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Merlin had heard about it a year ago, that one night when one of the boys from the Sixth, a friend of Barney's, camped on the window chair in their room, slightly drunk and smoking into the winter airs--flicking the ashes onto the quad below. He was talking about a girl he liked, one he saw last time they sneaked out into town, and Barney--half hanging off his own bed on the other side of the room--lamented the intense nature of his sexual frustration, the unfairness of a life as an average looking kid in a boarding school. The older boy had laughed, licked his lips and said,
"Well, you've got to start somewhere."
Barney, head tilted off the edge of the bed, shifted to give him an odd look. "What d'you mean?"
"I mean," the boy said, then took his time finishing his smoke before adding, "Just 'cause you're fifteen and stuck in this prettied up little hellhole, doesn't mean you girls shouldn't prepare yourself for when the time comes to break the fuck free, y'know?"
Barney slipped and nearly fell in a hasty attempt to sit up. "What?" he said, sounding a sceptical shade of hopeful. “How do we—“
"--Listen."
Barney listened. Merlin, propped up against the wall of his own bed, silent and pretending to read, listened as well.
"When you ladies finally get out of this place, right, and you will, as unlikely as it seems right now, yeah? When you do, and you meet a girl, and she'd be fit and nice to you and you'd want it so bad you won’t event fucking know where to—" He makes a vague cupping gesture, crude and obvious and Barney barks a laugh. The boy lifts his eyebrows once and quick to underline his point as he continues, "When that happens, yeah, do you honestly want that to be your first time? Fucking it up as you go, ruining your first actual change at a real life fucking shag?"
Merlin'd glanced at Barney, and Barney didn't look back. He seemed to be thinking this over, blushing a little, answering a quiet, "No," as a reply.
The boy tilted his head as though to say, There you go. "What I mean is," he said a long moment later. "There are things to be bought in this place, ladies. Practice is one of them."
Barney, mostly joking and tying to seem not bothered at all by the idea, was the one who got the name off him in the end. The specifics were scribbled on the inside of a folded-open matchbox: 50 cash 1st tues of month. 30 mins 2 curfew @ greenhouse. PW: in the mangle. AND BURN AFTER READING not a joke fucker.
Merlin kept it in the back of his notebook for ten months before holding the carton edge to the lighter. Incidentally also the same amount of time it took him to save up the money.
*
Merlin finds him leaning against the shed wall. Hair parted sideways, no coat, tie slightly undone and sleeves rolled up. He's smoking, looking from the ground to the shadowed quad in the distance, squinting at the lights of the main building. He hasn't noticed Merlin yet, and Merlin doesn't know how to announce himself and feels too silly to just stand around, waiting to be acknowledged.
In the end he winds up choking out a far too loud exclamation of, "In the mangle!" into the clear evening, cringing at the instant echo it creates.
Arthur looks up at him, easy, calmly smiling around his fag--exhaling a puff of smoke. "Smooth," he says.
Merlin shifts, uncomfortable, rubbing his clammy palms to the sides of his trousers.
"Well?" Arthur prompts when Merlin doesn't elaborate on his presence. He blinks slowly, unaffected, and Merlin's throat goes dry.
"I, uh," he starts, clears his throat. It's painful. "They said you'd be here? Said to--uhm, say, the . . . " He doesn't want to voice it, not really. Would rather look stupid, and so ends up repeating, "Mangle?"
Arthur snorts, pushes himself a bit further up the wall--head tilting back, looking at Merlin down his nose. "S'fifty quid. Cash."
"I know," Merlin hurries to confirm. Then, "I mean, yeah. Yes. I've . . ." He fumbles with the money in his pocket, the crumpled notes and five coins he'd been working up to through a Christmas and a pawned watch. He's not sure how he imagined this bit to go, how suave he thought he could be with sticky hands and a fistful of bills, but he definitely was not prepared for the awkwardness of stepping up to Arthur with an unsteady little slip on the mud--holding out both clutched hands, ready to dispose of the ball of money with a hitching, uneasy little laugh.
