Work Text:
Arthur stares at his phone, rereading the gumtree ad for what must be at least the fifth time as he paces the length of his office.
Dreading the holidays?
Are you invited to a family Christmas party from hell? Your parents won’t shut up about grandkids, your cousin is trying to get you into crypto, your homophobic uncle keeps using slurs… whatever your problem, I can be your fake-boyfriend solution.
For £30 an hour plus food and drink I’ll ruin the holiday party of your choice by pretending to be your queer Welsh anarchist boyfriend. I can make terrible jokes about sheep-shagging in front of your stuck-up great-aunt, start fights about politics (Tories, Brexit, the monarchy, pick your poison) with your right-wing uncle, or scandalise your conservative parents by snogging you at the dinner table. I’m game for whatever scandal you want to cause. I’m London-based; age 25 but can pull off anything between 17 and 30, depending on your particular situation.
Multi-day options available upon request; special rates apply.
Everyone knows that gumtree is a shady website at best, where you’re at least as likely to get scammed as to receive whatever you asked for. Still, the annual Pendragon family Christmas party is looming ever larger, and Arthur is getting desperate.
A queer Welsh anarchist boyfriend sounds perfect, actually, for finally forcing his father to acknowledge that Arthur is bisexual. So far, Uther has dealt with the revelation that his only son isn’t straight by the simple expedience of ignoring the “not just women” part of Arthur’s sexuality and continuing to try and set him up with suitable daughters of his acquaintances.
Of course, the whole coming out thing could have gone much worse; Arthur had half expected to be shouted at for the better part of an hour, if not outright disinherited, so he doesn’t want to complain. Much. But the constant heteronormativity is grating on his nerves, and perhaps a little shock to the system is precisely what his father needs.
After all, what’s the worst that can happen? That this mystery man ends up nicking some of the silver cutlery while nobody’s watching? To the best of Arthur’s knowledge, Pendragon Manor boasts no less than six separate sets of silverware. They can bloody well spare a few bits and pieces, if that’s what it takes.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Arthur clicks on the email address provided as contact information.
***
Hi,
My name is Arthur and I’m looking to hire you as my fake boyfriend for our family Christmas party. I’ve come out as bisexual to my family some time ago, but my father keeps ignoring this in favour of exclusively trying to set me up with suitable young ladies, so I would like to make him acknowledge that I’m also interested in men. He’s quite posh and conservative, so feel free to be as radically left-wing as you’d like. Starting on the 24th, it’ll be a three-day affair in our family home in Berkshire; your ad said you’d be okay with multi-day events? Other than me, my father and sister will be in attendance, as well as an uncle. It would probably be helpful if we arrive together, so I’m happy to give you a lift from London. I’m 28, so you won’t need to pretend to be any younger or older than you are. Let me know if you need any further details, and what your special rate for multi-day events is. I believe we can probably discuss any of the finer details of our cover story on the drive down to the house.
Cheers, Arthur
Hi Arthur,
Thank you for your interest in my ad. To answer your question, yes, I’m in principle happy to do a three-day event, provided that you’re not a serial killer and/or running some sort of human trafficking operation. Perhaps you could provide a full name and address of your family home in Berkshire (and wow, this already sounds posh as I’m writing it), so I can let someone know where I’m disappearing to in case I get murdered. Regarding payment, I’m looking for £1,000 for the entire three days; half upfront and half after we’ve made it through the party. If you could pick me up by Euston that would be great; let me know the time and anything I need to bring.
Cheers, Merlin
Hi Merlin,
Thank you very much for your help. I’m definitely neither a serial killer nor involved in human trafficking, although I realise that this is exactly what a serial killer/human trafficker would say…
***
Christmas Eve dawns bright and clear. Arthur makes coffee and has just settled down at his breakfast bar to munch some toast when his phone chimes with an incoming text.
Harpy: Brother dearest, what time are you getting in? You’re not chickening out with some bullshit excuse, are you? If so, I WILL end you.
Shoving another piece of toast into his mouth, Arthur taps out a quick reply.
Please, as if. I’m just about to head out, and I’m bringing someone. Don’t tell Father, I want to surprise him.
Harpy: !!!
Harpy: Who are you bringing?!? Are you actually seeing someone?!? OMG is it a guy???
Arthur snorts into his coffee. This is already looking to be the best £1,000 he’s ever spent, and he hasn’t even met this Merlin guy yet.
***
Arthur hadn’t had high hopes to begin with, even if Merlin had sounded reasonably normal during their email exchange. Still, what sane and functioning member of society would offer to be a fake date for a total stranger on Christmas of all days? He’d thought himself prepared for the worst in terms of looks, personality, and general weirdness. In fact, any of those things might even have increased the effect the entire scheme had on his father.
The reality of Merlin, unfortunately, is much worse than anything Arthur could have imagined.
He’s tall and gangly, with a shock of dark hair and blue eyes, and beautiful in a slightly weird, unconventional way that makes Arthur’s stomach feel oddly tight. As if this wasn’t bad enough already—he is not going to develop a crush on his fake boyfriend, thank you very much—Merlin is also quite possibly the rudest person Arthur has ever had the misfortune to meet.
“Your family has servants?” Merlin stares at him from the passenger seat, one of his eyebrows raised in what Arthur can only imagine is moral judgement. “What, do they have to bow and curtsey and call you my lord? Have I stumbled into an episode of Downton Abbey?”
“Of course they don’t call me my lord, that would be ridiculous. They call me Mr. Pendragon. And they’re not servants, they’re household staff.”
“Oh, that makes it much better, of course. I thought you might be exploiting the working class while you and your family grow fat off your ill-gotten money, but if they’re household staff, that’s a completely different thing.” Arthur may not always be the best when it comes to deciphering hidden meanings, but Merlin’s sarcasm is roughly as subtle as a brick to the face. “You know, when your email said family home in Berkshire, I thought, okay, so they’re a bit posh. But now you kind of make it sound less like a family home and more like a bloody manor house.”
Arthur glances over to see Merlin fiddling with one of the several pride-themed bracelets on his right wrist. They fit right in with the rest of his outfit: chipped black nail polish, well-worn combat boots, ripped and faded black jeans that show off his long legs, and a blue-and-grey jumper that looks like someone’s first knitting project, sleeves pushed up to reveal pale and surprisingly toned forearms.
Willing away the heat threatening to creep up his neck, Arthur focuses back on the road, the traffic along the A40 as bad as to be expected over the holidays.
“Getting cold feet?” he asks, smarting a little over the ill-gotten money comment. God help him if Merlin finds out which school and university he attended; he’ll never hear the end of it.
“Never. So, I’m assuming from your general…everything that your family is pretty conservative? Tories, Brexit supporters, fervent monarchists, the whole shebang?”
Arthur frowns. “What do you mean, my general everything? And well, you’re right that my father is a conservative, although he didn’t support Brexit. It went against his economic policies.” He snorts. “But yeah, the rest of it is rather spot-on. For my uncle, as well, but you’d do well to watch your mouth around my sister. The only reason Father hasn’t disinherited her for her left-wing tendencies yet is because he has a giant soft spot for her. But she’ll rip your throat out with her teeth if you call her a monarchist to her face.”
The look of worry crossing Merlin’s face for a second is rather satisfying, Arthur has to admit.
“Hey, no murder, remember?”
“And no human trafficking, I know,” Arthur deadpans. “Don’t worry, she’ll love you.”
They lapse into silence for a few minutes, Merlin humming along to some Christmas song on the radio.
“How come you’re doing this?” Arthur finally blurts, because he still doesn’t understand how any sane and rational person would decide to spend Christmas lying to total strangers for money. Merlin doesn’t seem that deranged, does he? “Wouldn’t you rather spend Christmas doing something nice with the people you love?”
“You’re one to talk,” Merlin retorts, rather sharply, and Arthur belatedly realises that he may have poked at a sore spot. Before he can fumble out an apology, though, Merlin continues. “It’s just a stupid idea one of my mates came up with. I’d usually spend the holidays with my mum, but she’s splurged on a Caribbean cruise with her friend, and so I don’t have anywhere I’d need to be. Gwaine—that’s the mate I was talking about—said I should use the opportunity to go and live a little, and this was what he came up with as a dare. I figured, why not? I’m a PhD student, it’s not like I’m rolling in cash.”
