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“So how drunk are you?” is what Morgana wants to know when she crashes down on the couch beside Arthur, drawing his attention away from the game of Kings that he is losing spectacularly
“Hmm?” Arthur asks, rolling his head against the back of the couch to look at her. He smiles and reaches up to tug on a strand of her hair. “You're pretty, Morgana. Pretty, pretty.”
Morgana grins at him. “Very, then?”
“Hmm?”
“Listen,” she says, leaning forward. “Do you know Merlin? The guy who lives next Lance?”
“What d'you mean, in a Biblical sense?”
“Arthur,” Morgana says, laughing. “God. No. I just meant do you know who he is.”
“Mmm,” Arthur hums, nodding purposefully. Yes. Yes, he knows Merlin, the one with the ears and the cheekbones and all the — the hair — and oh, he must've said that bit aloud, because Morgana is tossing her head back and laughing, saying,
“Yes. Yes, that one.”
“Don't tell him I said that,” Arthur says seriously. “All right? Either part, about the cheekbones or the, you know.” He lowers his voice. “The sex.”
“Bloody — could someone get Arthur a bottle of water? And some paracetamol?”
“You're so thoughtful,” Arthur tells her gratefully when she stops shouting. “So thoughtful. Best sister in the world.”
"Oh, Arthur, you are so &mdash" Morgana says. She shakes her head. "Anyway, Merlin —"
“With the ears —”
“And the cheekbones, yes. He needs a lift home for Christmas. He lives in Ealdor; it's very close to Uther's winter home.”
“It's weird to have a winter home, isn't it?”
“Arthur, focus. Can Merlin get a lift home with you?”
“Merlin wants to go home with me?”
“To Wales, Arthur. For Christmas. Can you give him a lift?”
“Sure,” Arthur says, feeling festive and very generous all of a sudden. “Yeah, of course I can. But not —” He lifts a hand and points a wobbly finger at Morgana to make his point. “You know. With the sex.”
“Of course not.”
“Because I'm not interested.”
“Of course not.”
“Want to see me kiss someone else?”
“More than anything.”
“Good,” Arthur tells her, satisfied. “Good, because I'm going to … right after I —”
“Oh fuck,” Morgana says, leaping to her feet. “Toilet. Now.”
“What on Earth could you possibly want at half-nine in the morning?” Arthur asks the next day, when he opens the door to his room and finds Merlin in the hallway, snow dusting his hair, and really, it's bloody unfair for a person to be that attractive at this hour.
“Ehm,” Merlin says, holding out a coffee cup. “I hope you like it black.”
“I like it injected directly into my veins,” Arthur says, eying the cup. “Did you spit in that?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course I did.”
Arthur sighs, but takes the cup.
“I thought you might need it after last night.”
“Last night?”
“Morgana said you were pretty drunk.”
“Morgana … oh, fuck. And you.” Arthur rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “You need a lift to Wales, yeah? I didn't dream that?”
“Dream about me often, do you?” Merlin asks, grinning.
“Oh, go to hell,” Arthur says, turning and walking back into the room, hungover and wrong-footed, and forgetting for a moment his stupid, blinding, staggering crush on Merlin, and that he has to be nice to him, now his sister's best friend is dating Merlin's housemate, and honestly, who made up that rule? It's bad enough that Arthur is going to have to get a stupid fucking stats tutor because he spends all of his lectures staring at the back of Merlin's neck and wondering what sort of noises he'd make if Arthur scraped his teeth against all that pale skin. But now, now he's supposed to tolerate Merlin showing up at his door early in the morning with snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes? Now he's supposed to spend four hours alone in a car with him, and fuck all, there is no way Arthur comes out of this without making some manner of arse out of himself.
“Well,” he says. “I guess there's nothing else for it, is there?”
“Don't sound so thrilled.”
“Excuse me, Merlin, but it's arse o'clock, and I feel like something crawled inside me and died.”
“Funny,” Merlin says. “That's exactly what you smell like.”
Arthur exhales and scrubs a hand over his face. “I'm going to take a shower.”
“Good. You smell, and you're greasy.”
“Fuck off.”
Arthur closes the bathroom door behind him with a snap and leans against it, cradling the coffee to his chest. After several moments he realizes that he's grinning, what the bloody fuck. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop against the door and shit, shit, shit, he's still smiling. This is so bad, he decides, trying to school his face. This is so fucking bad.
