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Arthur could, and had, put up with a lot from Merlin, but this was taking things one step too far – several steps, in fact. The Converse he could deal with, everyone wore Converse, they were normal; the neck scarves had always been a part of Merlin, and Arthur had grown accustomed to them. The form-fitting band logoed t-shirts he could likewise accept because- well, they were form-fitting, even if he hadn’t heard of half the bands and thought little of the others. But the black skinny jeans, despite clinging alluringly to Merlin’s slender legs, were too much and the longish side-swept fringe was just wrong.
Arthur walked over to the man who was at once his friend, his father’s employee and his sometime lover and swung a long leg easily over the bar stool beside him. Merlin turned and Arthur gawked, blinking quickly when he realised he was staring.
“Merlin,” he said, rather incredulously. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”
Merlin wiped a forearm sweepingly over his eyes, only succeeding in spreading a black smear across the skin beneath his left eye and leaving a short, sooty trail along his cheekbone.
“You think it’s too much?” he muttered, and took a swig of his drink.
Arthur glanced at the amber liquid swirling in the glass and then at the clock. He’d heard about these emo types drinking at all hours and was damned if he was going to let Merlin sink that far into this new- fad, craze, whatever. It was 6:10pm, which, he noted, was a perfectly reasonable time to be drinking as well as ten minutes later than they’d agreed to meet. Merlin wouldn’t mind, he knew; Arthur was never on time. There was always something else to do for his father, for ‘The Good of the Company’.
Arthur murmured his apologies, as he always did, and Merlin brushed them aside with an airy wave of his hand. Arthur was very tempted to seize the hand mid-journey and kiss it, but held back. They were ‘just friends’ at the moment, what with Merlin seeing Morgana’s assistant, Gwen, and he didn’t want to do anything to upset that balance.
He looked at the other man’s drink again and noted that he was nearly finished. “What are you drinking?” he asked, their parlance for ‘I’ll get this round’.
“SoCo, lemonade and lime,” Merlin replied, flashing a grin. “You’re quiet today. No long rants about Morgana to grace me with?”
“What’ll it be, boys?” asked the barkeep jovially; they were regulars at the ‘Green Torch Inn’ by now and he liked them well enough. They certainly gave him good custom, giving the place their patron on at least two nights in any week and usually staying for a good few hours and a great deal more rounds.
“Pint of Carling and a Southern Comfort with lemonade and lime,” Arthur told him, handing over the money and accepting the drinks when they came, passing Merlin his. Together, they crossed the room and slid into their usual booth by the jukebox.
“Ugh,” Arthur said in response to Merlin’s earlier question. “Don’t even get me started.” And they were off once again on the dance they did, Arthur waxing eloquent about the many failings of his foster sister and Merlin trying hard not to snigger into his drink.
“And then,” Arthur fumed, “she had the gall to say – right to my face, mind – that I was arrogant! I mean, me? Arrogant? Hardly.”
“You do like to blow your own trumpet a bit,” Merlin pointed out, rather unhelpfully in Arthur’s view.
“I do not,” he refuted. “There are plenty of people that can do that for me. And, besides, it’s only arrogance if you can’t back it up; I think I’ve more than proved I’ve got the skill to back up any claims.”
“Oh, well, when you put it like that, it’s completely different. Not arrogant in the slightest.”
“You’re being sarcastic again, aren’t you?”
Merlin grinned widely. “How did you guess?”
Arthur swatted him on the arm playfully, and continued: “Well, anyway, I soon put her straight, not that she was listening. She started going on about how tragic it was when ego got in the way of destiny, or something.”
Merlin looked at him blankly. “What does that even mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Arthur raised a single eyebrow and curled the corner of his upper lip in one of the facial expression that never failed to make Merlin smile; amongst the employees at the Pendragon Corporation, he had been nicknamed ‘rubberface’ for this legendary ability.
