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Merlin has his life planned out. Each hour of each day is meticulously accounted for: the classes he takes, the extracurriculars he participates in, down to the exact minutes he studies, reads, eats, and sleeps. He knows where he’s going after university and how he’ll spend the rest of his life. There is no room for any errors or missteps. Everything has to be flawless–he has to be flawless—in pursuit of his dream. It’s what he promised his mum.
But there are some variables in life you can’t account for.
“I would like to state for the record that I do not want to be here,” Merlin declares and then throws back a shot of something bright and pink. It’s sweet.
“Overruled,” Will replies, far too cheerfully, before he does a shot of something electric blue. He grimaces like he’s just eaten a warhead. Immediately, he goes to grab another round, leaving Merlin alone in a crowd of strangers listening to unfamiliar electronic music. The amplified bassline rattles his bones. When Will returns, he tries again.
“Will—”
“Merlin,” Will interrupts. “You’ve been studying your arse off lately. One night off isn’t going to derail you. C’mon, where’s my best mate?”
Merlin groans, exaggeratedly long. He has two exams to study for, a mock trial to prepare for, and this is only the second week back in school, and—and he sees the hurt lurking behind Will’s nonchalant attitude. He has been pretty absent lately, hasn’t he?
Ugh, how he absolutely detests it when Will’s right.
“Alright,” he concedes defeat.
“Great!” Will exclaims and hands him another shot. Merlin sighs and takes it. Tonight might not hurt, but tomorrow is definitely going to, at this rate.
Will smashes their glasses together as someone walks past, bumping into him. Half the contents spill onto the floor and their shoes, but with a shrug, Will tosses back the remaining liquid. Merlin echoes the motion and swallows down the rest of his trepidation with it. Shots number three and four follow quickly after. They settle in Merlin’s stomach like a hearthfire.
“Let’s grab a beer!” Will exclaims and doesn’t wait for Merlin’s answer before taking his hand and dragging him over to the keg. Merlin blinks, and suddenly he’s holding a beer. He takes a sip of it cautiously. To his surprise, it tastes good. As he goes to take another drink, Will leads him onto the dance floor.
The colorful lights swim across Merlin’s vision, leaving trails like lightsabers.
“Dance!” Will shouts over the music. “Don’t just stand there like a… Like a…” He frowns. Merlin tilts his head. Like a… Like… Wait, what are they talking about again? The song switches to a new tune, and Will’s face lights up. “Oh, this one is brilliant!” He lets out a whoop that rings in Merlin’s ears.
Will jumps in place, striking out with his hands. Dancing. Having fun. Right. Merlin finishes the last of his beer. The cup falls out of his hands as he mimics Will’s moves. His body feels so light. Delayed. His fingers are moving so slowly.
His thoughts slip out of reach, lost to a drunken haze.
This is fun. Why had he tried so hard to leave?
People come up to dance with them, and Will definitely says their names. Tom? Angel? Merlin can’t gather enough focus to remember them. When someone crashes into Will, sending him careening to the floor, Merlin pulls Will away from the floor before he can start a fight. Fighting’s bad. They need another drink.
“Beer!” he yells in Will’s ear over the music.
“Hell yeah!”
They squeeze their way over to the keg.
Abruptly, the music screeches to a halt, and the ceiling lights switch on. Merlin blinks, partially blinded, and then the doors slam open. Uniformed men spill into the room, yelling, “Police! Nobody move!”
Merlin puts his hands in the air. Oh, fuck. He’s screwed. They’ll send him to jail, and then he’ll have to drop out of uni, and then he won’t be able to find a job. No one’s going to want to hire a criminal. He’ll be out on the streets, unable to pay his mother’s medical bills. His career is over before it’s even begun.
A hand grabs his wrist, and a familiar voice yells right next to him, “Run!” The whole room scatters like a bag of Skittles dropped onto the floor. Will pulls Merlin along with the crowd, but barely three steps later, someone collides with Merlin, elbowing him in the ribs. He loses hold of Will’s hand.
“Hey!” Will cries out indignantly. The crowd pulls him away; Merlin’s limbs don’t cooperate with his brain’s orders, leaving him pushed and pulled along by the pandemonium. Once clear of the building, the crowd disperses. Will is nowhere in sight.
The sudden silence is disconcerting.
Merlin stares blankly ahead, unsure of what to do now. The world swims around him. He stares at the streetlamp, trying to collect his thoughts. He can’t just stand here; he needs to leave. His legs hum with the thought of moving, but they’re stuck to the ground. Not ready to move, then. So… he should… check his phone? Call for a taxi? Or maybe Will texted him.
“Hey! You! Don’t move!” a voice shouts. A cop. They found him. A rush of fear seizes hold of Merlin’s heart. In a split second, he comes to two realizations. He’s fucked if he’s caught, and he’s already run once. So… he has to run again.
His legs are already carrying him away before he finishes the thought.
The world spins past him in a blur of lights and brick as he runs along the mews. As he turns into an alley, his feet catch against the ground, sending him sprawling to the ground. There’s a flash of pain that dissipates as soon as he stands and takes stumbling steps forward. He has to escape. Snatches of memory guide him towards the other end of the alley. It spills out into Queen’s Gate. Then it’s a short walk to the South Kensington station. He can take the District Line to Westminster, then the Jubilee to Waterloo. Another short walk and he’ll be home and safe. It’ll be like this night never happened.
Merlin has worked too hard to lose it all now.
