkly tanned by now, making him seem even leaner than usual. Arthur made sure they didn’t repeat the mistake from their first day, personally taking it upon himself to slather Merlin in waterproof sunscreen. Even so, there’s a white patch of peeled skin on Merlin’s nose, making him look mischievous and boyish. Arthur has a hard time not pressing his mouth to that spot.

Hunger drives them to one of the small beach restaurants on Maya Beach and they stuff their bellies with freshly grilled local fish, fruit salad and fried green plantains.

Merlin has already learned to eat fish like the locals, holding the small grilled snapper and dragging his teeth down its side, separating the flesh from the fine bones. His mouth is smeared with oily juice up to his cheekbones, and Arthur can’t help but grin at how messy he looks, bright-eyed and salt-crusted and juice-stained.

“I’m kind of sorry for eating these little guys! We just saw their friends out in the open sea,” Merlin hums and, despite his words, chewing with appetite. “I took a picture of a small school of them.”

“They are nice to look at,” Arthur agrees, licking spicy sauce from his cochinita pibil tacos from his thumb, “but I guess they taste better.”

Merlin puts down his fish, then pops his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.

“Here,” Arthur snorts, holding a paper napkin out for him to take, indicating that Merlin’s face is a mess.

Grinning, Merlin wipes his face and fingers, before reaching into his baggy pants to retrieve his phone. “I also got a great shot of that sea turtle.”

“It was a Hawksbill turtle. They are common around here,” Arthur comments, watching as Merlin unlocks his screen.

“Not everyone has been to the Caribbean numerous times, you braggart,” Merlin scolds good-humouredly, before pushing his phone over the wooden table for Arthur to look at the instagram post he made while still on the boat.

Arthur wipes his hands on a napkin as well, before swiping through the post Merlin made. There are pictures from the boat trip and then numerous shots taken by the underwater camera, among them the Hawksbill turtle and the small snappers as well as one of the coral nurseries - a lovely reminder of their day trip. When Arthur reads the accompanying text, his good mood evaporates.

“I asked you to not mention my involvement with the conservation project,” he huffs, pushing the phone back over the table, unwilling to keep his anger out of his words.

Merlin blinks at him, a constipated look coming over his features, before he tilts his head and kneads his bottom lip with his teeth, obviously wondering how he should react.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “It’s just a mention of you supporting the foundation. I didn’t think-”

“I told you specifically I didn’t want my involvement with the projects I support publicised. Now they will make it into something I’m only doing to polish my image. That’s not why I do it!”

He’s surprised that Merlin rolls his eyes at his irritation instead of further apologising. “I know that. But seriously?” Merlin huffs. “Your projects would get more recognition if you go public with your involvement and you could really make a difference, raising awareness and doing fundraising and getting people to fucking care! Instead you’re re-seeding coral by hand yourself or picking up plastic trash in Wales because you think that makes you so fucking noble! You’re being irrational and stubborn and you know it!”

Merlin’s outburst has taken Arthur aback and he blinks, taking in Merlin’s exasperated face.

“You have no idea what it’s like-” Arthur starts, but Merlin laughs a brief, desperate laugh, interrupting him.

“Don’t I, Arthur?” he snaps, his voice rising. “Because over the last five months I’ve been followed around everywhere. Everything I’ve ever done has been dissected, made fun of in the papers. I’ve been called a whore, a fool, an opportunist and hey, let’s not forget: my official nickname is Dumbo Ears!” he huffs, pointing his finger at the body part in question.

“My education and my profession have been called into question. Royal Finances had to pay for a security system for my mother’s run-down Twickenham home. I can’t go anywhere without people approaching me and asking inappropriate questions about my sex life like it’s something they have a right to know about! And it’s all because of who you are and what that makes me. It fucking sucks!”

“Shhh,” Arthur hisses, glancing around briefly at the other patrons of the restaurant, not wanting to attract attention with a public row. Two tables down, Percy has raised his head and is looking over at him in alarm.

“So, I get it. I really do! But you have the chance to make a difference and that should be bigger than your hurt personal feelings!”

Merlin obviously is done now, because he huffs out a final loud breath, before he sinks back into his seat, all but deflating, his red face turning back to its normal, healthy colour.

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, confused and overwhelmed by Merlin’s uncommon tantrum. For a long while, they sit in silence.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” he finally presses out. “I had no idea how hard this is on you.”

Merlin scowls, but doesn’t acknowledge his words, instead picking up his fork and stabbing at his plantain fries with a violent air.

Their dinner is strained after that with neither of them willing to speak more on the topic. They don’t manage to return to their earlier good mood and not even Arthur trying to get Merlin to be excited about their plans to visit Nim Li Punit, one of the nearby Maya temples, turns the rudder around.

Back at the beach house, Merlin is wordlessly retreating to the bathroom for a shower. Arthur paces the living room for all of five minutes, feeling wrung out and on edge, hating the mood between them, especially because he knows Merlin is ultimately right. He hadn’t picked environmental issues as his focus as a working royal because the very same advisors who suggested it to him had vehemently protested his choice of study a few years earlier. His refusal had been a childish thing to do, and something he’s been regretting ever since.

Apart from the embarrassment about being called out on his own childish behaviour, he feels horrible knowing that Merlin is hating being with him so much, suffering from all the public attention. This is exactly why Arthur doesn’t have a boyfriend. It’s too much to ask of any sane person. Why would anyone want to be with him willingly - and without getting paid to fake it - because Arthur himself isn’t that great that he could make up for all the shit that comes with dating him.

He knows that once Merlin’s contractual obligation is done, they’ll get back to being strangers. He won’t even have Merlin around in a professional capacity, because Merlin isn’t going to return to the royal account. His heart aching, Arthur can’t stand another moment of disharmony between them.

In the master bathroom, Merlin stands underneath the spray, rinsing the salt water from his hair, glancing at him curiously when he steps inside.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur mutters, feeling defeated. “I’m sorry I’m such a fool and I’m sorry you have such a hard time being my fake boyfriend.”

Merlin bites his lips and looks at him for a long moment, before he acknowledges his apology with a brief nod. “I’m sorry I posted that comment without your permission,” he says, wiping wet hair from his eyes, an adorable puppyish look on his face. “I’m… kind of proud of you.”

Arthur shrugs, blushing at his words. “You’re right. I overreacted.”

Merlin contemplates him for another moment and his eyes soften, a tentative grin curling up the corners of his mouth.

“Are you coming in or not?” he asks, apology apparently accepted, grin slipping off his face when Arthur starts to strip as an answer to his question. Merlin’s eyes are hungry when they travel over every part of Arthur that is revealed.

Arthur steps into the shower with him, satisfied when Merlin pulls him in the moment he’s close enough. The kiss is short and sweet and Merlin tastes like fresh water, his skin cool and wet, and Arthur spins him around, pushing him up against the wall and sinking down to his knees behind him.

Merlin laughs and looks back over his shoulder, then grows still when Arthur reaches for his arse and pulls his cheeks apart, his eyes widening with understanding, breath speeding up.

Arthur trails a finger between his legs, then up between his arse cheeks and Merlin widens his stance and sucks in a breath that teeters out into a moan when Arthur starts to stroke him, rubbing his fingers over his pucker and pulling gently on the rim.

“Shit,” he whimpers hoarsely, “you really want to apologise.”

He groans and hangs his head, when Arthur licks up his taint, tasting water that’s running down Merlin’s back and the earthy musk of Merlin’s hole.

“H-ah,” Merlin gasps above him, and moaning, Arthur gives him another lick, fingers digging into the soft skin of Merlin’s arse cheeks, pulling them apart. He continues to lap at him thoroughly, enjoying the trembling of Merlin’s limbs, then replaces his tongue with a finger, the other hand sliding from Merlin’s arse to between his legs, reaching for the heavy weight of his balls and cock.

“I want you to fuck me while I finger you,” Arthur murmurs conversationally into the flesh of Merlin’s taught arse cheek, rewarded with Merlin’s harsh curse and the jump of his cock in his hands.

“That’s creative,” Merlin pants out breathlessly, pushing back against Arthur’s hand, fucking himself on Arthur’s finger. “I love it.”

“Yes,” Arthur hisses out softly, then pushes another finger into Merlin, watching it settle next to the other one, Merlin’s rim stretched around his fingers.

Merlin makes another whimpering sound. “Please,” he says, and Arthur replaces his fingers once more with tongue, only to listen to Merlin cry out above him in both surprise and desire. He fucks him on his tongue until his jaw aches and his tongue feels numb, his hair and face soaked from the trickling shower. When he draws back, Merlin is slumped against the tiled wall with his dark head pillowed on his arms, his face blotchy, limbs shaking, arse tilted backwards.

Arthur’s hard as nails by now, having neglected his own cock, and he pushes himself up carefully, wincing when his knees protest. On the counter is his toiletry bag and he gets the lube, before stepping back into the shower stall, where Merlin has managed to collect himself, a heated, hungry expression on his face.

Merlin pulls him close by his arm, kissing him impatiently, his lips cool, the inside of his mouth hot, before reversing their earlier positions and pushing Arthur with his back to the wall. He slicks up his cock, hissing a bit at the sensation, then steps closer and reaches for one of Arthur’s legs, pushing it up to his chest to expose him.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Arthur watches Merlin’s dark eyes flick down to the entrance of his body, and his breathing speeds up. On his thigh, Merlin’s fingers dig in harshly. Merlin reaches down and angles his cock to press against Arthur’s opening, then shifts his stance and pushes upward and inside.

Whining, Arthur dips his head back, one hand coming up to grip Merlin’s shoulder to steady himself as Merlin enters him in one raw, slow motion that leaves him breathless and full and oversensitive. The thought occurs that he loves Merlin’s cock, loves how Merlin feels inside him, loves how connected he feels to him, but he bites down on the feeling so he doesn’t say embarrassing things. Merlin doesn’t give him time to contemplate his thoughts anyway, pressing his lifted leg aside to bring them closer, before starting a rocking motion by raising his heels.

Arthur gets lost in the movement for a moment, but then he remembers what he promised and he trails the fingers of one hand down to Merlin’s hip and back, slipping them between his arse cheeks. It’s a bit of a balancing act, but Merlin keeps him pinned to the shower wall, safe and secure. Merlin’s eyes are wide on him, his breath hard, as his eyes flutter shut when Arthur slips his fingers back inside his slick heat, not as deeply as before, but judging from Merlin’s reaction apparently satisfyingly enough.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, sounding wrecked, his hip moving in short movements now, grinding forward into Arthur’s body and back onto his fingers. His face is slack and beautiful, lashes resting damply on his cheeks, his lips parted.

Arthur just lets his fingers drag to the slow rhythm Merlin establishes and clenches down on his cock, unable to look away from Merlin’s face. It’s erotic and intense, and the sounds spilling from Merlin’s mouth are echoing loudly in the tiled bathroom. Merlin loses his rhythm as Arthur speeds up his fingers and adds another one, shifting his hand to twist, wishing he had used some lube on his hand before. Around his fingers, Merlin feels hot and soft, the pressure of his clenching muscles gripping him hard. Grunting, Merlin crowds forward, wraps his arms around him and presses him up against the cool tiles, his wet hair tickling the side of Arthur’s face, more leaning on him now than anything else as Arthur pumps his fingers, his wrist starting to hurt from the strange angle.

Merlin starts shuddering against him, his breath wet and loud, hips pressing forward, seeking. Arthur can feel it build-up in the twitching of his body and coiling of his muscles, but he’s still taken by surprise when Merlin all but roars and slams forward into it, pushing him up the wall with a brutal shove. Arthur’s fingers slip from Merlin’s body and he reaches for his hip instead, steadying himself as Merlin fucks into him hard, crying out, before he suddenly stills.

Arthur’s back hurts where he scraped it raw on the rough tiles and he’s trembling, his raised leg aching where it rests heavily on Merlin’s forearm. Merlin snuffles against his neck, rubbing his heated face there, panting harshly, and when he draws back his eyes are wet. He sobs out a laugh, embarrassed, and quickly looks away, sniffling.

“Shit, you must be hurting,” he croaks out, gently letting Arthur’s leg down and pulling away, causing Arthur to wince when he slips from his body.

Arthur shrugs, takes in Merlin’s wet face. He looks like he’s been crying, his lips bitten, and under his scrutiny, Merlin huffs out a laugh and wipes his face into his forearm.

“That was intense,” he offers, sounding abashed. “But it didn’t do it for you,” he comments, looking down at Arthur’s erection.

Arthur can’t even start to tell all the ways this did it for him, regardless of not having orgasmed, but voicing that opinion isn’t an option. It’s too intimate, too true, too dangerous.

“How do you want to finish?” Merlin asks, looking at him imploringly, already reaching out and giving Arthur a slow, deliberate squeeze. “In my mouth? On my skin?”

“I want to come inside your arse,” Arthur says honestly, prompted by Merlin’s forward questioning, and Merlin’s breath hitches, before he laughs.

“Uhm… yeah, let’s do this,” he says, voice gratifyingly rough. “But not here.”

Merlin takes his hand and pulls him out into the bedroom, where he flops face-down on their bed.

Arthur likes the view of his pale, taut arse, but it’s not what he wants to see when he comes, and he palms Merlin’s side, gently turning him around. “I want to see your face,” he says, and Merlin sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, but nods jerkily.

Arthur kneels between his legs and sits up, draping Merlin’s thighs over his lap, before reaching for the lube he grabbed quick-wittedly when they left the bathroom. He slicks himself up quickly, aware of Merlin’s eyes on him, then shuffles forward and pushes the head of his cock against Merlin’s opening.

Still biting his lips, Merlin lifts his hips for better access, his teeth digging in hard as Arthur slides home, his hands fisted in the sheets next to his hips. In his lap, his cock, which had been lying flaccid against his thigh, twitches and he grunts softly, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before he reopens them, the blue brilliant and bright.

Sighing, Arthur smoothes his hands over the flat planes of Merlin’s stomach and up his chest, carefully bypassing his dick, while Merlin watches, answering every careful thrust with a hitching breath. His cock is filling in jerky jumps, even without manual stimulation, and Arthur finally relents and grips the base, stroking upward with a firm move.

Merlin’s mouth falls open on a shaky groan and his eyes roll back in his head, and Arthur feels triumphant, much more concerned with Merlin’s reaction than his own. He fucks him slowly, unhurried, Merlin’s come trickling from his pucker down the inside of his thigh from their earlier fuck in the shower, and Merlin grips the sheets tightly and looks up at him, holding his gaze, his expression thoughtful and soft.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Arthur breathes out, jerking him slowly, and Merlin licks his lips and swallows.

“Don’t say that,” he begs, face flushing.

“You are. You are so gorgeous,” Arthur murmurs, taking in his damply curling hair and sun-tanned face and plush, wet lips, knowing he’s overstepping a line, but unable to help himself. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

Merlin makes a low, embarrassed sound and slings an arm over his eyes, his ears turning an interesting shade of red.

“Let me look at you. I want to watch you when you come,” Arthur urges, reaching out and pulling Merlin’s arm away. “When I fill you up,” he adds hoarsely in an odd moment of truthful possessiveness, and Merlin makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan.

“Oh my God, your dirty talk is probably illegal,” Merlin breathes, clenching around his cock. “They’ll arrest me. No, wait, do you talk to all your conquests like this? Should we maybe have your NDAs looked at…” he babbles, and Arthur snarls at his words because it reminds him what this is about. Just some friends-with-benefits situation. Merlin will walk away from this in a couple of weeks. With a brutal snap of his hips, he drives into Merlin hard, making him lose his sentence and anything else he might have wanted to say on a rough moan.

“Only you,” Arthur says honestly and hauls Merlin up into his lap, grinding up into his body. He’s panting and Merlin wraps his arms around him and is on his way to bury his face in his neck, but Arthur grips his hair and pulls him back, keeping their faces inches apart. Merlin’s eyes are wide and impossibly blue and he looks bewildered, staring back at Arthur with a slack-jawed expression.

Arthur keeps their gazes locked, enjoying the breathless quality of Merlin’s gaze. He fucks up into him, enjoying how Merlin rolls his hips in counter-moves. In his hand, Merlin’s dick is dripping precome over his fingers and wrist. He can see it in Merlin’s eyes the moment he tips over, the blue becoming cloudy for just an instance, before Merlin convulses in his lap and shoots come over both their bellies in thick splashes, his groan long and heartfelt.

With a moan, Arthur pushes his chest and follows him down, hips rocking hard into Merlin’s body as he pushes into him, his mouth latching onto Merlin’s collarbone and neck, biting sucking kisses into the flesh. It takes him only a couple more thrusts before he’s coming so hard he feels like passing out, hips twitching as he spills himself into the clutch of Merlin’s warm body.

When he regains control over his body again, Merlin’s fingers are carding through his wet hair and he moves gingerly, drawing back and flopping down onto the bed.

“The shower was for shit,” Merlin murmurs, shifting on the soiled sheets.

When Arthur turns his head to look at him, his face looks strangely blank and he avoids Arthur’s eyes.

Shit, Arthur thinks, that went too far.

He tries to act nonchalant, but inside he’s panicking. It’s a reprieve from Merlin’s worried, confused gaze to get a towel from the bathroom to clean them both up. They are silent as he wipes down Merlin’s body, but Merlin takes the towel from his hands when he wants to move on to his arse and walks into the bathroom to clean himself.