“You’re getting a PhD?” Arthur isn’t proud of the way his voice rises at the end, but…really? He didn’t see that one coming. “I thought you’d be, I don’t know—”
“I think you’d probably better not finish that sentence.” Merlin’s voice is dry, but when Arthur chances another peek, his eyes are glinting with humour. “But yeah, environmental studies. You?”
“I work at my father’s firm. Investment banking,” Arthur says, and the fact that he already expects Merlin’s snort doesn’t make it any less humiliating when it comes.
“Of course you do. A proper little nepo baby, aren’t you?”
There isn’t really much that Arthur can say to that, even if he resents the implication. He is working for his father, after all, and he did attend the schools and classes his father picked out. The fact that he’s hardworking and reasonably intelligent doesn’t change the way the situation looks from the outside.
“Queer Welsh anarchist,” he says in a less than subtle attempt to change the topic. “Is any of that actually true, or is it just your work persona?”
“Oh, it’s true. Mostly. I’m not sure I’d call myself a full-blown anarchist, but I’m close enough that it won’t make a difference to your dad. But yeah, Welsh born and raised, and queer as in fuck you.” He grins at Arthur. “Nadolig Llawen.”
Merlin may be rude and opinionated, but imagining Uther Pendragon’s reaction to him is almost enough to make Arthur forgive and forget the ordeal of the past hour.
“What about you, though? Couldn’t find a proper date to bring home? Surely even your personality can’t be dire enough to offset you looking like that.”
Never mind, Arthur takes it back. Merlin is the actual worst.
“Did you just compliment and insult me in the same sentence?” He’s never met anyone as strange as Merlin before, although that’s probably a good thing.
“I have eyes, you know. You’re not entirely unpleasant to look at. If you’re someone who goes for that blond, blue-eyed rugby captain look. Which I don’t.”
Arthur steals another glance. Is that a blush staining the tips of Merlin’s rather prominent ears, above the several studs decorating the right one?
“Actually, I played footie at school.” He clears his throat. “But…look, I don’t really have much time for dating, and I didn’t fancy going out to the clubs to pull some random bloke, and…my father can be rather unpleasant. I wouldn’t want to subject someone I like to that, anyway, especially over Christmas.”
“Good thing you clearly don’t like me much, then,” Merlin says, and for once Arthur finds it impossible to read his expression.
“Yeah, good thing,” he says instead, and turns his focus back to the road.
***
Arthur would be lying if he said it wasn’t at least a little bit satisfying to watch Merlin take in Pendragon Manor for the first time. His unfairly blue eyes go wide, and while his mouth doesn’t quite drop open in shock, it’s obvious that despite his earlier words he didn’t expect Arthur’s family home to be quite as…ornate, for want of a better word. The looks he gives Arthur when Jameson, the butler, opens the main entrance doors for them and greets Arthur with a “Mr. Pendragon” and a deferential nod says very clearly that Arthur won’t hear the end of this anytime soon. They divest themselves of their coats and bags, and Arthur watches Merlin take his first look inside the manor.
The entrance hall is decorated in tasteful reds and dark greens—by the staff, of course; Uther Pendragon wouldn’t stoop so low as to hang his own Christmas decorations—and the two people waiting for them fit the scene perfectly.
Arthur’s father is dressed in one of his more casual outfits, which for him still means chinos and a sport coat, while Morgana is looking comfortable and warm in an oversized jumper and fuzzy leggings. They both, however, wear matching shocked expressions as they take in the person beside Arthur, even if for very different reasons.
With experience honed over decades spent in boardrooms, Uther recovers first. “Arthur. Why didn’t you let me know you were bringing a friend? I’ll have Jameson see to it that a room is prepared at once.” He frowns in disapproval as he eyes Merlin from the top of his messy hair down to his combat boots. “Some advance notice would certainly have been helpful for the staff.”
Arthur knows full well that his father couldn’t care less about any sudden impositions on his household staff if he tried, but he plays along, reaching for Merlin’s hand and intertwining their fingers. He sees his father’s eyes zero in on the gesture and has to fight back a victorious smile.
“Oh, there really is no need to trouble the staff on our account,” he says breezily, sending a smitten look in Merlin’s direction. “Merlin will be staying in my room, of course.”
Before Uther can do more than inhale sharply, Morgana is already stepping forward with a smile, holding out a hand for Merlin to shake.
“Merlin, is it? It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Morgana, Arthur’s sister. I’m sure he’s told you nothing but vicious lies about me.”
She turns to Arthur with a delighted expression that promises many, many questions in his not-too-distant future. In a desperate attempt to pre-empt her, he tugs Merlin closer by their joined hands and speaks up.
“Father, this is Merlin. My boyfriend,” he adds, enjoying the way Uther’s expression morphs into that of someone who has just unexpectedly bitten into a lemon. “Happy Christmas from both of us.”
“Nadolig Llawen,” Merlin adds, and if possible Uther’s expression sours even further.
“Is he…foreign?” he asks in an undertone, as if Merlin wasn’t standing right next to Arthur.
“I’m Welsh,” Merlin tells him with a bright grin. “Cer i grafu dy dîn ‘fo ewinedd dy draed.”
“How nice,” Uther says blandly, his lip curling in disdain. “Well, Arthur, don’t just stand there, show your guest around. Dinner is at seven sharp.”
Deciding to follow his father’s advice and escape before Morgana can begin her cross-examination, he drags Merlin towards the stairs and the relative sanctuary of his room.
“You weren’t kidding about your father,” Merlin bursts out as soon as the door has fallen shut behind them. “He seems a fucking delight.”
Arthur notices with a start that he’s still holding onto Merlin’s hand, and lets go as if it had suddenly turned scalding hot. “I apologise for his rudeness,” he says, dragging his now-free hand through his hair in an effort to regain his calm. “I didn’t think he’d be quite that…”
“Racist?” Merlin supplies. “Homophobic?”
Arthur sighs. “Yeah. Now you see why I wouldn’t put any actual partner of mine through this.”
“Well, at least I’m going to enjoy riling him up.” Merlin’s grin is downright wicked, and it does something funny to Arthur’s insides that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
“What did you say to him?” he asks, suddenly remembering Merlin’s earlier words.
“I told him to go scratch his arse with his toenails,” Merlin says with a perfectly straight face, before bursting into laughter at the stunned expression on Arthur’s face. “What? It’s not like he’d know what I was saying anyway. Might as well make the most of it.”
He looks so endearingly proud of himself that Arthur can’t help but join him in his laughter. Perhaps, he thinks, Merlin is precisely what he needed to get through this Christmas with his sanity intact.
Another thought occurs to him as he’s wiping away a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “Fuck, I didn’t even think to ask. You don’t mind sleeping in the same room, do you? It’s just, it would look odd for us to have separate rooms. You can have the bed, there’s a very comfortable sofa over there that I’ll—”
He breaks off, his eyes tracking over the empty spot right next to the door leading to the balcony, where his sofa used to be.
“An invisible sofa, huh? Nice.”
“No, it used to—I don’t understand.” He crosses over to the panel beside the door and presses the button set into it, uncaring in this moment that Merlin is sure to make fun of him for it later. Seconds later, a tinny voice answers him.
“Mr. Pendragon? How may I help?”
“Susan,” he says, relieved to recognise the voice of one of the longest-standing members of the household staff. “The sofa that used to be in my room… Can you tell me what happened to it? I just noticed it’s been removed.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Pendragon. It needed to be reupholstered, so it’s currently in the workshop. It should be returned sometime in the new year. I hope this is not a problem, sir.”
“No, no, of course not.” Arthur’s voice sounds strangled even to his own ears. “Don’t worry about it, Susan. Thank you for your help.”
He releases the button and turns back to Merlin, who is watching him with raised eyebrows.
“No sofa, then?”
Arthur shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your bed is huge, there’s plenty of space for the both of us. I promise I only bite if you ask nicely.”
For a moment, Arthur’s brain is flooded with images of what exactly they could be doing in that huge bed if this was anything other than a business arrangement, and he exhales forcefully, trying to rein his imagination back in. “If you’re sure,” he relents, and Merlin gives him another one of his devastating smiles.
These three days—and, more importantly, two nights—are shaping up to be much more challenging than he thought.
***
Dinner is just as much of a nightmare as Arthur had feared.