He practically throws himself out of the alley, bracing himself for the rush of traffic. Silence greets him. Silence and the glittering lights of street lamps.
His heartbeat jumps into his ears as he retreats half a step and collides with the alley wall. He’s such an idiot. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, to gather himself into some semblance of rationality and control. Colors spin in the back of his eyelids like a contained galaxy.
It’s after midnight. The tube isn’t running anymore.
A weight settles on his chest, panic muddying his thoughts. Does he just walk back to his flat now? Call for a black cab? That would put a dent in his expenses, and he can already barely afford ramen.
Footsteps echo off the walls of the alleyway and thud around Merlin’s skull. It’s all over now.
He shouldn’t have drank so much. He should have told Will no. His life is ruined.
Bright lights flash over Merlin as a car turns down the street. It pulls to a stop in front of the hotel across from Merlin. The driver exits the car, a black SUV, whose engine hums in an idle.
A car. A running car. It’s perfect for an escape.
You idiot! Merlin’s brain screams. Adding auto theft charges to the repertoire? This is wrong and dangerous, and bad.
Yet the precariousness of his future hangs like the Sword of Damocles over his head. He has to do this. Even before he reaches this decision, his legs are already carrying him across the street. It’s easy to slide into the driver’s seat, to pull the seatbelt across his body, and click it in. His heartbeat is a dull roar in his ears as he presses the button for Drive. There’s still time to stop and take it back.
Merlin’s foot presses down on the gas pedal, and he pulls out onto the street.
It’s way too easy.
He glances over his shoulder as three cops spill out of the alleyway. Instinct urges him to speed up, but he blinks and shakes his head, maintaining a careful speed.
The streets pass and change in a blur as he navigates eastward. The tension slowly seeps from his spine. He’s done it. He’s safe. Now he can ditch the borrowed car and walk home.
Merlin turns into the first car park he sees. He finds an empty spot in the corner, shifting into park.
He waits for sirens to surround him. For someone to come up to the window and place him under arrest.
Silence pervades.
The situation slowly starts to sink in. The alcoholic high he’d been riding drops back to cold reality. Merlin flops forward and smashes his head into the steering wheel. His fingers tremble as he clenches and unclenches his hands around the wheel.
Oh god. What has he done? Evaded arrest, stolen a car? That’s not who he is. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin, damp with sweat. What if they track him down? What is he supposed to do if they—
“A bold move,” a voice suddenly drawls from the backseat. “Kidnapping me might prove lucrative now, but can you handle the reperc—”
Merlin, shocked, horrified, astounded, to hear another voice in the car, thinks second and… punches first. Which is how pain erupts across his fist. Which is how a blond man's face crumples. Which is how a nose crunches and blood spurts and splatters across Merlin’s arm.
The body, the stranger, the passenger, collapses in the back seat and doesn't move. If it weren't for the slight rise and fall of his chest, Merlin would've thought him dead. He would've been a murderer. But he's not.
He's just a kidnapper. That’s 18 months. Minimum. Oh god, he won’t survive in prison. His mother needs him.
Just as panic starts to steal his ability to breathe, his ringtone explodes from his phone. Merlin scrambles for it and slides his thumb to answer. In the silence that follows, Merlin whispers,
“Hello?”
“Merlin! Thank fuck you’re alive!” Will yells. Merlin jerks the phone away from his ear. “Cuz I’m gonna kill you myself. Where the hell are you? We were supposed to meet at Freya’s!”
“Shhhh!” Merlin hisses into the phone and peeks warily at the unconscious stranger.
“Are you hiding from the police still?” Will asks, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Yes. Well, no, not really. I think I slipped them, but we’ve got a bigger problem now,” Merlin answers.
“Did you kill someone? I’ve got a shovel—”
“What? No!” Merlin snaps and glares at his phone. “Worse… I accidentally kidnapped someone.”
The other end of the line is silent.
Then Will bursts out laughing.
A vein throbs in Merlin’s forehead, and before he can stop himself, he ends the call. He switches his phone to silent and closes his eyes.
Ok. This isn’t the end of the world. He just has to think. He didn’t mean to kidnap someone. When you mess up, you… apologize. And that’s what he’ll do. He’ll just…write an apology and leave. Everything will be fine. That makes sense, right?
Merlin opens the center console, looking for something he could write with. It’s empty. Come to think of it, this car is immaculately clean—not a stray hair or piece of dirt anywhere. What kind of psychopath… Merlin rolls his eyes and reaches over to check the glove box.
Right next to a packet of wet wipes is a small notebook and a pen. Which are right next to a gun. A very black gun. Solid black, not the bright two-toned palette of an airsoft gun. It could still be an RIF, but the fluttering sensation in Merlin’s stomach does not believe it in the slightest. It’s definitely a real gun.
Who the hell is this stranger?
His fingers tremble as he opens the notebook. The first couple of pages are filled with a series of numbers. Merlin pauses, something about them prickling at his brain—No, he doesn’t have time to waste. He flips to a blank page and writes out an apology, slow and precise. His best penmanship.
Now he has to leave it somewhere that the stranger will see it. After a brief, fearful hesitation, Merlin leans into the backseat and tucks the note into the stranger’s hand. His eyes catch on a trail of blood dripping down the stranger’s nose; guilt twists at his stomach.
Suddenly, the stranger’s eyes twitch. Merlin swallows down a shriek and flings himself out of the car and over to a pillar across the parking lot.