It takes Merlin what feels like ages until he returns and he still can’t look Arthur in the eyes as he settles next to him on the bed.

“I’ve thought about what you said earlier,” Arthur murmurs, hoping to remove that blank look from Merlin’s face by changing the subject. “I think I need to be open about what I’m interested in. You’re right. I could do so much more.”

Merlin smiles then, a real, soft smile, and he turns onto his side and pushes his hand under his head, regarding Arthur with bright eyes.

“Will you help me?” Arthur asks, and Merlin’s face lights up like Arthur made him the best gift he has ever received.

“Sure,” Merlin says, beaming, looking more like himself. “I have tons of ideas how to go about that…”

“I’ll buy you a drink at the bar and you can talk me through it,” Arthur suggests.

“The pool bar,” Merlin insists.

“We should definitely shower before that. But yes, the pool bar.”

“Deal,” Merlin grins, no trace of his earlier confusion left on his features, and hops out of bed, crossing the room towards the bathroom. Arthur watches him, enjoying the shift of his muscles in his arse and back as he moves. In the doorway, Merlin stops and turns around.

“You can join me in the shower but you need to keep your hands to yourself,” he says, smirking.

“I’ll never get rid of my bad reputation,” Arthur sighs, rolling his head back against his pillow. Merlin’s laughter is loud and bright.

Chapter Text

Hello!, August 29

10 Most Romantic Pictures of Prince Arthur and Merlin Emrys

Who could forget the Instagram post that broke the internet and garnered 10 million hits in just 24 hours? As far as date-nights at home go, the Prince and his boyfriend definitely set the bar high with a classic dinner-and-a-movie night. (It seems not even royals can resist a home-cooked meal). The surprisingly candid picture of those two sexy heartthrobs in bed together might have given the Crown a bit of a headache, but set hearts a-flutter worldwide.

From the slightly scandalous to the teeth-achingly cute, over the last couple of months, Arthur and Merlin have provided us with many romantic moments that were captured in pictures.

Take a look at these photos…

It’s hot in the meeting room where Merlin waits for the other team members to arrive, even though the AC is blasting cool air. Merlin is grateful that it’s the last meeting on this Friday afternoon, and he’s already looking forward to the after-work drink meet-up with Gwen, Lance and Freya at Covent Garden Piazza nearby.

The meeting is held under the title “EoW JF RA” (the RA standing in for Royal Account, because Gaius and generally everyone at Kilgharrah’s is very fond of abbreviations), a regular end-of-week meeting that sets the tone for next week’s tasks.

Gwen and Gaius have already arrived, so it’s only Lance - who has officially transferred to the Royal Account - missing, and Merlin uses the pause in his busy work day to look through his messages.

Prat of Wales: This event is fucking boring. I’m sorry, but I don’t care about brass music. I don’t understand how you don’t have to be here and suffer with me.

Grinning, Merlin sends back the emoji of a trumpet, causing Arthur to retaliate with an emoji of a raised middle finger.

Prat of Wales: Entertain me.

I have work to do. Not everyone can attend a brass music festival on a Friday afternoon

Prat of Wales: I will take a video and force you to watch it this weekend

If you want me to come over and do that thing that you like, you won’t

Prat of Wales: You mean that thing with your tongue and my arse or that thing with your dick and my arse

That’s exactly the thing I mean

Prat of Wales: That’s two things, idiot…

I love the noises you make when I eat you out

Prat of Wales: I’m at a brass festival and now I’m fighting a hard on and it’s all your fault.

You’re always so loud when I do it…makes me want to rim you until you scream my name

Prat of Wales: Oh my God, you fiend, stop dirty-texting! If you continue, I’ll have to look for somewhere private

You asked for entertainment ;-)

Smirking, Merlin looks through his emojis, trying to find the lewdest and most suggestive icons he can find, but is rudely interrupted when someone clears their throat right next to him.

“Are you ready to join us, Mr. Emrys?” Kilgharrah asks in his rough voice, looking at him with raised eyebrows, fond amusement colouring his voice.

Startled, Merlin nearly drops the phone, a flush rising on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you arriving,” he hastens to say, then hurriedly places his phone on the table. He looks around the meeting table, surprised to find that not only Kilgarrah, but also Annis and Annelise, Kilgarrah’s assistant, have joined their jour fixe.

On the table, his phone buzzes with another incoming message, but Merlin valiantly ignores it, glancing expectantly at Gaius, waiting for him to explain the out-of-the-ordinary team setup for today’s meeting, half-wracking his brain if he did something ill-advised or stupid. After brief consideration he figures it can’t be something he has done, or else he’d be ushered to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s office to atone for his sins - which are clearly numerous and gladly unknown to Monmouth - unless someone found out that he’s actually taking the boyfriend-part of fake-boyfriends too seriously, but he’d think that would be a much more private meeting. Instead, the meeting suggests something strategically important is going to be discussed, something that needs the presence of both Annis and Kilgharrah, and Merlin’s stomach fills with dread, waiting for Gaius to talk them through the agenda for today.

It’s Kilgharrah, settled back in one of the uncomfortable meeting room chairs, who takes the lead, steepling his fingers before his chest as he starts to speak. “Six months ago we set out to do something unthinkable,” he drones in his deep, gravelly, smoke-wrecked voice. “We were faced with an impossible task. We tackled the problem and we got creative about it. But as always, we went above and beyond the line of duty. We proved our worth. Our integrity. Our loyalty. Our discretion.”

Here he pauses and looks at Merlin, who is slowly catching on to what Kilgharrah might be talking about. Under Kilgarrah’s scrutiny, Merlin shifts uneasily in his seat, his face heating up. Hearing Kilgharrah talk about integrity and discretion makes him feel like the worst kind of miscreant, especially knowing he just sexted with the Prince of Wales and has in fact been fucking him silly whenever the opportunity arose for the last couple of weeks.

“But we were successful,” Kilgharrah continues and snaps his fingers, interrupting Merlin’s guilty thoughts. Annelise, like a trained dog, presses a button on her laptop and on the screen, the presentation she had started earlier and which had only shown their firm’s logo (a stylized dragon with fire breathing from its jaw) skips to show a couple of graphs. “Arthur’s overall favorability has increased by twenty five points in six months. In a recent poll, 13% said he’d make a good future king, 29% were supportive of him becoming king if he proves himself, with overall 42% positive approval, compared to his all-time low of 17% positive approval at the start of the year.”

Merlin has a dawning suspicion what this meeting is about, because he has been privy to many debriefings in the past, and a sick feeling settles in the pit of his stomach as Kilgharrah continues talking, presenting more figures and data and a couple of statements picked from different polls. Annelise’s presentation includes several newspaper headlines, most of them favourable, because they serve to support a narrative of success. Prince Arthur’s romantic adventure in the Caribbean, one tuts. Arthur’s romance is “relatable”, new poll says. Arthur’s touching moment at Cowdary. Prince of Wales makes Kensington Palace eco-friendly with photovoltaic system. From scandalous to monogamous: Prince Arthur’s lovers revealed. Prince Arthur - making a strong argument for a gay(er) Britain.

“Finally, the time has come to withdraw our involvement in this narrative,” Kilgarrah explains. “Annis and Lance have mapped out a four-week-plan,” he continues and Annelise presents another slide with a hierarchical progress diagram called “Public Break Up Itinerary”.

Merlin feels suddenly faint, unable to follow Kilgarrah’s explanations, dismay gripping him. His body keeps sitting upright, pretending attentiveness, but his mind drifts off, confusedly examining the turmoil Kilgarrah’s words evoke. He vaguely registers that he’s to amicably break-up with Arthur at the start of October, following a series of staged solo appearances in public. His official statement has already been written, as has Arthur’s.

“Last but not least, we’d like to acknowledge your commitment, Merlin,” Kilgharrah drones on, oblivious to Merlin’s feelings. ”You could have put much less effort into it, but you went above and beyond what was expected of you at a great personal cost, allowing a huge intrusion into your privacy. For that, we’d like to thank you and want to honour your performance with a respectable bonus to be issued at the end of September. You will also like to know that the Crown wants you to keep your Islington flat as a property and is adding the neighbouring flat they rented into the deal. I was told it’s easily convertible into one bigger flat.”

Merlin has barely registered Kilgarrah’s last words, still hung up on the fact that he’s meant to publicly tell everyone he’s over Arthur. How can he ever be over Arthur? How could anyone?

The fact that his colleagues are looking at him expectantly fills him in on the need to say something, but he’s unable to get out a word, flabbergasted and overwhelmed at the prospect of having to accept their congratulations for playing a successful ruse, a ruse he bastardised into something else entirely. He feels phoney and guilty and traumatised, his emotions so conflicted it’s impossible to react like he’s supposed to.

It’s Gwen who breaks the silence, apparently interpreting his stillness as stunned speechlessness at the generosity of being gifted a prime estate in Central London.

“That’s really cool, Merlin,” Gwen says, beaming at him from across the meeting table. “You deserve it.”

“Yeah, uhmm.. Wow,” he mutters, attempting a smile and trying to disguise his shell shocked desperation. “That’s … very generous,” he manages, his voice wavering slightly.

“Excellent,” Killgarah says and clasps his hands together, waving at Annelise to distribute print outs to everyone. “Now for the tasks…We have a couple of things to do before we can present this to the King. Deadline is in two weeks.”

Lance goes to fetch them a pint, while Merlin and Gwen go find their company’s table in the crowded pub garden. Every second Friday, they meet for after-work drinks, an open invitation for anyone who wants to join. Freya, Deagal and Stuart are already there, the three of them sitting in front of half-empty pints, cheering and waving when Gwen and Merlin push their way through the narrow aisles between tables.

It’s muggy and hot, with the promise of a thunderstorm later in the evening, and Merlin is sweating profusely in his button-down shirt. The square’s cobbled stone is throwing back the heat and there’s not even a hint of a breeze. He fumbles with his sleeves, gives up on rolling them up neatly and instead pushes them up to his elbows, before sliding into an empty seat.

“What took you guys so long?” Freya asks, raising her pint to take a sip, looking curiously from Gwen to Merlin and back. Merlin isn’t sure what his face is doing, but he’s still feeling slightly sick, so it can’t be good.

“End-of-Week Meeting took a bit longer than usual,” Gwen says, rifling through her bag for a hair tie, which she then uses to pull her hair into a messy bun. Her curls are sweat-soaked where they cling to her neck and her face is flushed from the heat.

“Oh, bet they briefed you on the break-up plan,” Freya grins, looking from Gwen to Merlin for confirmation. “Deagal wrote the first draft of Merlin’s statement already. Very inspired.”

“Of course, Merlin has to approve it,” Deagal mutters, flushing a bit at her words. Merlin can’t get over the fact that at 28, he still looks like he’s only turned 18 due to his boyish features and baby-blue eyes. “I’m still working on the finer details. I’m trying to make up an anecdote that’s exemplary of Arthur’s good character - a “show, don’t tell” thing. I might need some help with that.”

“That might be difficult. I’m sure Merlin has plenty of anecdotes of Arthur being a haughty idiot, though,” Stuart suggests with a little sneer, and Merlin remembers once more why he never manages to have a conversation with Stuart that makes him like the man. Stuart has never met Arthur in his life, but that doesn’t deter him from making nasty jokes about him.

“I’m pretty sure Merlin has plenty of positive tales to choose from,” Daegal mutters, rolling his eyes at his colleague’s words.

“Even so, he must be glad it’s over soon, though,” Freya offers, her brown eyes soft when she looks at Merlin. “You’re going to be a free man!” she cheers, failing to realise that Merlin’s carefully neutral smile is fake.

Lance appears with three pints, cautiously putting them down on the table cautious that he might spill beer over the rim. “Once that contract is up, we’re going to celebrate!” he suggests, obviously having heard Freya’s last words, pushing a pint over the table at Merlin.

“We’re going to get you laid,” Daegal agrees and raises his pint in a toast. “To Merlin and the men who will be standing in line to help him over his misery! You’re going to be the most sought after bachelor in the United Kingdom!”

None of them seems to realise that Merlin hasn’t yet said a word, and he lifts his pint as the rest of his colleagues pick up Daegal’s toast and cheer. He drinks deeply, gulping down half his pint in one swig, hoping the conversation will soon turn to another topic. His prayers are seemingly answered, because Stuart starts talking about his latest customer meeting and how that went apeshit when their customer representatives started contradicting and working against each other in the middle of the meeting, obviously both having different opinions on what should go down.

Soon they are sharing the strangest customer meetings they ever had to sit through, and Merlin contributes with a couple of remarks, but can’t be arsed to share a story. His body is still humming uneasily with a feeling of impending doom and it’s hard to shut out the news this afternoon brought with it. Daegal goes inside for a second round of pints and Merlin drains his remaining glass quickly, hoping that getting drunk will chase away the uneasy feeling of having no control over his life whatsoever.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he gets it out to find a text from his Mum, asking whether he’s coming home this weekend or staying in London.

I’m sorry, I have plans with friends, he texts back, feeling a little bit guilty that he’s standing her up for the second weekend in a row and lying to her all in one fell swoop, because he already promised Arthur to join him on Saturday night. He sends off the text, then is about to put the phone away, when he sees there’s still an unanswered message from Arthur.

Licking his lips, he swipes open the message, expecting another text or maybe several rude emojis. When he sees the picture instead, he nearly chokes on his own spit, the phone dropping from his hand and clattering onto the cobble-stone ground underneath the table.

“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, bending sideways to fish for the phone and help retrieve it, but Merlin beats her to it, diving under the table and reaching for his phone with nervous fingers.

“Just clumsy,” he murmurs, knowing his face must be awfully flushed.

“You don’t look so good. You’re kind of blotchy-faced,” she observes with a worried frown.

“It’s just the heat. I’m going to cool my face,” he says, pushing himself up from the chair, clutching the phone tightly in his sweaty fingers.

In the bathroom, he slumps against the cool tiles and takes out his phone, blinking at the picture Arthur sent him. Arthur is standing in front of a mirror in what appears to be a public loo, recognisable only from the chest down, shirt pushed up to display his nicely ripped abs, trousers flapping open, gripping an unmistakable erection through his boxer briefs. It’s erotic and just this side of dirty, and Merlin can almost imagine being on his knees in front of him, mouthing him through the fabric of his briefs.

Stop doing this to me, the accompanying text says.

Are you mad?! Merlin texts back, his fingers shaking.

There’s no immediate answer and he starts calming down, breathing through his nose carefully. He wonders if he’s supposed to delete the picture or maybe the whole conversation, because if anyone finds his phone and gets to his data, this would be an unfortunate fall out. He can’t bring himself to do it, though, knowing he wants to look at the picture later when he’s home alone, so he can bring himself off to the fact that Arthur, Prince of Wales, is sending him dick pics over Signal.

He slips the phone back into his slacks and walks over to the sink, where he splashes cool water onto his face. The face that looks back at him from the mirror when he glances up is pale, despite his deep summer tan.

He startles when the bathroom door opens and Gwen steps inside.

“You realise that this is the men’s bathroom,” he mutters and reaches for a paper napkin to wipe his face, trying to school his features and avoid her questioning gaze.

“What is going on?” she asks as she steps closer, her voice soft and coloured with worry.

“Nothing,” he tries, plotting the water from his face, before crumbling the paper napkin in his hands and tossing it into the trash.

“Merlin,” she chides him softly, her expression caring but exasperated. “I can tell there’s something going on. Is it Arthur? Is he being a prat to you?”

“He’s driving me mad,” Merlin says truthfully, staring at himself in the mirror.

“Just four more weeks,” she says soothingly, putting one of her small hands on his shoulders, gently squeezing, mistaking his words entirely.

And how could she not? She doesn’t know about their fake-boyfriends-with-benefits agreement and that the thought of ending it and becoming just another stranger to Arthur again is unbearable. How can he go on with his life without this? He’s been thinking about Arthur every hour of every day. When they are apart, he’s looking forward to their next meeting, bridging the time between by sending him texts and memes. He’s the last person he wants to talk to before he falls asleep at night and the first person that comes to mind when he wants to share his thoughts.

Yes, he still finds Arthur infuriating at times, prattish and difficult and stubborn, but he has also gotten to know his warm and caring personality, his need to make a difference with his actions and his terrible earnestness when it comes to matters he’s concerned about. Last but not least, whether he likes it or not, Arthur has become his best friend, the person he shares in-jokes with and who makes him laugh more than anyone else is capable of doing.

“I’m so fucked,” he says aloud, turning from the sink to face Gwen, finding he’s ready, no, not ready, absolutely desperate to have someone understand, to have someone to talk to.

“Merlin,” she mutters, stricken. “What happened?”

“Arthur did,” he breathes on a sigh, and she tilts her head and frowns at him, so he tells her, all of it. From their kiss in the car and their time spent in Denmark and how Arthur prefers spicy street food to haute cuisine to how he took Merlin on a spontaneous surfing trip to Cornwall last weekend just because Merlin said he has always wanted to try surfing but hadn’t managed to do so. He tells her about Arthur going to the cinema with him, only to find out that Arthur absolutely hates movies with subtitles because he always forgets his reading glasses but still went with him, because Merlin wanted to see the movie. He tells her about their arrangement, flustered to acknowledge that he’s never had better sex in his life.

“You’re joking, right?” Gwen asks, bug-eyed, but when he shakes his head, she groans. “Oh God, you’re not! You’re fuck-buddies with the Prince of England! It’s probably illegal!”