“I guess she and Gwen have been spending too much time with Slash lately,” Merlin said by way of reply.
“The Dragster? What are they hanging out with him for?”
Merlin shrugged. “Beats me how they get any sense out of the cryptic bastard. I mean, he’s intelligent, sure, but he’s always too stoned for me to translate his nonsense.”
“Product marketers, man. They’re always stoned.” Merlin shot him a look that clearly said that he wasn’t even going to grace that with a reply, and Arthur quickly changed the topic. “Right, then, emo boy, are we going to broach the subject of Gwen or is it quite happy being the elephant in the room?”
“I keep telling you: I’m not emo.”
“Right,” Arthur said sceptically. “Because there’s some other explanation for the skinny jeans, studded belt and eyeliner.”
“I think we’ve established that the eyeliner was a bad idea.”
“I could make a book out of your bad ideas.”
Merlin ignored this last comment, well used to Arthur’s jibes, their friendly banter. “Still doesn’t mean I’m emo,” he muttered.
“You listen to Death Cab!” Arthur exclaimed.
Merlin shot him a mutinous glare.
“Well, you do.”
Merlin lifted his glass to his lips and drained the drink. “What about Gwen?” he asked, feeling that it was the lesser of two evils.
“You guys still…?” Arthur left the question unfinished, ambiguous.
“I don’t know what we are,” Merlin replied, somewhat disconsolately. “I think we’re back to being friends.”
There was a silence between them, heavy with the weight of words unsaid. Arthur took a long drink of his pint.
“Lancelot’s back now, anyway,” Merlin said, with a shrug.
“What’s that poncy git got to do with anything?” Arthur said, with what Merlin felt was undue vehemence.
“I thought you liked Lancelot.”
Arthur tried to think of a response that wasn’t “I did until I heard this; he’s hurt you” and failed. Instead, he stood and went over to the jukebox, spending longer than necessary selecting a song and finally deciding on Usher’s ‘Yeah’. Predictably, when he returned to his seat Merlin was rolling his eyes at him, talk of Lancelot forgotten.
“Do you really have to foist this crap on the rest of us?” he asked.
Arthur grinned in response and pushed his now empty pint glass towards Merlin. “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.”
*
Arthur was lounging in his swivel chair with his feet up on his desk when Merlin walked into his office the next day. Merlin cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Nothing to do?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve got plenty I’m supposed to do, just nothing that seems worth my time or effort,” came the reply.
Merlin knew it didn’t much matter whether Arthur did any work at all; his position in his father’s company was more of an honorary one, setting him up to take over when Uther eventually stepped down as Chief Executive. Nonetheless, the young man did somehow manage to make quite a deal of mess and it was inevitably Merlin that had to clean it up. He was, after all, Arthur’s assistant – Arthur liked to jokingly call him his ‘manservant’ – and Arthur had little need for assistance other than in tidying his office.
He looked around at the large room, his gaze flickering over the weapon collection along one wall, which Arthur was responsible for testing, and taking in the assorted detritus.
“You’re going to get me to clean, aren’t you?” he asked.
“It’s good for you, keeps you in check. Can’t have you peons rising above your station.”
Merlin pulled off his neckerchief and threw it at Arthur’s head. “We can’t all be heirs to a fortune, unfortunately.”
Arthur affected a faux-imperious expression and gestured around him. “Tidy up, peasant!”
Merlin rolled his hands into fists and raised them to the level of his face before slowly extending the thumb and index finger of each and bringing the tips of his thumbs together. “Whatever,” he said, dropping his hands back to his sides.
“Did you just do the ‘whatever’ sign?” Arthur asked, incredulous. “Loser.”
Merlin grinned. “I think you’ll find it’s-“ he held up his right hand, thumb and forefinger extended, the other fingers curled in towards his palm “-loser.”
“You’re an actual retard, Merlin,” Arthur said, the disguised amusement evident in his tone.