Arthur looks at his hands then up at him, brow lifting up along with a corner of his mouth--something between disapproval and amusement. He holds open a palm, takes the money and easily pockets it. "All right," he says, sighing. "Just let me finish my smoke, yeah?"
Merlin gives a nod so nervous it's more a shaking of the head, wonders why it is he can't ever really seem to be as cool as he feels when he's on his own, and then settles next to Arthur--leaning back against the shed, heart high and heavy in his throat.
"I've seen you around, haven't I?" Arthur asks, inspecting his cigarette. Merlin stops breathing for a second. "With that boy, what's his face, something with a . . . "
"Barney," Merlin supplies.
"That's it. Barney." He smiles, as though remembering something, and gives Merlin a sideways glance. "Stop making yourself so bloody nervous, mate." Then, with another sly smile, "Won't tell anyone or something. It's confidential, this, you know."
"I know. I know it is." He nods at Arthur's pocket and because he never really could say the right thing or even keep his mouth shut, blurts out an additional, "Doubt I'm paying fifty quid for just a snog, right?" and then immediately feels his face heat up, frowns at his feet.
Next to him, Arthur laughs. "Exactly," he says. "So this is your first time, I take?"
Merlin says nothing. Blushes some more, stares some more.
"It's all right. No shame to it, mate." He takes a long drag, shifts the heel of his shoe to the mossy wall behind him. "So you got a lady you want to impress or something?"
At this Merlin looks up. It takes him a moment to reply, and when he finally does he only half believes the words as they come out of his mouth. "I suppose."
"Nice," Arthur approves. "What she like, then?"
"Dunno," he replies, realises how it sounds and recovers with, "I mean, she's pretty." He glances at Arthur's fag, where he brings it up to his lips. "Real pretty, actually."
"How d'you meet her, then?"
"Seen her around. Not here, obviously, but . . . "
"Does she know you like her?"
Merlin snorts. "No. We don't really . . . hang with the same crowd. Or something. I don't know. Don't think her friends like me. I'm pretty sure, actually."
Arthur is quiet for a while, finishing the last of his cigarette. Flicking the last bit of ash, he says, "Have you ever even talked to her?"
"Once, sort of," Merlin admits. "But I don't know if it counts." He thinks back to it, smiles a little--a thin, humourless line. "Not sure she remembers, though."
"No offence, mate, but she sounds like a recipe for a sure bitch."
"Yeah." Merlin's smile shrinks, disappears. "I guess she is."
Arthur blows out the last of the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, throws the butt into the mud--lets it fizzle out on its own. "Okay," he says, sniffing in the cold. He turns toward Merlin, casually, rubs his hands together--blows hot air into his joined palms. "Fucking freezing, innit?"
Merlin nods, tongue suddenly feeling thick in his mouth--his heartbeat, for a moment back there calm again, wildly jumping back to life, settling loudly behind his ears.
"Better get to it, then," Arthur says, even adds a smile to it.
Merlin finds he can't very well move, can't even bring himself to turn and properly face Arthur. His hands are restless at his sides now, sweaty palms pressing to the seam of his trousers--rubbing nervously.
"Hey." Arthur nudges him with a foot. "Don't freak yourself out. All that's going to happen, is me telling what to do, and then you do it. And then I tell you how to do it better, and all you have to do is listen, yeah? Just . . . " He shifts a bit closer, brushing against Merlin's arm—a block of warmth that he feels through his coat. "Relax. It's not a big deal. Best . . . Best to think of it as an investment, all right."
Merlin makes a strangled noise, an attempted laugh, confirms the statement with a, "Fifty quid."
"That's right," Arthur says. "Fifty."
"That's sort of a lot of money, isn't it?"
Even without looking at him, Merlin sees the breathy smile on Arthur's face. He lowers his voice, then, says, "You'll have to face me for this, you know. Can't very well do everything on my own."
And there's truth to that, Merlin knows it, knows this was another one of his choices—no escaping that now, not when it's been in the making for quite a while now—but even with that it still takes him a couple of uncertain breaths and nervous glances beyond the greenhouse before he manages to push off the shed, make the necessary half-turn, movements halted and self-conscious.