“The only thing that’s illegal about it is how good it is and how fucked I am and not in a good way!”

Gwen takes a deep breath and holds a hand to her heart, her face doing something complicated. “Ugh, it makes so much sense,” she mutters, grimacing. “The way you two are with each other. How you couldn’t shut up about him. I was making jokes about your lovesick gushing to Morgana! I should have realised you’re not that good an actor… Oh God, I totally talked to you when you were in bed with him, didn’t I?”

“I’m... sorry?” he offers, wincing, scrunching up his nose and feeling guilty.

“Fuck,” she breathes, “are you in love with him?”

The question feels like a punch to his stomach, taking Merlin’s breath away and he flounders for an answer, staring at her for a long moment, unable to get out any words. His stomach swoops anxiously and his knees feel like jelly.

“Are you in love with him?” she urges.

“Fuck me,” he whines, slumping back against the sink in defeat. It’s not like he hasn’t suspected, but he’s been quite good at not thinking too much about it.

“Shit,” Gwen mutters in sympathy and settles down against the sink next to him.

Merlin snorts, then wipes a hand over his eyes. “I don’t want it to end,” he whines, kneading the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I want to be his fake boyfriend forever. I don’t even care about the baggage and the invasion of my privacy if it means I can be with him.”

Gwen shoots him a sympathetic look, before she reaches out and pulls him into her arms. “Wow, I guess you have it bad,” she murmurs against his chest.

Merlin sniffs against her shoulder, feeling quite pathetic. “He’s going to go back to picking up blokes in clubs and I’m only ever going to see him on tv. Once in a while, he’ll send me a stupid meme and in a couple of months I’m just going to be a footnote with a NDA, like all the others before me.”

Gwen snorts into his chest, then pulls back. “Are you drunk already? Because you’re maudlin and ridiculous. You should tell him how you feel.”

“He told me he’s not falling in love, it’s not something he does. He just wants someone to warm his bed,” Merlin whines.

“Oh my God, I’m buying you a drink. This is ridiculous. You’ve been banging the heir apparent for months and think it doesn’t mean a thing to him. You’re more stupid than I thought,” Gwen mutters and slowly lets go of him. “Tell him.”

Biting his lips, Merlin shakes his head. “He doesn’t want a boyfriend. He probably just likes my dick. Other men have dicks, too.”

“I’m not drunk enough for that much drama,” Gwen huffs and gives him a shove. “You owe me a drink. No, two, because I can’t get over the fact that you’re banging the future King of England.”

“Oh, I know the sentiment,” Merlin snorts, “I can hardly believe it myself sometimes.”

“Drinks,” Gwen orders, “plenty.”

“Yes, Madam,” Merlin agrees, surprised that her giggling makes him smile.

It’s surprisingly cool in Arthur’s bedroom. Through the wide open windows, a refreshing evening breeze is ruffling the curtains of Arthur’s four poster bed. Merlin has lost all sense of time. It must be around midnight, though, because they spent the early evening at Regent’s Park Theatre, an unofficial outing Merlin decides not to think too much about, much like the surf trip to Cornwall last weekend. He doesn’t dare contemplate that they mean anything.

Merlin brought food to the park - sandwiches with hummus, spicy chicken and roasted veg, leftovers from his Thursday night dinner - as well as tiny, bite-sized lemon-and-apricot balls. They had eaten while the seats around them were filling, sharing ginger lemonade from Merlin’s thermos flask, anonymous in the dark. During the play, Arthur had whispered Puck’s dialogue from Midsummer’s Night Dream to himself, and Merlin hadn’t been able to keep the grin off his face. Arthur being able to recite all of Midsummer’s Night Dream by heart was just another point in Arthur’s favour and Merlin was hard pressed not to swoon, because it was terribly adorable.

Afterwards, there’s no discussion about where they go. Arthur’s apartment at Kensington Palace is closer and Tristan - despite probably knowing just as well as Percival that they are officially faking it - doesn’t bat an eye when he drives them to Kensington and then is relieved for the night.

They’ve spent the better part of their time since entering Arthur’s apartment kissing, but Merlin, despite desperately wanting to drown himself in Arthur’s kisses, is still plagued with the revelations from yesterday’s meeting, unable to really let go and enjoy himself. He’s been unable to think of anything but the impending break-up since Friday afternoon and it’s been plaguing his every waking thought. It drives the question home: What the hell are they doing? What does Arthur want from him? What is he to Arthur?

“Is everything alright? Did I do something wrong?” Arthur finally asks after Merlin fails to stay hard from the touch of his hand. It’s not anything he ever had a problem with before, at least not with Arthur and it’s embarrassing.

Wincing, Merlin wrinkles his nose and avoids Arthur’s inquisitive, blue-eyed gaze. “I’m just distracted. It’s something at work, I can’t stop thinking about it.” He shifts his hips, putting some distance between their bodies, feeling unbearably stupid and abashed for his traiterous body’s lack of reaction. He just can’t help it - the official break-up looms threateningly above everything, tainting his enjoyment of the evening.

Arthur sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and looks sympathetic. “Do you want to tell me?” he asks, shifting onto his side as well and pushing an arm under his head.

“No,” Merlin says honestly, feeling guilty about it a moment later, when a shadow crosses Arthur’s face. Talking to Arthur about it doesn’t feel like an option. How could he tell Arthur that he’s not getting it up because he’s been lovesick and mooning over him and lamenting the fact that their fake-boyfriend-deal is coming to an end?

Arthur looks momentarily hurt, but he catches himself quickly, putting on a neutral smile, a smile Merlin knows as Arthur’s official, cautious smile, a smile he wears when he’s not sure what the appropriate reaction might be. “Okay,” he says calmly, his voice not belying any underlying emotions. “Do you want me to do anything else that makes you feel better?” he asks, rubbing a hand up Merlin’s side soothingly, like he’s calming a spooked animal.

“Kissing is fine,” Merlin blurts out, then adds hastily, guiltily as it occurs to him that Arthur isn’t in it for the kissing, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur snorts - a sound that is gratifyingly real - surprising Merlin by leaning over him to press a row of curiously sweet, tiny kisses to the side of his face. “Don’t be,” he whispers gently, the sound vibrating against Merlin’s skin.

“I could blow you?” Merlin offers, while Arthur nuzzles kisses against his hairline and into the sweaty curls at his temple.

“No,” Arthur says. “Kissing it is,” he adds, and continues the small, tiny kisses to Merlin’s face, trailing his mouth down his temple to underneath his jaw, before returning to his mouth.

It’s sweet and it’s tender, and Merlin lets himself be kissed and is able to put his anxiety behind him, because Arthur is treating him like he’s someone special, not just a fake-boyfriend-with-benefits, nuzzling his neck and licking slowly underneath his ear like it means something. It’s intoxicating and all fake, but it feels too real, and Merlin sinks into the moment, letting his worries be swept away.

He’s finally getting hard, but he’s not consumed with desperation or the need to fuck. Instead he’s floating on a wave of contentment. When Arthur reaches for his cock, gently wrapping his hand around him, Merlin sighs into his mouth and does the same, gripping him in a tight grip, jacking him slowly. When they become too distracted to coordinate kissing and the movement of their hands, they both draw back, panting softly, their gazes finding each other. The stroke of Arthur’s hand is slow and unhurried, like he wants to learn the texture of Merlin’s skin. A small, lopsided smile plays around Arthur’s lips and Merlin figures with awed realisation that he’s never found him to be more beautiful than right now.

Afterwards, Arthur is propped up on his side, his left hand trailing circles on Merlin’s sweaty skin, playing with the dark curls on his chest and belly.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I wish I could do something about it,” Arthur says softly, not looking at Merlin’s face, his eyes following the path of his roaming fingers like he finds Merlin’s skin endlessly fascinating.

Biting his lips, Merlin watches Arthur’s fingers dance over his skin as well, marvelling how they map out every dip and curve of his torso, as if they are committing Merlin’s body to memory. For a moment, Merlin is ready to tell him everything. He wants to tell him about the meeting, how it shook him and how the thought of not being with Arthur anymore is unthinkably painful. His heart starts beating a little harder, a little faster, with the prospect of laying it all out, of revealing his confused feelings and confessing that he thinks he might have fallen in love with Arthur.

With the need to tell him comes a deep-set fear and anxiety of Arthur’s reaction. He has known Arthur for almost two years now, and in all this time, Arthur never once mentioned that he wanted to have a relationship. So how could he want Merlin of all people, when he could have practically everyone but desired no one?

“It’s okay,” Merlin finally lies, his throat tight. “Just sometimes you take work home with you…” he deflects, feeling too scared to say what lies on the tip of his tongue. He’d rather have this now and not ruin the rest of their official arrangement than threaten it all by revealing how he truly feels. “I don’t want to talk about it and make it into more than it is.”

They are silent for a bit, Arthur not looking at him directly, still drawing circles on his skin with his index finger. The mood is slightly off, a strange and uncommon occurrence between the two of them, as if Arthur is aware that Merlin isn’t trusting him entirely with his thoughts and that he’s keeping something from him.

Arthur finally clears his throat and glances up, a carefully poised smile on his face, his finger pressing into the soft skin underneath Merlin’s belly button. “Hey,” he says, “did I tell you about the speech I’m writing for ICICTEC?”

“ICwhat?”

“It’s a conference on information technology, environment and climate and I’m giving one of the keynotes,” Arthur explains, drawing his finger up the coarse hair of Merlin’s treasure trail, obviously fascinated with how the soft, but wiry hair springs back.

“Since when?” Merlin says surprised, shivering a bit at the scratch of Arthur’s finger.

“We got the confirmation on Friday night. I meant to tell you, but I forgot, for which I blame you, by the way,” Arthur says, scrunching up his nose adorably as he glances at Merlin, his finger still roaming his stomach, twirling in the curls of Merlin’s body hair. “You drunk-dialed me for tipsy phone sex at 11 p.m., so I had other things on my mind.” His mouth quirks as his hand roams up over Merlin’s torso, rubbing across his nipples and making Merlin suck in a breath. “Your sloshed dirty talk is inspired, by the way, in case you didn’t get my vocal feedback the first time.”

Merlin blushes, only half-remembering his drunken phone call last night and the things he might have said to Arthur. He might not recall all the details of what he said, but it sure as hell had been dirty and he definitely remembers Arthur moaning his name shamelessly when he came.

Arthur’s knowing grin at Merlin’s embarrassment is bright, and Merlin tells himself to focus on the primary information given instead of pondering what the hell he might have said that made Arthur come.

“You’re going to be awesome at that conference,” Merlin says truthfully, and the smile on Arthur’s face grows into something splendid and real, his mouth stretched wide, teeth glinting, the corner’s of his eyes crinkling with little laughter lines.

“I need a second opinion, though. Maybe you could listen to it?” Arthur asks.

“You want me to comment on your speech? Don’t you have Communications for that?”

Arthur frowns a little, like Merlin said something stupid, then dismisses his suggestion entirely and hops off the bed, narrating while he walks out of the bedroom, his voice coming to Merlin from the hall. “How about you let me know what you think now,” he demands, his voice raised.

“Now?!” Merlin calls back, shifting onto his back in Arthur’s soft, comfortable bed and looking up at the canopy. The old-fashioned style of the bed should be utterly ridiculous, but it’s undeniably comfortable and comforting. “Why now? Why me?” he moans loudly, hoping Arthur will hear his complaint from two rooms over.

Arthur returns, his naked form tall and lovely to look at. Merlin could spend hours looking at him naked, at his long, strong legs with the soft, blonde hair, his tight belly and defined hips, his wide shoulders and broad chest. Arthur looks like some ancient, gloriously naked warrior, the vision driven home by the jagged raised scar on his right abdomen from a scuba diving accident two years ago. Merlin has seen him work out, knows he’s doing a lot of body weight training and follows a ridiculously ambitious schedule to keep in shape, unlike Merlin, who runs every once in a blue moon, uses a bike just to get around and not for exercise and half-heartedly does a couple of yoga poses when his lower back acts up.

Arthur waves a sheet of printed out paper at him, before settling down on the lower edge of the bed with crossed legs, the sheet of paper in his lap. “I want your opinion and not those of Communications, because I want an honest judgement and also, I don’t trust them not to whatever-wash my words in a final draft.”

Merlin pushes himself up and crosses his legs, mimicking Arthur’s posture, just as naked. “Okay, give me that speech, Your Royal Highness,” he says, knowing he’s unable to hide the fondness in his tone.

“I rather liked it when you insulted me. You rarely do that anymore,” Arthur murmurs, tilting his head to look at Merlin with a curious expression.

“I insult you plenty,” Merlin protests, feeling his face heat up. “Just earlier tonight, I called you “an incorrigible clotpole” to which you replied I was “a useless fool of a peasant”. I’d say that counts.”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I’m so used to your insults I don’t hear them anymore.”

“I must be losing my touch, you royal dollophead,” Merlin offers for good measure, and Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters, “weak, weak,” under his breath, but lifts the sheet of paper from his lap and clears his throat.

He recites his speech like he’s addressing a great audience and not just Merlin, and Merlin attempts to look encouraging rather than completely besotted, which is difficult, considering that Arthur is sitting in front of him in the nude - Merlin thinks even his kneecaps are delightful - and not even his address about the threats of climate change can ruin his allure for Merlin.

His speech is brief but effective, a general plea to the tech industry to put their best heads together to take on the problem, laying down the positive economic impact of sustainable solutions for energy, transport and communication technology.

“Well?” he asks once he has finished, lowering the paper in his lap.

“I think you’re brilliant,” Merlin says truthfully.

“You’re biased,” Arthur accuses him, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m not,” Merlin protests. “I would lie if I said the way you presented your speech in the nude wasn’t very alluring,” he says, indicating Arthur’s naked state with a wave of his hand, “but you will be equally brilliant in a suit because you have something to say.”

A laugh bubbles from Arthur’s throat and his eyes crinkle. “You think I should present the speech naked?”

Merlin snorts, allowing his eyes to purposefully roam over Arthur’s body, enjoying the way Arthur squirms a bit under his scrutiny, a flush rising on his cheeks. “Nobody could resist you naked. Maybe one day, you can even rule naked. You will go down in history books as Arthur, the Naked,” he teases, delighted by Arthur’s abashment.

“My father will be on the throne for a very long time and I will be old and saggy once I take it. I doubt I could convince anyone to do anything they don’t want to with a pot-belly and a hanging arse,” Arthur quips and slaps his ridiculously firm abs.

‘Me,’ Merlin thinks, and the thought is shocking enough that his heart starts beating faster. “You’ll be a disgustingly fit silver fox,” he offers, “so don’t worry.”

Arthur’s lips quirk in a soft smile. “So you don’t want to change anything about my speech?”

“If you want to go for a more dramatic entry, list the facts and figures first. That’s what I would do,” Merlin suggests. “But other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s perfect,” he says truthfully.

“That’s a good idea. I knew I could count on you,” Arthur says softly, and he looks so fond that it tears at Merlin’s heartstrings. I want you to be really mine, he thinks with a bang of desperation.

Arthur’s smile slowly slips away, like he can read the emotions on Merlin’s face, and Merlin throws himself forward, tackling Arthur back onto the bedspread sideways before he can ask him what’s wrong again. The speech gets crumbled between their stomachs and Merlin dives for Arthur’s mouth, drawing a startled laugh from his lips.

Merlin kisses him and swallows his laughter until the sounds coming from Arthur’s lips turn into breathy moans.

Hunith’s annual summer BBQ party is scheduled for the last weekend of August. Gladly, the heatwave that had gripped most of August has finally broken with a series of thunderstorms, and the day isn’t too hot and slightly overcast, making it perfect to lounge around in Hunith’s backyard in the shade of the gnarly apple trees.

In the kitchen, Merlin slices tomatoes for the sauce, while his mum pushes pieces of marinated chicken on skewers.

He startles when Arthur suddenly steps behind him, placing a condensating glass bottle on the counter next to him. “I brought you a beer,” Arthur announces, his fingers cool where they touch Merlin’s naked elbow as he briefly hooks his chin over his shoulder, peering down at his cutting board. “What’re you making?”

“Jalapeno sauce for the ribs.”

Arthur produces a rumbly purr that announces his pleasure with Merlin’s answer. “Perfect,” he grins and snatches a slice of tomato up from the cutting room board and pops it into his mouth.

“Hey, keep your grubby fingers in check!” Merlin protests, slapping his hand hard, making Arthur scowl and shake out his fingers.

Still grinning, Arthur leans back against the counter next to him casually, his ankles crossed as he watches Merlin work. “Did you know that Guinivere is in love with one of your colleagues? The dark-haired one with the olive-toned skin and soulful eyes that took over the grill from you. She’s been hanging around the grill ever since he arrived.”

Merlin looks up at him and rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “They’ve been dancing around each other for the last months. It’s sickening. Don’t watch them, it might cause you physical pain after a while.”

Arthur tosses his head back and chortles out laughter, then reaches over and steals another slice of tomato, narrowly avoiding being sliced himself by Merlin’s knife.

“Stop it!” Merlin hisses, pulling his cutting board out of Arthur’s immediate reach. “I don’t want to go down in history as the royal boyfriend who cut off the Prince of Wales's index finger.”

“No, we don’t want that, the history books have enough dirt on you already,” Arthur suggests lightly, popping another piece of tomato into his mouth.