Merlin turned his right hand into a full fist before stretching out his index finger and crooking it.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“It’s an ‘r’!” Merlin insisted, roiled.
“That is not an ‘r’,” said Arthur dryly.
Merlin turned away, attempting to convey some impression of superiority and unconcern, and promptly walked into the edge of Arthur’s desk. Arthur burst into laughter.
“There really hasn’t been a word created to accurately describe just how idiotic you are.”
“On fine form with the insults today, Arthur.”
“All the same, I think I’ll add an ‘emo boy’, for good measure.”
“Better an emo boy than a royal prat.”
Merlin ducked as his neck scarf was hurled unceremoniously at his head.
*
Arthur hesitated in front of the coffee machine in the staff room. He hated drinking the stuff his father provided, would much rather go to the Coffee Republic around the corner, but it was pouring down with rain and his hair was looking rather good today. He was still trying to decide whether to cater to his looks or his taste buds when Slash approached.
“Gum, young Pendragon?” asked the older man.
“Sure,” Arthur accepted, deciding heading into the rain just wasn’t an option with today’s feathered locks.
Slash nodded wisely. “For now, you are content merely to chew, but the time will come when you learn to swallow.”
Arthur felt a light flush creep up his cheeks as he thought of Merlin. Slash offered an enigmatic smile and walked over to the table Morgana and Gwen were sharing.
“What was that all about?” came Merlin’s voice from behind him.
Arthur turned. “It’s Slash,” he said. “No one ever knows what he’s on about. That’s why Gaius is still in product development after twenty five years – he’s the only one that can translate the Dragster’s marketing ideas.”
He blinked and looked more carefully at the young man standing before him. Merlin was soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his head, droplets of water making their way down his temples and along his cheekbones. His ‘My Chemical Romance’ t-shirt was clinging rather alluringly to his torso, highlighting his firm abdomen and- Arthur realised he was getting entirely distracted. Merlin was holding something out in front of him.
“You still take it white with no sugar, right?”
*
It was Saturday and Arthur was walking in the hills near his family home, when he spied a familiar figure sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, hunched over and apparently deeply focused on something. Arthur headed over to him.
“What are you reading?”
Merlin looked up. “They’re calling it a book,” he deadpanned.
Arthur reached over and plucked the hefty tome from his hands, running an appraising eye over the cover. “It’s long.”
Merlin merely rolled his eyes and offered Arthur his iPod. Arthur grinned at how well the other boy knew him and accepted. “What’s it about?”
“Everything.”
Arthur cocked a single eyebrow, unimpressed.
Merlin sighed and lowered the book. “It’s called ‘The Concept of Dread’, by a guy called Kierkegaard. Basically, he talks about this idea of existential angst and how we’re all spiritually full of anguish and torment, looking for reassurance in rules and stability but never finding it because we’re all free beings and- you’re not listening are you?”
Arthur wasn’t listening, it was true. He had become somewhat preoccupied with scrolling through Merlin’s iPod library. “There’s a band called ‘Panic at the Disco’?”
“Listen to ‘But It’s Better If You Do’,” Merlin suggested.
Arthur did. Twice. Wait, was he starting to like this emo crap? “Not bad,” he said eventually.
Merlin’s eyes twinkled; Arthur should have known Merlin would see right through his faux-nonchalance. “They’re playing in town next weekend,” Merlin said. “We could go and see them.”
Arthur didn’t reply, and Merlin continued, “Listen to them some more, see what you think. ‘Camisado’ and ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies’ are both pretty great, too.”
Arthur spent the rest of the afternoon working his way through Merlin’s iPod, surprising himself at the fact that he actually quite liked the majority of the songs; Merlin read his book, a small smile playing on his lips.
*
The Brixton Academy was packed. Panic at the Disco were on fine form, as the hundreds of fans could attest, and the venue was absolutely heaving, people singing along and screaming at a pitch that only deliriously happy fangirls could reach. Merlin and Arthur pushed their way through the crowds and finally found themselves at the bar.