“Why don't you and Morgana travel home together?” Merlin asks sometime later, once they're hurtling down the motorway, their suitcases and shopping bags stuffed into the backseat. The snow is falling slow and fat around them, making everything feel exciting and brand new, and Arthur loves snow, and it never snows in London, and it's making him feel reckless and unaccountably romantic. He grips the wheel to stop himself reaching over and trying to hold Merlin's hand.
“She insists we split the driving time,” he says. “And as I'm fond of both my car and my face —”
Merlin laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Why do you think I wanted to get a lift with you? We went to a festival in Edinburgh a few months ago. I spent half the ride there scratching my will into my own forearm.”
Arthur throws him a sideways glance. “You are very strange.”
“How would you know?” Merlin asks. “You never even speak to me.”
Arthur lifts his eyebrows. “I speak to you.”
“We've got stats together, and you've never spoken a word to me except to tell me to move my ears so that you could see the board.”
“I never said that,” Arthur says.
“You did, on the first day.”
“I — you're making that up.”
“I'm not,” Merlin insists. “I'll show you where I wrote about it in my diary.”
“Your diary.”
“The pages are tear-stained, Arthur,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “Stained with my tears.”
Arthur shifts his grip on the wheel and glances at Merlin; his nose is twitching.
“Bastard,” Arthur laughs.
Merlin grins, tips his head back against the seat. “You did say that, though.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Probably so. It sounds like something I'd say.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says. “Oh, Arthur. “ He shakes his head. “Why are you such a prat?”
“Are you serious?”
Merlin makes a contemplative noise. “No,” he says finally. “You're probably right. The drive is only four hours.”
“Christ,” Arthur says. “I'm going to need more coffee.” He checks his mirrors and flicks his indicator on. “And possibly some alcohol.”
“If I wanted to die, I'd have travelled with Morgana.”
“Too late now,” Arthur says, pulling onto the slip road.
“Yeah,” Merlin says. “Yeah, it probably is.”
“You did this on purpose,” Arthur hisses when Morgana picks up her phone. She laughs, sounding wretchedly delighted and says,
“Of course I did.”
“You are a vile, manipulative bitch, and I hope your hair goes flat for all your Christmas parties. I disown you.”
“I'm sorry, love, but I'm sick of watching you moon.”
“I've never mooned a day in my life.”
“You moon, Arthur, and it's pathetic. You've probably got his name written on the inside of your stats textbook.”
“I've got no such thing.”
“It's probably written in purple glitter pen.”
“I loathe you.”
“It probably says, Mrs. Merlin —”
He punches the “end call” button just as a text pops up on his screen. He clicks it open and finds a picture of a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar with a question mark. He grins, opens a new message and types in “Both. And coffee, and a muffin.”
Merlin texts back a smiley face, and really, there is no rational reason why that is so adorable, but that doesn't stop Arthur standing there, freezing his fingers off and staring soppily down at the screen until the pump clicks off. He starts, shoves his phone into his pocket and screws the petrol cap back on.
“It's really coming down,” Merlin says, delighted, appearing at Arthur's side with an armload of snacks. “I've never seen this much snow! I got one of everything.”
“Jesus Christ,” Arthur says. He opens the door so that Merlin dumps the lot of it into his seat. “How far do you think we're driving?”
“This is practically a blizzard, Arthur. What if we get stranded? Someone's got to think about provisions.”
“And by provisions, you mean —”
"Four packets of Fruit Pastels, two King Size Mars Bars, some marshmallows, a sausage roll, an egg and cress sandwich, two tubes of Pringles -- sour cream and chive — a bag of Malteasers, a Kinder Egg — bagsie the toy — and five packets of pickled onion Monster Munch.”
Arthur shakes his head. Merlin's goofy smile is not endearing. It's not. “Get in the car before you freeze to death.”
“Yes, your Highness.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and slides into the car, shoving the snacks into the glove compartment. “Am I supposed to offer to let you drive?” he asks when Merlin opens his door and drops into his seat. “Is that polite?”
Merlin shrugs. “Doesn't really matter. I can't drive.”
“You can't drive?”
“Never learned.”
“Why ever not?”