Merlin raises his eyes to glower at Arthur, unimpressed, but his glare withers under the force of Arthur’s smiling face and shining blue eyes. The light streaming in the kitchen has the audacity to kiss the highlights in his hair and cast a soft sheen onto his tanned summer skin. He’s so breathtaking that Merlin forgets his retort, his eyes zeroing in on Arthur’s beaming smile, pink lips instead. He watches as Arthur’s grin softens and his teeth come out to dig gently into his bottom lip. A shiver races through Merlin’s body at the look on Arthur’s face.

“Merlin, I need you to cut more peppers for the chicken kabob,” Hunith interrupts their moment, making them both jump. Merlin’s heart is beating way too hard for a moment. He very nearly forgot himself for a moment, because he definitely was about to lean forward and kiss Arthur in front of his unsuspecting mother. When he glances at her, wide-eyed, he finds her looking between the two of them with a strangely unsure expression on her face.

“I can do it, Mrs. Emrys,” Arthur answers swiftly, before Merlin has collected himself, pushing himself away from the counter.

“Oh, no, no, Your Royal Highness,” she hastens to say, looking slightly panicked, her eyes once more flitting between Arthur and Merlin like she wants Merlin to come to her rescue, “I could never-”

“Mum, let him cut the peppers. He won’t mutilate himself, I’m teaching him to cook,” Merlin says softly, trying to find his calm again. He doesn’t wait for her answer, but arranges a cutting board for Arthur and goes looking for a vegetable knife.

“It’s Arthur, Mrs. Emrys, please,” Arthur says, “and helping out is the least I could do for allowing me to crash your garden party.”

“You are not crashing my garden party, Your Royal Highness,” Hunith mutters, flustered, shooting a pleading gaze at her son. She’s been fretting over having the Prince of Wales at her BBQ for the last two weeks and despite Merlin’s claims that he should just treat Arthur like anyone else, she hasn’t been quite able to shake off the fact that he’s a royal.

“We both know this isn’t entirely true,” Arthur reminds her gently of the security arrangements that were made before and the two RPOs in the car outside across the street. Forestalling any further protest from Hunith, he takes the peppers out of Merlin’s hands and starts cutting them into suitable pieces.

For a while they work in silence, Arthur cutting his peppers with precision, a concentrated frown on his face, tongue slipped out between his lips. Arthur’s presence is comfortable and familiar moving next to Merlin, but judging from his mother’s tense movements, having the Prince of Wales cutting peppers for her BBQ makes Hunith nervous, so he steps up to her and presses a kiss against the crown of her hair in reassurance.

“So, my son is really teaching you how to cook?” Hunith asks after a while, and she probably didn’t realise she left off Arthur’s title.

“Mhmm-hmmm,” Arthur hums, reaching for another bell pepper. “I can do spaghetti puttanesca, a simple chicken curry and Pad Thai already.”

“He has a natural talent,” Merlin offers, grinning as he fries jalapenos, onion and the tomato in a pan.

“That’s because I like to eat,” Arthur deflects the praise and demonstratively bites down on a piece of pepper, making Hunith giggle, a sound that seems to surprise her.

Merlin is relieved when his mum finally relaxes in Arthur’s presence, but then again Arthur has a way of putting people at ease when he makes the effort.

They finish the kabobs and sauces, before bringing the food outside, where Lance has been manning the grill, taking care that the coals are smouldering perfectly. Gwen is still standing by his side, sipping on a bottle of beer dangling from her fingers, a perpetual sunny smile on her face. Whenever Lance says something, her smile widens, her eyes glinting with adoration. Merlin can just hope that one of the two of them will finally take that next step in their slow burn of a relationship.

It’s a lovely afternoon with friends and close family, eating barbecued ribs and orange-glazed chicken wings, drinking lemonade in the shade of the trees. They grill marshmallows and get tipsy on lemon infused gin and tonics and listen to music from the speakers Merlin hauled from the living room with Deagal’s help.

Next to Merlin, on the rickety garden bench, Arthur is a comfortable, familiar presence. The furtive looks and confused stuttering from both Merlin’s family (consisting of his aunt, uncle and his younger cousin Sefa) but also his co-workers and friends have slowly died down as they have started to relax around him just as Hunith did earlier in the kitchen. It’s crazy to think that Arthur attracts attention everywhere he goes, but Merlin has gotten a taste of it himself the more popular he becomes.

“So, when are you going to move to Kensington Palace?” Merlin’s cousin, Sefa asks, looking curiously from Arthur to Merlin, apparently not realising how loaded her question is.

“Sefa,” Merlin’s aunt hisses quietly, a flush rising on her already ruddy cheeks, glaring at her daughter like she’s a misbehaving toddler and not a young adult woman of 19.

Next to her, Freya grins broadly, snacking on a bowl of cherries from Hunith’s neighbour’s garden. “Yes, Merlin, when do you become a real princess?”

Merlin sends Freya a dirty look, but before he can answer, Arthur laughs brightly next to him.

“Merlin wouldn’t make a good princess. He lacks the grace and the poise and the manners, but he comes with other features I greatly admire,” Arthur says and winks, to which Sefa snorts out laughter, while Freya looks outraged and disbelieving, for some reason sending her glare Merlin’s way, like it’s his fault that Arthur shot her down with a witty come-back.

“I would look good in a tiara, though,” Merlin protests, pouting, causing Arthur to grin and ruffle a hand through his hair.

“You would,” he agrees, his arm coming to rest on the backrest of the bench behind Merlin’s back.

“But Kensington Palace,” Sefa insists, earning another hiss from her mother.

“We haven’t talked about it yet. It hasn’t come up,” Arthur says kindly, then looks at Merlin sideways in a way that makes Merlin feel flustered. His fingers are playing with the ends of Merlin’s hair at the nape of his neck absentmindedly, like he isn’t even aware he’s doing so and Merlin’s mouth goes dry. Sometimes, he gets so confused about what is real and what isn’t anymore and he has to forcefully remind himself what this is all about: an arrangement within an arrangement, a bit of casual helping each other out in the sex department while also ensuring that Arthur’s popularity rates go up.

“I would have to kick out my sister,” Arthur muses, wrapping a finger around one of Merlin’s curls, “and I fear her wrath. We could move to another palace apartment, though. Henry’s apartment is vacant. Of course it would need to be remodelled, he had horribly old-fashioned, stiff taste.”

“You can’t move, you would lose your mother’s roof garden,” Merlin points out, getting caught up in the way Arthur is so earnestly discussing this, like it’s an option and not make-believe.

“That’s true. It would be a shame. We should kick Morgana out,” Arthur suggests and Merlin has a rather amusing vision of Arthur shoving a suitcase at Morgana and showing her the door, so she has to trudge over the gravel paths towards one of the other Kensington apartments on her stiletto heels.

Across from them, Sefa grins, her brown eyes sparkling with laughter. “Can I come visit then, Merlin?”

“Oh, erm,” Merlin stutters, suddenly aware that he let himself get caught up in another fantasy.

“Shoot,” Gwen hisses, spilling her lemonade all over the table, soaking the table cloth and Sefa’s and Lance’s laps. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a clumsy idiot,” she moans, but sends Merlin a look that clearly indicates that she knows she just saved his arse and he’d better make it up to her.

“It’s just lemonade,” Lance says, “it’s quite refreshing, actually,” while Sefa squeaks and reaches for a napkin, wiping furiously at her soaked dress, forgetting about her question entirely.

Merlin is relieved when the conversation at the table returns to safer topics and he pretends to listen to Deagal telling a story about how he spilled piping hot coffee over the lap of one of their high prestige clients and ruined her Balenciaga dress. It’s difficult concentrating on anything, considering he’s acutely aware of Arthur’s fingers still playing with his curls, wondering desperately what kind of picture they make to the people who know it’s all a scam.

When he furtively looks around, the only person who is watching them is his mother, a thoughtful expression on her face. Flushing, Merlin looks away from her inquisitive gaze, shifting on the bench until Arthur pulls his fingers from his hair and rests his hand back on the table. His heart is pounding like mad once more and blood rushes in his ears. He tries to calm himself, avoiding his mother’s gaze, instead concentrating on the conversation at the table.

Despite his best efforts, it’s just a matter of time before his mother catches him alone after a trip to the loo, stepping in his way before he can walk out of the kitchen and onto the patio.

“What are you doing, Merlin?” she asks with an audible sigh in her voice, looking at him with an exasperated expression.

He wants to retort with something silly like “taking a leak” or something similarly prattish, but knows such an answer to her earnest question will only make her mad and being prattish to her has never yielded any good results.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead, allowing her to steer him into the living room.

“I mean Arthur,” she says, sounding frustrated. “What are you doing?”

“I’m being his fake boyfriend,” Merlin tries to evade her question stubbornly to which she huffs in frustration.

“You know exactly what I mean!” she says, her voice rising as she pushes her hands onto her hips and scowls at him. “When you first told me you were willing to do this, I asked you not to, because I didn’t want you to get hurt. So please tell me, what are you doing with the Prince of Wales!”

Merlin feels like he’s five years old again and his mother is scolding him for ruining her nicest table cloth by building a blanket fort outside and leaving it mud-stained and trampled in the backyard. He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs, withering under her gaze.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, shaking his head at her, and just like that she visibly deflates, her anger draining from her face as a compassionate look comes on her face.

“Oh sweetheart,” she mutters, rubbing her hand over her eyes. She takes a deep breath, visibly collecting herself, before looking up at him again.

“Do you love him?” she asks, and Merlin blanches, squirming beneath her inquiring gaze, unable to answer, knowing he’s probably looking like he’s going to keel over any moment and feeling like it as well. “Does Arthur know?”

His lack of speech seems to be enough, because she exhales again. “I feared this would happen,” she finally says, “but I hoped you had more common sense.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Merlin says truthfully and sits down shakily on his mother’s couch, glad when she follows him down and takes his hands into her smaller ones.

“You never do things the easy way,” she affirms with a fond tone of voice, rubbing his fingers between hers. “I’m here to listen, if you want to.”

“I already whined to Gwen about it,” he mutters, the tips of his ears going red with embarrassment, reliving that conversation in his head. “I feel like an idiot.”

She makes a soothing noise and keeps holding his hand, sitting with him quietly until he’s ready to talk.

“I don’t think it’s like that for Arthur,” he finally says, looking up at her. “He has repeatedly said he doesn’t want a relationship and now he’s forced to be in a fake one with me, so… I guess he’s looking forward to being free of me.”

“You don’t really think that, do you?” she asks, rolling her eyes at him. “Give him a little more credit! If the way he’s looking at you is any indication...He obviously likes you a lot.”

Merlin sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and shrugs. “But apparently not enough.”

“Do you like him enough?” Hunith looks at him inquiringly, turning on the couch to face him fully, her eyes wide and earnest. “You realise what being in a lasting relationship with Arthur would mean, don’t you?”

And oh, Merlin knows. If he were to enter a serious relationship with Arthur, it would mean giving up his own future plans. He’d probably have to give up his work at some point and become a working royal as well. Apart from this, he has gotten a taste of what it means being in the public eye the way Arthur is. Nosy press, never going out without an RPO anymore and adhering to protocol would be the norm. He would need to give up his job and his privacy and become a supporting member of an institution he never considered could be contemporarily important.

It’s a shock to realise that he wouldn’t mind doing it so he could stand beside Arthur and support him in making this world a better place. Because Arthur isn’t out to become King of a country, he wants to change the world.

“I do,” he whispers, swallowing, feeling his hand start to sweat with the heady knowledge that he’s apparently so gone over Arthur that he would give up his own life for Arthur’s cause. It’s crazy to think how much his mindset changed. 6 months ago he thought that Arthur wasn’t fit to become King of the United Kingdom, now he would give everything in his support. Merlin has no idea how that happened, but when he examines his faith in Arthur, it’s steadfast.

Hunith has put her arm around his shoulder and pulls him close, petting his hair like she did when he was younger. “Talk to him, then,” she whispers into the crown of his head.

“I don’t know if I can,” he says softly, enjoying her comforting embrace.

“I’ve seen you always put everything else before your relationships in the past,” Hunith murmurs, her breath warm on his temple. “First your university work. Then your job. Maybe it’s time to put love first.”

“I’m not really good with love,” Merlin murmurs, wincing.

“Damn shame about William.”

“Hmm,” Merlin agrees. “I was awful to him.”

She hums. “But you’re good with Arthur.”

Merlin snorts out hysterical laughter and pulls back. “He’s such a clotpole, though.”

“He needs you, then, to make him better.”

Merlin shakes his head and scoffs, embarrassed. “Mum.”

Her mouth twitches. “You’ll do what is right for you, sweetheart, I’m sure.”

“You’re much more confident in me than I am.”

She pats his leg and slowly gets up. “Arthur would be a damn fool to let you go. Besides, the way he looks at you, one could think you are able to make magical things happen.”

Merlin tries for a smile, one that comes out a bit weak. He’s not going to tell his mother that he believes the only thing Arthur probably thinks Merlin is magical at is his skill in the bedroom.

She doesn’t catch his hesitation, instead ushers him back outside into the hall, steering him towards the garden. “Talk to him, promise?” she whispers before they step out onto the patio, but gladly she doesn’t wait for an answer.

The conversation with his mother doesn’t leave Merlin alone for the rest of the day. He tries to not let it show that he’s out of sorts, but Arthur notices anyway, his smiles looking a little more like the ones he puts up in public for an official press shoot and less like the crinkly, bright ones he wears when he’s really enjoying himself.

When they leave for London at the end of the day, the mood in the back of Arthur’s limousine is slightly off. Silence stretches out between them and Merlin doesn’t know quite how to break it.

“You’re being weird,” Arthur notes after fidgeting on the seat for more than three minutes in silence.

“I’m tired,” Merlin deflects, glancing out the window at the houses they pass on their way to the A316 back to London. For the last hours he has been trying to see what Hunith claimed she saw, namely the way Arthur was looking at him and his observation has made him moody and lethargic. Yes, Arthur was looking at him, but Merlin wasn’t sure if it was merely because Arthur wanted to fuck him later on. They had been talking about spending the night together earlier today, a rather sexually charged conversation with lots of dirty “I want to’s” that had led to a make-out session in the back of the car on their way here.

The mood now is completely different and it’s mostly Merlin’s fault, but he can’t help himself.

“You’re also weird,” Arthur corrects him, scowling. “You’ve been weird all afternoon. Did your mother say something to you?”

“No,” Merlin lies, studiously glancing out of the window so as to avoid Arthur’s gaze.

“She doesn’t like me,” Arthur assumes calmly. “She thinks I’m taking advantage of you.”

“No!” Merlin hisses, exasperated. “It’s not like that.”

“Then how is it?” Arthur queries, twisting in his seat to look at him, and sighing, Merlin turns to face him, surprised at the downturned tilt of Arthur’s mouth.

“She wanted to know what’s going on,” he offers, feeling guilty for putting that expression on Arthur’s face but at the same time thinking Arthur has no right to look as frustrated as he does.

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, sounding confused, a scowl creasing his forehead.

“Between the two of us.”

It’s already more than Merlin has wanted to say and it would probably be the perfect moment to come clean to Arthur and tell him what Hunith has asked him to do, but Arthur is being a prat and Merlin is getting frustrated both with Arthur and himself.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?!” Arthur says, his voice comically high, his eyes wide.

“What, that we’re fucking?” Merlin growls viciously, and Arthur’s brows furrow even more, his blue-grey eyes stormy, a displeased expression on his face.

“You don’t need to be so crude about it,” he says, glaring back at Merlin.

“Well, you didn’t have to be so touchy all the time.”

“I’m not… I’m not touchy.”

“No, you just accidentally fondle my neck for all the world to see!” Merlin bursts out, unable to help himself.

Arthur looks baffled for a moment, then starts to protest, “I don’t fondle your..-”

“Oh my God, you didn’t even realise you were doing it!” Merlin huffs. “You kept twirling my hair around your fingers and rubbing my damn thigh and - how do you think it looks to people!”

Arthur is staring at him with his mouth agape, looking startled. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I will keep my grubby fingers to myself then. You should have said something!”

“I’m not your real boyfriend,” Merlin huffs angrily. “We’re just playing pretend,” he adds disdainfully, the truth of it all hurting so much it makes his tone sharp and clipped.

He wants Arthur to protest, to negate Merlin’s hurtful words, to tell him that Merlin got it all wrong and Arthur wants him for all the right reasons, but next to him, Arthur is suspiciously silent, quietly seething with his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring out the tinted windows.

For a long while, neither of them says a word. Merlin’s heart is pounding painfully in his chest, his rib cage tight, squeezing the air from his lungs, both of which make him short of breath.

It’s a long drive into London and it feels even longer with the tense silence between them. When they come up to Hammersmith, Merlin hits the intercom button.

“Tristan, could you please drive to Islington first,” he says, and Arthur turns from the window to look at him, an indecipherable expression on his face.

“You want to go home,” he finally states, looking at Merlin with an unhappy tilt of his mouth.

“Would you prefer my weird company?” Merlin asks, trying to sound nonchalant but managing to just come across as pissy and provocative.

“I always prefer your company,” Arthur says calmly, not rising to the bait, and Merlin rolls his eyes, because how Arthur can sound so completely earnest when he says things like this, Merlin has no idea.

“I’m sorry I made you feel uncomfortable,” Arthur offers when Merlin doesn’t reply instantly, too confused by the strange emotional ups and downs of this afternoon and not trusting himself to reply in a grown-up manner.

