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Going to the play was Merlin’s idea. Arthur was not much of a theatre-goer, but Merlin had won tickets to the opening night of an experimental production in an online competition and as this would be their first date without Arthur’s friends or family along as particularly uninhibited chaperones, Arthur juggled his schedule a bit and agreed to go.
“You’re leaving work on time,” his colleague Leon observed, leaning around his office door. He did not say ‘that’s new’ because Leon was nice like that. “Have you got plans?”
“A date,” Arthur admitted. “I’m seeing Merlin, we’re supposed to meet for dinner at seven.”
Leon had been out of the country during Morgana’s wedding, holding talks with Chalice Corp. about a potential takeover, but his wife Mithian had been there along with the rest of their accumulated friendship circle and it was fair to assume that by now he knew all there was to know about Merlin, possibly more than Arthur did. “That’s great,” Leon said, in the special non-judging voice he used for discussing other people’s love lives, especially the protracted disaster was traditionally Arthur’s. “I hope you have a good time.”
Arthur hoped so too. It had been three days since the wedding, during which time there had been a lot of texting, but he had to acknowledge he didn’t know that much about Merlin yet. Most of the details he did know were the result of his father’s inquisition at the reception. From that incredibly uncomfortable exchange, Arthur had discovered that on top of his job as bartender at the Cavern, Merlin was:
a) studying English literature, with Very Strong Opinions on Shakespeare that were completely contrary to Uther’s own Very Strong Opinions on Shakespeare,
b) working part-time as a library assistant on Tuesdays and Thursdays, having apparently magicked about ten more hours into his week,
and c), someone who did not react well to aggressive questioning.
Fortunately, Uther had been distracted from full-on wrath at Merlin’s increasingly sarcastic answers by the sight of Morgana and Vivian dancing on the dessert table and had gone off to arrange damage control, allowing Arthur to whisk Merlin safely away from the party and into the car. They’d both been too tired to do more than kiss goodbye when he dropped him off home.
That had been the end of their first official date. The plan for this evening was much more conventional. Merlin had texted the address of a place where they were to meet up for dinner first, a pub called the Serpent and Unicorn that was within walking distance of the theatre. Arthur guessed from the location that this wasn’t an occasion for formal-wear, and he was right. It took him two circuits of the block to even find the right place – the Serpent on the sign over the door was fading out of existence like it was too embarrassed to be seen there any more, but the Unicorn remained, rearing triumphantly twee over all those who would enter. Inside it was less medieval, more Iron Age: hewn roughly out of wood, smelling faintly of smoke, dark and mostly deserted.
Merlin was already waiting at a table near the back, jumping up to wave when he saw Arthur. He wore a dark blue shirt that did great things for his eyes and a sort of red neckerchief thing that Arthur immediately wanted to remove. For aesthetic purposes. There was a brief awkward dance as Arthur went for a kiss and Merlin went for a hug and they both nearly went into a wall; once they’d righted themselves, Arthur compromised with a quick peck on the cheek and sat down, looking for a menu. The only one appeared to be what was written in chalk behind the bar – gastro-pub this was not – so Arthur picked the day’s special, an inoffensive-looking stew.
“Ah, no, I wouldn’t have the stew,” Merlin said immediately. “Mr Anhora gets a bit creative with that. I’m having the quiche, and the pie’s quite good.” He looked at Arthur’s dubious face and added, “I’ll just order, shall I?” before hurrying to the counter. He stayed there for a few minutes, chatting to the barkeep. At what must have been a question about Arthur, he fidgeted with his scarf and gestured over at their table in what he clearly thought was a surreptitious way.
Arthur sighed and took another look around the pub. There were two other people in it: a big man with a scruffy ginger beard sitting at the bar, nursing a beer and looking like an extra from a gangster movie, and an older woman in a patchwork cardigan who was frowning over a laptop a couple of tables away. Arthur got a strong vibe of ‘locals’ off them. Maybe this was what happened when you ate the stew, you were cursed to return forever.
“My godfather knows the man who owns this place,” Merlin explained as he slid into the chair across from Arthur’s. “I’ve been coming here for years, they do a great all-day breakfast. And Will, that’s the bloke behind the counter, is an old friend of mine from school.”
Arthur looked at Will. Will looked at Arthur, polishing a glass and giving him the murder eyes.
“He seems charming,” Arthur said.
“He finds people annoying,” Merlin said quickly, shifting his chair to block Arthur’s sight-line. “Like, most people. Any people.”
Arthur considered remarking ‘not you, though?’ but decided that sounded petty and checked his phone instead. Morgana had sent another threatening reminder to feed her water dragons or die a terrible death (as if he could forget with the tank in his kitchen and the lizards giving him suspicious beady stares every time he went to make coffee); Vivian had chimed in with a selfie from the deck of the cruise ship that was the first stage of their honeymoon. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a rakishly tilted pirate hat. Lance had cancelled a gym session to go volunteer for an animal shelter, and Arthur’s PA George had emailed the times for next week’s meeting schedule. Nothing that urgently needed a response. Arthur put his phone away and remembered, belatedly, that Merlin might be the kind of person who considered phone-checking on a date to be rude.