It's pretty dark now, the evening quickly folding in on the shadows of the school grounds, but not dark enough to miss Arthur's eyes scanning his face—mild, not particularly interested—pausing on his mouth for a second longer. Merlin wishes he was prettier. He's paying for it, he knows. He still wishes it.
For a moment, Arthur just looks at him. "What are you, like, fourteen?"
"Sixteen." And, wryly, "Thanks."
"Whatever," he says, and leans in.
Merlin immediately goes still, unmoving, eyes wide as Arthur hovers an inch from his mouth. This does not go unnoticed, and Arthur puffs a light laugh—the heat of it bouncing off Merlin's lips, halting Merlin's heart in its mad pace. He swallows.
"You are a jumpy one, aren't you." Arthur doesn't exactly ask this, tilts his head a little—touches his nose to Merlin's cheek. His lips brush the skin next to the corner of his mouth, just barely, and now he's nuzzling the side of Merlin's face. "Slow is all right," he says, quietly, the words forming against the line of Merlin's jaw—rumbling with closeness, breath hot, the smell of smoke still sharp. "Girls like slow."
Merlin's reply is a vague exhale, something that may have wanted to be a 'yes' at some point before forgetting the pronunciation at a stop between the lungs and the mouth. To the jut of his jaw, Arthur's lips curve into a smile—slow, slightly parting—before he hums, low and appreciative.
"Gonna press my lips to yours now," he whispers. "Just for a moment. You press back, yeah?"
All Merlin can see is the stubbly patch of skin at Arthur's temple, his earlobe, the line of his hair. He closes his eyes, the heat spreading down his neck and up, making him flush, and feels the cold tip of Arthur's nose follow the path of his cheekbone—bump against his own nose, almost playfully, and then there's a warm puff of air very close by. A mouth fitting itself to his bottom lip with a bit of pressure.
Arthur's mouth on me, he thinks, and does nothing.
Arthur eases back just enough to remind him that, "Oi," and then he's lightly nudging Merlin's lips with his, as though to share a breath. The gesture is so much like affection Merlin's throat closes in on itself and then the mouth back, capturing his upper lip, warm and a little wet, and there's nothing Merlin can do to not kiss back—kiss Arthur's bottom lip with a bit too much concentration.
Arthur hums again, that low sound of approval, then moves to kiss Merlin's lower lip again—shorter this time, going for the corner of his mouth, tilting his head to it and Merlin goes along, dragging his lips along the arch of Arthur's, pressing slow kisses to the pout below, blushing deep and dizzying as he goes.
"You're doing all right," Arthur murmurs. "Try not to ta—"
Merlin cuts him with what he intends to be a kiss, but Arthur's mouth is slightly open and when Merlin catches his lip the instinctive reaction to suck it into his mouth is hard to ignore—so he ends up doing that, tasting the faint tobacco with a deep inhale. This earns him a throaty breath of a laugh right before Arthur pulls back, hand coming up to bracket Merlin's face because he's to follow the retreat, wanting more, but Arthur holds him in place with a heavy palm to the curve of his jaw, a thumb to his cheekbone.
Merlin is breathing a bit heavily, his skin feeling abnormally hot under the freezing weight of Arthur's hand—the slow stroking to his cheek, the side of his eye, his brow.
"Taking it too seriously," Arthur tells him, smooths down his frown—thumb lingering over the bridge of his nose. "Not rocket science. Just a snog. Ease up." But then his hand is back to the side of Merlin's face, pad of his finger pressing to the corner of Merlin's mouth, marking the exact space between their lips—and all Merlin can do is breathe somewhat shakily, try and tilt up for more contact.
"Remember your hands," Arthur continues, brushing the syllables diagonally to Merlin's skin. "Touching the face, like this, this is . . . " His fingers trace the curve of his jaw, back and forth. "Good, yeah?"
Merlin manages a twitch of a nod, not really processing that much.