A hand lands on his leg, Arthur’s palm warm atop his knee, fingers drawing gentle circles. “I sometimes forget … when we’re in public I mean. I’m kind of used to reaching out. I guess I just enjoy touching you.”

Sucking in a small breath, Merlin watches Arthur’s fingers move over his knee up his thigh, warm and familiar.

“You feel good,” he adds, almost like an apology, then looks up from where he had been watching his own fingers on Merlin’s leg, their gazes locking.

Oh damn you, Merlin thinks, feeling his anger melt away at the way Arthur is looking at him, earnest and heated. He swallows, tells himself he’s going to shrug off Arthur in a moment, but is unable to do so. If he can’t have anything else, he wants this at least - the touch of Arthur’s hand on his skin.

Arthur gives him a crooked smile, something vulnerable and sad in his gaze, then leans forward, bridging the gap between them and pressing a kiss to Merlin’s mouth. It’s a sweet kiss, soft and wet and not at all refined, sloppy and with too much spit.

Merlin scowls into the kiss, but feels himself relax when Arthur makes a pleased sound into his mouth, and with a groan of self-directed annoyance, Merlin allows the kiss to deepen and curls his fingers into Arthur’s hair, holding him close, inwardly cursing himself and Arthur and this whole stupid scheme he agreed to, no, both of them, resigning himself to taking as much away from it as he can before the inevitable end.

They kiss and Merlin loses track of time like he’s prone to do with Arthur, one kiss seamlessly turning into the next. Arthur’s mouth travels to his neck, presses his lips there behind the shell of Merlin’s ear, nuzzling, licking, biting until Merlin gets lightheaded and tilts his neck to give him better access. Arthur’s breath is loud in his ear, his tongue wetly tracing his helix and dipping into the shell of it.

“Take me home with you, so I can make it up to you,” Arthur murmurs, the words breathed into Merlin’s wet ear, a clear, outspoken seduction.

With Arthur’s mouth and hands on him, Merlin hasn’t even the faintest wish to not grant Arthur’s soft-spoken request and he tilts his head more, groaning when Arthur trails his lips down the cords in his neck and into the wide-stretched collar of his t-shirt.

The car stops and the engine’s turned off, making the both of them startle and break apart. Arthur’s blue eyes are clouded with the soft haziness of arousal, his pink mouth parted, contrasting alluringly with his tanned summer skin, drawing Merlin’s gaze.

Merlin nods as an answer to Arthur’s earlier question, unable to resist the lure of Arthur’s attention, and with a small, pleased grin, Arthur hits the button to the intercom. “We’re staying in Islington,” he says, his eyes not leaving Merlin’s, and then moves to lean over Merlin, pushing open the door of the car.

Tristan mutters an affirmation over the intercom, his voice professionally indifferent, even though it means he’s not going home yet and will have to wait for another officer to relieve him for the night shift, doing surveillance in front of Merlin’s block of flats.

They get out of the car, and Arthur reaches for his hand, wrapping his long fingers around Merlin’s possessively, a touch that makes Merlin shiver despite its apparent innocence. Merlin’s fingers are a bit clumsy when he lets them into the building. He’s tense during the drive up to his floor with the elevator, keenly aware of Arthur occupying space close to him. Across from him, Arthur is leaning against the mirrored wall, biting his lip and letting his eyes roam over Merlin’s body like he’s already picturing him naked. A bulge tents the front of Arthur’s loose linen summer trousers and Merlin can’t wait to get his hands on him.

It’s hot in the flat and dark, because Merlin let down the blinds for the day against the London heat outside and they make their way down the short hall to the bedroom in a mad stumble with both of them pushing their hands underneath the other’s clothes and toeing their shoes off, their fingers getting tangled in cotton fabric. Chuckling, Arthur relents and allows Merlin to go first, dutifully raising his arms so Merlin can brush off his shirt and get at his chest, sucking long, hot kisses against his pectorals.

With a groan, Arthur tangles his fingers in his hair and holds him there, while Merlin clumsily tears at the belt on Arthur’s trousers, still somehow trying to move them backwards. They hit the wall sideways with a dull thud, a small picture frame cluttering to the hardwood floor, but neither of them is willing to stop what they are doing, their hands frantic on each other. Merlin finally wrangles Arthur into his bedroom with his boxer briefs and trousers shoved down to his ankles. It takes some willpower to remove his hands from Arthur’s skin to hit the electric switch that moves the blinds, but it’s worth it, the soft early evening light spilling into the room, casting warm lines across the linens and painting Arthur’s skin in a golden hue.

Laughing, Arthur lets Merlin push him down onto the bed, and he kicks off his trousers until he’s naked. He watches with heated eyes as Merlin reaches behind himself and pulls his shirt off, before shucking his trousers. Merlin follows him down and slides into Arthur’s familiar, warm embrace with a soft moan of pleasure. He loves the feel of Arthur’s muscles against him, the hard ridges of his hips, the unyielding strength of his chest and arms, the ripped, velvety softness of his abdomen, his hard cock sliding against his own.

Arthur’s mouth welcomes him back for more kisses, soft and unhurried now that they are on a flat surface and naked. Merlin takes his time tasting him and Arthur lets him lead, trailing his hands down Merlin’s spine to take his arse cheeks in a firm grip, causing Merlin to arch into Arthur’s body, pressing his hips down.

“Fuck me,” Arthur whispers, gripping him harder and pushing his dick against him from below, and Merlin bites his bottom lip until he yips and shushes him. “Later, later, we have all the time in the world,” he murmurs, soothing the sting of his teeth with a swipe of his tongue, making Arthur groan and his mouth fall open. Merlin flips them over until he’s lying beneath Arthur, enjoying the glint of Arthur’s eyes when he looks down at him. Merlin longs to leave behind the emotional turmoil of this afternoon, to ignore the impending break-up plan, too, and he knows the only way to do so is forgetting himself in the slide of Arthur’s body against his until all that matters is Arthur gasping out his name like he means it. Just for a little while longer...

“You want my mouth on you,” Arthur states, a grin tugging on his lips. His hair is dishevelled, standing up in spiky tufts and the smile makes him look mischievous.

“For starters,” Merlin agrees, pushing gently at his shoulders, a motion that makes Arthur laugh out again, loud and joyous, before he, dutifully and holding Merlin’s gaze, starts crawling down his body.

Merlin sucks in a breath at the heat in Arthur’s eyes, his dick twitching with excitement as he thinks of Arthur’s mouth wrapped around him. Arthur must have felt it, too, jumping against his stomach, because his smile grows wider, more wicked, before he finally scoots further down and bends his head, nuzzling his face into the dark curls of Merlin’s groin, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses at the base of Merlin’s dick.

Hissing, Merlin reaches down to thread his fingers into Arthur’s hair, his eyes falling shut at the sensation of Arthur’s soft, wet mouth. Arthur teases him for a while, nuzzling and trailing kisses up his shaft until Merlin’s growling with frustration. His cock is pulsing, demanding more attention, but Arthur keeps up the infuriatingly slow kissing, retaliation for Merlin’s ‘later, later’, because Arthur is callous that way.

Merlin pushes up with his hip impatiently, his cock sliding along Arthur’s cheek, whining. “Come on, you bastard,” he moans, and Arthur, grinning mischievously, finally relents, sliding his hot mouth over the tip of Merlin’s cock. Groaning, Merlin hitches his hips up, pushing further into Arthur’s mouth, amazed when Arthur lets him in with a hum, his fingers splayed gently on Merlin’s abs. The soft, slurping sound of Arthur’s lips on him is just as amazing as the heat from his mouth, and Merlin curls his fingers in Arthur’s hair and tugs, gently directing his rhythm.

“So good,” he moans, petting Arthur’s hair and cheek, watching Arthur suck him between his lips through half-lidded eyes.

Arthur’s mouth is hot and tight, and Merlin’s there much too soon, his balls tightening as Arthur sucks him down as best as he’s able to, the crown of Merlin’s dick rubbing against the back of his palate with every thrust. Merlin’s so keyed up already that he knows he’s going to please Arthur better if the edge is taken off, so, with his fingers tightening in Arthur’s strands, he lets himself come, body arching as he spills into Arthur’s warm mouth with a hoarse grunt.

Humming, Arthur swallows, before he lets him slip from his mouth, panting as he looks up, mouth pink and wet and eyes watering slightly.

His breath still going strong, Merlin pulls Arthur up by his shoulders and licks between his lips, tasting the bitterness of his come and the sweetness of Arthur’s mouth. “You so deserve to be treated royally for giving such good head,” he quips breathlessly when he draws back.

“Your wordplays are the worst,” Arthur snorts, his voice a little rough, rolling his eyes fondly and smacking him playfully across the chest, “but I fully expect you to follow through on your words.”

Merlin gives him a challenging grin, readjusts the pillow behind his head and licks his lips. “I promise,” he says solemnly, “ now scoot up here.”

When Arthur attempts to roll onto his side, clearly confused by Merlin’s direction, Merlin reaches for his hips and stills him.

“No, this way,” he says, amused, reaching underneath Arthur’s thighs to pull him forward. Arthur’s eyes grow wide and hazy with lust, a soft hiss of aroused appreciation escaping his lips, his face flushing.

“Merlin, you’re going to kill me,” he says softly, but shuffles up willingly, his strong thighs, which he arranges on either side of Merlin, trembling in anticipation.

“Mhmmm, going down in the history books as the consort committing regicide through a blowjob, I like that,” Merlin murmurs and reaches out to bring Arthur’s cock to his lips.

“Shit,” Arthur breathes, hissing softly at the touch of Merlin’s mouth on the head of his cock. Merlin pulls back his foreskin, sliding his tongue over the swollen glands, licking off precome, satisfied with Arthur’s hot, needy sound of longing.

“Oh God, you have no idea how good you look like that,” Arthur whines as Merlin sucks his cock into his mouth and closes his eyes. “You’re by far, the prettiest person who ever sucked my dick,” he babbles, but doesn’t show the slightest inclination to move his hips.

“Fuck my mouth,” Merlin encourages softly, causing Arthur to whimper again and shuffle forward a tiny bit, considerate and with an awed, slightly embarrassed expression on his face.

This won’t do, Merlin wants Arthur out of his mind with pleasure, and he reaches out and grabs his hip, pulling him forward as he opens his mouth, letting Arthur’s dick slide over his tongue. Above him, Arthur’s breath stutters, and Merlin slides his hand over Arthur’s arse cheeks, pulling them slightly apart, earning another low moan and a hitch of Arthur’s hips.

Breathing flatley through his nose, he takes him in, urging him to take on a rhythm, before he lets one of his fingers slide into the crevice between Arthur’s arse cheeks, seeking out the hot, twitching opening between.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs breathily, and Merlin loves how his name falls from Arthur’s lips, like it’s something sacred and to be cherished, the tone full of wonder.

Smirking at Arthur’s reaction, Merlin swipes his thumb over the furl of Arthur’s pucker, rubbing across it gently, listening to the breath Arthur sucks in at the touch, before digging his finger in, wriggling it past the tight ring of muscle. Astride him, Arthur bucks and presses forward into his mouth and Merlin shoves his finger deeper once, before pulling out and setting two fingers against Arthur’s rim.

“Ahh, ahhh, fuck,” Arthur murmurs when Merlin pushes inward, his voice sounding dreamy and far, far away, having giving up on being considerate, surging forward and filling Merlin’s mouth, taking his breath away.

Gripping Arthur’s arse cheeks lightly, Merlin starts to suck in earnest, alternating broad strokes of the flat of his tongue with hollow sucks of his cheeks, until Arthur’s thighs are shaking and Merlin’s chin is wet with his own spit.

Arthur makes the most unholy sounds above him, his fingers having found purchase in the headboard, his head hanging, spine long and curved as he hunches forward. His eyes look wild and so very blue.

Merlin lets him slip from his mouth slowly, carefully sliding the fingers of his other hand between Arthur’s cheeks, brushing them against his opening where he’s still moving his fingers in and out in a slow, twisting rhythm.

“Come on,” Merlin whispers encouragingly, “get yourself off.”

“I… I want..,” Arthur protests, but trails off on a grunt when Merlin slips his right index finger to join the other two, pulling on his arse cheeks.

“You can come on my tongue and later, I’ll make you come on my dick” Merlin suggests hoarsely and Arthur whimpers above him, a little, overwhelmed sob of pleasure, but he does as he’s told, pushing himself up onto his knees and leading his cock once more into Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin hums in encouragement, enjoying the weight of Arthur’s cock sliding over his tongue, more possessive now like Arthur needed the permission. He swallows him down as best as he’s able to, making his jaw slack for Arthur to take his pleasure. With his hands he opens Arthur up, sliding index and middle finger of both hands past the tight ring of muscle, feeling it flutter and clench around his digits, cupping Arthur’s arse in his palms.

It doesn’t take Arthur long to come like this, trembling and jerking above him, his pucker clenching almost painfully around Merlin’s fingers when he orgasms, his come filling Merlin’s mouth in warm spurts. Coughing, Merlin tries to swallow as much as possible, before he has to pull away, shivering when the last of it hits his chin and cheek.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes, his legs trembling as he topples sideway. One of his legs stays on Merlin’s chest, like he’s too exhausted to move, and he presses his face into the side of Merlin’s shoulder, his chest rising and falling.

Gently, Merlin disentangles himself, then reaches for his discarded shirt to wipe himself down quickly. Arthur watches him out of half-lidded eyes, a soft, mildly curious expression on his face that makes Merlin feel vulnerable. He wonders if Arthur is able to read his feelings from his face and it’s an unsettling thought. He’s reminded of his mother’s words from this afternoon, how she suggested he’d talk to Arthur, but the idea of telling Arthur how he feels, of making himself susceptible for being hurt, is intimidating.

He doesn’t want Arthur’s amusement nor his pity because he’s been so foolish to fall in love with him.

It’s easier to reach for him, to pull him up and wrap his arms around him. He buries his face in Arthur’s neck, placing open-mouthed kisses on his sweaty skin and gently rock upwards, letting him feel his erection. He’s been hard again ever since he started giving Arthur head. Merlin maneuvers them across the bed until Arthur is half-kneeling in front of him, craning his head to gaze back at him encouragingly, then reaches for the lube that’s still on his nightstand from three nights ago. Nothing indicates a regular sex life than lube having a permanent home on one’s nightstand instead of living in a drawer.

He slicks himself up quickly under Arthur’s watchful, heated gaze, before knee-walking forward to settle with his hands splayed on Arthur’s hips.

“Please,” Arthur murmurs, then grunts when Merlin enters him. Merlin sighs into his neck at the feeling of Arthur’s muscles around him, shifting forward gradually. Arthur’s tight and hot and his breath hitches with every slide of Merlin’s hips deeper into him. The clutch of his muscles is almost overwhelming and Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s middle and pulls him up and onto his lap, sliding home with a small thrust that causes Arthur to cry out in surprise.

“Fuck, fuck,” Merlin whispers into the back of Arthur’s shoulder, burying his heated face between Arthur’s shoulderblades, stilling the movement of his hips, gathering Arthur in his arms instead. This here, he thinks, his heart beating wildly and painfully, is perfection. Just Arthur, in his arms, around him. He clutches Arthur to him, wrapping his arms around him, overwhelmed by the feeling of his body, the strong muscles of his arms and back, the softness of his skin, the heat of his arse. He’s glad, so glad that they aren’t facing each other, that Arthur can’t see the expression on Merlin’s face, because he sure must look like a complete fool, blissed out and so in love.

Before him, Arthur’s breath comes in shallow pants, but he doesn’t say a word, not urging Merlin to move. Merlin nuzzles his face into Arthur’s neck and sucks the salt from his skin, feeling like he’s burning up. When he finally moves, Arthur releases a harsh breath and dips his head back, resting it against Merlin’s shoulder, his eyes rolling back in his head. His half-lidded gaze is soft and Merlin clumsily tilts his head to press their mouths together, his curls falling into Arthur’s face.

His fingers tighten on Arthur’s flanks and he rolls his hips, the movement making Arthur moan into his mouth. Merlin gives himself over to Arthur’s body, allowing his arousal to sweep common sense and all his worries away. Just for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

The Economist, September, 12

Wind of Change: Prince Arthur and UK’s Climate Policy

PRINCE ARTHUR has been known in the past more for his scandalous behaviour, but over the last couple of months, as he’s been stepping into his new role as Prince of Wales, Arthur has taken an active stance on climate change and he may just influence a serious shift of awareness in the UK.
Outfitting Kensington Palace with a photovoltaic system and changing the Crown’s car pool from fuel-guzzling Audi limousine’s to more eco-friendly Tesla’s have just been the first steps in his transformation towards raising awareness to the state of the world’s endangered ecosystems. These days, instead of frequenting shady nightclubs, the Prince is seen taking the stage at ICICTEC (a conference on Information Technology and Ecology), advocating for Boyan Slat’s The Ocean Project Cleaning System and visiting geothermal energy plants.
What’s next for the industrious Prince and what might it mean for the UK's climate policy?

The private viewing at the Tate Modern is a charity event for Morgana’s new foundation supporting teens with a drug habit and as charity events go, it’s a formal affair. The turnout is promising though, Morgana’s hand-written invitations have ensured that everyone who has a lot of money to spare in London is here tonight. In the Turbine Hall, a huge billboard announces the current total and with the donations from the patrons attending plus the donations coming in via internet over the freshly launched website, a nice sum has already been collected.