“Busy?” Merlin asked brightly. Definitely that kind of person.
The food arrived courtesy of Will, only without the courtesy. He dumped the plates on the table like this act, specifically, was the very last straw in his day, gave Merlin an ‘I told you so’ kind of a nod and stomped back to the counter. There was a short silence as Arthur cast about for a way to wade out of the awkwardness.
“You don’t like it,” Merlin said first, his voice gone flat.
“It looks…crusty,” Arthur hedged, tapping the top of his pie tentatively with a fork. He took a bite and it was actually all right. Quite good, even.
“I meant, you don’t like it here,” Merlin said quietly. “I should have thought of that. It’s – not very you.” He rubbed his face, summoning up a not very happy smile. “I just, I don’t eat out much and I was going to look up some restaurants but I had to work late and it didn’t happen. Sorry. We can go somewhere else if you want.”
It was true, this was not Arthur’s kind of place. When he went for a drink, it was usually to the sleek Rising Sun bar ten minutes walk away from his flat (with prices treble those listed on the board above Will’s head). He could name a dozen different restaurants for every occasion, a necessary list to keep in mind for when Annis dumped an important client meeting on his head with no warning, or when Uther decided to have father-son bonding time and required an appropriate backdrop for the media camped outside to film. There was no reason to think Merlin would fit comfortably into his life, and Arthur liked his life, most of the time. But he liked Merlin too. He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly why. It had been a sudden moment of conviction when they’d first met, that this was someone he needed to know, and he was still sure of it.
“I don’t want to go somewhere else,” he said.
Merlin was looking at the table, running his finger along a scar in the wood. “Really, it’s fine, I don’t mind where we go,” he said, obviously minding.
“I mean it, Merlin,” Arthur sighed. “This is fine. Look on the bright side, we probably won’t be attacked by an angry opera singer.”
“When were you –” Merlin began, frowning. “Is this another of your sister’s relatives?”
“Good guess, but no. My father’s ex, Helen, she burst in on a campaign launch dinner and threw a glass of wine all over him.” Arthur shrugged. “She missed, most of it landed on me. Morgana pulled a fish knife on her. It was an eventful evening.”
“How is your life real,” Merlin said wonderingly.
“You work for someone called the Dragon, you really don’t have a leg to stand on.”
Arthur took another mouthful of pie, and left his buzzing phone in his pocket. It would keep. He tried to talk Merlin into telling him the Dragon’s real name and got deftly tricked into telling Merlin all about his own boss, and then about his job. Upper management at Caerleon Industries was essentially an advanced form of herding cats, but Arthur loved it, and could talk about it all day. He could certainly monopolise a dinner table with minimal encouragement.
Over dessert he managed to wrench the conversation away from Caerleon and coax some details out of Merlin about his day at the library (“little kids are total goblins, I’m telling you, I was fixing the shelves in the children’s section for hours after story time”) before they had to head for the theatre. Merlin insisted on paying and went to say goodbye to Will; Arthur quickly checked his phone again while he was alone at the table and found a series of texts from Morgana. I shall assume you are shagging Merlin right now based on your radio silence, good for you, but don’t you dare sleep late. My dragons need to be fed ON SCHEDULE or they get anxious. Do not make my dragons anxious, Arthur. I WILL KNOW.
Arthur wanted to take a cheap shot but that would lead to a fight he didn’t have time to pick, so he texted back a reassuring picture of a dragon (one of several he had stored for this precise purpose, to show Morgana he hadn’t accidentally killed them in her absence) and jammed his phone in his jeans pocket as Merlin turned around.
“Ready to go?” Arthur asked.
Merlin smiled and oh, yes, there was that conviction again. “Ready.”
* * *
In hindsight, taking Arthur to dinner at Anhora’s pub, where Will could watch on and form nasty snap judgements about his clothes and haircut (“I don’t have to get to know him, Merlin, I can see he’s a bloody snob, look at his poncy hair”) had not been a good idea. Especially since Arthur had shown up in red jeans and a thin white shirt with the top two buttons undone, obviously an excellent sartorial decision, along with a tailored leather jacket that showed off his shoulders and awakened a couple of Merlin’s latent kinks.
On the plus side, it was close to the theatre and on the walk over Arthur reached out, casually lacing his fingers through Merlin’s, like that was just a thing they did now. Given their first meeting had been a mutually satisfactory one night stand and their second date had been punctuated by a fairly indiscreet blowjob, this was hardly a new intimacy, but it felt different. Merlin liked it.
