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Merlin tries to relax but he’s on edge, unable to untangle the knot of anxiety making his belly roil; a feeling not helped by having Arthur, warm and solid and smelling faintly of clean laundry and sweat, pressed up next to him.
It’s too little and too much all at the same time. He shifts in his seat but all that achieves is Arthur chasing to close up the gap Merlin wants to create between them.
Perhaps his imagination is playing tricks on him and the tension building in him is simply matching the oppressive, humid weather; perhaps it has nothing whatsoever to do with that awkward embrace shared between him and Arthur a fortnight back after an almost too close shave with a hag who happened upon them drying out in the sun after an impromptu bathe in a temptingly clear stream after a day’s hunt. She’d cackled on and on; something about how Camelot and Arthur would not survive if the kingdom was held together only with a tissue of lies and dishonesty.
What exactly this had to do with enchanting Arthur to speak only the truth when asked a question was the first thing out of Merlin’s mouth but luckily before Arthur, staring daggers at him, was able to do anything more than open his mouth, Merlin got the drop on the hag and turned her into a gnarly tree stump, the curse breaking instantly.
(He hopes she gets struck by lightning in the storm that’s brewing.)
Arthur had held Merlin in a close embrace afterwards, their skin still damp and sun-warmed, mouth a fraction closer than entirely necessarily to that sweet spot in the curve of Merlin’s neck as he whispered a thank you, before pushing himself away, eyes widening in shock when he realised what he’d done in the heat of the moment.
They'd never since spoken of what passed between them, reverting to their usual pattern of insults and Arthur clapping Merlin a shade too forcefully around his back but Merlin can’t completely push away the feeling that the hug has brought the something that’s been simmering just beneath the surface between them for a while even closer to the boil.
So here they are tonight, the usual suspects – half a dozen of Arthur’s closest knights along with Morgana and Gwen – cosied up at one of the back tables in The Rising Sun for their regular Friday ‘games night’. A healthier way to let off steam apparently, if you listened to Gwaine, than beating each other half to death on the training field. Merlin’s not so sure about that.
Percy spins the bottle. It lands on Morgana. One look at her face and Percy spins again.
“If looks could kill.” Arthur sounds amused, ale-scented breath fanning Merlin’s overheated face.
Merlin wouldn’t put it past Morgana, even though Percy is built like an outhouse, and about as tall.
“Remind me again why we’re here.”
Merlin knows he’s sounding grumpy but he’s hot and sticky and wants to be thrashing Arthur at chess, or pretending to polish the silver while not so secretly laughing at Arthur attempting to wash his own hair and enjoying the way the candlelight makes his skin gleam.
Arthur smirks at him over the rim of his tankard and not for the first time Merlin is really grateful for Arthur not being a mind reader. Merlin blows his fringe off his forehead and looks around. Everyone is rosy cheeked and happy and engrossed in the game they’re playing.
“I hate games night.”
“You say that every time, Merlin and yet you keep coming along.”
Sitting next to him, Arthur does what he always does when Merlin’s having a moan: he plies him with more alcohol. Merlin takes a reluctant sip. On an empty belly with only beer sloshing around it, he thinks he may need to slow down a bit or the night will end messily, or at least his boots will.
“Truth or dare is such a stupid game.”
Arthur’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “What’s the worst that can happen? You might have to get up on the table and dance a jig in your braies. Honestly Merlin, play a couple of rounds and then gracefully bow out. The more you sit and scowl, the more attention you’re drawing to yourself and that is not a smart move.”
“That’s – unusually wise counsel.”
Arthur snorts and rewards Merlin’s jibe with a nudge to his ribs. After a bit of jostling that quickly escalates, Merlin ends up sprawled face up across Lancelot’s lap. Arthur is very quick to haul him back upright, fingertips brushing exposed collarbone, and then smooths down the lapels of Merlin’s shirt.
“But I can’t tell if that’s because you’re being wildly naïve or you’re too sunk in your cups,” Merlin adds a bit breathlessly, skin still tingling.
“Oh shut it,” Arthur says, eyes warm as they rest on his face and Merlin is appalled to find himself blushing. When he tears his gaze away, it’s to the unwelcome sight of Gwaine eyeing them thoughtfully from where over at the bar he’s being swatted around the head with a filthy dish rag.
Merlin’s belly sinks into his boots. Something bad is coming their way, he can feel it in his bones.
Elyan’s brow furrows in concern as Mary’s voice goes up an octave. She doesn’t sound happy.
“Should we – uh. Does he need rescuing do you think?”
Under the cover of a barrage of good humoured insults thrown Elyan’s way for being a wet goose, Arthur side-eyes Merlin. “Seems like Mary’s like you, a bit of a killjoy.” He leans back in his seat, looking remarkably pleased with life, as Gwaine returns to their table bearing a sheepish grin, cabbage stalks in his hair, and, to Merlin’s dismay, yet another round of drinks.
“Right then, who’s next?”