It starts when Merlin emerges from the ensuite bathroom, having done…something to his hair to make it look artfully tousled, as if he’d spent the last half-hour making out with someone, and his eyes looking even more devastatingly blue than before. It takes Arthur a few embarrassing attempts at subtle glances before he can determine that Merlin is now wearing eyeliner, and is that glitter in the corner of his eyes?
“What do you think?” Merlin asks, giving a little twirl in the middle of the room, and Arthur has to swallow hard before he manages a passable-sounding “Yeah, you look great. Father will hate it.”
They are the last to arrive at the dinner table. Uther is already seated at the head of the table, with Morgana to his left and space left at his right for Arthur. Morgana looks bored half to death as Uncle Agravaine, seated on her other side, leans uncomfortably close to talk at her.
Uther’s eyes narrow in disapproval at their tardiness—Arthur checked his watch as they came down the stairs, it’s not even two minutes past the hour—and he interrupts whatever Agravaine was saying to perform a grudging introduction.
“Agravaine, this is Mervin, Arthur’s friend. Mervin, my brother-in-law, Agravaine DeBois.”
“Actually, his name is Merlin. And he’s my boyfriend.”
Agravaine’s oily smile slips at Arthur’s words. “Is that so?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I had no idea you had such…interesting inclinations.”
“Isn’t it great?” Morgana cuts off anything else that Agravaine might have said with ruthless precision. “Finally, us queers have the majority at this table.”
As they pull out their chairs and sit down, Merlin sends him a questioning look.
“Morgana is aro-ace,” Arthur explains in an undertone. “She threatened to disown Father if he kept trying to set her up. She’d do it, too.”
“She sounds awesome,” Merlin whispers back. “Clearly, between the two of you, she got all the balls.”
“Shut up, Merlin.”
The dinner consists of five courses, and each one seems to last a century.
“And what do you do for a living, Merlin? Or do you still attend university?” Uther asks over the second course. It’s rocket and goat cheese salad with caramelised apples and walnuts on top, usually one of Arthur’s favourites, but it might as well be ash and dust for all he tastes.
“Oh, no,” Merlin says between bites of the fluffy focaccia that was served alongside the salad. “I didn’t go to uni. Just barely scraped my GCSEs, me,” he—who Arthur knows for a fact is currently working on his PhD—lies with a completely straight face. “I earn a bit of money with the odd tattoo job and stuff like that.”
Arthur watches as his father’s face turns progressively stonier, his disdainful gaze catching on the studs adorning Merlin’s ear.
“How quaint,” Agravaine puts in, breaking a silence that was becoming more awkward by the second. “Do you have tattoos yourself, then?”
“Yeah, here, let me—” Merlin begins to roll up his left sleeve, but Uther cuts him off before anything more than the first lines of ink become visible.
“I’m sure that’s not necessary while we’re having dinner,” he says, his eyes cold. “Tell me, Merlin, is there a lot of money in tattoos? Or do you have plans for a more…settled future?” His expression makes it clear precisely what he thinks of Merlin’s supposed career.
“Nah. I like living day-to-day, going with the flow. Plus, there’s so many more important things in the world than money. You know, like activism. Queer liberation, fighting against imperialism, capitalism, the patriarchy, all that stuff.”
Arthur takes a sip from his wineglass to hide his irrepressible grin. This is going great. His father looks ready to strangle Merlin with his napkin, and by comparison whoever Arthur brings home in the future will appear like the ideal partner.
“I think it’s great that you’re so politically minded,” Morgana tells Merlin as their dishes are removed and the main course is brought in. Pheasant, glazed with honey and served with roast potatoes and mushy peas. “It’s a shame the Tories are doing their best to make the class divide in this country even worse. Sinking billions into High Speed 2 while people have to rely on food banks to make ends meet, it’s a disgrace—”
Over the next ten minutes or so, Arthur finds himself quizzed on work in a transparent attempt by his father to tune out the left-wing politics being discussed across the table. It’s only when he lays down his knife and fork that he glances over at Merlin’s plate, on which the pheasant sits untouched.
“Is there something wrong with your food?” Clearly, Uther has noticed it too, and is less than pleased by the implications.
“I’m vegetarian.”
Arthur is looking at Merlin, but Uther’s sigh at the words is only too audible.
“Well, since Arthur didn’t bother notifying the cook, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the sides.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Merlin says breezily. “This is far too much food, anyway. How many more courses are there?”
“Two,” Arthur tells him, focusing on his own plate to keep from getting distracted by the way the glitter accentuates Merlin’s cheekbones under the chandelier lights.
“Gwallgofrwydd.” Merlin pushes away his plate and stretches. “Oh well, I might manage a bit of dessert. There’s always room for dessert, isn’t there, Uther?”
Arthur nearly chokes on his wine at Merlin’s casual use of his father’s first name. Uther Pendragon has found ways to fire people for smaller offenses than this.
“You are welcome to call me Mr. Pendragon, or sir.” Uther’s voice is cold enough to make the temperature in the room drop by at least ten degrees.
“Thanks, but I don’t believe in titles.” Merlin must lack even the slightest amount of self-preservation, because instead of cowering under Uther’s wrath he gives him a guileless smile. “I wouldn’t be a very good anarchist if I did.”
Arthur holds his breath, waiting for the hammer to fall, but nothing happens. Uther contents himself with staring daggers at Merlin, while Merlin continues his conversation with Morgana and exclaims in delight over the chocolate mousse that is served as the dessert course. Mercifully, his father eschews the cheese that follows and instead retires to the billiard room with Agravaine, leaving the younger generation on their own to linger at the table.
“Tell me, Merlin, how much of that was actually true?” Morgana asks sweetly as she sips on her wine. “It’s like you’re custom-built to annoy the shit out of our father. There’s no way Arthur would manage to pull someone like you.”
Arthur barely manages to avoid knocking over his glass as he whips around to face her. “It’s not—”
“You’re good,” Merlin interrupts him, admiration in his voice. “What gave it away?”
“Uther and Agravaine may be easy marks, but the two of you have hardly touched at all since you arrived. And you expect me to believe that you’re in love? You should barely be able to keep your hands off each other.”
Merlin snorts. “Maybe Arthur’s shy?”
“Oh, I know he is, but you’re also so much his type it’s almost ridiculous. If you were actually dating, he’d be all over you, never mind who’s watching.”
Arthur has never been particularly religious, but now he fervently prays for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Or Morgana, he really isn’t picky at this point. His ears are burning, and he studies the cheese platter, unable to bring himself to look up.
“Fucking harpy,” he mutters, aiming a kick at Morgana under the table. He misses, because of course she’s already twisted out of his reach. “I wish I was an only child.”
“Please. You love me.”
And the thing is, he does. And so he gives up all hope of preserving his dignity and tells her everything.
“I am reluctantly impressed,” she says, once he’s finished. “I didn’t think you had it in you. And you,” she adds, turning to Merlin. “I hope he’s paying you handsomely, for making you deal with those two.” She tilts her head in the direction of the billiard room.
“It’s been fun so far.” Merlin’s grin lights up his face now that he doesn’t need to play a role, and it’s all Arthur can do to swallow down the sudden rush of want clawing up his throat. “What’s the plan now?”
They decide to watch one of the terrible Netflix Original Christmas movies, and later, as they make their way up towards their bedroom, Arthur cannot remember a single plot point. All he remembers is the warmth of Merlin sprawled on the sofa next to him, their hands brushing occasionally—purely on accident—as they reach for the crisps at the same time. That, and Morgana’s knowing glances.
They trade off getting ready for bed, and Arthur learns that Merlin sleeps in a worn-out Doctor Who t-shirt with soft, slightly ratty flannel bottoms. He also learns that Merlin’s tattoo is what looks to be a full sleeve of small dragons, winding around his arm until they vanish under the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re not really a tattoo artist, are you?” he asks, his voice rough as he stares at the ink climbing up Merlin’s pale skin.
Merlin laughs. “No, but Will, my best mate from back home, is. He did these,” he says, showing off his arm, “and a couple others, too. But I’m not taking my shirt off for you to look.” His eyes sparkle in the dim light of the bedside lamp, and Arthur’s mouth goes dry at the thought of tracing the lines of ink with his fingers, or perhaps even with his lips.