His heartbeat slowly settles back into his chest. He peeks around the corner. The car is still. Nobody is chasing after him anymore. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as relief sweeps through him like a tidal wave.
He’s done it. No more cops, no more strange men with guns.
Merlin sinks against the pillar, legs weak. He drops his face into his hands. Then he lets out a deep breath and stands.
Phone, wallet, keys? Still in his pockets. Check. Will is safe? For now. Not once Merlin gets hold of him. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, Merlin is ready to crash into bed and sleep forever.
Merlin pushes away from the pillar and walks. By the time he exits the car park, he’s swept the incident to the back corners of his mind. He’s free and clear.
Arthur dozes in the back seat of the car as Leon drives him to his destination. He’d just finalized a trade deal with the Chinese. They wanted to import more product, and he’d shut them down. Too sharp an increase draws unnecessary scrutiny. Not that Arthur’s worried, but it’d be fucking annoying to deal with, so they’d settled on a steady, long-term increase.
And now, he’s on his way to the Terrace. The Russians want to discuss a new order over breakfast. Arthur can grab a few hours of sleep in a room before then, and after that, he’ll need to go to the docks to confirm the details on the shipment scheduled to arrive.
Then he’ll have to handle some dealers who were using his name to deal some laced shit and make an example of them. Hang their bodies from the bridge? Slash out their innards? Chop off their hands and cut out their eyes? Nobody crosses the Red Cloaks without dire consequences.
If that wasn’t bad enough, rumors have reached his ears that an Albanian group, the Krasniqi Circle, are trying to weasel onto shore and establish their trafficking ring.
Fuck. It never ends. The same boring shit, day after day, night after night.
The car slows to a stop.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” Leon says. “I’ll go first.”
Arthur grunts under his breath, the light shifting behind his closed eyelids as Leon’s door opens and closes. A moment later, it opens and closes again. Arthur cracks open an eye to see why Leon had come back so quickly. Except it’s not Leon in the driver’s seat.
A young black-haired boy shifts into traffic and takes off. Hmm… interesting. It’s been a while since he was kidnapped. At least now he doesn’t have to listen to Radomir drone on about the “good old days” and other ancient history. This reprieve is enough to grant his kidnapper a modicum of leniency. He settles back, watching the boy—no, a man—glance over his shoulder, revealing flushed cheeks. He hasn’t even threatened Arthur yet. What a terrible kidnapper. Who could be behind this?
Arthur waits until the car comes to a stop in a car park before he makes his move.
“A bold move,” he says, sitting up languidly. “Kidnapping me might prove lucrative now, but can you handle the reperc—” The kidnapper whirls around with a shriek like a little girl, and Arthur’s so startled he misses the fist flying into his nose. There’s a sharp, familiar crunch of his nose breaking as he falls back onto the seat.
He lies still, playing at unconsciousness, while he tries to work out the emotions churning in his gut. It’s not the usual heat of anger. The jagged spikes of desire. Annoyance maybe? Surprise? While he’s lying there, a phone rings.
“Hello?” his kidnapper whispers, hushed and uneasy.
“Merlin!” a voice screeches over the line. The conversation continues and Arthur intends to eavesdrop, to gather all the information he needs before making his move. Nothing could have prepared him for the truth. He’s been kidnapped… by accident. Who accidentally kidnaps the head of the Red Cloaks?
Something tickles inside Arthur’s chest as he listens to his flustered accidental kidnapper, Merlin.
Merlin hangs up the phone and moments later, rummages through the compartments in his car. Arthur tenses when Merlin opens the glove compartment where Leon keeps his gun, but there’s a faint scratching noise, and then something is pressing into Arthur’s hand. He can feel Merlin’s face close to his. He wants to open his eyes and see the face of his accidental kidnapper.
Arthur keeps his eyes closed until Merlin leaves the car. He sits up, looking at the object tucked into his hand. A piece of paper with some scrawled writing on it.
I’m really sorrry i ws drunk nd took yor carr!!!!!!!!!
He steps out of the car, adjusting his tie and sleeves. His nose throbs. The tickling sensation deepens as he watches Merlin scurry away. It takes him a second to identify it.
Amusement.
Arthur smiles.
It looks like his boredom has come to an end.
Despite his resolve to put that night behind him, Merlin spends the next week looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows. As the time passes without incident, he slowly relaxes and lowers his guard.
It’s definitely in the past…right?
Merlin lets himself into his apartment. He throws his keys and wallet onto the kitchen counter, his bag onto his bed, and bangs his hip into the TV table as he walks over to his bathroom. After he nearly falls asleep standing in the shower, he throws on an old, baggy shirt and heads to the kitchen to make some ramen before settling in to focus and study. There are three case briefs he has to review, 75 pages to read, the moot case to review, finding resources for his capstone, and applying to three chambers for a mini pupillage.
“Merlin Wyllt,” a soft voice murmurs from the corner of his apartment by his bed. A rush of terror freezes Merlin to the spot. There’s no way he doesn’t recognize that voice; he’s replayed that moment in the car a million times. “Twenty-one years old, 4th year student at King’s College, studying criminal law on a full-ride scholarship.” Slowly, he turns around. It’s his worst fear come true: the man he’d accidentally kidnapped had found him. “Do law students usually commit crimes?”