Everyone sinks down in their seats, suddenly very interested in eating the left over fried chicken scraps.
The bottle spins.
Oh no.
“Merlin, it looks like it’s finally your turn.”
Merlin tries his best puppy dog impression. Just because it never works on Arthur doesn’t mean Gwaine will be immune to his charms. “Oh, I should probably pass. I have to get going soon to warm up Arthur’s chambers.”
He cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth because he couldn’t have come up with a more terrible excuse, seeing as how it’s still so steamy out. No one is going to believe that, no matter the amount of ale drunk.
“Idiot.” Arthur sounds delighted.
Sure enough, a whoop goes up around the table. “Is that what they’re calling it these days,” someone shouts. That wipes the smug look off Arthur’s face. He makes a strange noise in the back of his throat.
Gwen shushes them and shoots Merlin a worried look, as if she knows something he doesn’t.
“Haha,” Merlin says, deadpan. “Comedians, the every last one of you.”
From beside him, Arthur mutters something that sounds very much like ‘you’re so fucked’ into the foam of his fresh pint.
The twinkle in Gwaine’s eyes grows as he looks between the two men, still pressed close together in the crush.
“Alright, well we’d better make this interesting in case you’re not here for round two.” He taps his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “We’ve already heard how Percy lost his virginity when he was twelve,” he says, winking. “Gwen’s told us about her first crush.” There’s a round of wolf whistles. ”And we know that Lance has said ‘I love you’ and not meant it.” Lancelot hangs his head and Gwen, always kind, pats his arm.
Percy and Gwaine hold a whispered consultation that even with the benefit of his enhanced hearing, Merlin can’t quite catch.
Gwaine calls for silence. Once his audience is hanging on his every word, he grins, looking very pleased with himself. “The dare if you choose to accept is to…and a drum roll please.” For every single extra second that’s eked out Merlin wants to die a bit more. “Kiss Arthur.”
Merlin feels his stomach drop at both the words and how Arthur’s abruptly pulling away, staring straight ahead. Jesus, he should have known this was coming.
Gwaine’s smirking at him. Lance's mouth is agape, like he can’t believe what Gwaine has just dared Merlin to do. Leon looks faintly amused as he chews on a chicken thigh, and Merlin’s unsure what to make of that. He most definitely can’t look at Morgana.
She’s probably sharpening her nails.
Gwen sits up straight. “Oh come on Gwaine, that’s really not – “
The look of pain crossing her face tells a whole silent story involving Morgana and her fondness for sharp things that stretch beyond her manicure.
“Do not,” Arthur mutters in his ear, all low warning, “even think about kissing me.”
Stung by the way Arthur’s spoken, Merlin, who had been about to argue it wasn’t fair to drag Arthur – the king, for fuck’s sake - into this sordid game, that Arthur absolutely has the right to choose whether or not to be kissed by anyone, changes tack.
“Am I so beneath you?” Merlin asks under his breath. “Or are you worried what me kissing you would do to your reputation as a lady killer.”
Arthur turns to look at him, shocked and Merlin does think guiltily that perhaps he’d struck a low blow. Merlin doesn’t think he’s even seen Arthur do more than kiss a lady’s hand as a courtly gesture, and even that with reluctance.
“What? No! That wasn’t. I didn’t mean…” Arthur reaches out as though to touch Merlin and then pulls back, looking unusually uncertain, letting his hand drop to his lap.
The hurt Merlin had felt dies away at the sight of a ruffled Arthur with spots of red colouring his cheeks. In fact it makes his heart beat faster and he finds himself thinking about what kind of look he might be able to shock onto Arthur's face with an actual kiss, and oh no, he really shouldn't have had that fifth tankard-full of the Rising Sun’s finest ale.
As Gwaine mouths we’re waiting at him, an idea pops into his mind about how he can meet the dare and somehow rescue both his and Arthur’s dignity in one fell swoop. Merlin most definitely does want to kiss him, and thinks maybe – just maybe – the feeling is reciprocated but also doesn’t want to give his friends a show.
A first kiss should be something to be treasured, and Arthur for all his pig-headed stubbornness, deserves to be treated with respect.
Merlin cocks his head and leans into Arthur’s personal space. He’s surprised Arthur doesn’t push him away, instead standing his ground, their eyes locked on each other. And then, very slowly, Arthur presses against Merlin’s chest, raising his chin mulishly.
Challenging Merlin, if he dares, to do his worst.
“Just trust me,” Merlin says, voice just above a whisper. He thinks he sees a tiny nod in response. Encouraged, he rests his hands on Arthur’s shoulders for balance and leans in. Arthur’s eyes are wide and dark and unblinking. Merlin sucks in a breath and lets his lips press dry against a warm cheek for what feels like a lifetime or so and then pulls away.
There’s a glimmer of something in Arthur’s eyes – relief perhaps. No, actually that looks much more like disappointment, and Merlin feels a wave of relief wash over him at the fact he’s perhaps read this right after all.