"Keep away from the bum at first. You do not want to be on the receiving end of that slap after five seconds." He smiles, just barely, moves his lips against Merlin's to mark a short line, tracing the length twice over. "Believe me."
And Merlin believes him—boy, does he believe him, isn't sure what he wouldn't believe right there, folding the wet inside of his lip to Arthur's pout in a mindless little kiss. Arthur returns it for a moment, the quiet smacking sound of lips sending a hot shiver over Merlin's shoulders—up the back of his neck.
"Where are your hands, then?" Arthur asks him. "Where are you putting your hands?"
His hands, he doesn't know where he's putting his hands—sweaty, clenched fists at his sides, he'd rather not put them anywhere right now. But then Arthur grabs his wrist, and Merlin barely has the time to sneak a wipe of his clammy palm to the fabric of his coat on the way up before his hand is placed to the side of Arthur's neck.
It's warm and the muscle is hard, the pulse steady and the skin scratchy below his jaw, soft along the line of his hair.
Merlin slides his hand to Arthur's shoulder instead. Arthur replies with a cold nudge of his nose to Merlin's cheek, grabbing his hand again and sliding it back to his neck. "Neck," he says. "You want the neck."
"M'sweaty," is Merlin's quiet answer, trying to hold his fingers off Arthur's skin.
"Yeah," Arthur huffs in reply, amused, hand coming down to slip into Merlin's coat—settling it on his side, under the dip of his ribs. "You might wanna do something about that." He pulls Merlin a bit closer, a rough, possessive movement, and Merlin's breath hitches—back automatically arching to the touch, pressing his chest to Arthur's.
Arthur hisses in a short breath, tsks. "Look at you, kid," he says, mock admiration in his voice.
Merlin looks up, sharply, sees nothing but a blur of Arthur's lashes—the side of his nose—makes a weak attempt to pull back with a, "Sh'up," but the hand on his waist keeps him in place, tightens in its hold.
"Watch out," Arthur says, leaning in the small distance. "Gonna get a little wetter."
And then the warm lips are back, quicker this time—three kisses, one for every lip and another for the corner—moving his head to it this time, a small arching of his neck, helping to tilt Merlin's chin up with every go. Merlin can't help the needy sound that somehow forms in the back of his throat, but Arthur doesn't comment—just opens his mouth slightly, sucks in Merlin's lip, and Merlin forgets all about sweaty fingers, clutches at Arthur's neck, grips at his arm.
At the hot texture of a tongue pressing to the dip of his lip, all surrounded by the heat of Arthur's mouth, Merlin closes his eyes again—loses another heartbeat in the frenzy, makes that foolish sound again—and gives a languid, close lick to Arthur's upper lip. Arthur replies by sucking harder, using more tongue, smoothing it over before biting down, lightly. Merlin tries to do the same but gets too distracted, and the angle won't allow, and before he knows it they're switching places—Arthur pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his upper lip, Merlin licking more boldly to his lower one.
They do that once, twice more and by a natural progression meet in the middle—tongues slicking together, sliding wetly between them before they lick into each other's mouths, slowly, going deeper with every give and take. And that is it, that is absolutely it for Merlin's mind—it did its best keeping up with what was happening until now, but is truly no longer of need, Merlin realises as he quietly moans into Arthur's mouth, fingers slipping into hair by way of his nape—running his nails to Arthur's scalp, the dipping path that leads down to neck. He's tilting his head, trying for a different angle, rolling his tongue against Arthur's with the filthiest of intentions in the foreground of his thoughts. His other hand travels up from Arthur's tense arm to his neck, his jaw, mimicking his hold on Merlin's face. He can just see the both of them, can imagine it perfectly, blurry shapes in the dark shadow of the shed—locked together, Merlin pressing up a bit frenzied and needy, kissing loud and earnest with Arthur holding him in place, hands on each other's faces—fingers in hair, digging into waists—the night silent save for the wind, the creaking of branches overhead, the wet noises and breathy grunts they elicit, puffs of air visible in the cold hour of the eve.