“We should sleep,” he says, half-strangled, and determinedly looks away from Merlin as he climbs into bed and scoots over to the left side, right up to the edge of the mattress. He feels it dip as Merlin joins him. “Tomorrow, there’s presents, and then brunch, and then some downtime before dinner. But it’ll be a long day, so…”
He switches off the lamp. Even with the room plunged into darkness, though, he is hyperaware of Merlin’s presence beside him. He hears every soft exhale, every rustle of the sheets as Merlin gets comfortable, and he tries to keep his own breathing calm and easy even as he lies stock-still under the covers. His cock is more than half-hard, but he can hardly bring himself off as he normally would when Merlin is right there. Merlin didn’t sign up for Arthur lusting after him like some villainous lord in a historical romance novel, after all. He’s only here to be Arthur’s fake boyfriend, emphasis on fake. Still, he can’t seem to convince his brain to stop thinking about the way Merlin looked in the light of the dining room chandelier, all blue eyes and glitter and lips that looked absolutely sinful wrapping around a spoonful of chocolate mousse.
He was right earlier, Arthur decides. Sharing the bed is going to be absolute torture.
Little by little, Merlin’s breath evens out until he is snoring softly. Arthur, however—his limbs aching from his stiff and uncomfortable position at the edge of the bed, and his thoughts all tangled up with laughing blue eyes and dark ink—takes a long time to fall asleep.
Merlin wakes slowly. There’s a comfortable warmth at his back, soft exhales brushing against the skin of his neck. Stretching luxuriously, he pushes his hips back into the hardness nestled against his arse.
Then, he freezes as he remembers exactly where he is, and who he’s cuddling up to.
Praying that Arthur is in fact still fast asleep, he starts to disentangle himself with slow, cautious movements, only turning to regard his bedfellow once he’s regained his own side of the mattress.
Arthur is curled up on his side, his blond hair a mess and his t-shirt ridden up to expose his lower back and side. As Merlin watches, he grumbles in his sleep and sprawls onto his back, showing off his flat stomach and the curl of his bicep, which Merlin definitely doesn’t want to sink his teeth into. That would be ridiculous, after all. He breathes a sigh of relief as Arthur settles back into sleep, and allows himself a few more moments of watching his fake boyfriend.
He isn’t sure what he expected to come from his ad, but Arthur wasn’t it. He’s so earnest, in everything he says and does. Merlin still finds it hard to believe that someone as strait-laced as Arthur would pay someone to pretend to be his boyfriend for the express purpose of pissing off his father—although perhaps less now that he’s actually met Uther Pendragon. He’s only known Arthur for a day, but it doesn’t take a genius to tell that Arthur is desperately lonely. Not in a creepy, paying-someone-to-pretend-to-love-you kind of way; more like he isn’t even aware of it, like he’s never known anything else.
He isn’t close with his family, that much is clear from the single dinner Merlin has witnessed so far. Morgana, perhaps, might be an exception, but the two of them communicate mostly through insults and, from what Arthur has told him, don’t appear to spend much time together unless forced to by family events. Agravaine seems far too weirdly fixated on Morgana to bother much with Arthur, and Uther…well.
The thing is, Merlin’s lucky when it comes to family, he knows he is. He might not have a father, but his mum more than makes up for it by being the absolute best. He’s never known anything but unconditional love and support from her, and by comparison, every word Uther says to Arthur rubs him the wrong way. It’s not even the way Uther treats him; frankly, he couldn’t care less what some rich arsehole thinks of him, and pissing him off was kind of the point of this entire charade. No, it’s the casual dismissal of anything Arthur might care about, the criticism and affected disappointment in every barbed comment, that makes him want to step in front of Arthur and protect him with all he has.
It’s stupid to get so invested so quickly, he knows that. It’s the plot of countless rom-coms: oh no, I’ve developed real feelings for my fake boy- or girlfriend. But there’s something about Arthur that makes Merlin want to throw caution to the wind, and it’s not just his chiselled jawline or the stupidly endearing crooked tooth. By rights, Arthur should be an utter prat, spoiled and self-centred and arrogant—and he is, some of the time, with his posh accent and public-school education. But underneath that, there’s much more to him than just that, and Merlin can’t help but want to poke at it, find out exactly what makes Arthur tick.
Well, he tells himself, it’s only Christmas morning. There’s another day and a half left on his contract; plenty of time to tease out Arthur’s hidden sides and see if he might be worth risking Gwaine’s eternal teasing for.
For now, he contents himself with the knowledge that, even though Arthur spent the night stubbornly clinging to the very edge of the mattress, he clearly didn’t mind Merlin accidentally cuddling up to him while they were sleeping, if his rather impressive morning wood is any indication. He smiles to himself as he reaches for his phone and thumbs through a few messages and notifications.
He can work with that.
***
Watching Arthur struggle to wake up might be Merlin’s new favourite hobby. He’s so obviously not a morning person, scrunching up his face in disgruntlement as the first weak rays of the morning sun peek through the open curtains.
“Rise and shine,” Merlin sing-songs, earning himself a groan and a half-hearted glare from bleary eyes. “It’s Christmas morning! Aren’t you excited to open your presents?”
His faux enthusiasm is met by Arthur pulling the duvet over his head.
“Well, suit yourself. See if I leave any presents for you,” Merlin tells him and heads into the bathroom for a shower. The bathroom is surprisingly modern for such an old, stately manor; it must have been remodelled sometime in the past decade or so. The water pressure is divine, and he spends longer than he probably should enjoying himself under the hot spray. And well, if images of a certain blond prat pop into his mind as he brings himself off, nobody needs to know.
By the time he emerges, flushed and clad only in his boxer briefs and a fresh t-shirt, Arthur has managed to heave himself into a sitting position. While Merlin pulls on his tightest pair of jeans and drags a jumper over his head, messing his hair up even more than it already was in the process, he surreptitiously watches Arthur watch him. He can almost feel Arthur’s gaze on him as it tracks the ink on his arm, and he can’t resist putting on a little show, stretching needlessly and showing off the long lines of his body. He’s not as built as Arthur himself, but he’s not too shabby-looking either if he does say so himself, with lithe muscles from yoga and running.
Finally, he turns around to face Arthur.
“What in god’s name is that?”
Arthur sounds suddenly wide awake as he stares at Merlin’s chest.
“My Christmas jumper,” Merlin says innocently, fluttering his eyelashes at Arthur. “Do you like it? Will gave it to me as a joke a couple years ago, and I packed it especially for today.”
“I—” Arthur breaks off, blinks, and starts laughing helplessly, throwing his head back as he laughs harder than Merlin has ever seen before.
He allows himself a chuckle of his own as he gives a little twirl. On his jumper, Karl Marx dressed up as Santa proclaims that all he wants for Christmas is the means of production.
“Think your dad is gonna like it?”
On the bed, Arthur is wiping away a stray tear as he tries to get his breathing back under control. “You’re the best horrible fake boyfriend I could’ve wished for,” he manages, grinning up at Merlin. “Father will have a heart attack.”
“Just imagine how perfect the next guy you bring home will look in comparison,” Merlin quips, doing his best to ignore the tight feeling in his chest at the thought of Arthur introducing his family to a real boyfriend, someone he truly cares for.
“Yeah.” Arthur’s grin fades, and he doesn’t meet Merlin’s gaze any longer. For a moment, silence falls between them, but then Arthur pushes the covers back and hauls himself out of bed. “Well, no time to lose. I’ll just take a quick shower and then we can go downstairs, okay?”
Merlin nods and busies himself with his phone, texting Will Happy Christmas and trying to ignore the fact that, less than twenty feet away, Arthur is wet and naked. Part of him wonders what would happen if he were to simply go and join Arthur in the shower, but considering everything he’s learned about Arthur so far, he figures he’d probably be too hung up on the fact that he’s paying Merlin to pretend to be his boyfriend to even think about acting on the desire Merlin is pretty sure is there.
True to his word, Arthur is quick about his shower, and less than ten minutes later they’re on their way downstairs, Arthur dressed in a much more respectable outfit than Merlin with a dark-green jumper over a button-up.
The rest of the family are gathered in front of the massive Christmas tree in one of the drawing rooms, with tastefully wrapped presents piled underneath it and soft instrumental Christmas music filling the room. The entire scene is so cliché, it has transcended obnoxious and moved right into ridiculous.