Gwaine is less pleased with the outcome. “What,” he cries out, sounding outraged. “No, you have to kiss him properly, on the mouth.”
Merlin turns away to look at Gwaine. He chuckles, feeling almost giddy at how he’s beaten his friend at his own game. “Then you should have been more explicit. You said to kiss him, I kissed him. Dare completed.”
Gwaine looks like he wants to argue the case but Percy taps him on his arm and they have another of those silent conversation couples have.
“Fine,” Gwaine says, reluctance clear in his voice. “Your turn to choose someone but I still say you cheated.”
“Nobody likes a sore loser,” Merlin sing songs, conscious that Arthur’s staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He tests the water by leaning into Arthur’s side.
Arthur doesn’t move away, and neither does Merlin.
The game continues, Merlin’s body now so attuned to each and every move, however small, Arthur makes that brings about a hand brush, or a pinkie touch that he barely pays any attention to Percy giving Gwaine a enthusiastic lap dance.
Until that is, it’s Morgana’s turn to spin the bottle. Of them all, she is still immaculate, not a hair out of place, and her posture remains ramrod.
“Arthur.”
“Mm?”
“If you could stop flirting with Merlin for one sweet minute, it’s your turn.”
Not turning to look at his sister, Arthur shrugs. “Fine.”
“Truth or dare.”
There’s a look of challenge in cat-green eyes that never leave Arthur’s face.
“Truth,” he says, folding his arms, as if he’s bracing himself for a physical blow.
Slim fingers tap the table. “Alright. Were you disappointed that Merlin chickened out of giving you a proper kiss?”
“Oi,” Merlin protests but Arthur grabs his knee and squeezes it in warning. Merlin subsides in his seat.
Arthur stares at his sister, even as fingers inch up Merlin’s thigh.
“I hate you,” he grumbles. The only response is an elegant arched brow.
“Alright, fine. Yes I was disappointed that Merlin bent the rules of the game. Ow!” Arthur rubs his side. “What was that for?”
Merlin glares at him. “I was trying to protect your honour, you clotpole.”
“I’m not some sort of maid in distress, Merlin.”
“Clearly. You’re an idiot.”
“Ahem, ladies.” Merlin is going to kill Gwaine before much longer. “My turn again. Merlin – “
“No it’s not,” Arthur protests. “You don’t get to have another go yet. I haven’t asked anyone anything all night.”
“Your wish is my command, Princess. You ask Merlin then.”
“That wasn’t —” Arthur starts to say but then stops, eyes flitting around Merlin’s face.
Heart beating fast, Merlin, praying he’s not read this all wrong, looks at Arthur. “Dare.”
Arthur pouts. “I didn’t even —"
“Dare me to kiss you again.”
The way Arthur breathes Merlin’s name even as he closes the gap between them liquifies Merlin’s belly. Time slows as without breaking eye contact, he curls his hand into the crook of Arthur's neck before fitting their mouths together. He vaguely hears Gwen gasp and Arthur makes a choked noise in the back of his throat, and surprises Merlin by surging forward, growling a little as his hands shoot up to grab the front of Merlin's tunic and pulls him closer, mouth opening up and licking, sucking, swallowing him whole.
It is hot and it is wet and it is terrifyingly good, and Christ…Merlin lets out an embarrassing sound as his hands uselessly slide up into Arthur’s hair. Fuck but it feels so good to be kissed so thoroughly. To have someone's body beneath his fingers again.
He feels his hands grip Arthur’s head even tighter and lets himself get lost in it all. Arthur's hands spanning his waist, holding him in place; Arthur's lips, red and shiny with spittle; Arthur’s tongue doing all sorts of wonderful things along the roof of his mouth. His breeches feel painfully tight, filling so quickly and he can’t entirely blame how dizzy he feels on the alcohol he’s drunk tonight. And still Arthur goes on. And on, ravaging every bit of Merlin he can get hold off.
By the time Arthur finally pulls back Merlin is uncomfortably aware of how stiff his cock is, how it presses against the confines of his trousers, and how —
Christ, how everyone's eyes are on them. Arthur gives him a filthy little smirk before letting his hands drop to the edge of the table again. Even the pink in his cheeks doesn’t make him look any less smug.
“I did warn you.” Arthur’s voice is low and full of both threat and promise of more to come.
”Right, well that was most edifying,” Gwaine says, amusement colouring his words. “Percy, I believe you owe me a bag of coin.”
Gwen erupts into a fit of giggles, and Morgana huffs an amused breath although the way she’s eyeing up her brother puts him very much on high alert for what’s like to come their way in the next day or so. Leon takes a long drink of his beer and looks thoughtful. Lance seems even more flabbergasted than before, face so red it rivals Merlin’s own.
“Well,” Merlin says once he’s got his breathing back under control, ignoring the way his voice catches on the word. He turns to Arthur, who’s grinning at him, bright eyed. “I think it’s my turn again.”
Perhaps, on reflection Truth or Dare wasn’t the worst game after all.