Merlin takes it further, traces the flat of his tongue to the ridged roof of Arthur's mouth, and Arthur slots his tongue under Merlin's—sucks on it, the sensation shooting right down the back of Merlin's head, stealing the air from his lungs and settling low, very low, a humming anticipation that makes his hips stutter forward, shift and try to slot his leg between Arthur's. And maybe Arthur doesn't notice it at first, or doesn't mind all too much because he doesn't say or do anything to stop it, and the thought alone drives Merlin a little crazy—drives him to keen, to kiss harder and wetter and faster, now gripping at Arthur's hair with two hands. Arthur's own hand flexes at the small of his back, clutching at his shirt in what might be surprise, the other one slipping from Merlin's face to his neck, his collarbone. Merlin bites, dirty, licks it over, and Arthur doesn't hum this time—he gives a small grunt of surprise, pulling back and pushing at Merlin with a palm the base of his throat.
"Whoa, there," he says, out of breath—frowning down at Merlin. "Easy, man. 'S not a marathon."
"Yeah," Merlin agrees, distractedly, leaning in for more but Arthur inches back again—raises his brow.
"I mean it. Enthusiasm is one thing, but you're just—"
"You pushed me into a wall once," Merlin interrupts, suddenly. It's not at all what he wanted to say, but the memory tumbled over his thoughts and spilled into his words far too quickly for him to do anything about it. It's weird, this, standing with his hands on the back of Arthur's neck, brushing his thumbs to the line of his hair—his lips swollen, skin sensitive from the grazing stubble, talking. The situation somehow freeing in its utter improbability.
Arthur says nothing at first, then smiles—slow, private. "I've pushed a lot of people into walls, kid."
Merlin huffs, a bit like a laugh, relaxes. Arthur's hand eases on his chest, no longer a pressure, and Merlin tries for a casual movement the best he can when he bows his head—quietly rests his forehead to Arthur's. He sighs, looks at Arthur's mouth, says, "Bumped my head pretty hard."
Arthur's fingers are doing something, absently mapping out the paths of his collarbones. "Did you, now?"
"Hm." Merlin closes his eyes, brushes his lips to the little hollow between Arthur's lip and nose. "You were coming back from the field," he says.
"Practice?" Arthur asks, presses a soft kiss to his lower lip.
"Yes. All . . . " –Takes a pause to kiss back, nibble at Arthur's lips, " . . . muddy. With your friends. I was just standing in the hall."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And you walked by andmm—" Cut off by Arthur's mouth, Merlin gives in for a long moment, eventually pulling back to add a breathless, "Pushed me. Just like that. No warning."
"Did I?" Arthur asks, and Merlin can actually feel his stupid smile. "And what'd you do?"
"Called you a wanker," Merlin whispers back.
"Blimey. Couldn't've reacted well to that."
"You didn't. Worked me to the ground. Sat on me." He says this, pushes closer still—flush against Arthur, arms folding all the way around his neck. "Nearly broke my arm, too."
Arthur's hand slips from the base of his throat over what little of his chest isn't pressed against him, down Merlin's side and around him, under his coat, joining his other hand at the small of Merlin's back—breathing in sharply. "And when was this, then?"
"Two years ago," lazily mouthing at the corner of his mouth, down to his jaw.
Arthur's exhale hitches—unexpectedly, suddenly. "Good memory," he says, not sounding all that collected anymore.
"Not the kind of thing I'm likely to forget, is it." Merlin grazes his teeth to Arthur's chin, a small bite, sucking a kiss to the same spot. Repeats the action, a breath to the right, and again, stopping to once more ask, "Is it?"
Arthur doesn't so much reply, more like breathes something vague to Merlin's cheek, trailing down and seeking out his mouth—kissing him in a different way, meeting Merlin's heated intention halfway, not holding back the throaty moan when Merlin sucks him into his own mouth this time. It's something dirty this time around, a little more desperate now that they're both chasing the headiness into one another, Merlin punctuating their combined sound of foggy need with a breathy, "Arthur," and Arthur letting his hands travel lower, settling on Merlin's ass and pulling him closer to a grinding movement that leaves them both gasping, scrabbling for more.