“No!” Merlin blurts out. “It was a mistake, I’m so sorry—”
The man holds up a hand, and the words stick to the roof of Merlin’s mouth. “I’m not here for empty apologies. I want to know how you’re going to make it up to me.” He’s sitting at Merlin’s desk, leaning back in the chair like it's a throne. It takes a second for Merlin to process his words.
“So… you’re not going to turn me in?”
His question is met with a derisive snort. “Where’s the fun in that? I don’t need the cops to make your life a living hell.”
Merlin takes a breath and tries to calm down. Just think of this like a moot—like he’s presenting his case. Why is this man here? Why not just turn him in?
He carefully examines the stranger, moving away from his face and the shadow of a lingering bruise along his nose—Merlin’s fault. There’s a watch on his left wrist, a thick band that glitters even in the dim light. A thick band of gold and silver rests on his left pointer finger. The relaxed and confident posture underneath a navy blue suit that rests a little too broadly on his frame. It reminds Merlin of the gun in the glove compartment. Is the stranger carrying one now? The windows of the car had been tinted dark.
The casual wealth and power… It all points to one conclusion. This man is a powerful, dangerous criminal, used to having or taking what he wants. So why Merlin?
The stranger stands. Merlin fights the urge to flinch as he takes slow, purposeful strides towards him. His mind races. He has to say something or else… Else the stranger will kill him? He could have done that already. Easily, too, and the thought makes Merlin shiver.
“Tell you what,” the stranger says, reaching out to place a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. It’s warm and heavy, and every instinct Merlin possesses screams danger. “I’m sure this has been a bit sudden. Why don’t you think about it for a day and let me know your answer at dinner tomorrow?” Even though it sounds like an offer, there’s authority threaded through it, leaving him no choice in the matter.
Wait, tomorrow?
“I can’t!” Merlin blurts out. “I’ve got the induction dinner at Lincoln’s Inn.”
He realizes what he’s said and squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for—for a soft huff of laughter? Merlin warily opens his eyes as the pressure disappears from his shoulder.
“Wednesday then?” the stranger suggests, but Merlin’s already shaking his head. He’s got to work on his draft for the King’s Clinic and submit it to his supervisor.
The stranger smiles; his eyes don’t. “Well, aren’t you a busy little bird.”
“I’m free Thurs—No, Friday evening,” Merlin says quickly. Moot meets on Thursdays this semester. He watches the stranger carefully to measure his reaction.
“I’ll send someone to pick you up at six,” he replies. He walks past the island in Merlin’s kitchen, his fingers drumming against the countertop. “I don’t think I need to clarify how… important it is that you show up on time, Merlin.”
Merlin’s throat aches as he swallows. “No, sir.”
“Arthur,” the stranger says. “You can call me Arthur.” Then, like an apparition, he walks out the door and disappears. Merlin barely waits for the door to shut behind him before he runs over to lock the door, his heart yammering in his throat. He’ll have to get a sturdier lock—No, should he move? What would be the point? If the stranger—Arthur—had found him once, wouldn’t it be even easier the second time?
Merlin can’t even go to the police. He’d kidnapped Arthur first, and now he wants… What? To toy with Merlin? Like some sort of sick game?
His head throbs with a burgeoning migraine. Arthur has thrown the world out of balance. This whole situation is incomprehensible, and he still has an essay to write and exams to study for.
Friday is a lifetime away; classes aren't. So he throws himself into his studies and puts the encounter out of mind. It's only logical.
There are a million things he can do to stay busy and distracted as a 4th-year law student, but there's no evading the ticking of the clock, dragging him towards his doom. An hour and 8 minutes left until the designated time. What exactly is he supposed to wear to this dinner?
An idea sparks in the back of his mind. It's such a bad idea, but—if Arthur is going to force him into this dinner, then Merlin will make it as embarrassing for him as he can.
He just finishes with his nail polish as the clock ticks over to six. There's a knock on his door. How prompt. Merlin grabs his wallet before walking over to the door. There's another, harsher knock. So impatient, he grouses. For a moment, he considers making them wait even more. Just for a moment.
Merlin opens the door.
The person on the other side has his fist raised like he's about to knock again. He's large, muscles pressing against the fabric of his suit. Dark sunglasses obscure his eyes, but his mouth drops open slightly.
Merlin smiles. "Let's go. Wouldn't want to be late, would we?"
"Are you…" The person clears their throat. "Are you sure that's what you'd like to wear this evening?"
Giving his best innocent expression, Merlin nods. "Of course. Why, what's wrong?"
Is it the thick eyeliner? The black jeans with shredded holes at the thighs and knees? The black band tee, the pile of rubber bracelets? The converse, the black nail polish? The styled hair?
"Uh…" They seem at a loss how to explain that his entire outfit was wrong. "Never mind, let's go."
They lead the way out of Merlin's apartment building and open the door of a dark SUV parked at the curb. Merlin considers making a run for it, but his body betrays him, sliding into the car. The door shuts, and his escort takes a seat in the passenger seat. As he reaches for the seatbelt, he freezes. He's not alone.
Arthur's eyes sweep over him slowly. "Interesting choice of attire, Merlin." Merlin can only breathe again as Arthur looks away. Is it just Merlin's imagination, or is there a smile tugging at the corner of his lips? "What are you waiting for, Leon? Drive."
"Yes, sir," the person in the driver's seat replies. The car pulls away from the curb.
"So… where are we going?" Merlin asks, buckling himself in. The driver's eyes cut to his in the rearview mirror.