“Never had the need,” he say, shrugging. “Ealdor is the size of a postage stamp and the cost of keeping a car in London is absurd.”
“So what, you just walk everywhere?”
“Walk, take the Tube — oh shut up,” he says when Arthur pulls a face. “The Tube is fine.”
“The Tube is broken down every other day, Merlin. I swear to God, not a Monday goes by without someone throwing themselves onto the Central Line, which, by the way, I'd do myself if I were forced to sit on one of those trains for any length of time.”
“Are you claustrophobic or just a pompous arse?”
Arthur starts the car. “How are the seat warmers working out for you, Emrys?”
“Glorious,” he replies, snuggling down into it, rubbing his cheek against the wool of his jacket. “I'm thinking about moving in here, actually.”
“Yeah,” Arthur laughs. “That'll happen.”
“You'd let me,” is all Merlin has to say to that. He tears open a packet of Fruit Pastels and pops one into his mouth. “You know you would.”
Arthur doesn't respond, just throws the car in gear and eases back out into the snow.
“This is just the worst idea.”
“Shut up and put your foot on the clutch.”
“Arthur,” Merlin says, pleading, looking awkward and uncertain behind the wheel of Arthur's Porche and God, oh God, what is he even thinking? It's snowing and Merlin has never driven a car in his life, and — “You understand if I destroy your car I have no money with which to fix it?”
“You're not going to destroy my car,” Arthur says, wishing he believed it. “We're just going around the car park once, all right? So push in the clutch.”
“Shit,” Merlin says, and pushes in the clutch.
“Now, you ease off the clutch while you — ease off it, Merlin.”
“I'm trying to ease off it,” Merlin retorts as the car splutters off. “You're not helping, you know, sitting there in all your —”
“All my what?”
“You know,” Merlin says, waving his hand vaguely. “Arthur-ness.”
Arthur laughs, and it feels like something tight eases up inside his chest. This is a profoundly stupid idea, he knows, but he doesn't really care, not when Merlin looks so lovely flustered, spots of color high on his cheeks. Merlin exhales loudly, like he's bracing himself, and starts the car again.
“So I ease off the — bugger.”
Ten minutes later, they're jerking around the car park at fifteen miles an hour and Arthur is shouting, “CHANGE UP GODDAMN IT. CHANGE UP,” and Merlin is laughing so hard orange juice flies out of his nose and splatters Arthur's immaculate dashboard and Arthur, well, Arthur finds he can't even care.
“Don't you have someone you can call to do this?”
“Now who's the pompous arse?” Arthur asks, fitting the tire lever to one of the lug nuts and twisting. “You need to learn to change a tire, Merlin. It's character building.”
“Learning to drive was character building,” he says. “And look at us now.”
“The driving was character building. Busting my tire on a kerb, however —”
“There was a cat.”
“There was a shadow.”
“It was a cat,” Merlin insists.
“It was a figment of your imagination.”
“I'm waiting in the car,” Merlin says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “With the food.”
“You'll do no such thing,” Arthur tells him, “If I'm going to freeze off my balls, so are you.”
“Yes, well, leaving off the state of your balls, I'm hungry.”
Arthur's hand slips on the tire lever, and fucking hell, there's a mental door he'll never be able to close again. “I can't feel my fingers.”
“Don't you have gloves? Made of leather, lined with fur, stitched together with gold thread?”
“I lost them,” Arthur bites out.
“Lost them?,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “You lost your gloves? That's a sign of poor character, Arthur. Poor character indeed.”
“Merlin,” Arthur says, giving the tire lever a viscous twist.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin's mouth curve upward. “Of course.”
The cafe is warm and cozy, and Arthur curls his fingers around a mug of tea and lets the heat seep into his fingers. He's still frozen to his bones, but it's nice, tucked away in the corner like this with Merlin's knees knocking against his under the too small table. The smells wafting out of the kitchen are heavenly, and Arthur's stomach rumbles. Merlin smiles at him over his own tea mug.
“I'm going to be regretting this in a few hours,” he says, shoulders hunching forward, like he's curling into his own warmth. “My mum'll be shoving mince pies down my throat as soon as I walk in the door.”
“Mmm,” Arthur says. “Mince pies.”
“Mince pies, sausage rolls, half a dozen kinds of biscuits, I don't even know.”