Uther’s reaction to his Christmas jumper is quite satisfying, Merlin has to admit. He can pinpoint the exact second Uther realises that it does not, in fact, feature Santa and goes to read the accompanying text. Uther has impressive control over his facial expression, Merlin will give him that, but the sudden tightening of his mouth tells him loud and clear that his jumper was a success. Morgana, of course, lets out a cackle upon seeing it; Merlin is starting to like her more and more.
Remembering her advice from the previous night, he tugs Arthur close, wraps his arms around his broad shoulders, and leans in. He gives Arthur time to pull away or turn his head, but Arthur stays frozen, only staring at him with wide eyes. Slowly, Merlin moves closer until their lips brush, mentally willing Arthur to get with the program. Every point of contact between their bodies feels electric, sending little shocks of sensation through Merlin’s nervous system as he moves his lips against Arthur’s in a chaste kiss.
Just as he begins to wonder if he’s overstepped, Arthur finally begins to move, his own arms coming up to tug Merlin impossibly closer and his lips opening under Merlin’s as he lets out a breathy sigh. The kiss deepens as Merlin tilts his head for better access, his tongue tracing Arthur’s pouty bottom lip before meeting Arthur’s own in a first, tentative stroke. Arthur tastes like minty toothpaste, and the subtle scent of his cologne envelops Merlin and makes it increasingly impossible to think. Merlin allows himself to go pliant in Arthur’s arms, letting the entire length of their bodies brush together and send sparks of fresh arousal through him. Of fucking course Arthur is a fantastic kisser. Why is his life like this?
By the time a pointed clearing of a throat pulls him from his kiss-induced haze, he’s all but forgotten about the presence of any other members of the Pendragon family in the room.
“I really don’t understand why the gays always have to make such a spectacle out of their…relationships,” Agravaine remarks with a thinly veiled look of disdain. “It’s really not the done thing, is it?”
And, okay, apparently they’re starting the day off with some casual homophobia. Great. Merlin slowly disentangles himself from Arthur, but makes sure to keep him close as he glares at Agravaine. “Well, first of all, neither of us is gay, we’re both bi, but also—”
“Surely there is no need to discuss this now,” Uther cuts in smoothly. The smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. “We should really make a start on the presents; brunch will be ready soon.”
Judging from the sudden look of panic on Arthur’s face, he’s only now remembering that they’ve completely forgotten to plan for this. Lucky for him, Merlin is good at thinking on his feet.
“Arthur and I have already exchanged presents,” he says, letting his lip curl in a suggestive grin. “They weren’t exactly fit for company, if you know what I mean.” He leans over to give Arthur’s bottom a pinch, which makes Arthur jump and Uther visibly grind his teeth. Merlin has to swallow a laugh at the sight.
“Delightful,” Uther says in the flattest voice Merlin has ever heard. “Morgana, darling, why don’t you start. This one is for you.”
From there, the grand opening of presents proceeds without any further drama. Arthur is gifted a bottle of Scotch that might be older than Merlin himself, and Morgana receives a necklace that Agravaine insists on helping her put on. Merlin isn’t expecting any presents, himself, seeing how nobody but Arthur even knew he was going to be there, but to his surprise Uther holds out a rectangular package towards him.
“Merlin. I’m not sure if you are much of a reader, but it’s always good to broaden one’s horizon.”
Merlin exchanges a wary glance with Arthur as he makes a show of tearing off the wrapping paper, tossing it carelessly to the side. What is Uther playing at?
He unwraps a thick book.
Margaret Thatcher stares up at him from the cover.
“Statecraft: Strategies for a Changing World,” he reads, trying to keep his voice from cracking with barely-suppressed laughter. Beside him, Arthur lets out a snort badly disguised as a cough. “Thank you, Uther. I really wasn’t expecting a gift, seeing how I showed up here unannounced.” He’s reluctantly impressed; did Uther pay for overnight delivery, or did he have the book just lying around? Merlin wouldn’t put either option past him.
“Given your…interesting stance on politics, I thought you might find it enlightening.” Uther’s smile is all teeth.
“Oh, I feel very enlightened already,” Merlin retorts, flicking through the book. “Look, Arthur, it’s dedicated to Reagan. Lovely. I’m a little bit scared it’ll burst into flames any second.”
“Reagan,” Agravaine muses, a faraway look in his eyes. “They don’t make politicians like him anymore. A real shame.”
“Truly terrible.” Morgana’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, but Agravaine doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he gives her one of his smarmy smiles.
“Your dad is really pretty good at these kinds of games,” Merlin whispers to Arthur while the others are distracted with the rest of the presents. “I thought I had him with the Marx jumper, but the Thatcher book was an impressive move. I guess I’m starting to see why you needed my help.”
***
“Arthur, why don’t you take your friend for a ride around the grounds.” Uther smiles his thin-lipped smile, the one that Merlin has already come to loathe.
Merlin is so distracted by the sheer audacity of Uther calling him Arthur’s friend when they are sitting so close they might as well be occupying the same chair, and Arthur has spent the last half-hour feeding Merlin choice bits from his plate between sweet kisses, that he almost misses the rest of the sentence.
Luckily, he recovers in time.
“Arthur already took me for a ride this morning, if you know what I mean,” he says, lifting a suggestive eyebrow that makes Uther turn a rather satisfying shade of puce. “And isn’t it a bit cold out? Wouldn’t want to catch frostbite on any sensitive bits.”
“Horses, Merlin. Father means a ride on horseback.”
“Ohhh.” Merlin pulls an exaggerated pout. “Yeah, fine, I suppose we could do that, too.”
It’s worth it for the way Arthur perks up at his agreement. “Yeah? You can borrow some of my spare clothes, and we should be able to find a helmet that fits you, too.”
Merlin is utterly unable to contain the fond smile that lifts the corners of his mouth at Arthur’s obvious enthusiasm. He lets himself be pulled out of the dining room and up the stairs, gamely puts on the breeches and warm jacket Arthur hands him, and waits for Arthur to—
“Oh god, I didn’t even ask. You can ride, can’t you? You’re not pathologically terrified of horses or anything? We don’t have to go for a ride, it’s—”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking,” Merlin says, grinning at how flustered Arthur looks. “But yeah, it’s fine. I haven’t had lessons or anything, but I can manage as long as you don’t expect me to, I don’t know, jump over hedges or whatever the fuck it is you rich people do for fun.”
“Fox hunt, mostly,” Arthur deadpans, not missing a beat. They stare at each other in silence for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“You know, you’re surprisingly funny once you remove that stick up your arse. Come on then, I bet you’re dying to show off your vast estate, your lordship.” He turns to leave, Arthur following behind with a muttered “Not a lord” that makes Merlin’s grin return in full force.
At the stables, which are well-kept but not as obnoxiously fancy as Merlin had feared, Arthur picks out a placid dark-brown gelding for him and readies him with efficient movements.
“I thought you had, like, stableboys for that sort of thing?” Merlin gently strokes his horse’s nose.
“We do, but they have the day off. One of them pops by to feed the horses, but other than that, we’re on our own today. And besides, I like doing this.” He gives his own horse—a pretty bay mare, who is apparently a little more spirited than Merlin’s horse—a friendly pat.
Once everything is ready, Merlin manages to climb onto his horse without too much trouble. It’s been a while since he was last on horseback, but it’s like riding a bicycle, isn’t it? At least that’s what he clings to as his horse fidgets underneath him.
“I thought we’d just take it slow, maybe try a brief canter later if you’re comfortable with that?” Arthur looks like he was born in the saddle, posture straight but relaxed. For a moment, Merlin can almost imagine him as a knight of old, ready to take his turn at jousting. By comparison, he must look ridiculous, clinging to the reins and too busy remembering how to keep his balance to worry about his seat.
True to his word, Arthur leads them on a slow, meandering route along the sparse forest that covers part of the grounds, the leafless trees stark against the grey winter sky. Now that they’re alone, there are so many things Merlin wants to ask that he almost feels tongue-tied with it.
“Did you grow up here, then?” he finally settles on, taking in their surroundings. “Must have been nice, yeah?” Even with Uther for a father, he privately adds.
“I did, yes, at least before I was sent off to school. The estate belonged to my mother’s family, but Father inherited it when she passed.” Arthur’s voice is carefully even.