Leverage, Merlin thinks. And leverage seems to be the collective thought between them as Arthur manoeuvres him back against the shed wall, the growing staccato slide of their tongues faltering for a moment, Arthur licking down the side of his mouth with when Merlin slowly grazes his thigh up between his legs. The hapless, rutting movement that elicits has Merlin gyrating down against Arthur's leg, crazy with it, and Arthur groans low and pained before pulling back—stilling Merlin's hips with his hands.
He buries his face in Merlin's shoulder. His mouth wet against the side of Merlin's neck. "Shit."
Merlin drops his head back, closes his eyes. Tries to calm down. "Just so you know," he says, breathing hard. "I'm not paying extra for this."
Arthur's huff of a snort is cool against the damp skin where his lips were a second before. "Shut up."
Merlin smiles, hazily, unwinds his hands from Arthur's hair—absently stroking at the base of his neck. Arthur shivers, says, "Jesus Christ," then, "Okay. Just—" He swallows. When he speaks next his voice is lower, quieter. "Tell me about this girl again."
"What?" Merlin looks down at Arthur's mop of a hair—the neat parting lost in the mess he's made of it. "What . . . "
"The one you like."
"The one . . . " He stops. His heart, already a wild, unearthly rhythm in his chest, pushes loudly against his ears—clamps down on his airways. He knows what this is. "Well," is how he starts, looking at his fingers playing with the hair at Arthur's nape. "Like I said, she's . . . fit. Really fit."
"Big tits?"
"Huge."
Arthur smiles into his shoulder, shivers again at the scrape of Merlin's nails. "What else."
"Spoilt. Arrogant." He can't help but smile, just a little, brushing his cheek to Arthur's hair—leaning down to nuzzle behind his ear. "Criminally inclined."
Dragging his lips dryly over Merlin's collarbone, Arthur mouths more than says, "Sounds pretty badass."
"Oh, she's badass," Merlin tells him, presses a wet kiss to his neck, then a bolder one—tonguing the hard flesh under the salty stretch of skin. He moves up, bites at Arthur's earlobe—sucks it into his mouth, then whispers a quiet, "A recipe for a sure bitch."
Arthur gives a tortured sound, hips involuntarily hitching up as Merlin continues to lay a wet path down his neck—half-hearted bites, brushing his lips in damp, wayward patterns as though made mindlessly weak by need, sucking and licking at will, one hand finding its way back up to Arthur's hair, the other meandering down over his chest, fingers skittering over the hard muscle with kneading, rough touches, wanting to get at everything at once and not knowing where to start. All the while they move their hips together, slowly, guided by Arthur's hands, making it so hard to form coherent thought that it is must be some kind of accomplishment when Arthur murmurs, "I know your name," under the jut of his jaw.
"Yeah," is all Merlin has in return, mouthing Arthur's adam's apple.
"Melvin."
"Merlin."
"Whatever," he says, and tries to get at Merlin's mouth, can't turn his head that far and gives his cheekbone and annoyed little nibble. "Come here."
So Merlin turns his head, halfway into a drunken smile, and Arthur kisses him—open and filthy and well in time to the languid rhythm they've built up, all hitching breaths and low agreements of fuck and good, and maybe they could've finished it right there—if they'd just had a few more moments, seconds, if they would've sped it up a little, pressed into each other a little more right there by the greenhouse twenty minutes past curfew. Twenty minutes past, twenty, just when the groundskeeper's torchlight passed over one of the badly repaired glass windows of the greenhouse—making Arthur tear away with a bewildered expression, a momentary realisation and a quickly hissed, "Fuck."
Merlin sees the torchlight flicker their way, pass over them for just a second and then jump back—the groundskeeper's voice shouting something in the distance.