“Now you're just trying to make me jealous.”
“What?” Merlin asks. “No mince pies for you?”
“Dunno,” Arthur says, shrugging. “This is our first Christmas at the winter cottage, so I've no idea what to expect. Except rum, of course.”
“Of course,” Merlin says, and there's something off in the twist of his mouth, but Arthur can't tell what it is.
“What's about yours?” he says.
“Quiet,” Merlin says, shrugging one shoulder. “Just me and Mum. We'll open gifts on Christmas Eve, and then she'll stay up late and sneak sweets into my stocking.”
The idea of that makes something soft unfurl in Arthur's stomach, and he takes a deep breath against it, imagining Merlin in a horrible Christmas jumper, flushed with wine, being force-fed his mother's cooking. He imagines Merlin stringing fairy lights up, imagines him sleep-rumpled and drowsy in bed, opening gifts on Christmas morning and what the fucking hell, this is a crush. There's no need to be getting so sentimental about it.
“Where the hell is our food?” he says, leaning back and peering at the kitchen door. “I'm dying here.”
“Stop being overly dramatic,” Merlin says, nudging his foot against Arthur's under the table and leaving it there.
“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, and that's fine, he wants to say. He's warm now. Merlin can stop with the touching. “You're the one — you know. Tormenting me with tales of sausage rolls.”
“You can come round if you want,” Merlin says, tapping out a rhythm on the table with his fingertips. “Mum always cooks too much, and there's leftovers for the masses.”
“Tempting,” he says.
“Yeah,” Merlin says. He laughs, rough, and moves away his foot. “Sure.”
“What?” Arthur says, frowning. “What's wrong?'
“Nothing. That was stupid, I don't why I said that.”
“Said what?”
“About coming round. That was —” Merlin shakes his head. “You don't even like me.”
“I like you fine,” Arthur blurts, before he can think better of it. His stomach twists miserably at the look on Merlin's face, even as something like hope sparks there dimly.
“Yeah,” Merlin says. “I had Morgana trick you into driving me out here, I fucked up your car, I'm rambling on about mince pies when you're probably going home to to a &mdash”
“To a what?”
“Nevermind,” Merlin says. “Just … nevermind.”
“Merlin.”
“Food!” Merlin announces cheerily, relief flashing over his face as their lunch arrives. He tucks in almost before it hits the table, shoveling chips into his mouth. Arthur waits until his mouth is well and truly full and then he says,
“Morgana didn't have to trick me.”
Merlin's head snaps up.
“I mean,' he says, knowing he's blushing and that there's fuck all he can do about it. “She did trick me, but she didn't have to.”
Merlin grins blooms slowly around his mouthful and Arthur's heart freefalls in his chest.
He is so, so fucked.
“I made a mix,” Merlin announces happily when they stagger back to the car an hour later with full bellies. The snow has stopped for the moment, and the town looks like something out of a fucking film, blanketed in white and Arthur almost thinks that if he were to lean over right now and press his face to the curve of Merlin's shoulder, he could get away with it.
“You made a what?”
“A mix,” he says, and he hums a few unintelligible bars. “A Christmas road trip mix.”
“Oh God,” Arthur says. “There had better not be carols on it.”
“ALL THE LIGHTS ARE SHINING, SO BRIGHTLY —”
“—SO BRIGHTLY EVERYWHERE —”
“— AND THE SOUND OF CHILDREN'S LAUGHTER FILLS THE —"
“— LAUGHTER FILLS THE AIR —”
“— OH EVERYONE IS SINGING —”
“— WHOA YEAH —”
“— I HEAR THOSE SLEIGHBELLS RINGING —”
“— SANTA WON'T YOU LADADADADADA PLEASE BRING MY BABY TO ME —”
Dusk is falling as Arthur drives into Ealdor. It's been slow going; the roads have iced in places and Arthur isn't exactly accustomed to driving in snow.
And if Arthur had purposefully got lost a few times after Merlin fell asleep no one has to know about that.
“Merlin,” he says softly, reaching over to press the warm skin of his forearm. “Merlin, wake up.”
Merlin makes a soft noise into the seat and shifts languidly, stretching his arms above his head, and Arthur blinks rapidly, heat in his cheeks. “Hmm?”
“I need to know how to get to your house.”