“I’m sorry.” Merlin had wondered what had happened to Arthur’s mother, but he hadn’t wanted to overstep by asking. After all, he has first-hand experience of how annoying it is, constantly being asked about an absent parent. “It’s not easy, growing up with a parent missing.”
Arthur’s eyes are wide as he looks at Merlin. “I had no idea—”
“My dad,” Merlin interrupts him. “He left before my mum even knew she was pregnant with me. She’s wonderful, though, so I’ve never felt like I’ve been missing anything.”
“Oh. That’s…good, I suppose.”
Merlin hears what Arthur isn’t saying; Uther hardly seems to be someone who’d qualify as wonderful. Beside him, Arthur huffs out a sigh. “My mother died when I was born. There were complications, some fuck-up by the doctor… Father loved her very much. From what I’ve heard, he was never the same after she died.”
“I’m so sorry, Arthur.” It sounds trite, but Merlin doesn’t know what else he could possibly say, given the minefield that clearly surrounds the death of Arthur’s mother.
“Sometimes I wonder what she would think of me. Of this entire thing.” Arthur’s laugh sounds bitter.
“If she was anything like you, I think she’d probably understand why you’re doing this. And, don’t take this the wrong way, but you clearly didn’t get your sense of humour from your dad, so I think there’s a good chance she’d find it funny, too.”
It seems to be the right thing to say. Arthur’s lips quirk in a small but genuine smile, and he points over at what looks to be a picturesque ruin a bit further along their path. “Are you ready to try out a canter?” At Merlin’s grimace, he throws back his head in a laugh. “Come on, Merlin. Race you to that pretentious pile of fake ruins over there.”
“Fake ruins? Seriously?”
“Don’t give me that look, it’s not my fault! They were all the rage back in the nineteenth century.”
Merlin is still laughing as his horse follows Arthur’s into a canter; after that, he’s too busy staying in the saddle to keep on teasing Arthur. Luckily, his horse doesn’t seem to require any input from its rider, so he simply focuses on hanging on and not losing his stirrups, and lets the horse handle the rest.
Predictably, Arthur wins their race, and equally predictably, he’s annoyingly smug about it. Still, Merlin muses as they make their way back to the stables, their cheeks reddened from the icy winter air and their fingers cold despite their gloves, it was worth it to get out of the house for a bit. Arthur, too, looks much more settled in his skin as they brush down their horses and sort the tack.
Merlin had done his best to keep from ogling Arthur too obviously all through their ride, but as Arthur adds some fresh straw to their horses’ boxes, he can’t help but sneak a peek at the way Arthur’s breeches hug his muscled thighs and arse in all the right places. Unfortunately, his own breeches do very little to hide his growing hardness, so he takes off his jacket and keeps it slung over his arm in front of him as he watches Arthur work.
“You’re welcome to give me a hand, you know,” Arthur says as he wipes a hand across his sweaty brow.
“I’m your guest,” Merlin reminds him once he’s dragged his mind out of the gutter, where it was happily imagining other ways to use his hand in Arthur’s service. “And besides, it’ll do you good to work off all those little sandwich squares you had earlier.”
“Is it even a proper Christmas if you don’t gain a few pounds?” Arthur asks philosophically. “Although I suppose with your frame you could eat whatever you want and still be all…” He trails off, gesturing at Merlin’s body. “Skinny,” he finishes lamely, a flush creeping up his neck.
Merlin suppresses the little thrill of triumph at yet another sign that Arthur might be into him. “Maybe you’ll just have to feed me more of these delicious little pastries,” he says, his voice low and as suggestive as he can make it.
“Maybe I will,” Arthur retorts, and Merlin is entirely helpless to stop a wide, delighted grin from lighting up his face.
***
By the time they’re both showered and dressed—and Merlin has once more valiantly fought and lost the battle of imagining what Arthur might be doing in the shower—it’s almost time to go down for dinner.
“Everything okay?” Arthur asks, making him look up from where he’d been staring absent-mindedly at his phone.
“What? Oh, yeah, all good. I was just thinking—”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
Merlin grabs a pillow from the bed and throws it in Arthur’s general direction, missing by almost an arm’s length. “Shut it, prat. It’s just, this is the first Christmas I’ve ever spent without my mum, but I’ve been so distracted by your family drama, I haven’t even had time to mope. I can’t believe Gwaine’s stupid plan worked.”
Arthur lets out a snort. “Always happy to help.” He holds out his hand for Merlin. “Once more unto the breach?”
“I’m Welsh, Hal.” He grins as Arthur rolls his eyes. “But fine, I guess I can make an exception for you.” He tangles his fingers with Arthur’s and lets himself be pulled from the room, doing his best to ignore the fluttering in his chest at Arthur’s delighted laugh.
Dinner is once again a formal affair.
“Just be glad Morgana refused to play Christmas carols on the flute any longer when she hit puberty,” Arthur stage-whispers as the first course is served. “Imagine the same awkward atmosphere, but with terrible live music.” He exaggerates a shudder.
“Sounds awful,” Merlin agrees. Back home, Christmas dinner is a jumble of their favourite foods, which they would have spent the afternoon cooking together, eaten at their old and scarred kitchen table with a Christmas playlist on in the background. More often than not, Will would drop by unannounced, and they’d spend the evening chatting and laughing over reruns of Christmas specials of their favourite shows.
Next year, he tells himself against the sudden stab of homesickness. Next year, things will be back to normal for him.
“Any Welsh Christmas traditions you’d usually participate in?” Morgana asks him from across the table as they finish their soup. “Isn’t there one with a horse skull?”
Merlin chuckles as he sets down his wine glass. “Mari Lwyd, yeah. Traditionally, the group carrying the Mari Lwyd knocks on doors, there’s pwnco, a trading of rhymes and insults, in exchange for food and beer. It’s good fun, although with the English influence the tradition almost died out before it was revived.”
“Oh god, please, not another lecture on the poor oppressed Welsh,” Agravaine groans, taking a large gulp of his wine.
“Uncle—”
“We didn’t exactly ask to be invaded by you lot,” Merlin cuts in before Arthur can get any further. “So honestly, I don’t really give a shit if it offends your delicate English sensibilities to hear about it.”
“Well said, Merlin,” Morgana says, which is surprisingly effective in shutting Agravaine up.
A glance towards the head of the table shows Merlin that Uther is already close to reaching his limit; he’s visibly grinding his teeth, and his hand is clenched into a fist on the pristine white tablecloth.
“Mari Lwyd sounds like fun,” Arthur tells him, reaching out to brush their hands together and only butchering the pronunciation a little. Merlin sees Uther’s disapproving gaze zero in on the gesture and makes no effort to hide his smile as he leans into Arthur for a brief kiss.
“You should come visit us, then,” he says, and then has to forcibly remind himself that none of this is real. Arthur isn’t his boyfriend, and he won’t be coming to visit because chances are they won’t see each other again once their three days are up.
“I’d love to.” Arthur’s eyes are soft, and Merlin can’t tell if he finds it just as difficult as Merlin to remember that this is supposed to be fake, or if he is simply that good an actor.
Uther and Agravaine strike up a conversation about some mutual acquaintance who is currently going through a messy divorce, and they’re well into the venison course by the time Uther once more addresses any of them.
“Arthur, I was talking to Rodor earlier. He’s invited us to his New Year’s party at his Sussex estate. Mithian will be there, too.”
The invitation sounds innocent enough to Merlin’s ear, but next to him Arthur goes rigid.
“Father, you cannot be serious.”
“She’s a lovely young lady, and so well-educated, too. I believe she’s just finished a double degree at Oxford.” Unlike some at this table, his expression says loud and clear. “You remember her from that fundraiser last year, don’t you, Arthur? The two of you will get along very well, I’m sure.”
Arthur’s fingers are digging into Merlin’s hand hard enough that there’s a good chance he’ll end up with bruises. “You know perfectly well that I—”
“I’ve spoken to Rodor about it, and he tells me she’s not seeing anyone. You would make an excellent pair, I’m—”
“Are you fucking serious?” Arthur’s shout reverberates around the room, drowning out whatever Uther had been about to say. “I’m sitting here with my boyfriend, Father. What on earth makes you think I’d be interested in dumping him for some woman I’ve met once, years ago?”
Unlike Merlin, Uther unfortunately doesn’t seem to realise that this is a purely rhetorical question.