"I think the question you should be focused on is the one I asked you," Arthur says. "I hope you have an answer ready."
I want to know how you’re going to make it up to me, Arthur had said.
Merlin stiffens; he doesn't have an answer. He doesn't know what Arthur wants.
But he'd better figure it out fast.
Leon stops the car outside a small store along a quiet street. It doesn't look like a restaurant, but when Merlin's escort opens his door, he slides out of the car. His eyes flit over the empty street.
"I thought we were going to dinner," Merlin says slowly, with a wary appraisal of the store. There's a black sign above the door with Thorne & Lyonesse in gold lettering. A single mannequin dressed in a white suit with an icy blue tie sits in the display window. It is decidedly not a restaurant.
Shit. He knew the dinner offer was too pleasant to be true. This is definitely a front, hiding a murder and torture chamber in the back room for every stupid, drunk law student who accidentally kidnaps him. Merlin’s life is over.
"Your outfit is quite amusing, but out of place," Arthur says, directly behind him. Merlin startles, but warm, heavy hands fall on his shoulders and direct him towards the shop. Leon walks ahead and opens the door.
There is no choice but to enter.
Arthur releases him immediately, his fingers grazing against the back of his neck.
As Merlin reaches up to scratch away the tingling sensation left behind, an older man comes out from the back of the store. His eyes land on Merlin first. The way his eyebrows shoot makes Merlin feel like less than a bug, all too aware how out of place he is, especially with Arthur's fitting black suit and crimson tie. He doesn't even register taking a step back until Arthur's hand settles on his lower back, preventing him from taking another.
"Alistair," Arthur's voice cuts through the air like ice. "Has it been so long that you don't recognize and greet me?"
The blood drains from the old man's face.
"Oh! No sir, Mr. Pen—” He cuts himself off, his eyes darting nervously to Merlin and then back to Arthur. “Of c-course not, sir! Thorne & Lyonesse is always grateful for your patronage."
"I am grateful in return," Arthur says. "Your indiscretion and… attention to detail have always served me well." Merlin wants to leave, but he can't move, terrified that Artur might turn his way. Who is he that this man cowers immediately?
The silence lingers, cold and heavy. Alistair's hands tremble where they're folded in front of his stomach.
"Merlin is dining with me tonight." Arthur finally speaks, his tone less severe. "Make him presentable. Something… blue, I think, should bring out his eyes nicely."
"I have just the ensemble," Alistair promises. “Come with me, Merlin.” He gives Arthur a surreptitious glance, then adds, “Please."
Merlin would rather not.
"You know…" he starts, shifting back on his heels. Arthur meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow, like he's daring Merlin to continue. There’s something about the firm set of his lips that makes Merlin falter. Like this is not a line he can cross lightly.
"Blue is my favorite color," Merlin finishes with a sigh. Best to just let this one go, then. "Lead the way, Alistair." He hurries away from Arthur, but his lower back carries the memory of his touch throughout the outfit and hairstyle change.
Regret rolls around his stomach. He should have just worn his own suit in the first place. It was a little short at the ankles, and the hem was fraying along the jacket’s seams… but it had carried him through the past four years. And it will still have to make it another four more. How is he supposed to afford this new suit? Maybe he can sneak some food out of the cafeteria, skip dinner for two weeks.
Or three…
It certainly would have been easier on his bank account if this had been a murder chamber.
When Alistair reaches for Merlin’s hand with a cloth, Merlin jerks away. Alitair’s lips press together, a silent condemnation of his choice. Merlin refuses to back down, and Alistair walks away after a moment. Perhaps it’s a foolish decision, but Merlin refuses to let go of his polished nails.
It’s just a little act of defiance.
No, a little touch of himself, when he stares at himself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the man who looks back.
"How much do I owe you?" Merlin asks, fiddling with the cufflinks—cufflinks!. The hands that reach out to assist him are decidedly not old and wizened.
"It's a gift," Arthur's voice rumbles. His fingers glide down the back of Merlin's hand and lift, inspecting his nails.
Merlin should yank his hand away, but when he looks up, their eyes meet. He meets his gaze squarely, wondering what he's thinking. Why had Merlin ended up kidnapping this man? Arthur's lips curve into a half-smile. It makes him look younger. Nicer. It's a dangerous smile.
"Well, um… thank you," Merlin mutters and carefully extracts his hand, looking away. He steps off the platform. He's not sure why he's expressing gratitude. It's a gift he neither needs nor wants.
Even if the cut of the suit does flatter his figure.
From the way Arthur’s eyes flit over him, he agrees. "Alistair, add it to my tab."
"Of course," Alistair replies. When had he even returned?
Arthur heads for the exit, the obvious, unspoken command for Merlin to follow. Merlin obeys, rolling his eyes, and accidentally meets Alistair's eyes. Alistair is staring at him like he's grown another head.
The look lingers in Merlin's mind. He doesn't pay attention as the car starts back up and carries them down two blocks to their next destination.
He promptly forgets it and is actually faintly glad for the new outfit. The restaurant is out of this world. Dark, wooden floors, elegantly patterned rugs, and a freaking chandelier.
"Welcome to Nocturne," a smooth, feminine voice declares, drawing Merlin's attention to a young lady dressed sharply in black and white. "Your usual table, sir?"
Arthur nods.