“Oh,” Merlin says. He smiles over at Arthur, face gone soft with sleep and Arthur finds himself smiling back helplessly.
“Have a good nap?” he asks.
“Told you this was better than my bed.”
“Where am I going?”
“Take the third left up here,” Merlin says. “It's about two miles down on the right, the one with the red door.”
They drive on in silence, Merlin staring out his window and Arthur stealing glances at Merlin's face, watching the way the fading light glides over the planes of his face. His breath catches high in his throat.
“I hope you have a happy Christmas,” he says finally, and Merlin looks over at him.
“You too, Arthur.”
“Merlin,” he says. “Merlin, I —”
“You've just missed your turn.”
“What?” Arthur says. “Fuck.”
He turns around in a driveway, and then they're silent for a while. A few snowflakes dance across the windscreen, and Arthur focuses on that, and on the wipers and on the passing houses. Not that it's particularly interesting, but these are Merlin's mother's neighbors, and plowing into one of their sitting rooms because he's too bloody distracted by that mouth is probably not the best way to go about this.
“Right here,” Merlin says, pointing. “You can park on the street.”
Arthur cuts the engine and drops his hands into his lap. Already the cold air is seeping into the car, and Arthur knows he ought to bid Merlin a good night and be on his way, but he can't bring himself to do it. He wants to know how to get back to that moment when Merlin invited him round, wants to know how to get it back so that he can grab hold of it, but he's doesn't know how. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, and tries to think of what to say. What he wants to say is “I am stupid for you, mad for you, ridiculous for you, and I don't want to leave,” but what he actually says is, “Thank you, Merlin, for your stimulating company.”
Merlin grins, and knocks his elbow against Arthur's across the gear shift. “Any time, Pendragon.”
Arthur clears his throat. Why is this so bloody difficult? “So, I'll —”
Just then, the light above the front door flicks on. Merlin looks over at it, and his face lights up. “That'll be Mum,” he says, turning to look at Arthur over his shoulder. “You'll have to come in now she's seen your car, or it'll be a thousand questions. The woman's never let anything be in her life.”
And Arthur's not so stupid he's going to miss that opportunity twice. “Sure,” he says, pulling the keys out of the ignition and dropping them into his jacket pocket. “Of course.”
They extract Merlin's bags from the backseat and haul them through the snow and up to house. The front door opens and a woman who must be Merlin's mother steps out, smiling broadly.
“Darling,” she says, reaching out and pulling him into a hug. “I was getting worried about you.”
“The snow,” Merlin says, by way of explanation. “And Arthur got a flat —”
“Arthur,” she says, letting go of Merlin to peer up at Arthur's face. “You're Morgana's brother.”
Merlin laughs and dumps his bags inside the front door. “You can't ever forget anything, can you?”
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Emrys,” Arthur says, reaching out to shake her hand. What, he wants to shout. What were you supposed to forget, what did he say about me? But he's got more dignity than that. Barely, but it's there. “Sorry we worried you.”
“It's fine,” she says, squeezing Arthur's hand. “Now come inside, out of the cold. I've got mince pies.”
Merlin throws a grin at Arthur over his shoulder, and Arthur bites down a laugh and follows him inside. He accepts a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine from Merlin's mother — “Please, call me Hunith,” — and then gravitates towards the crackling fire, letting the wine warm him from the inside out.
He looks around. The house is small, but it feels well-loved and lived in in a way that makes Arthur happy for no reason he can name. There is a small Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling with lights and hung with homemade ornaments, and over the back of the sofa is a quilt that looks so soft Arthur can barely resist going over and pressing his face into it. On the mantlepiece is a row of framed photographs, all Merlin: Merlin as a toddler in a bathtub of bubbles, Merlin as a boy in a wizard costume, Merlin as a teenager with a riot of dark curls falling across his forehead. Before he can stop himself, Arthur reaches up and touches his fingertip to the corner of one of the frames.
“What?” Merlin says, walking over and standing so close that their shoulders brush.
“Nothing,” Arthur laughs, shaking his head. He wants to turn and lean into Merlin, but this is — his mother is in the next room, humming and taking more mince pies out of the oven and Arthur hasn't had nearly enough to drink to make him that bold.
This, he realizes, perhaps quite belatedly, is so very not a crush. “I should probably go.”