"Shit, shit," is what Arthur has to say, a second before he's on his feet—almost steady—gripping Merlin's sleeve and pulling him along into a run, a mad run, speeding over the muddy quad and not stopping even when Merlin slips—half falls into the soggy grass, not getting the chance to properly give in to gravity as Arthur's grip immediately pulls him back up, let him go. Arthur is faster, Merlin does his best to follow, not really knowing where they're heading or what back entrance they're taking until they're inside—pausing for breath in the dark kitchens. Or at least Merlin thinks it's for breath, but then Arthur's staggering, pulling off his shoes and hushing at him, whispering, "Take off your shoes, mate! Take off your shoes!"
So Merlin does, confused but figuring it's the mud, probably, and that Arthur's done this kind of running before. The second both his loafers are off and in his hands they're going again, running down the hall and taking the turn into the corridor, up the stairs, and Arthur looks back at him—breathless, a crazy smile on his face, and Merlin runs a little faster, his breaths sounding a bit more like laughter all of a sudden.
When they get to the second floor they come to a slow, exhausted stop, slumping against opposite walls—wet, dirty, panting. Absolutely debouched.
Arthur snorts, an amused, wheezy sound, head rolling back against the wall. "Holy crap."
Merlin silently agrees, grinning weakly. He wants to slip down, sit for a little while, and he's halfway there when Arthur pushes off the wall at once—glances down the stairwell, the corridor, and announces that, "Well. I'm off, then."
It's enough to get Merlin up and standing again. "What?"
"I am off," he explains by way of enunciation, sounding almost as casual as he's aiming for. "G'night."
"But—" Merlin starts after. "Uhm, I . . . "
"What? You've had your lesson." Arthur gives him a small gesture with a shoe. "I'd say you've got your basics down, kid. So." He shrugs, turns to walk down the rest of the corridor—wet socks leaving tracks on the dark, gleaming floor.
"Wait, you—"
"I, what?" Arthur turns in his step, walking backwards, a shoe in each hand. "You want more? That it? Well, it's fifty quid a time, Melvin. So. Either pay up, or . . . "
"Merlin," he corrects, vaguely, frowning at Arthur.
Merlin stares at him for a heartbeat, two, then drops his shoes—runs after, a short distance that has him skidding to round Arthur—cutting him off mid-stride. Arthur gives him a look and Merlin sways a little with the momentum, chest out as though to block the way. Arthur takes a breath to say something just as Merlin takes a breath and steps closer with a quick move—a hard kiss. Arthur smiles with surprise, perhaps ready to mock but Merlin makes use of the moment to press in, to frown as he makes it wetter, mouthing, humming high in the back of his throat to further the reaction along—and it works, too. More or less.
Arthur drops the shoes.
Merlin slips his hands around his waist, easily, runs them down his back—fits his palms to the shape of Arthur's ass. The promise of a slap dances foggily in the back of his mind, but he's not really waiting for it and it doesn't come, only Arthur's hands bracketing his face—licking into his mouth with a loud, heartfelt groan. Then stumbling, groping, Merlin pushed up against a wall again and Arthur's honest marvel of, "Not happening. This is so not—"
And then, not much later on Merlin's part as he struggles with Arthur's tie (fails, too, distracted by Arthur's hands too high up under his shirt), "I want a discount."
"Yours," Arthur pants, licking at the shell of his ear.
"I want it free," Merlin decides.
"Yeah," Arthur agrees, far too easy. "Yeah."
"Hall," is Merlin's final input.
"Yes."
"Shit, Arthur. Hall. We're in the—"
"Fuck it," Arthur says, meaning it too, all the way up until that one hand that disappeared down a pair of trousers, followed by that one moan Merlin couldn't swallow down and then a light goes on, a door opens, and it's back to the scrambling, the running, the only getting halfway up a flight of stairs before getting distracted again by the heat on the inside of a wrist, by the lovely crook of a smile, and all in all it only takes them half the night to get to Arthur's room—a blissful single, bought by the wonderful riches of a last name—by which point there's nowhere to tumble but down, all over each other, a world of fingers and heat with no foreseeable future in which the outside world should matter in the slightest.