Arthur, while proud of his sister and her accomplishments, is trying hard to not show that he’s a little bored and would rather be somewhere else. Preferably at home, in his bed, with Merlin.

Merlin, who is standing next to him in a smart maroon suit, defying protocol with a pair of colourful sneakers, deep in conversation with Leon about one of the digital artworks displayed in the Turbine Hall, looking so good, Arthur has a hard time noting anything but how Merlin - by far - is the most gorgeous man in the whole place. He’s also the wittiest.

Right now, Merlin is sprouting bullshit about how the artwork is a stand-in for social awkwardness in the face of unknown experiences, a lengthy explanation that sounds dead-serious but Arthur knows is just Merlin making fun of pretentious artistic concepts. Earlier, when they walked the gallery, Merlin bitched endlessly about the hard-to-read texts accompanying the artworks, clearly written by a curator who wanted to sound especially knowledgeable by calling upon several comparisons to artwork from all around the world and all kinds of periods, a veritable name-dropping of artists, art styles and pretentious words.

Leon listens raptly, and Arthur grins, unsure if Leon realises that Merlin is just making stuff up, twisting the curator’s texts into bastardised versions of themselves. He’s damn witty about it, and Arthur has to hide his laughter behind his glass of white wine unless he’d give Merlin away. Merlin finishes with a rather outrageous claim and Leon tilts his head, looks at him for a moment and starts to laugh heartily.

“Your boyfriend is full of shit!” Leon chortles, nudging Arthur, who lowers his glass and winks at Merlin.

“Oh, I know. He’s also good with words, so you’re not the first one to fall prey to his witticism,” Arthur grins, a bit proudly. “Just yesterday, Merlin made Geoffrey of Monmouth believe he’d posted a picture of my naked bum on the internet. Geoffrey nearly choked.”

Leon laughs so hard, his reddish curls fly messily all over the place. “Serves him well. He’s a stuck up prude of the first order.”

“I felt a bit sorry for him,” Merlin reveals, grinning as he leans into Arthur’s side, a comfortable, warm presence. His white dress shirt is open at the collar and he opted to not wear a tie, and Arthur’s eyes automatically travel to the little bruise underneath his jugular, just barely visible when Merlin shifts. His mouth goes dry knowing he put that bruise there, a mark from his mouth from this morning when Merlin woke him up before 6 a.m. for a quick, energetic round of morning sex.

Merlin has been kind of insatiable lately and while Arthur doesn’t complain, their lovemaking - no, he corrects himself, their fake-boyfriends-sex - has taken away from his sleeping time. They were up late last night too, because Merlin spent three hours edging Arthur until he begged him to finally let him come. It had been crazy and intense and Arthur had all but passed out afterwards in his sweat-soaked sheets, dimly aware that Merlin had wiped him down with a cool towel before crawling into bed and wrapping himself around him.

Lately, there had been a strange, desperate quality to their sexual relations and while he had been mostly enthusiastic about having Arthur over every flat or not so flat surface, he had often swung into moodiness right afterwards. Arthur hadn’t seen a reason to complain about having all that amazing, wild and frankly dirty sex, but he has the feeling there is something Merlin doesn’t want to tell him.

Arthur lifts his eyes from the bruise, aware that the conversation went on without him while he zoned out. He wills down his blush, hoping that nobody saw him drooling over the visible slip of his fake-boyfriend’s skin and tries to catch up.

Elena, dressed in a fashionable two-tone outfit with a wide-brimmed hat, joins them half-way through Leon and Merlin talking about poetry of all things - and Arthur has no idea how the conversation moved so quickly from Geoffrey of Monmouth’s red-faced hysterics to Baudelaire - a tall, dark-haired man by her side.

“Your Royal Highness,” she addresses him formally, which is a laugh, because they once spent an afternoon getting high on her brother’s marijuana stash when they were both 16, “this is Peter Seymour, The Viscount Falmouth.”

The man bows formally, but smiles when Arthur extends his hand to be shaken. His grip is firm and warm and his hand is huge, encompassing Arthur’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Royal Highness,” he says, his voice a low, pleasant baritone.

“Peter is director of the Centre for Climate Change, Economics and Policy,” Elena narrates.

“So I heard,” Arthur grins, taking in the other man. He’s very tall and broad-shouldered, with a boxer’s nose, soft brown eyes with a lush mane of dark-hair curling almost to his shoulders and a wide, thin mouth. It takes Arthur a couple of moments to find that yes, he’s very attractive in an uncommon way and he cuts a dashing figure in his slim, dark suit.

“This is Merlin Emrys, my boyfriend, and Leon Montgomery, the Earl of Pembroke,” Arthur introduces his companions and waits patiently until introductions have been made all around before addressing the Viscount again. “I read your recent paper on sustainable biofuels,” he says, knowing that the Viscount, familiar with protocol, waits for him to start the conversation.

“Oh,” the Viscount laughs, clearly surprised by his intro, his mouth pulling into a wide smile. “I didn’t expect you to have read any of my publications, Sir,” he says truthfully, looking at Arthur with appreciation, his brown eyes twinkling with delight.

“In truth, I’m preparing for a conference in Den Haag on renewable energy solutions. I just don’t want to look like a complete tool when mingling with the industry’s experts.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” the Viscount snorts. “From what I heard, you have a good grasp on what needs to be done in the field.”

“Barely,” Arthur deflects the polite praise.

From his left, Merlin quips, “Please tell Your Majesty that he’s supposed to write on his thesis and finish his degree, it’s embarrassing.”

“Shut up, you bother,” Arthur mumbles, but the Viscount raises his impressive eyebrows and laughs, looking from Merlin to Arthur and back, before his eyes settle on Arthur again.

“What’s it about, Sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The impact of climate legislation on trade-related carbon emissions.” It comes out rushed, because he does feel a little guilty for letting his studies rest for a while and Merlin is right in calling him out on it. It has been one of the points on Merlin’s action plan to help Arthur further his work on environmental issues and something Arthur hasn’t whole-heartedly embraced just yet. He’s much more comfortable taking action and speaking about issues than doing research and writing long-winded papers.

The Viscount looks at him for a long moment with his head tilted, like he’s thinking hard. “We’re preparing a two-days-programme on Global Trends in Climate Litigation next March at the University of Leeds. It’d be lovely if you were a part of it,” he finally says.

When Arthur doesn’t immediately say anything, Merlin nudges his side none-too-subtly, prompting him to accept.

“Yes,” he finally manages, smiling, “yes, that would be great.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out the small case with his business cards, handing one over to the Viscount. “Please, get in touch with my secretary. Maybe we can have lunch and you can tell me more about it?” he suggests, biting his lips when the Viscount smiles hugely, accepting the business card and pocketing it, his face lighting up like that of a mischievous boy.

It’s just then that they are interrupted by Morgana taking the stage ahead to deliver her speech.

“Maybe this will be an incentive, you sloth,” Merlin murmurs sotto voce as he pulls him aside.

“Stop it with the lése mjaesté, or I’ll have you thrown into the Tower,” Arthur hisses back, jamming his elbow into Merlin’s side. “I’m sure we’ll find some stocks somewhere, too, if that doesn’t suffice.”

“All these promises of public humiliation and corporal punishment…” Merlin sighs dramatically and wraps his hand around Arthur’s arm, pressing against his side.

“One of my ancestors had two of his wifes beheaded, I’ll warn you…,” Arthur threatens lightly.

“Bringing up Henry in a conversation is just bad form,” Merlin mutters and they leave the conversation at that, because ultimately, Merlin is right.

Half-way through Morgana’s speech, Merlin leans over, bringing his mouth over to speak directly into Arthur’s ear, his breath shivering warmly over Arthur’s skin.

“So when are you going to meet the hot scientist?”

“What?” Arthur asks, confused by Merlin’s non-sequitur, his thoughts on Morgana’s rousing and emotional speech.

“The crazy-hot scientist. Seymour. The Viscount of Something,” Merlin whispers.

“Falmouth,” Arthur says automatically and Merlin hums.

“You think he’s hot?” Arthur asks, turning his hand to glance at Merlin, watching him curiously.

“Large hands. Think of what he could do with them,” Merlin suggests, a strange tone to his low voice.

Arthur gives him an incredulous look and raises both eyebrows. “Why, are you in need of someone with larger hands than mine?” he huffs softly, not entirely sure if he’s angry or slightly jealous that Merlin noted Peter Seymour’s attractiveness.

Next to him, Merlin snorts, but refrains from answering.

Later that night, Arthur takes Merlin home to Kensington Palace. They have cultivated a weird, quite domestic routine that Arthur doesn’t want to question too much. Merlin’s presence is familiar and while Arthur is surrounded by other people all day long and can’t go anywhere without an RPO, being with Merlin feels different, like Merlin is an extension of himself and not another person. The notion scares him, telling him way too much about his feelings for Merlin, but he doesn’t dare to suggest otherwise, craving Merlin’s companionship. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all a bit unhealthy and he will need therapy once Merlin goes off to greener pastures.

When Arthur comes back to the bathroom from brushing his teeth, Merlin is sprawled out in his bed, reading a book, his long, lean torso on display. Arthur stops short in the doorway and takes him in, letting his eyes travel over him, the soft skin of his relaxed belly, the stretch of it over his ribs and pecs, his strong forearms and wiry arms. He sucks in a breath, overcome with fondness and something else. He examines it, unsurprised that lust is only part of the equation.

When he steps closer, Merlin looks up from his book, grinning, before putting it aside, setting it down on the wobbly tower of paperbacks next to Arthur’s bed. Merlin’s eyes rake over him, travelling from his face down to his toes, and Arthur’s breath hitches.

“Come here,” Merlin says softly, sitting up and pressing to his knees, the sheets sliding from his body, revealing him completely naked. He’s like a siren song, and Arthur steps closer with accelerated breath. Hands come to rest on his waist and Merlin slides them underneath the loose tank-top Arthur prefers in the warmer months. He pushes up the fabric, holding Arthur’s gaze with glittering eyes, before pressing a soft, nuzzling kiss against Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur exhales a sigh, pushes his hands into Merlin’s curls, strokes behind his ears. His body hums, like he’s a dormant machine and Merlin is bringing him to life.

He laughs in surprise when Merlin pulls and flips him, tossing him face-down into the sheets. He’s surprisingly strong and Arthur would be lying if it doesn’t turn him on when Merlin takes charge like that.

Merlin slides up against his back, slowly lowering himself down on Arthur’s body, all heat and hard muscles and cock. Moaning, Arthur closes his eyes, rocks his arse back against Merlin’s hardness. Merlin’s face pushes into his neck, his curls tickling Arthur’s face.

“You’ve done so well today,” Merlin breathes, his breath wet and warm as it shivers over Arthur’s ear. “Networking at your sister’s event and seizing business opportunities and showing how smart you are.”

Arthur hums, thinking he didn’t do anything special by handing out his business card.

“Let me make you feel good, Your Royal Highness,” Merlin murmurs, licking gently across the lobe of Arthur’s ear.

Arthur shivers. “You were going to fuck me anyway,” he mumbles fondly, turning his head so Merlin can have better access to the shell of his ear. His cock is already pulsing, his heartbeat throbbing against the mattress.

“The question is not if, the question is how,” Merlin whispers, and the promise in his words makes Arthur tremble and push back against him.

“So I get to choose?”

Merlin seems to consider his request.

“No,” Merlin finally mutters, and Arthur snorts. “I have a very specific need to make you scream my name,” he adds roughly, rocking his hips, sliding heavy and thick against his arse. “Been thinking about it all evening long. How you sound when I take you. How you feel around me, so tight and warm. How you look with my cock in you. I want to come inside you so badly.”

Arthur’s breath hitches at Merlin’s dirty words and he pushes back, whining softly.

Merlin hums, pressing a wet kiss against his nape, then trails his lips down between Arthur’s shoulder blades. Arthur’s shirt is in the way, and Merlin pushes, until Arthur helps him tug it off. He wants to turn around, but Merlin places a hand on his upper back, pressing him back down and Arthur complies, his breath speeding up. Merlin licks kisses down his back, his tongue following the indentation of his spine.

“Your skin smells so good,” Merlin murmurs against the small of his back, his fingers reaching inside the waistband of Arthur’s sleep shorts, pulling them down slowly across the globe of his arse. “You taste so good,” he adds, nuzzling his face between Arthur’s arse cheeks.

Arthur buries his flaming face in his elbows, trembling when Merlin pulls his shorts off the rest of the way, sliding them down his legs swiftly. Merlin is kneeling over his legs, his balls resting against the inside of Arthur’s thigh. Everywhere they touch, Arthur’s skin is starting to heat up. Merlin’s hand comes down on his back again, smoothing gently down the curve.

“You are so beautiful, Your Royal Highness,” he says reverently, and Arthur bites his lips, suddenly feeling overly emotional. He can’t remember anyone praising him so much ever, in his entire life.

Merlin shifts, his hand gentle as it trails down Arthur’s thighs. “Spread your legs.”

Arthur does as he’s told, swallows, his head swimming. The tone of Merlin’s voice is sure and warm, like his touch.

Merlin’s palm smooths over his skin, once more down his back, over the globes of his arse, the upper part of his thighs. His touch is slow, hypnotic, and Arthur’s breathing speeds up as he presses into the touch, moaning. Both of Merlin’s hands come down on his waist and he feels Merlin lean over and nuzzle another wet kiss into the small of his back, before he moves down with both hands and mouth, gently pulling Arthur’s cheeks apart.

“Shift up,” Merlin instructs softly, and once more, Arthur complies, pushing himself half to his knees. Goosebumps trail down his skin as he takes more of his weight onto his forearms.

Merlin moans against the small of his back, then pulls on his arse cheek, spreading him open. Cool air shivers over his pucker, before Merlin’s mouth closes over him, shockingly warm and wet.

Arthur cries out, can’t help the surprised, headless sound. Merlin hums like he’s satisfied at the noise, brushing his mouth over his pucker softly, his fingers digging into the flesh of Arthur’s arse comparatively harshly.

“Oh God, Merlin,” Arthur whimpers when Merlin continues to nuzzle him, his thumb rubbing against his perineum.

“I love doing this to you. The sounds you make,” Merlin moans, brushing his thumb against Arthur’s pucker before pushing it inside. He opens him up with his thumbs, pulling, his tongue following.

Arthur’s trying to keep still, but he’s shaking when Merlin starts spearing his tongue inside him, stretching his rim with muscle and fingers and spit. He claws his fingers into the bedsheets, swaying, while Merlin eats him out like he’s a feast, moaning into his spit-slicked skin like it’s him being served.

It’s too much and not enough, and he can’t even press his cock against the sheets to rub himself off.

“Merlin, Merlin… please, I …” Arthur moans, but his pleas only spur Merlin on as he fucks him harder with his tongue until Arthur’s pucker is clenching whenever he pulls back. Arthur’s mind goes hazy the longer Merlin keeps going, swimming on a tide of pleasure that won’t crest.

He cries out when Merlin suddenly pulls back. “So good, you are so good,” Merlin pants, his voice hoarse.

Arthur slumps down on the comforter feeling like a ragdoll, white noise in his ears, his pulse hammering in his chest. He’s dimly aware of Merlin’s steady presence moving behind him. When Merlin pulls him back up onto his knees with a gentle hand, he sluggishly follows, feeling like he’s floating somewhere, not entirely in his body. Merlin’s hand is stroking his flank, his arse, his thighs.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly, wondrously.

“Merlin…” he manages to get out, but he doesn’t know how to form words. He wants Merlin in him, needs him, to ground him, to make him come. He reaches behind himself to touch Merlin’s thigh in encouragement.

The first touch of Merlin’s cock against his entrance is a relief and he moans in anticipation of the burning breach, the feeling of fullness.

It’s almost too much when Merlin pushes inside carefully, stretching him. The first slide is rough, despite the amounts of lube Merlin applied, and they both moan. Merlin stops halfway inside him, hissing through his teeth, his thumbs stroking Arthur’s hips, his hands so warm and gentle. Arthur feels like he can’t breathe for a moment, but Merlin shifts, slips a little further into him, before pulling back slowly.

Arthur digs his fingers into the pillow, biting his lips as Merlin rocks him shallowly, a gentle sway of his hips where they are connected, his hands still stroking, petting. Arthur feels himself relax, feels his muscles give and it gets easier and with the next push Merlin bottoms out, his balls pressing up behind Arthur’s.

“I love being in you,” Merlin says suddenly, sounding dreamy. He has stilled his hips, but his hands are running up Arthur’s sweat-soaked spine.

Arthur sighs on an exhale, shifting around Merlin’s cock inside him, testing his weight and girth. Behind him, Merlin moans, wrecked, then leans forward to press a wet kiss between Arthur’s shoulder blades. He starts moving again, short, increasingly forceful thrusts. For a moment, it’s almost too much, almost pain, but when Merlin changes the angle, pressing him down to rest on the bed with his chest, heat takes over and their movement becomes fluid.

Arthur is moaning into his pillow unashamedly, letting Merlin set the pace, slow but hard, punching the breath out of him with every push. Oxygen seems overrated when Merlin ignites sparks in him. For a while they move together like this. Time seems to slip away, lost in pleasure.