“You can't go yet,” Hunith says, coming back into the room with another plate. “You haven't even finished your mince pie.”
“I'm savoring it,” Arthur tells her, taking a bite. “Any I get this Christmas will come from a shop.”
“Oh, that won't do,” she says. “Mince pies from a shop, whoever heard such a thing. Give me a moment, I'll put you a box together.”
“Mrs. Emrys, you don't —”
“Hunith,” she interrupts. “And yes, I really do. Be right back.”
“She doesn't think anyone can ever feed themselves without her help,” Merlin says, rubbing their arms together. “I'll be a stone heavier by the time I leave here.”
“Well, I would marry this mince pie,” Arthur tells him. “For whatever that's worth.”
Merlin grins and turns towards him. “Arthur —”
“Here you are, love,” Hunith says, coming back into the room with a box and shoving it into Arthur's hands. “I think Morgana said she was fond of gingerbread, so I put some of that in as well.”
“You're too generous,” Arthur tells him. “That's very kind.”
“She shows love and appreciation with sugar and flour and chocolate,” Merlin says, and Hunith swats at him, then slips her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Thank you for getting my boy home safely,” she says, and Arthur risks a glance at Merlin, whose eyelashes are a dark sweep against his cheeks. He swallows.
“It was an absolute pleasure,” he says. “Happy Christmas.”
It's a bit of a struggle to get the front door open, what with his sweating palms and the awkwardly-balanced box, but somehow he manages it. The crisp, cold air is like a shock to him, and he jerks forward, almost slipping off the front step. The snow crunches under his feet as he walks to his car, heart hammering at the thought of how close he'd just come to saying fuck it all, and kissing Merlin, and about how soon he actually is going to kiss Merlin, just as soon as he has the chance and —
“Arthur!”
Arthur spins around; Merlin is walking towards him. He closes the distance swiftly and then, with naked boldness, grabs Arthur's shoulders and yanks him in and kisses the corner of his mouth, quick, shocking, the cold air snaking in between their lips. Arthur freezes, stock still, and nearly drops the box of cakes for a second time.
“For your hands,” Merlin says shakily when he pulls back and lets go of Arthur. He produces a pair of wooly mittens. “I don't want your hands to freeze.”
“That's,” Arthur says, blinking, dazed and unable to look anywhere besides Merlin's pink, pink mouth. “Very … kind of you. To think of my hands.”
“Not a problem,” Merlin tells him. He drops the mittens on top of the box and then shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, ehm. Safe trip.”
“You as well,” Arthur says. “I mean, no. Yes! Thank you, I mean. Thank you for the mittens.”
“Welcome,” Merlin says, and it's all Arthur can do not to tackle him to the ground. “I'll see you.”
“See you,” Arthur echoes, breathing out something that is half-sigh, half-laughter.
Merlin falls back a few steps, never dropping Arthur's gaze. He lifts one shoulder in a half of a helpless shrug, and a smile quirks his face. Then he turns and hurries into the house, and Arthur watches until the red door clicks shut behind him.
On Christmas morning, Arthur gets a text from Merlin. It reads, death by food, and attached is a picture Merlin must've taken of himself in front of a mirror, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Arthur fights down a laugh, and it's so fucking stupid. He doesn't even know why he tries. He's been wandering around the cottage like a love-sick puppy for days, knocking into furniture and checking his phone every five minutes, and Morgana is looking like she'd like nothing more than to throw it all in his face, but can't bring herself to do it. Arthur is grateful for that, at least.
The cottage is just as Arthur expected it. It's large and cold, with polished floors and enormous windows. The tree takes up an entire corner of the hall, and Arthur has never seen anything less like a cottage in his life. But it's home, he supposes. It's home and it's family and it's Christmas, so Arthur tries to focus on the gifts and the food and Uther's clipped words, even though he feels like he's walking through water most of the time, half a step behind everyone else.
“You're a bit pathetic,” Morgana says when she finds Arthur taking a picture of the big-eared snowman he'd constructed in the back garden. “Why don't you just call him?”
“I'm texting him,” he says, tapping on the keypad and sending the picture to Merlin. “That's the same.”
“It's not the same, and you're an idiot.”