She taps at something on her pad and suddenly stops. Her fingers tremble, though her voice remains steady as she says, "It seems there has been a conflict with that table. Perhaps another…" Her voice trails off, shoulders hunching inward. Merlin glances up and sees Arthur staring ahead frostily. "Of course, we will move them immediately. Please give us five minutes to set everything up."
Arthur continues to stare.
"I'm really sorry, sir! We weren't expecting you tonight and…" With each word, the temperature plummets and the tension soars.
Merlin can't help himself.
"That would be fine," he says, each word echoing hollowly through his skull. Why is he speaking? "Arthur promised me a tour anyway. I've never been here before." Someone please put him out of his misery. He turns pleading eyes in Arthur's direction. "Right?" The last word comes out more squeaky than he intends.
Arthur's gaze turns to him, and he nearly swallows his own tongue. But he ignores his fear and holds his eyes steady. This is a test.
"They do have a modest art gallery for our viewing pleasure," Arthur says. "How familiar are you with art?"
Not familiar at all. It's not something he particularly enjoys.
"I love… art," Merlin lies. He'll really love art if it gets him out of this situation.
Arthur holds out his arm. Merlin stares at it. The realization kicks in a beat later: he's supposed to take it. His fingers slide against the smooth fabric of Arthur's suit, curving to cradle his forearm. Arthur's corded muscles flex under his touch.
"Fix this," Arthur orders the hostess before he turns them to the left. He leads Merlin down a hallway lined with dim, violet lights at ankle height. The path takes them to an archway guarded by a woman in a suit, a plaque above her head reading For Patrons Only. She gives Arthur a nod as they enter the gallery.
The dim, ground-level lighting continues into the room, which highlights the focus on the paintings and sculptures on display. It's nothing like the British Museum.
Even wearing a fancy suit can't stop Merlin from feeling uncomfortably out of place.
"Arthur—" he starts.
Arthur's phone rings.
"Excuse me a moment," Arthur says. He puts the phone to his ear. The shadows in the room turn his expression even darker. Russian spills from Arthur's mouth, heated, incensed. He casts a stern look at Merlin before turning and walking away.
Merlin slowly lets out the breath he's holding, feeling a bit light-headed. He is never going to another party and definitely never drinking again. The urge to bolt makes his legs twitch, except where could he run to?
The only way out is through.
He wanders through the gallery while he waits, trying to appreciate the art. It sure is… extensive. There are many… colors. Shit, what does one do in an art gallery? Discomfort clings to his body, making his movement stiff and awkward. If he could go back in time and slap himself for saying he loves art, he would. This is unbearable—he almost wishes Arthur would come back quicker, even if his stomach twists with indigestion just at the thought.
Merlin takes a seat on the bench in the middle of the room. As he reaches for his phone, a commotion draws his attention to the entrance.
"Do you know who I am?" a shrill voice demands. There's a hint of Irish in her accent. "How dare you stand in my way!"
"The room is closed for a private viewing, Miss Seymour," a different voice replies, flat and unemotional.
"Oh, shut up, you fat arse, and step aside," Miss Seymor snaps. There's no more yelling, but the furious clicks of heels against the wooden floor. Merlin can't not look. A blonde woman sweeps into the room. She's wearing a long white gown accented with gold details. It makes her breasts very… um… And the skirt of the dress parts to reveal a slender, toned leg. Merlin swallows. She knows she's attractive and she's flaunting it.
Her gaze sweeps over the room, right over Merlin. If he thought the tailor's gaze had been demeaning, her lack of acknowledgement lowers him even further.
She stamps her foot impatiently. "Where is Arthur? Daddy told me he was here!"
Merlin freezes. She's looking for Arthur? That is definitely his sign to find himself literally anywhere else. He slowly stands and tries not to make a sound as he walks over to the exit. It seems like he's stomping over to it, the way each sound thunders through the room.
The man who'd escorted him from his apartment suddenly appears under the archway as Merlin approaches it. He can't help the startled squeak.
"Is there something you need, sir?" he asks.
"I, um… what is your name?" Merlin asks back.
It's his turn to look startled. "Owain, sir."
"Oh, just Merlin, please," Merlin quickly says. "I was just wondering where the bathroom is?" It comes out like a question instead of a statement.
Owain taps his ear. "Escorting the bird to the bathroom." He nods into the air, then gestures down the hall. Merlin takes three steps, warily glancing at the two new men who stare at him as he passes.
"Wait," the woman's voice declares frostily. "Aren't you one of Arthur's men? Where is he?" The two men step into the path, cutting off Owain and Merlin's path. Owain shifts, placing himself between them and Merlin.
"Sophia…" Owain says carefully. "He's currently in a business meeting. If you wish to contact him, please schedule an—"
Her hand strikes out, and the slap echoes through the corridor.
"Miss Seymour," the security guard from earlier starts.
"Oh, stay out of this, rent-a-cop," Sophia Seymour snaps without looking at her. "Where is he?" Owain remains silent, but his arm presses against Merlin. "Nothing to say?" Her gaze lands on Merlin, and Merlin wishes he could go back to being invisible in the gallery. "Who the hell is that?" Owain's arm tenses; he gives a minute shake of his head.
"Boys… make them talk," she commands.
This is worse than any scrape Will had ever gotten him into. But if there's one thing Merlin knows: whoever strikes first wins. His body moves before he even consciously makes the decision, and it's an out-of-body experience, like he's watching his leg move on its own.
Merlin kicks the nearest guard right between the legs. Sympathetic pain spikes in his stomach as they clench themselves and fall over with a groan.