He’s surprised when Merlin hauls him upwards and pushes him over onto his back, before sliding between his knees. Merlin’s eyes are clouded, his face sweaty and dazed. His black curls are sticking to his forehead and his mouth hangs open as he pants for breath. He doesn’t say anything, but pulls Arthur’s left leg up and fits himself back inside him with a groan.

It’s slow and brutal again, and Arthur knows he’s going to feel it later, the ache in the pit of his stomach and the soreness of his muscles, but Merlin’s eyes are on him, shining with reverence. His cock rubs perfectly across Arthur’s prostate, a steady, rough rub of pressure. When Merlin touches him, slides his hand around his leaking cock, Arthur bucks upwards into his touch, pressing his head back into the pillow.

“Fuck, ah, Merlin, … “ he whines when sensation becomes almost too much, but Merlin doesn’t stop, his thumb pressing hard underneath the head of his cock, his eyes dark with pleasure as he watches Arthur’s face. Arthur realises he’s making a lot of noise, but the pressure is too much, too intense and he needs an outlet. It unloads itself in a hoarse shout, and finally he comes, almost painfully so, the pleasure sharp and unexpected, ripping through him.

Merlin strokes him sloppily through it, his eyes glittering, until Arthur bats his hand away, hissing.

“You’re amazing,” Merlin breathes, leans forward, presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss against Arthur’s lips.

“I’m… not doing… anything,” Arthur pants, curling his hands in Merlin’s hair, sloppily licking at the inside of Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin is still rocking slowly into him, but he pulls away when their kiss ends, looking at Arthur questioningly. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, gently lowering Arthur’s leg.

“You said you wanted to come in me,” Arthur whispers, pushing a strand of dark hair out of Merlin’s eyes.

“I can do that another time,” Merlin murmurs, darting in for another kiss.

“I want to feel you lose your mind,” Arthur insists, rocking his hips. He’s a little sensitive, but the thought of Merlin pulling back is unbearable. “Come on,” he urges, trailing his hands down Merlin’s back. “Let go.”

Merlin sighs, pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at him, a smile curving on his lips.

“Fuck me,” Arthur taunts him, sliding his hand down Merlin’s sides and reaches around to grasp his firm arse cheeks, pulling him into him. Merlin’s smile slips and he moans, his eyes falling shut, mouth dropping open.

When he starts moving it’s slow and his breath is hitching.

“Let go. Fuck me,” Arthur murmurs, bringing his mouth to Merlin’s ear. “Fuck me hard with that gorgeous dick of yours. Come inside me.”

“Fuck,” Merlin whimpers. “I think I have a kink for you talking dirty in your posh voice.”

“I have a size kink,” Arthur murmurs, lifting one hand to cup Merlin’s face. He strokes a hand over Merlin’s parted lips, delighted when Merlin’s tongue darts out to lick at him. “It’s your fault,” he adds, and Merlin chuckles on a moan.

Arthur kisses him, swallows the rest of the moan and holds Merlin close, feeling him move with increasing desperation, his hips bucking, hip bones grating against Arthur’s. Bruises, he’s going to have bruises there tomorrow, too.

When Merlin starts trembling all over, Arthur knows he’s close and he wraps him in his arms and slides one leg over his hip. He brushes his mouth against Merlin’s ears, whispers words of encouragement, listening to Merlin’s heady grunts and moans.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” he murmurs, like a song, like prayer. He knows what he’s really saying is, I love you.

On Thursday morning, Arthur is surprised when he finds a meeting at Kilgarrah’s scheduled in his daily calendar at 10 a.m. It’s simply labelled as “Strategy Check-Up” and there’s no accompanying blurb of what to expect.

You didn’t tell me there was a strategy meeting today he texts to Merlin, then adds, what is it about?

He doesn’t receive an answer right away, so he calls his personal secretary, Harry, who has been working for him for the past month and has already proven himself to be quite competent in keeping his work obligations perfectly scheduled. He’s also rather driven and in fact was the person who landed Arthur the last minute keynote spot on ICICTEC.

“They didn’t say, Your Royal Highness. I wrongly assumed you knew. I will try and find out immediately,” Harry says swiftly, as always enunciating every syllable perfectly. His natural Scottish accent only slips through when he’s agitated, a rare occurrence, and this isn’t one of those moments.

“Thank you, Harry,” Arthur says, knowing that Harry will make sure he’ll always know every tiny detail of Arthur’s schedule in the future. It’s a bit scary how the man has taken to his job, but Arthur is glad he found such a dedicated personal secretary.

Arthur feels himself getting increasingly uneasy all throughout breakfast. After his morning briefing, a private hour of work-out is scheduled into his calendar with his trainer, Christian. Sweating through his calisthenics helps keep his uneasiness at bay, but his weird gut feeling returns when he doesn’t find a message from Merlin afterwards. At 9.30 he’s in the back of his car and he should concentrate on the reading material provided to him for his 1 p.m. meeting with the Secretary of State of Environment, but he’s still distracted.

When he calls Merlin, he doesn’t pick up either, so Arthur resorts to calling Morgana.

“There’s a meeting at Kilgharrah today. Are you there?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“I’m happily done with my punishment,” Morgana says lightly. “Didn’t your boo tell you?”

“No,” Arthur says darkly, scowling out the tinted windows at where they just pass Regents Park. The uneasy feeling swooshes in his stomach, making him feel slightly sick.

At Kilgarrah’s, Arthur is immediately ushered into the smaller one of the meeting rooms and served coffee and biscuits by a young intern he hasn't seen before and who is nervously fidgeting when he thanks her, belatedly remembering to curtsey in front of him and then almost making a spectacle out of herself. He smiles at her kindly, but the girl flusters and nearly trips on her way out, seemingly out of bounds by his attention.

He is greeted by Mr. Gaius and Mr. Kilgarrah but Merlin is suspiciously absent. While they wait for his father to arrive, Kilgarrah’s bleach-blonde haired assistant is stoically preparing some presentation to be screened on her laptop after having calmly and professionally greeted him. Small talk doesn’t reveal anything substantial - Kilgharrah is a master of evasion - and Arthur doesn’t feel like pressing the matter.

His father arrives just on time, and with him, at last, Merlin slips into the meeting room, his face pale, looking tall and lithe in his dress trousers and suit vest. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, showing off the strong tendons in his bare forearms. He barely follows protocol enough to formally address Arthur, not even meeting his eyes, before sliding into a chair at the other end of the table, so far away, Arthur can’t direct a private word to him.

Something is up, and Arthur tries to keep his face neutral as he waits for Kilgharrah to start the meeting. For one wild moment he ponders if maybe everyone knows about him and Merlin and that’s what they are here to talk about, but Kilgharrah leads into the presentation sprouting facts and figures about Arthur’s rise in popularity, so Arthur dismisses the idea quickly. Meanwhile, Merlin is still not meeting his eyes, looking down at his fingers folded before him on the tabletop, his knuckles white with tension.

Arthur can barely follow the presentation, mostly staring at Merlin, who is unresponsive and guilty looking, his eyebrows furrowed and his face getting steadily paler. Betrayal and anger war inside Arthur. Merlin should have told him something was about to happen - judging from his strange behaviour, he had known for weeks. Maybe he had been guilty, because there was no way he hadn’t caught on that Arthur was simply besotted with him. That he chose not to tell him about this important meeting is an act of treason, something he hadn’t thought Merlin was capable of. Over the last couple of months, Arthur has revealed most of his secrets to Merlin, has opened up about many topics close to his heart, but Merlin has kept his. It becomes apparent the longer Kilgharrah talks.

Arthur had his guesses as to what the meeting was about, but it becomes fact, when the presentation changes to a page entitled: Public Break-up Itinerary. Enraged, Arthur shoots a glare at Merlin from far up the table, his anger making him clench his jaw so badly his teeth grind together.

Arthur is quite sure that Merlin too feels something for him that surpasses the pure physical aspect of their relationship, but Merlin has made it clear time and time again that theirs is a fake-boyfriends-with-benefits situation and it’s a chore to pose as the Prince’s consort. Arthur still remembers that heated conversation in Belize when Merlin made his feelings about the press attention and invasion of privacy known. He’s been calmly assuming that their arrangement will end when Merlin isn’t contractually obligated to pretend to be his boyfriend anymore and that Merlin will quite happily go on to have a less arduous relationship with someone else out of the public eye, but now the moment is here. It’s too soon. It’s too fucking soon and Merlin knew about this all along and didn’t tell him. He must be glad to be rid of him.

While Arthur’s feelings run amok, Kilgharrah drones on about the details, how they are almost clinically severing their fake relationship just as they had allowed it to start. Outings with other people. Carefully planted observations “from inside the royal household”. Last but not least, an Instagram post by Merlin confirming it’s true, as well as a carefully drafted public statement by Arthur on how they have drifted apart romantically but would remain good friends.

“The public will be given a grown-up, relatable and mature end of a relationship. We won’t tolerate any dirt - but obviously, we will have to work against the gossip that’s very likely to arise,” Kilgarrah explains, and his assistant presents the next slide, titled, “Keeping on Top of the Narrative”.

“Did you know about this?” Arthur finally bursts out, unable to keep his betrayed feelings hidden any longer.

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” Kilgarrah says, raising his eyebrows in confusion, but Arthur doesn’t look at him, glaring down the table until Merlin raises his eyes, wincing a bit.

“Did you know about this meeting?” Arthur asks sharply, aware that he’s digging his fingernails in the leather upholstery of the conference chair he’s sitting in.

“I…” Merlin stutters, looking at him with wide, shell-shocked blue eyes. “I… well… “ he starts up again, but then looks pleadingly at Gaius, as if he’s begging for someone to help him out.

“Fuck you, Merlin,” Arthur huffs, drawing a shocked gasp from the room at large and a disapproving clearing of throat from his father. He finds he has risen from his chair, shaking with fury, balling his hands into fists by his side. “You should have told me this was coming,” he grinds out, and Merlin bites his lip, looking uncomfortable and pained, his pallor making way for a splotchy flush, cheekbones staining a dark crimson.

“I thought… I thought this is what you wanted?” Merlin blurts out, voicing his words as a question, his tone insecure.

“Oh, seriously, fuck you,” Arthur hisses, his head swimming. He’s to break up with Merlin publicly and Merlin knew about this and didn’t give him the heads up, didn’t give him the chance to talk about it, to have a say in it, to try and win Merlin over to stay. Because that’s what he wants. He desperately wants Merlin to stay in his life.

“I don’t want this,” Arthur mutters and he’s aware he’s drawing confused stares from the people sitting around the table, including his father, the King. He doesn’t need to look over at him to see his constipated face in front of his mind’s eye. “I don’t want this,” he repeats, staring at Merlin for a moment longer, then briefly nods at Kilgharrah. “Do whatever the fuck you like, but the only thing you’ll get from me is “No comment.”

He’s already standing, so it’s easy to turn his body towards the door and stride towards it. He expects Merlin to protest, to raise his voice and say something, but behind him there’s only stunned silence.

Tristan doesn’t comment on Arthur’s swift exit at Kilgarrah’s, but he can't help shooting little concerned glances at Arthur all the way to the car.

“It’s nothing,” Arthur all but snaps to Tristan’s unspoken question, but Tristan clearly doesn’t believe him, pursing his lips as he opens the car’s door for Arthur.

“Are we waiting for anyone else?” he asks, and it’s clear who he means.

“No,” Arthur says shortly, sliding into the backseat and wishing for probably the first time that he stocked his car’s mini-fridge with something other than still water and salted peanuts. “To Kensington, please,” he adds, and Tristan nods, before closing the door behind him.

Arthur settles back into the soft upholstery, taking a couple of calming breaths. The knot in his throat makes it hard to swallow, in fact, it hurts, and Arthur’s chest feels tight and pressured. He finds he has slipped into a daze, when, halfway back to Kensington, Arthur’s phone starts ringing in the pocket of his dress jacket. He confirms with a quick glance that it’s Merlin, but he doesn’t want to have this conversation over the phone and certainly not when he’s still feeling so wounded and betrayed. How could Merlin keep this from him?

Apart from the fact that Merlin didn’t tell him what would happen going into the meeting, it pains him to know that the whole affair is over now, over and done with. And it’s not the sex Arthur will be missing, even though that had been bloody brilliant and the idea of going back to fucking strangers in nightclubs is appalling and sacrilegious after experiencing that kind of intimacy with Merlin. Okay, he’d be missing the sex a little bit, but mostly, the thought of Merlin not being in his life anymore, of going on to live happily ever after with someone who isn’t Arthur is simply unbearable.

Merlin, in love with someone else, having curry at unhygienic hole-in-the-wall places, going on hikes and to the cinema, growing older and probably even more beautiful and sarcastic. He thinks of all the places he hasn’t taken Merlin to yet and pictures a nameless stranger doing these things with Merlin and his blood sours.

“Sir, Harry wants to know if he should reschedule your lunch date with Peter Seymour,” Tristan’s voice comes over the speaker, interrupting his moody ponderings, and of course, he already called Arthur’s secretary and filled him in on the fact that Arthur had stepped out of a meeting, clearly emotionally compromised and shouting expletives.

“I…” Arthur starts, surprised how his voice sounds rough and slightly raw. No, he means to say, but what comes out is, “That would be for the better.”

“Your 1 p.m. meeting with the Secretary of State for Environment has already been pushed to next Wednesday,” Tristan calmly continues.

“Tell Harry that was very thoughtful,” Arthur chokes out, then reaches for the tiny fridge compartment and gets out a bottle of water. He’ll never get used to how the people around him know so much about him and it’s their job to react to his moods and actions and plan ahead, making adjustments as they see fit, thinking of things before he can do so. It’s both a privilege and a curse. He twists the cap of the bottle and gulps down half of the water with shaking hands, feeling parched. In his dress jacket, his phone keeps vibrating with incoming calls, but he ignores them.

He keeps himself carefully collected until they arrive at Kensington, but once inside, he tears off his tie and jacket, tells his housekeeper that he doesn’t want to be distrubed, not by Merlin, not by Uther, not by anyone, and heads up to the roof garden, all but thirsty for the calm that usually comes over him at his favourite place in his home. He needs to think, regardless of his erstwhile gut-reaction. He didn’t handle it too well, just running away. He should have acted like a grown-up.

He’s still not sure he can face anyone right now, needing to come to terms with what is happening and what’s going to be his part in it. He’s quite adamant that he’s not going to participate in the PR scheme laid out by Kilgarrah today.

For a while he paces the garden, trying to calm down, inspecting the flower pots, watching the bees on the Butterpats, still busy collecting nectar. He’s been thinking about getting a beekeeper to house a few beestocks at Kensington Palace, but hasn’t gotten around to look into references just yet.

When he feels he has thoroughly collected himself but needs another perspective on how to proceed in the situation, he pulls out his phone.

It’s lucky that Mithian picks up immediately.

“Arthur!” she says, sounding surprised. “Since when do you make a habit of calling me in the middle of the day?”

Arthur sinks down on the garden sofa, relief washing over him at the sound of her voice. She’s the only person who he thinks he can stand to talk to right now.

“I normally don’t, but … I need immediate advice,” he says truthfully, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it carelessly over one of the garden loungers.

Mithian sighs. “You fucked up, huh?” she says, sounding empathic. “What is it this time?”

He’s briefly wondering how often he must have fucked up in her opinion to make her say things like that, but there’s more pressing matters on his mind.

“I just ran out on a meeting,” he explains, running a hand through his hair. “But it wasn’t… I couldn’t handle it, so I ran out.”

“Oh Arthur,” she murmurs, sounding emphatic and full of sorrow. “What happened?”

Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it hiss out between his teeth, steeling himself for coming clean to her. “I lied to you, Mithian,” he says. “To you and to everybody else.”

The pause that follows on her side is long and he winces, even though he feels like a huge weight is ready to drop from his shoulders. He needs her on his side and therefore he needs her to know everything.

“Merlin isn’t my boyfriend, Mithian,” he confesses.

“Okay,” she finally says, and he can hear that she’s confused and maybe a little hurt.

“It’s a fake relationship orchestrated by the royal advisors and our PR reps to make me appear more likeable and relatable. He’s just … some PR executive from Twickenham who used to bail me out of things.”

When Mithian doesn’t say anything, he continues. “They want me to break up with him publicly. I don’t… I can’t do it.”

“Wow,” Mithian breathes, before she falls silent again.

“Are you mad?” Arthur asks into the silence.

“No, Arthur,” Mithian says gently. “Just… confused. It seemed very real. I had no way to doubt it.”

“I’m not that good an actor. I’m… I’m in love with him,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, shifting on the sofa.

“Yeah, I saw you kissing in the gallery at the Louisiana,” Mithian says.

Wincing, Arthur lets himself slide back into the soft sofa cushions, staring up at the blue, almost cloudless September sky above. Even in the shade from the ivy it’s hot and he’s sweating in his dress shirt and leather shoes. “It wasn’t real,” he offers, his voice low. “We’ve been having sex. It was either the two of us or not getting laid at all.”

“Is that what it is for him?”

Arthur shrugs before realizing she can’t see him. “I don’t know. I think he does like me, in a way, but… he’s suffering from all the media attention. His personal life has been completely invaded and dissected. I’m sure he’s glad it’s over and he’s free of me and can have a normal relationship.”

“You won’t know before you ask him, Arthur,” Mithian suggests gently. “He might just be ready to take that next step with you. Don’t assume anything.”

Arthur hums, because he knows she’s right, he has to talk to Merlin, and he called her because he needed to hear exactly this.