“Pint of Carling and-“ Arthur turned to Merlin. “What are you having?”
“Vodka and lemonade. No ice.”
Arthur relayed this to the bartender, wishing for what must have been the fiftieth time that Merlin could, just once, order something as simple as a pint. They took their drinks and moved away, turning back towards the stage and the band. Merlin’s eyes shone with happiness and he’d had a near-permanent smile on his face throughout the whole gig that made Arthur very glad he’d accompanied him.
“Next, we’re gonna give you ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies’, so give it up, London!” called Brendon Urie from the stage.
Merlin raised his left hand, his index and little fingers extended, and let out a whooping cheer. In doing so, the hem of his t-shirt rode up, exposing his pale, slender stomach and one jutting hipbone. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. Merlin turned to him, grinning broadly, and then Arthur had tilted his head and covered his lips with his own before he’d even thought about what he was doing.
He felt Merlin tense in his arms for a moment, and then his lips became pliant and his hand was on the back of Arthur’s neck and they were kissing with an urgency that had been entirely absent from all their previous encounters. Those occasions had always been quick fumbles and needy sex. This was something entirely different, something Arthur had never quite dared to let himself hope for. Merlin was kissing him back, his tongue brushing firmly against his own, the lips alternating pressure but never letting up. It was wet and chaotic and slightly painful in its intensity, but Arthur couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. Their drinks long forgotten and dropped to the floor, Arthur pulled Merlin closer, holding their bodies together and not caring when Merlin’s studded belt dug into his abdomen.
“Get a room, gay boys!” yelled a voice, and they pulled regretfully away.
Merlin seized Arthur’s wrist and pulled him further into the crowd, closer to the band. He was still holding it when the gig came to an end.
*
Merlin woke up utterly confused. He looked around himself and saw only a mass of reds, golds and chocolate-browns; this definitely wasn’t his room. Then he registered the warm arm slung across his body and the soft head pressed against his shoulder and remembered coming back to Arthur’s flat after the gig.
Then he remembered the rest of their evening – how they had gone right back to kissing as soon as they were through the door; how they’d discarded their clothes haphazardly around the flat on their way to Arthur’s bedroom; how Arthur had insisted Merlin keep his Converse on and then momentarily panicked when he couldn’t find his tube of KY jelly.
It had all been very different from the frantic nature of their previous dalliances. The deep passion and unbridled lust had still been there, but there had been an added level of sensuality, a tenderness between them that allowed Merlin to justify the small blossom of hope that was unfurling in his chest.
Arthur stirred and blinked up at Merlin. “Morning,” he said throatily.
“More like afternoon, really,” Merlin commented, and Arthur slapped his shoulder gently with the back of his hand.
They stayed in bed until late in the afternoon, talking and kissing and tracing aimless patterns with their fingertips along one another’s skin. At around 4 o’clock, Merlin’s stomach rumbled loudly. He got out of bed and went into the kitchen. A few minutes of opening cupboards and peering into the fridge explained why Arthur had laughed at Merlin’s suggestion that he make them something to eat; the only food in the flat consisted of a lump of mouldy cheese, some stale bread and several packets of Angel Delight. When he returned to the bedroom, Arthur had booted up his laptop and logged on to Hungry House.
“Pizza’ll be alright, yeah?”
Merlin nodded and picked up his jeans, pulling his wallet from a pocket and rifling through it. Arthur waved aside his attempt to split the cost. “My treat,” he said, and Merlin felt a little foolish.
Arthur returned to the bed and pushed Merlin down, straddling him. He brought his mouth down onto Merlin’s, crushing their lips together in a thorough kiss that left both of them panting for breath.
“We’ve got half an hour before it gets here,” he said when he pulled back, and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“What did you have in mind?”
They never could untie the laces of Merlin’s Converse from Arthur’s bedposts.