Owain stares at him, but the still-standing guard throws a punch at him. He ducks away from the blow, catching the fist and throwing him against the opposite wall. The guard's head cracks against it, then he slumps to the ground.
"Useless lot," Sophia snaps and stalks towards Merlin. He flinches back. Owain steps between them.
"Do you know who my father is?" she asks. "I demand to know where Arthur is and why you're protecting that amadán."
Merlin doesn’t know what amadán means, but her sneer conveys enough context. Owain shifts uncomfortably and doesn't say anything. Whoever she is, whoever her father is, must be someone powerful. She grits her teeth and raises her hand.
"Sophia Seymour," Arthur's voice rumbles down the hall. "What is going on here?" His eyes sweep over the two fallen men, Owain's red cheek, and settle heavily on Merlin. Merlin returns the look evenly.
"Arthur!" she exclaims, abruptly changing from villainess to lovestruck. She struts over to him, leaning against his arm. "I've missed you so much. You never come to any of my parties." Her lip sticks out in a feigned pout.
Merlin’s nose scrunches at her familiarity with Arthur. They’re obviously close. Is this why Arthur took him here? Is this his game? Trying to incite jealousy—
"Sophia," Arthur repeats, without a hint of warmth in his tone. A complete lack of affection. Merlin's theory is summarily defenestrated.
She huffs. "I just wanted to know where you were, darling."
"I see." Arthur's eyes flicker.
Alarm bells ring like sirens in Merlin's mind.
Arthur moves in a blur. His hand wraps around Sophia's throat, and he takes a step, slamming her into the wall. Her arms and legs flail as her fingers dig into the skin of Arthur's wrists.
It doesn't faze Arthur, but Merlin's heart drops into his stomach at the casual violence.
"I have tolerated you and your vain, insipid ways out of respect for your father," Arthur drawls, like her lips aren't turning blue. "And now you dare disrespect me like this?"
Merlin wants to rush over and stop Arthur, but self-preservation roots him to the floor, even as self-hatred burns in his gut. Arthur has all the power here. He is strangling Sophia without batting an eye.
She provoked him, of course, he’s angry—Yet the flat expression on Arthur’s face as he tilts his head and watches her start to go limp radiates utter boredom. There had been no hesitation, and there was no stopping him.
That doesn't mean Merlin has to watch.
His heartbeat thunders in his ears as he steps away from Owain and walks away. He’s just a college student, here against his will. This has nothing to do with him, and he wants nothing more to do with it. He feels even more self-conscious than walking away from Sophia in the gallery. Like he's turned his back on a predator—a bird ignoring the tiger in the brush in favor of the open sky.
By the time he reaches the front desk, his blood pressure is shot, and he's two seconds away from passing out.
"Is the table ready yet?" Merlin asks the hostess, just shy of begging.
"Yes, sir," she replies, and the gratitude in her eyes just solidifies the reality that Arthur is not a good person. "If you would follow me, I'll—" Her voice cuts off, face paling, as her eyes land on something, someone, behind Merlin.
"No need," Arthur says smoothly. His hand lands heavily on the back of Merlin's neck, warm and strong. A threat. "I remember the way."
He applies a hint of pressure, directing Merlin to his left. Merlin nearly stumbles over his own feet until he catches himself cowering, spiralling into the fear. He can't give in to the fear. He can't.
Merlin straightens his spine with each subsequent step. Fear still presses against his ribcage like a dagger, but he ignores it. If Arthur intends to kill him, why go to all this trouble?
There's something Arthur wants that only Merlin has. Or can give him.
They pass by several closed doors with waiters standing outside. As they turn the corner, a waiter at the end pulls open the door on one of them. Arthur directs Merlin inside.
He finally releases the back of Merlin's neck, walking over to the table and pulling out a chair. His gaze challenges Merlin. He’d just been strangling Sophia, and now he’s holding out Merlin’s chair like a gentleman. The same hands that harmed her are gentle to him.
"Thank you," Merlin accepts it with an attempt at a smile. The contradiction leaves his mind swimming.
It's like the earlier violence had just been a mirage.
Arthur sits across from him. "We'll start with the Sassicaia. 2015, if you still have a bottle. 2017, if you don't." The words confuse Merlin until he catches the waiter bowing out of the corner of his eye.
The door closes. Merlin is alone with Arthur.
"I recommend the Pappardelle and the Agnello," Arthur interrupts the silence, gesturing towards the menu.
"Alright," Merlin replies, awkwardness settling over him like a winter coat. He picks up the menu carefully, like it might bite him if he's not.
All the dishes are Italian. Luckily, the descriptions are in English. And notably, there are no prices listed.
Antipasti? Primi? Secondi? His Italian is practically nonexistent, but even he comprehends those words. Just how many courses are there? Merlin never even does an appetizer at Bella Italia; his bank account would reach through his phone and strangle him.
And his appetite is nowhere to be found.
Stomach churning, he looks at the dishes Arthur suggested. Boar? Lamb?
"I'm a—" His throat is too dry. He coughs lightly. "Any, um… vegetarian options?" He can't look at Arthur as he asks.
The silence festers for a moment, until Arthur breaks it with a light laugh. "You never cease to surprise me."
Indignation burns at Merlin's chest. He opens his mouth.
The door slides open, and the waiter steps inside. He keeps his head down as he sets two wine glasses on the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
"The 2015 for your pleasure," he says slowly. He twists a corkscrew; his fingers tremble slightly. Merlin finally chances a glance at Arthur. Any trace of his earlier smile has vanished. His expression is flat. Bored.