They took their seats in the middle row, the curtain went up and the play started.
The blurb on the back of Merlin’s program indicated that tonight’s performance was about a journey into the subconscious, ‘to find the beast within’, and he gathered from the opening monologue (delivered, his program told him, by the ‘renown name of stage and screen’ Catrina Tregor) that there was also something about capitalism and marriage being a failing institution, but evidence of a plot remained elusive. He looked around the stage for clues. The set design was minimal – which was to say, limited to a pile of coins in the middle of the stage for Catrina to roll around in and scream ‘Money!’ orgasmically under a green spotlight. Merlin did not doubt her commitment to this role. He hoped she was getting very well paid for it.
The male lead (‘exciting new talent’ Jonas Lackey, the program helpfully noted) was less charismatic. He skulked around the edge of the stage, giving the audience significant looks. It felt like he might bite. A third actor (William Daira, the program said curtly, clearly not emotionally invested) wandered in and out of the action, very obviously ad-libbing when he was required to speak. Merlin doubted it was in the script when Jonas elbowed him in the ribs.
“Is he playing her boyfriend or her secretary?” Arthur whispered.
Merlin checked his program again. “I think he’s a manifestation of her conscience.”
“We should do a poll of how many people here ‘won’ tickets.”
The lights kept cutting out during dramatic moments, but Merlin suspected that was more due to technical glitches than a deliberate effect. Or maybe whoever was in charge of the lighting wanted it all to end as much as the actors did. “If love is blind,” Catrina asked the ceiling, the spotlight overhead flickering ominously, “who can trust the eye of the beholder?”
Behind her, William Daira made a bewildered face and a titter passed through the audience. Catrina glared, but William had been struck by revelation – from there on in, he made exaggerated gestures of confusion in the background every time Catrina or Jonas made a speech, undeterred by their looks of pure loathing. Scattered applause broke out in the front row.
The first act reached its climax when Jonas tore off Catrina’s necklace and she collapsed screaming on the stage like he’d torn out her liver. The curtain descended for the interval and Arthur and Merlin looked at each other. In perfect unspoken agreement, they got up out of their seats and walked straight out of the theatre.
“I parked over here,” Arthur said, taking Merlin’s hand again and pulling. It was fully dark outside now and a light mist of rain was shining on the street, glittering under the streetlights as it fell. Merlin slipped, nearly tripping into the gutter, and grabbed a handful of Arthur’s jacket to hold himself upright.
“You are beauty, you are grace,” Arthur said, poker-faced, though from the way his arm immediately went around Merlin’s waist, he wasn’t complaining. He kept it there the rest of the way to his car, which didn’t actually help Merlin’s ability to control his feet.
“So, the play was a bust,” Merlin said, feeling it was better to admit this upfront.
“It absolutely was,” Arthur agreed. “This is when you offer me a drink to make up for it.”
Merlin laughed. “Come back to mine? I think I have whisky somewhere.”
“I’ll take it.” Arthur patted the shiny red hood of his Porsche fondly and opened the door for Merlin, who slid into the passenger seat and relaxed against the leather upholstery. It had been a long day on his feet and Geoffrey, the senior librarian, had been in a crabby mood right from the start; the gentle hum of the engine nearly sent Merlin into a doze. Pulling himself upright, he started giving directions to his flat, but Arthur waved him off. “I remember,” he said, taking the right turn. “I was here a few days ago, you know.”
“It seems longer.” Which might be the biggest cliché Merlin had ever uttered, but it was true, and made Arthur give his sunshine smile.
The rain was getting heavier. They jumped out of the car and ran for cover, Merlin shaking wet hair out of his eyes to find his door key. He’d tried to leave the flat nice this morning, in the hope he’d be bringing Arthur home later on – the dishes were done, there were no dirty clothes under the furniture, and the sheets on his bed were fresh. Not much could be done about the coffee table, which was propped up by the overflow of books that wouldn’t fit on his chaotic shelves, or about the pages of research taped all over one wall, but Arthur made himself at home anyway on the sofa while Merlin put on the kettle and got them towels. When he came back, Arthur was flipping curiously through a copy of Hamlet with six years worth of personal annotations scribbled into the margins. “I knew him, Horatio,” he murmured, grabbing the offered towel and rubbing at his hair. “Fuck, I hate that play.”
If Merlin had been wearing pearls, he’d have clutched them. “How can you hate Hamlet?”
“If you had to learn every one of the damn soliloquies. It was Dad’s favourite disciplinary method when Morgana and I were kids, he’d lock us in our rooms and we couldn’t come out until we’d memorised a piece of Shakespeare. That way we’d learn important cultural reference points as well as a valuable lesson in respecting our elders.” Arthur shrugged out of his jacket. “It wasn’t that bad, I suppose, Morgana learned how to pick locks and it helped me figure out I was bisexual. Though that was not really what Dad hoped would happen.”