“How am I an idiot?” Arthur asks, kicking at the melting snow. “And what am I supposed to say? 'Hi, Merlin, how are you, thought I'd drop by for a proper snog if you aren't busy'.”
Morgana's eyebrows climb towards her hairline. “A proper what now?”
“Morgana,” Arthur says. “I am asking … for your help.”
“Which I would be glad to give you, if you'd actually ask.”
“Please,” he grinds out, clenching his fingers inside Merlin's mittens.
“Call him,” Morgana says slowly, drawing out each word like she's speaking to someone very dim.
“And say what?” Arthur asks miserably. “He doesn't even know me.”
“How do you expect him to get to know you, if you don't speak to him? You are spectacularly bad at this, Arthur. Just absolutely rubbish.”
“I'm not rubbish,” Arthur insists, because he isn't. He got one kiss, didn't he? And Merlin touched his shoulders and said his name like it was something fantastic and —
“What would I say?”
“Hello, Merlin. Happy Christmas, Merlin. Fancy a snog, Merlin?”
Arthur exhales a laugh. “Perhaps I should lead with something a little more —”
“You're making this far too complicated,” Morgana says. “He asked me to ask you for a lift, because he wanted to spend time with you, Arthur. Because being in close proximity to someone you have a huge, stupid crush on is usually considered a good thing.”
“He &mdash, hang on. Merlin has a crush on me?”
Morgana rakes a hand through her hair and makes a noise, like no one has ever been more frustrating than Arthur is in this moment, and perhaps they never will. "Arthur, I swear to God."
"All right," Arthur says, lifting his hands in surrender. "All right, I'll call him. Just ... not right now."
"Rubbish," Morgana says, rolling her eyes. She turns and walks back into the house, stopping in front of the French doors to yell "Rubbish!" once more over her shoulder.
Arthur waits until he's sure she's gone, and then he sighs and pulls Merlin's number up on the screen of his phone. He opens another text message, discards it, turns the phone off all together and then, disgusted at himself, turns it back on and punches in Merlin's number before he can chicken out. It rings half a dozen times, and Arthur is almost certain he's been let off the hook when a rustling sound comes over the line, and then Merlin is saying “'lo?” around a mouthful of food. Arthur exhales a short laugh and says, “Your phone manners are appalling, mate.”
“Arthur,” Merlin says through the sound of the phone shifting against his cheek. “You called.”
“I did,” Arthur confirms. “I'm out of cakes.”
Merlin laughs, light and airy, and says, “There are scones to the rafters. My mum's been baking non-stop. Is this supposed to be me, by the way? This snowman? It's a horrible rendering.”
“It was an experimental piece,” Arthur tells him, laughing, tucking his free hand under his arm. “I'm still developing my style.”
“Very experimental,” Merlin replies, and behind him is the sound of running water and then the clinking of glass.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing up,” Merlin says. “Thought it'd be a nice thing for Mum to come home to.”
Half a dozen jokes flit through Arthur's mind, but all that comes out of his mouth is a breathless, “Your mum's out?”
Merlin goes silent for a few long, weighted moments and then he says, “Yeah. She'll be gone until late tonight.”
“Where to?” Arthur asks, swallowing thickly.
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Arthur says. “No, not at all.”
He's forgotten the way to Merlin's by the time he gets there. He parks on the street again and has to stop himself sprinting up to the front door. He crunches through the snow at a clip and lifts a hand to knock on the door just as it jerks open and then Merlin is grinning at him, hand fisting in his jacket and reeling him in.
“Fucking took you long enough,” he murmurs, and Arthur feels the words form against his mouth, and then they're kissing and Arthur is shaking, bloody shaking and Merlin must think it's from the cold, because he's sweeping his hands up and down Arthur's arms, like he's trying to rub warmth back into them, and Arthur decides he better keep letting Merlin think that, because the alternative is entirely too terrifying to bear.
“I missed you,” he blurts, wincing, and then leaning back in for more of Merlin's mouth, more of his tongue hot and soft against his own, more of those hands on him.
no
“It's only been three days,” Merlin says against the corner of Arthur's mouth, but he's clutching at Arthur like maybe he understands, like maybe he gets it too, and Arthur doesn't know how to respond to that except to hold Merlin to him even tighter and slot their mouths together again, and again and again. Soft sighs and murmurs and half-words slip out from the spaces between their mouths and —
“Fuck,” Arthur says, breaking away and pressing his forehead against Merlin's. “I'm bloody freezing.”