“I’m afraid of what he’s going to say. I’m scared of his rejection.”

“Could it be worse than not knowing?” Mithian asks in return. “I found him to be an incredibly kind person, Arthur. Even if he doesn’t want to be with you, I’m sure he feels horrible right now.”

Arthur rubs a hand over his face, relaxing into the sofa cushions. “Thank you, Mithian. For listening to me, even though I kept this from you. I was asked to do so, but I should have trusted my own judgement and told you about it from the beginning.”

Mithian laughs lightly. “Oh, you’ll pay for the lies eventually,” she giggles, then sobers, her voice once more soft and gentle.” It’s okay. I’m just sorry you had to go through this alone.”

“I’m glad you know, now,” Arthur sighs. “Mithian, my voice of reason, the best of my royal advisors, the only woman I would consider going straight for - well, almost...”

“Stop buttering me up, I already love you, you idiot and considering your lack-luster marriage proposal - I’m already married,” she snorts. “I have to attend a meeting now, but I expect you to talk to Merlin and call me up tonight and let me know what is going on, okay?”

“I will,” he agrees and they say their goodbyes.

Inexplicably, despite his emotional turmoil, Arthur feels hungry, and he calls for the kitchen to send up a light lunch. Maybe, just maybe, he should exchange his kitchen staff now that Uther lives at Buckingham Palace for a younger, more experimental crowd. He could have vegan dinner options that taste like real food or Thai curry. The one time he asked for tofu he received uncooked silken tofu in a tasteless marinade, his kitchen staff clearly not sure what to do with his outlandish request.

Next, he calls Harry to confirm that his afternoon visit at the sewage treatment plant at 3.30 is still on, but asks him to cancel his evening plans with Morgana. His talk with Mithian restored his emotional center somewhat and he feels stupid for having all his plans for today cancelled just because he’s had a bad morning. The fact is, Mithian is right, and he has to face Merlin, and even if it ends in telling Merlin that he appreciates everything he has done for him and that he hopes they remain friends.

He’s halfway through composing a message to Merlin in which he asks him to come over tonight at 7 p.m., when the door to the roof garden bursts open and Merlin steps out onto the roof, colour high in his cheeks, followed by Arthur's harassed looking housekeeper and an out-of-breath RPO.

“He didn’t want to leave, Your Royal Highness,” the RPO frets, wringing his hands. “We tried to keep him out as you said, but then he just took off-”

“I’m so, so, so fucking sorry I didn’t tell you about the meeting,” Merlin blurts out, his eyes wide. “I don’t have anything to explain myself.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Spencer,” Arthur says gently, trying to calm the RPO who’s looking ready to voluntarily resign from his job at having failed to keep Merlin from entering Kensington Palace. “You may leave.”

“Yes, Sir,” the RPO confirms panting hard, trying to catch his breath.

His housekeeper huffs in displeasure, looks between the two of them for another long moment, then leads the way downstairs, the RPO following her with one last nervous glance at Arthur.

Arthur waits until he can’t hear their steps on the spiral staircase anymore, before slowly getting up, taking a step towards Merlin, who’s winded, his breath coming out laboured and wet.

“I… I ran from the gate,” he pants needlessly, then leans forward, placing his hands on his knees and taking a couple of gulping breaths.

“I can see that,” Arthur snorts, amused despite himself. “You want a glass of water?”

Merlin shakes his head and inhales another round of quick breaths, before he slowly straightens.

“You outran one of our Protection Officers,” Arthur notes, “I’m impressed.”

“Wanted - to get - here, “ he gulps, then stumbles past Arthur to the garden sofa and lets himself fall into the cushions with a groan.

Arthur hums and sits down beside him, allowing Merlin to catch his breath before he says. “I’m sorry, too. For yelling at you and walking out.”

“I don’t even know why I couldn’t tell you. It’s been bothering me so much not telling you,” Merlin confesses breathily, looking at him from under wet eyelashes. A drop of sweat is rolling down his temple, trickling into his curling hair.

“I realise this is what you want, so I shouldn’t have reacted that way and accepted your feelings instead,” Arthur offers in return, telling himself he’s going to handle this like a grown up. He watches the little trickle of sweat at Merlin’s temple and valiantly refuses to wipe it away with the sleeve of his dress shirt, an urge that seriously should tell him all about the depths of his feelings for Merlin.

“It’s not what I want!” Merlin huffs, almost laughing. “What gives you that idea?”

“You sat in this meeting-” Arthur starts, confused by Merlin’s bitter laugh.

“It’s my job!” Merlin protests. “What do you think I should have done? Shouted at people and ran off?”

Arthur growls at Merlin’s swipe at his earlier reaction, but hope is rearing its treacherous head and he tries not to give into it in case he gets disappointed.

“Yes, it’s your job,” he says reasonably, “You took this on as a job, Merlin. And now you have every right for this craziness to be over and be your own person again.”

“This -” Merlin huffs, gesticulating between the both of them, flailing and almost hitting Arthur’s chest with his uncoordinated hands, “- wasn’t part of my job. This … this thing between us. This relationship.”

Arthur bites his lips. “This fake relationship,” he murmurs, and Merlin looks like he’s been hit.

“It was fucking real to me, you clotpole,” Merlin presses out, and his face has gone from high colour to pale. He stares at Arthur for a long moment, then averts his eyes, staring at his lap instead, his face shuttering.

Arthur’s heart is pounding, but he doesn’t dare to think Merlin’s words mean anything in the long run.

“You will go on to have other relationships, easier ones,” Arthur whispers, distressed by the pain in Merlin’s expression, curling his fingers into the punched up fabric of his dress trousers. “Without constant media attention and a lack of privacy. With me, you’d have to give up your job, most likely. Work for the Crown instead. I couldn’t ask this of you.”

“Believe me, I know,” Merlin snorts, but he’s looking at Arthur’s face again, the hard set of his mouth gentling.

“Who would want to do this? Who would want to do this with me? I’m not that special,” Arthur says softly. His treacherous heart is galloping, though, with fervent longing.

Merlin’s eyes soften and his hand reaches out and captures Arthur’s fingers between his, squeezing them gently. Arthur’s breath is quickening, waiting for Merlin to say something, to maybe reject him after all.

I found him to be an incredibly kind person.

“You are all kinds of special,” Merlin protests fondly. He bites his lips and averts his eyes, staring down at their combined fingers, before taking a deep breath, an abashed little smile on his face. When he raises his gaze, he’s looking nervous and pale, but also hopeful.

“If you think I’m just as special, I will happily ditch everything and help you accomplish great things. Because you will be great, Arthur.”

“Merlin…” Arthur murmurs weakly, floored by Merlin’s offer, his trust in him, by the promise in his eyes. He’s surprised when all of a sudden, Merlin slides from the sofa and between his knees, looking up at him solemnly.

“Your Royal Highness Prince Arthur George Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of York, Earl of Carrick… and ...uhm… I think Chester… and … and Baron of Something-Something and a couple of other counties and whatnot, but most of all one ginormous prat of a clotpole,” Merlin pauses and grins at him, “will you be my real boyfriend?”

“Merlin,” Arthur says dryly, trying not to be infinitely charmed and embarrassed by Merlin’s antics, “please get up from your knees unless you plan a blowjob or a marriage proposal…”

Laughing, Merlin stays put. “It’s very nearly a marriage proposal although I guess I’d need the approval of the King for that and if you want a blowjob, we can arrange that, but you haven’t said yes.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, hauling Merlin up by his elbows. “Yes, I want to be your real boyfriend.”

When Merlin grins, wide and joyous, his teeth showing and the corners of his eyes crinkling, Arthur adds, “I wouldn’t say no to the blowjob either.”

Snorting out laughter, Merlin presses their mouths together. It’s a tremulous, wet and uncoordinated smashing of lips, but to Arthur, it feels perfect.

“What do you say about a trip to the sewage plant later today for our first real date,” Arthur suggests when they break apart. “I heard the Victorian canalisation is really adventurous. We might even see a fatberg in the wild.”

“Wow,” Merlin mutters, “you know how to make a bloke swoon.”

“Only the best for the royal consort,” Arthur murmurs, pulling Merlin in for another kiss.

Because Merlin keeps laughing, this kiss is as bad as the first one.

Two years later.

“Don’t peek,” Arthur huffs, then finally relents and steps behind him, slapping his hands over Merlin’s eyes on top of the blindfold.

“I’m not peeking,” Merlin protests, but he leans back into the circle of Arthur’s arms, all but melting into his embrace as Arthur still tries to shuffle them forward.

“Attention, threshold,” Arthur murmurs quietly into Merlin’s ear, but he doesn’t let go of him, not trusting his boyfriend to not impatiently take off the blindfold, steering him firmly along.

“Where are we even? Is this still Kensington Palace? It seems we’ve walked for miles already,” Merlin comments, dutifully raising his feet and shuffling over the threshold.

“Apartment 8 and 9.”

“You blindfolded me to bring me to your apartment? Are you sure my surprise isn’t something kinky?” Merlin laughs, pressing his arse back against him and wriggling it against the front of Arthur’s jeans.

“If you want a detour to the bedroom you’ll just have to say it,” Arthur suggests and licks against the shell of Merlin’s ear, unable to resist. Merlin shudders against him, his voice slightly breathy when he counters, “Surprise me first.”

“The romance is dead,” Arthur deadpans and Merlin convulses with laughter, a peculiar sensation against his front. “Just two more little steps.”

When he has Merlin where he wants him, he takes his palms from his eyes and positions him perfectly, before reaching for the blindfold he tied around Merlin’s eyes in the car earlier. “Are you ready?”

Merlin takes a deep breath and nods and Arthur pulls the blindfold down, letting it settle like a neckerchief against Merlin’s neck.

“Uhm…” Merlin makes, then turns and looks at Arthur, confusion written on his features. “It’s… an empty room. A large room, but empty.”

“Yes,” Arthur says slowly, rolling his eyes briefly, because Merlin, for all his wits and smartness, can be a first-class idiot.

“Oh,” Merlin breathes, blinks, then lets his eyes sweep across the polished hard-wood floor and the white-washed walls towards the open door, before spinning in a circle, looking at the open door they have stepped through.

“We are on the ground floor,” Merlin says stupidly, peering outside. “This is… the back entrance? From the small garden?”

“It’s the entrance hall. This room used to be one of my father’s,” Arthur suggests softly, increasingly nervous by Merlin’s reaction, his hands starting to get sweaty. Maybe, this was all a stupid idea.

Merlin gives him another, indecipherable look, before striding across the wooden floor towards the open door on the other end. It takes Arthur a moment to follow and he watches as Merlin enters the short airy hallway with the built in wooden shelves where another door used to be, connecting his father’s hallway to the old media room and takes the first door on the right.

“Shit!” Merlin calls, but when he doesn’t come out again, Arthur follows him slowly, leans in the doorway and watches Merlin stand in the middle of the room, gobsmacked, taking in the dark, sleek cupboards, the larger range cooker and the oak kitchen island with the pan rack and hanging copperware.

“This…” Merlin says, speechless, turning in a circle again, his eyes wide as he takes in the gleaming appliances.

“... is your kitchen. If you want it,” Arthur says nervously, biting his lips when Merlin turns to look at him. “I mean, our kitchen,” he corrects himself. When Merlin still doesn’t say anything, he’s growing concerned.

“You can change the colours of the cabinets, of course! Or the tiles. Or rearrange the whole thing. I thought-”

He gets interrupted by Merlin hauling himself at him, nearly toppling him over.

“Is this your clumsy but endearing way to ask me to move in with you, Your Royal Awkwardness?” Merlin breathes into his neck, and Arthur realises the answer is Yes by the tone of his voice, excited and fond. He sighs in relief and wraps his arms around Merlin, hooking his chin over his shoulder and looking at the kitchen he painstakingly selected. He must have been fretting about every detail for hours over the last months. It took more time planning this kitchen than deciding the layout of all the other rooms.

“It is,” he sighs, and he feels Merlin’s grin against his skin from where Merlin is still pressing his face against his neck.

“The kitchen is perfect,” Merlin says as he draws back, but slides his hand down Arthur’s arm, reaching for his fingers . “I can’t wait to cook for you here.”

“I hoped that’d be your reaction.Your wontons have improved, but another trial run wouldn’t be amiss,” Arthur suggests, winking.

“Bwah,” Merlin laughs, then pulls on Arthur’s hand and drags him towards the large milk glass doors on the other end of the kitchen. “I expect a tour now, future roomie. See if you earn your wontons.”

Smugly, Arthur lets go of Merlin’s hand and pulls on the milk glass sliding doors, revealing that they can be pushed back entirely to open the kitchen to a large dining area.

“So many wontons,” Merlin breathes behind him and steps closer, hooking his chin over his shoulder and wrapping his arms around him.

“This is the old part of Apartment 8 - I’ve decided to split the ground floor and use the original entry to Apartment 8,” Arthur explains, walking into the large dining area. “It’s a maisonette. It uses part of the original ground floor, part of the first floor and the entirety of the second floor. The rest will be converted into offices, formal presentation rooms and staff rooms.”

He walks over to where the dining room connects back to the hallway and walks through another open doorway into the next empty room. “But of course, we can entertain our guests here,” he suggests.

Merlin looks around, at the large living area including the exposed brick fireplace and the open staircase connecting the room to the upper level. “Is that the old service staircase?” he asks, squinting at the wooden steps.

When Arthur nods, Merlin grins. “You really tore the place apart. You lied to me when I asked what all the builders were doing here!”

“It was really difficult keeping this from you,” Arthur protests, taking his hand to lead him upstairs. “You’re sneaky and suspicious!”

“You told me Morgana wanted an apartment separate from you! Where’s she’s moving to?”

“Apartment 1. 22 odd rooms, not counting the staff rooms. You’d hate it.”

“And what if I said I didn’t want to move in?”

Arthur stops on the top of the stairs and turns to look at him with an unimpressed, mocking look on his face. “Please,” he says haughtily, “you practically live here already.”

Shrugging, Merlin climbs the rest of the stairs and takes his hand again. “It’s the benefits,” he says slyly, winking at Arthur. “They are hard to resist. Also, you look cute in the mornings.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur pulls him along, showing him the first floor with its rooms for private home offices and a private gym as well as a large library. Here, Merlin huffs in amusement. “You’re sure you’ll have enough room with just one library?”

“Hush,” Arthur tells him, before opening the cleverly concealed door to the second floor. The rooms here aren’t as tall, but still spacious because Arthur knocked out a lot of walls and Merlin makes a surprised noise when he sees that Arthur had skylights installed.

“No wonder there was so much noise whenever I was over. I have to apologise to your sister! I complained that her renovation was getting on my nerves,” Merlin says, looking guilty.

“Oh, she’s already looking forward to making you suffer. She was so good at keeping the secret even with your constant grumbling, but I think her endurance has run out now,” Arthur grins, pecking him on the cheek, delighted when Merlin blanches.

Arthur leads Merlin through the rooms on the second floor, pointing out the bathrooms and the walk-in closets, before pushing him into the room he thinks should be the master bedroom.

“What are we going to do with all these bedrooms?” Merlin says, scrunching up his nose. “I bet you’ll just fill them up with books and print outs.”

Arthur has the grace to blush as he thinks of all the discussions with the architects he contracted about these rooms. “You’ll never know when you might need extra bedrooms,” he mutters, quoting the head architect, a mother of three, who had heavily advocated including all of the second floor in Arthur’s apartment layout. Arthur avoids Merlin’s eyes - because that’s a discussion he thinks they both aren’t ready for yet - and walks towards the large windows on the far side of the room.

“I thought we could put the bed here,” he suggests, turning on the spot and looking towards Merlin, who is gazing back at him with a thoughtful expression that morphs into a smile at Arthur’s words.

“Right there?” Merlin asks, and there’s an impish quality to his words, his eyes twinkling as he crosses the hardwood floor and comes to stand in front of Arthur.

“Yeah?” Arthur says warily, taking in Merlin’s frankly troubling grin.

“We’ll need to see if this area has the appropriate vibes,” Merlin offers, lifting his hands and curling them in Arthur’s cotton t-shirt. “We should feng-shui the shit out of it.”

“That’s one horrible euphemism for bonking,” Arthur snorts, gasping when Merlin steps closer and nuzzles his jaw.

“I’m so happy you get my drift,” Merlin sighs against the skin of Arthur’s neck.

“Your drift isn’t that hard to get, sweetheart,” Arthur grins.

Merlin huffs happily and slides his hands down to cup Arthur’s arse through his jeans. “Oh yes, the benefits,” he breathes, lowering his mouth to suck gently at where Arthur’s clavicle peeks from his loose, open-necked t-shirt. “Real-boyfriend-with-benefits,” he adds, murmuring the words gently against Arthur’s skin.

Arthur hums and lets Merlin pull him down onto the hardwood floor until they are sitting cross legged in the middle of the sunlit room, Merlin practically perched in his lap. Words come to him and it takes him a moment to find where he has heard them and who said them.

...you went out there and snatched up someone real

Gwaine. It had been Gwaine, that long ago on a polo field, both of them smelling like horse and sweat.

“This is real,” he whispers, satisfied, and he wants to tell Merlin that story, of Gwaine knowing that Merlin was the one for him before anyone else did, before even Arthur knew it, but Merlin’s mouth closes over his, warm and good and real and Arthur forgets about it for a little while.

Later, he’ll tell him later.