“Well, you have to admit that in comparison—”
“I’d advise you not to finish that sentence.” Arthur’s anger seems to have collapsed in on itself, turning into a cold, hard thing that makes the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck stand up. “I’m done with this shit, do you hear me? I know it doesn’t fit into your narrow little worldview that both your children are queer, but you know what? That’s your problem, not mine. If the thought of me loving a man disgusts you so much that you try to set me up with a woman while he’s literally sitting next to me, holding my hand, then I give up. You can’t accept me the way I am? Fine. But then I’m not going to accept the way you keep pretending I’m straight, and I’m certainly not going to sit and listen while you insult my boyfriend to his face.” He pushes his chair back with enough force that it almost topples over, and drags Merlin to his feet as well. He’s pale except for two hectic spots of colour on his cheeks, and Merlin can feel him shake with barely-suppressed fury. “Come on, Merlin. I seem to have lost my appetite.”
Still somewhat stunned by the sudden turn of events, Merlin lets himself be dragged out of the room. Behind him, he hears the screech of another chair, and Morgana’s voice. “Well done, Uther. Really, father of the year. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” Then, they turn a corner, and any sound from the dining room fades away.
Arthur still has his hand in a death-grip, and he doesn’t speak or even look at Merlin until the door to their room has fallen shut behind them.
“I’m so sorry,” he finally says, his voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming for hours. He turns, and his eyes are wet in the light of the overhead lamp. Still, he clenches his jaw, and the tears don’t fall. “Father was so far out of line, I—”
“It’s okay, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, when it becomes clear that Arthur isn’t going to finish his sentence. “I signed up for this, remember?”
“It’s not fucking okay!” It comes out as a shout, and Arthur flinches as if he hadn’t intended to be this loud. “It’s not okay,” he repeats, quieter this time but no less intense. “This was supposed to be a fun and slightly annoying way of reminding my father that I’m not straight. You didn’t sign up for this kind of…of verbal abuse.” His voice cracks over the word.
“Arthur.” When Arthur keeps his gaze determinedly on the floor, Merlin squeezes their still-joined hands until he looks up. “Hey. It’s honestly fine. I mean, it’s not fine, obviously; it sucks that he’s such an unrepentant arse. But, in the grand scheme of things, his opinion really doesn’t matter to me. He doesn’t even know the real me, so what do I care if he calls me stupid, or ugly, or whatever else he was implying back there. I’m just sorry that you have to deal with the fallout. But I guess it’s lucky that this happened with me, and not someone you’re actually dating.” His ribs squeeze painfully at the reminder that, while Arthur is understandably upset about his father’s comments, it’s not because he has real feelings for Merlin.
Arthur scrubs his free hand through his hair, making it stick up in a way that Merlin can’t help but find adorable. “Still. I hope you know that I don’t think those things about you, not at all. You’re the only thing that’s made this visit remotely bearable, to be honest.”
The words make warmth spread through Merlin, only exacerbated by the soft, fond smile on Arthur’s face.
“I suppose this fight was inevitable, anyway,” Arthur continues, not giving Merlin the chance to call him out on his sappy declaration, or to do something much more ill-advised and kiss the smile off his lips. “He just doesn’t want to accept that I’m…me, I guess. But I’m done pretending, and if he insists, well…” He trails off, the smile long since gone from his face. He looks so forlorn that Merlin doesn’t even think at all. He tugs at their joined hands until there’s barely any space left between them, and then he draws Arthur into a hug. For a moment, Arthur remains frozen, but then his arms come up to wrap around Merlin in turn.
They’re virtually the same height, so Merlin can feel Arthur’s heart pounding against his chest as he all but melts into the embrace, his face hidden against Merlin’s neck.
“Shh,” he murmurs, drawing gentle circles on Arthur’s back. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see. Your father may have some of the worst political opinions known to mankind, but he’s not a total idiot. He’ll come around eventually. Between you and Morgana, you’ll sort him out.”
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, holding onto each other, but little by little Arthur’s heartbeat slows down, his breathing evening out, until he finally lifts his head and carefully disentangles himself from Merlin’s hold.
“Thank you,” he mutters, giving Merlin a weary half-smile. “That really wasn’t what you signed up for, huh?”
Merlin snorts. “No, but I don’t mind. Really,” he adds more firmly, seeing the self-doubt still lingering in Arthur’s eyes.
Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Alright, alright. Now. I don’t really feel like sitting through another breakfast and lunch, so I suggest that we drive back to London tonight.”
Merlin isn’t sure what exactly his face is doing, but Arthur immediately reaches out to reassure him. “I’ll obviously still pay you for the entire three days, don’t worry.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s—Arthur, do you really think you should be driving while you’re this upset? Plus, you’ve had wine at dinner, and—”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Fine, you drive, then.”
“I don’t have a license. And besides, I’ve also been drinking.”
Arthur drags a hand across his face with a ragged exhale. “Fuck.”
Without thinking about it, Merlin reaches out and catches his hand, intertwining their fingers again. “Hey, it’s okay. Why don’t we try and get some sleep, and then we can sneak down to the kitchen for an early breakfast and be on our way before any of the others are even awake, yeah?” He gives Arthur an encouraging nod.
He can tell that he’s won before Arthur even says anything by the way he seems to deflate in front of Merlin’s eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
They get ready for bed even though it’s barely nine p.m., and once they’re both settled under the covers, Merlin reaches out and pokes Arthur where he’s once again huddled on the very edge of the mattress. “I don’t bite, you know. I might go full octopus on you during the night, but I can hardly be held responsible for what my unconscious body does, can I? And besides, you didn’t seem to mind, last night.”
Arthur turns over, his blue eyes meeting Merlin’s across the empty expanse of the king-sized bed. “Wait, last night?”
Merlin gives him a wink. “Let’s just say you were clearly having pleasant dreams.”
With a groan, Arthur grabs his pillow and pulls it over his head—in an attempt to either smother himself or muffle any embarrassing noises; Merlin isn’t quite sure which. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope.”
Arthur groans again. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t even realise—”
“Arthur.” Merlin tugs at the pillow, and after a brief tug-of-war manages to wrestle it off Arthur’s face. “You didn’t do anything. I accidentally cuddled up to you. And anyway, we’ve spent half the day kissing or holding hands. I’m sure we’ll survive.”
“If you say so.” Arthur pulls a doubtful face, but he inches carefully further towards the middle of the bed, until he’s no longer in imminent danger of falling off.
They switch off the lights, a comfortable silence settling between them while Merlin scrolls through his social media for a bit as he isn’t all that tired yet. He’s just about to log off when Arthur’s low voice comes from the darkness.
“How did your mum react when you came out?”
Merlin smiles as he sets his phone down on the nightstand. “She was brilliant. I’d worried so much about what she was gonna say or do, even though rationally I knew she wouldn’t mind. But she just gave me a look and asked me if there were any cute boys at school I had a crush on.”
From the other side of the bed, there is a wistful sigh. “That sounds great.”
“Yeah. When I brought home my first boyfriend she never once treated him any different from any of my girlfriends. Mind, not everyone back home was as tolerant, but she’s always been amazing about it all.”
“How old were you when you realised you were bi?”
“Sixteen, I think? Will and I were watching Fellowship, and I realised I had a crush on both Arwen and Aragorn.”
Arthur chuckles. “Oh, me too, although I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought I only liked Aragorn because he was, you know, strong and kind and good with a sword. I didn’t realise I was bi until a few years ago, when Morgana came out and I started reading up on queer stuff. And even then it took a good while until I was ready to accept that this was me.”
Merlin’s heart aches at the thought of what it must have been like, realising you’re queer after having grown up with Uther Pendragon as a father.
“Well, now you can fully embrace your crush on Aragorn,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. He’s about to suggest that they should rewatch the trilogy together sometime when he abruptly remembers that a few more hours is all the time he has left with Arthur.
He’d wanted to discover who Arthur truly is, beneath his posh exterior. The thing is, though, the more he’s come to know the person behind the mask, the harder it is to think of this as a job with a fixed end date.
Stupid, he chides himself. Arthur has kissed him, has defended him against his father, has let himself be held, but he hasn’t given so much as the barest hint that he might want this…this thing between them to continue, once Christmas is over and they’re back in the real world. All Merlin’s foolish hope does it set him up for heartbreak.