Merlin laughs. “Then get in the house, you idiot.”
“You're the one who assaulted me on the front step,” Arthur protests, stepping inside and then pinning Merlin up against the wall so that he can lean back in and get Merlin's shirt free of his jeans.
“You weren't complaining.”
“I'm still not,” Arthur tells him, and Merlin shakes a bit with laughter under his hands.
“I should have made a move months ago,” he says. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, heart beating up near his ears now. “Yeah, you should have done. I've wanted you forever, you absolute arse.”
“Well you've got me now,” Merlin says, pulling back and grinning like he'll burst and Arthur thinks, yes. This. Yes.
They stumble up the steps, trying to rid themselves of jackets and jumpers and shoes, scolding one another for getting in the way and laughing when they pitch into a wall and Arthur knocks a framed photo to the carpet.
“Don't worry about it,” Merlin says, reaching for the buttons on Arthur's jeans. “I'll get it later.”
Then there's just them, just the two of them and Merlin's too-small bed and the soft sheets under Arthur's back, and there's no helping the sounds he makes as Merlin climbs on top of him and pins him down. He wraps his legs around Merlin's thighs and pulls him into the cradle of his hips and that's, yes, that's perfect, the soft friction of skin on skin. He rolls his hips up so that Merlin has to ride it out, and Merlin throws his head back, throat bared, and rocks down, his dick smearing precome all over Arthur's stomach and the hollows of his hips, and then he's snaking a hand between their bodies to fit hot fingers around Arthur's cock.
“You feel,” he says, pressing his face to the crook of Arthur's shoulder. “God, Arthur.”
And Arthur thinks he should say something, because he wants Merlin to know what this is to him, but he can't. He hardly knows himself, and he can't seem to hold any words inside his mouth. There's no room for thought, for words, no room for anything except Merlin above him, surrounding him. He arches his back and presses his head deep into the soft down of Merlin's pillow, breathing in the scent of him.
“I want,” he tries, voice hoarse and ruined. “Merlin, ah —”
He comes when Merlin catches his earlobe lightly between his teeth, feeling like his orgasm is being wrenched out of him. It's so sudden, so quick and almost violent in its intensity and Merlin breathes hot and heavy against his skin and jerks him through it.
Arthur's still struggling for breath, chest heaving, when Merlin pulls back and struggles to his knees and wraps his come slick (hand) around his own dick.
“Fuck,” Arthur whimpers. “You're so —”
He can't manage to stay still, reaching up to run his hands over every bit of Merlin that he can reach; his thighs, his hips, his stomach. He covers Merlin's hand with his own, wants to learn Merlin's rhythm as well as he knows his own.
“Show me,” he says, and Merlin does, pushing down into it. Their fingers tangle together, and Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers, comes messily all over Arthur's stomach.
It's a bit of a battle afterward as they try to figure out where to put their arms and legs; the bed is too small to fit the pair of them, but after some heated negotiation they settle down into the blankets with Merlin's head on Arthur's arm, their legs tangled together at the knees.
“I could eat,” Arthur says after a moment, and Merlin laughs into the stillness of the room.
“Oh, I see how it is,” he says, elbowing Arthur in the ribs. Arthur makes an exaggerated unf noise and clutches at his side.
“I suppose I could wait a bit,” he says, wheezing the words, and Merlin snorts, tells him,
“Oh, no, you're not starving on my watch.”
“Later,” Arthur says. He rolls over and settles his weight above Merlin and cups his cheek with his palm, drags his thumb over the swell of Merlin's mouth. Later, they'll go downstairs and eat scones over the kitchen sink and Arthur will learn how Merlin takes his tea. Later, he's going to press Merlin up against the cold boot of his car and kiss him absolutely senseless where everyone can see, and then later, later, he's going to take Merlin back to London, back to his flat, and he's going to undress him carefully and explore every inch of him. He's going to find all the places where Merlin's is (Merlin is) ticklish, and figure out all the ways their bodies fit together, and trace his name into the dip of Merlin's spine.
But for now, he's simply going to lie here in the warmth of Merlin's bed and listen to the drip of melting snow against the window pane.