Merlin could not tell if he was making all this up or not. He had the worrying suspicion that he was not. Arthur returned to perusing Merlin’s books, giving a delighted exclamation when he found an elderly paperback of The Fellowship of the Ring. The kettle let loose a screech and Merlin went to make cocoa, adding a generous dash of whisky to each mug.
“Here’s how this will go,” he said, when he brought them out of the kitchen. “We can drink this on the sofa like civilised people and talk about your Shakespearean sexual awakening some more, because I am very curious about that and may write a paper on it. Or we can drink in bed. Talking optional.”
That attracted Arthur’s full attention. “I like the second option.”
Merlin grinned. “I thought you might.”
It was bizarrely domestic for what was presumably going to be their third sexual encounter: kicking off shoes and socks at the door, unbuttoning shirts on opposite sides of the bed, silently watching each other unzip their jeans. Merlin left the bedside lamp on, creating a soft-edged golden island in the middle of the room while rain shimmered outside the window. Stripped down to boxers, they retreated under the covers with the spiked hot chocolate and Arthur gave an appreciative moan at the first sip.
“This is good,” he said. “You should sell this at the bar instead of the frothy green thing.”
“I sell a lot of frothy green things,” Merlin pointed out, kicking Arthur’s ankle lightly. Arthur retaliated, and things quickly escalated to the point where holding the mugs was no longer practical. They were abandoned, half-empty, on the floor beside the bed and Arthur promptly pinned Merlin to the mattress with no effort at all.
His grip was loose on Merlin’s shoulders, leaving plenty of room for him to get free if he wanted, but Merlin was in no hurry to do that. He used the leeway to slide his hands up Arthur’s forearms instead, thumbing the pulse point and trailing up towards the elbow, skating over firm biceps – Arthur was evidently someone who took his gym membership seriously – before slipping down the arm again, feather-light. He tested Arthur’s reactions to having his fingertips kissed (bemused), his collar-bone licked (a quick inhale), and his lip gently bitten (a fiercely thorough kiss, very good result, repeat experiments very necessary). Hooking a leg around Arthur’s hip, Merlin rolled them over so that he was straddling Arthur’s waist and started kissing a deliberate path down his chest. The showy gesture made Arthur huff with laughter.
“Do you roll condoms on with your mouth too?” he asked.
“Keep up that attitude and you won’t find out.”
Arthur laughed again and Merlin pounced on the exposed curve of his neck, kissing and nipping, not quite hard enough to leave a hickey but making Arthur hiss in appreciation and arch into the touch. His hands settled on Merlin’s hipbones, distracting him from his plans by rolling them back over – perilously close to the edge, some people’s sleep was not king-size – and neatly slotting his knee between Merlin’s legs. Which was an irresistible opportunity to get rid of the boxers they were still wearing, who needed those anyway, and work up some very welcome friction.
Opening the bedside drawer without looking up from Merlin’s mouth, Arthur made a pleased sound into the kiss as he located the lube by touch alone; by the time Merlin remembered that he had in fact been aiming to give a blowjob, Arthur’s skilful fingers were at work, making the idea of moving anywhere very unappealing. Merlin pushed up into Arthur’s grip, gasping out a heartfelt “fuck” as Arthur’s thumb rubbed teasing circles at the tip of his cock.
“Was that a comment or a request?” Arthur asked interestedly, tilting his wrist in a way that had Merlin writhing and swearing again.
“Not…tonight,” Merlin managed to get out eventually. “Your fingers, though, I want your fingers – God, that’s good, keep doing that.” Arthur obliged, one wet fingertip circling Merlin’s rim before gently pushing inside. It took him no time at all to find exactly the right spot to stroke. Merlin fisted his hands in the sheets, knowing he wasn’t going to last much longer. Arthur seemed to know it too. When he eased in a second finger alongside the first, he leaned on one elbow and breathed filthy promises in Merlin’s ear until he lost it completely and came in a shuddering rush.
“Give me a minute,” he gasped out.
“Take all the time you need,” Arthur said magnanimously, flopping onto his back. Merlin elbowed him and he snickered, to which the only possible response was proving that Merlin could indeed roll a condom on with his mouth, and had a few other tricks besides. Judging from Arthur’s response, he was appropriately impressed.
“Stay the night?” Merlin said, while they were cleaning themselves up. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“I wish I could,” Arthur said ruefully. “But I’m dragon-sitting while Morgana is away, and she will throw a fit like you wouldn’t believe if I left them alone for the night. On the other hand,” he continued thoughtfully, picking his shirt off the floor and pulling it on, “you could come with me. If you want. How do you feel about dragons?”
Merlin watched the lamplight catch in Arthur’s rumpled blond hair, and reached for his clothes without a second thought. “I guess we’ll find out.”