“We should try and get some sleep,” he mutters, turning over and away from the temptation that is Arthur, soft and sleepy and devastatingly vulnerable. “Early start tomorrow.”
Despite his words, it takes him hours to fall asleep.
Arthur wakes to the weight of Merlin’s head on his shoulder, the arm with the dragon tattoos slung across his side and holding him close. This time, they must both have moved during the night, because they’re settled more or less in the middle of the bed. Part of Arthur wants to panic, to retreat to his side of the bed and pretend that waking up with Merlin in his arms isn’t the best morning he can remember in a long time, but Merlin looks so soft and comfortable, he can’t bring himself to move.
Instead, he breathes in the smell of Merlin’s shampoo and jealously counts the minutes he has left until the alarm goes off and brings an end to their closeness.
If there’s one thing he has become certain of among the chaos of the last days, it’s that he doesn’t want to lose Merlin. He’s been the one bright spot among all the arguments and snide remarks, funny and insolent and too insightful by half, and Arthur feels both as if he’s known him for years and as if he could know Merlin for decades and never get bored of discovering new things about him. In a matter of days, he’s somehow managed to make Arthur see his life in a completely new light, and to give him the courage to stand up to his father for once in his life.
He isn’t sure he can face the prospect of dropping Merlin off at the station and never seeing him again.
The sound of his alarm breaks him from his musings. Merlin stirs, his nose scrunching up in a way that makes Arthur want to press a kiss to it, and blinks his eyes open.
“Whassat?” he mumbles, looking barely coherent as he scrubs a hand across his eyes.
“It’s time to get up,” Arthur tells him, manfully suppressing a besotted smile. “Come on, then.”
He forces himself to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed, causing Merlin to slump back against the pillows and earning him a half-hearted glare. “Fine, sleepyhead, I’ll shower first. You can stay in bed for another couple of minutes.”
He’s fairly certain Merlin is already mostly asleep again before the bathroom door closes behind him.
Once they’re both showered, dressed, and packed, they sneak down into the kitchen, where Audrey, the cook, is already busy preparing breakfast. The look she gives them states loud and clear that she knows exactly what happened over dinner last night, and she sets out some eggs and toast for them without any of her usual grumbling.
They don’t talk much over their breakfast. Merlin seems content to just enjoy his food and coffee in silence, and Arthur doesn’t say any of the things he wants to. He doesn’t ask Merlin not to judge him by his family; he doesn’t beg his forgiveness for the way his father treated him; and he certainly doesn’t ask to see him again, after their contract is fulfilled. How can he, when Merlin knows exactly what kind of mess would be waiting for him?
By the time they’re done, the house is beginning to stir. They run into Morgana as they fetch their bags from their room, but to Arthur’s relief, she doesn’t argue with his decision to leave.
“Maybe this is the push Uther needs to finally remove his head from his arse,” she tells him as she gives him a goodbye hug. “Just don’t be a stranger, okay? We should get lunch together when we’re both in London.”
Merlin gets a hug as well, and a “I hope I’ll see you around,” to which he makes a noncommittal noise.
They’re loading their bags into the car when Uther catches up with them.
“Arthur,” his cold voice rings out across the courtyard. “What is the meaning of this?”
Arthur turns to Merlin. “Get in the car. I’ll handle this.”
Of course, true to form, Merlin ignores him. Instead, his fingers twine with Arthur’s own in a silent show of support that makes Arthur’s chest feel a little less like he’s being crushed to death.
“We’re leaving,” he tells his father once he’s sure the words will come out steady.
“What, stealing off at dawn without even so much as a goodbye? I raised you better than that, Arthur.”
Arthur scoffs. “You can hardly expect me to give you more chances to insult my boyfriend to his face,” he says, his free hand clenching at his side. “If you can’t even bother with the barest level of civility for our sake, then I don’t see why we should stick around any longer. Goodbye, Father, and happy holidays.”
Letting go of Merlin’s hand, he turns away and climbs into his car without giving his father another look. On the other side, Merlin copies his movements. He starts the car, his hands clenched on the steering wheel to stop them from shaking, and drives. In the rearview mirror, Uther turns and heads back inside the house in silence.
“Well, that was awkward,” Merlin says finally, as they wind their way along the narrow country lanes. “Are you okay?”
Taking a deep breath, Arthur consciously loosens his death-grip on the steering wheel. Is he okay?
For better or worse, his fake relationship with Merlin has done its job. It’s given him the push he needed to finally confront his father. Only time will tell where they go from here, if Uther can accept him the way he is, or if this break between them will be a permanent thing.
He takes another breath, feeling his chest expand with the rush of air into his lungs.
“Yeah,” he finally decides. “I’m okay. It’s… This was a long time coming, I think. It feels rather shit right now, but I think it’s what I needed.” He glances at Merlin, curled up in the passenger seat. “Thank you for helping me with this, Merlin. I’m sure you didn’t expect things to be quite as…explosive as they turned out, but I hope you won’t remember me too unkindly.”
“Arthur. Come on.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Merlin rolling his eyes. “I’m not as delicate as all that. And, weirdly enough, I had fun.”
“Me, too,” Arthur admits, surprised to find that he means it. Somewhere between all the emotional turmoil, Merlin had managed to make him actually enjoy himself.
The journey passes quickly enough, traffic almost non-existent this early on Boxing Day, and much too soon Arthur pulls up the car in front of Euston Station.
There’s so much he wants to say, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he reaches for his wallet with fumbling hands, pulls out the rest of the money he owes Merlin for their deal, and holds it out wordlessly.
A series of emotions flickers across Merlin’s face, too quick for Arthur to catch any of them, before it settles on a tight smile that doesn’t crinkle the corners of Merlin’s eyes the way his real smiles do.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice strangely hollow as he tucks the money away. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
It’s this—the casual dismissal in Merlin’s words, so at odds with the rest of his expression—that finally makes Arthur see.
Idiot, he curses himself. He’d been so worried about making Merlin uncomfortable with his developing feelings, not wanting to pressure him in any way. What if he did too good a job?
“Merlin, wait,” he gets out around the tangle in his throat. “I—”
Words fail him as Merlin’s stormy blue eyes meet his, something that Arthur desperately wants to be hope filling them.
“New Year’s Eve is coming up,” is what comes out of his mouth next, and he immediately wants to smack himself as Merlin’s eyes shutter.
“Do you have another party you want me to ruin?” There’s an underlying bitterness to Merlin’s words that tugs at Arthur’s heart.
“No,” he blurts, taking in the confusion in Merlin’s expression for a moment before screwing his courage to the sticking-place and taking the plunge. “I—Actually, I was looking for someone to kiss at midnight. A very specific someone, to be precise. Welsh, insolent, multiple tattoos…”
He watches a smile slowly spread across Merlin’s face as he speaks—a real smile, this time, lighting up his eyes.
“Oh yeah? And what rate would you be prepared to offer?” Merlin’s smile turns teasing, and Arthur is helpless against the matching grin growing on his own face.
“I was thinking I could pay you in goods and services. You know, take you out for a nice dinner, that sort of thing.”
“Hmm. A compelling argument. Unfortunately, I already have plans with my friends.”
Arthur’s heart sinks.
“But…” Merlin reaches over to skim his fingers over Arthur’s knuckles. “I might be persuaded to bring you along to the party. You could meet Gwaine, and Will is going to be there, too. I bet they’d love to meet my fake boyfriend.”
Arthur’s heart bounces back so fast it lodges itself in his throat. “Fake?” he manages to ask around it, trying and failing not to get his hopes up.
“Well, I mean, you could always take me out for that promised dinner tomorrow and we can see what happens…” Merlin trails off suggestively, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah?” Arthur’s gaze is drawn inexorably towards Merlin’s mouth, his lips no less tempting now than they’d been over the last days. Merlin’s tongue darts out to wet them, and Arthur finds himself leaning forwards as if pulled on a string.
It feels different, kissing Merlin for real, without an audience to perform for. It’s just a gentle press of lips on lips, chaste by the standards of what they’ve done at Pendragon Manor, but Arthur gets lost in it anyway.
Finally, Merlin pulls back with a groan. “Ugh. Gwaine is going to be insufferable about this.”
Arthur suppresses a shudder. “Morgana, too.” He dives back in for another brief kiss. “Still,” he breathes into the infinitesimal space between them, “worth it.”