It has to be that then.
The waiter sets the bottle of wine down, a little more loudly than he intends, given his flinch.
"We'll start with the Burrata," Arthur orders. "Then primero, the Taglioni and Tortelloni. Secundo, the Wagyu and Polenta." His tone leaves no room for discussion, even as the urge to argue that he can order for himself claws at his tongue.
The waiter nods. He reaches out and takes the menus away. He leaves.
Merlin lets out a small breath. There's no point in saying anything about that now. Not when there's something more important hanging over their heads. Over Merlin's head.
Arthur leans forward, taking the bottle of wine. He pours some for himself before he offers the bottle to Merlin. Merlin had definitely forsworn alcohol just minutes ago. He takes it anyway, filling his glass with the vibrant red liquid.
Arthur holds out his glass. With only a bare hesitation, Merlin takes his and gently knocks them together. He raises it to his lips and takes a sip.
The wine warms Merlin's stomach. He takes another drink before placing it back on the table. Liquid courage acquired, even if it led him down this path in the first place.
"I don't have anything to my name," Merlin states, and it's not like he's ashamed of his poverty—but it's hard not to feel some sort of way dressed in this fancy suit, sitting at this restaurant that doesn't even have prices on the menu. It's not news to Arthur either. If he'd found out Merlin's name, everything else about him had probably been easy to find, too.
And maybe that left Merlin a little raw, a little exposed.
"Do you think I'm lacking in money?" Arthur drawls. He doesn't roll his eyes. "I'm very financially secure."
"And I'm a broke college student," Merlin retorts. "You want something from me."
"I want to know what you'll give me."
"It's not giving if you're taking."
Arthur grins, sharp and deadly. Merlin swallows roughly, his throat drying up. But he's already come this far.
The door slides open. The waiter steps inside, placing a dish on the table between them: a generous piece of burrata with black shavings on it, surrounded by neatly staged sourdough chips.
It looks delicious.
Merlin's stomach rumbles, and Arthur laughs.
The waiter visibly flinches, the door slamming shut harder than necessary.
"Go on," Arthur says, like that hadn't just happened. "Eat."
Merlin can't until he knows for sure. Arthur’s question has been sitting in his mind like stagnant water. How are you going to make up for accidentally kidnapping me? If Merlin has nothing, then all he has is himself. That has to be the correct answer. "The tailor, the hostess, the waiter, even your own people… they're afraid of you. Whoever you are."
"Yes," Arthur replies blandly, uninterested. Bored.
"I'm afraid of you, too," Merlin admits. Is it an admission if it's already known?
Arthur leans forward. He scoops some of the burrata onto Merlin's plate and then his own.
"You're afraid, but you still meet my eyes," Arthur says. "You turned your back on me."
"So you want me to… what, entertain you?" Merlin reaches out and picks up a piece of the sourdough. A sudden thought churns his stomach. "Am I a Pretty Woman?"
Arthur blinks and then lets out the biggest laugh Merlin's heard yet.
"Sure, Merlin, you're a pretty woman," Arthur says.
Merlin scowls. "Not like that, you prat.” The insult drops subconsciously, and he tenses, gauging Arthur's reaction. It doesn't seem to faze him.
"You're a smart kid, Merlin," Arthur says. Kid? The word grates along Merlin's spine. Arthur can't be that much older than him. "It's nothing illegal. I'll take you out to dinners, a few charity galas. You get free food, free clothing, and anything else you ask of me, I can give you. I can introduce you to the right people."
"I won't have sex with you," Merlin states plainly.
"Alright," Arthur says. It sounds dismissive. Like he doesn't believe Merlin.
"I don't have a choice, do I?" It's a little bitter, a little defeated. But not broken. Never mind the accidental kidnapping, Arthur himself was far more of a threat.
The left corner of Arthur’s lips twitches, but he doesn’t reply. Why waste words when Merlin already knows the answer?
Merlin takes a deep breath. "You can't interfere with school." He can’t refuse, but he can set limits. Boundaries. "I don't want your connections or money. I don't want to be involved in your life beyond this. And this, whatever it is… it ends in a year." That should be plenty of time for Arthur to grow bored of this game.
He meets Arthur's gaze and tries not to tremble under the steely weight of Arthur's piercing inspection.
"Send your schedule to Leon after dinner," Arthur finally says. "I look forward to the next year with you."
It's settled. Set. A done deal.
Relief floods Merlin's system, and with the relaxation comes his appetite. He takes a bite of the burrata. Fuck. It's literally the best thing he's ever eaten. Creamy, crunchy bursts of flavor.
Arthur catches his wrist as he reaches for a second piece. His thumb digs into Merlin's pulse point, fluttering like a hummingbird.
"There's a line of what I'm willing to tolerate," he says simply. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. Merlin doesn't breathe until Arthur releases him, giving his wrist a final, pointed squeeze.
"I understand," Merlin says slowly and takes another sourdough chip. His hand remains steady and even as Arthur's eyes track the movement of placing the food in his mouth.
Merlin swallows. The food is still delicious, still goes down easily, but the truth stares at him like a tiger in the brush… He’s in way over his head. It’s a bitter pill Merlin must force himself to swallow: Arthur might be a variable he can’t control, but Merlin can still control himself. This isn’t going to change anything.
It won’t.