Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a lie.

An outrageous, bare-faced, slanderous, shameless lie.

A calumny.

A smear on his honour.

Merlin isn’t a lightweight, dammit. It takes more than a couple of miserly pints of beer to send him rolling under the table, and anyone who dares to say anything to the contrary is a brazen liar and an unabashed twat.

It would require at least three pints for him to achieve said sorry state. Five if he can nibble on a few handfuls of crisps and whatnots through the process.

That being said, some devious knobhead added nefarious shots of exotic poison to their peaceful wind-down at the pub. Who does that? No, seriously. Who? Merlin frowns as he attempts to trace back the original sin to the unrepentant sinner. Was it Gwaine? Morgana? Oh no, right. It was Gwen, of all people. Merlin decides to glower at the guilpable… the cultyprit... the culprible? Fuck it, the betrayer!

“Merlin, mate, you okay?” Gwaine asks.

“Abssolutely sstellar.” Barely a slur there. Merlin just wishes he hadn’t been so ambitious with his vocabulary, where a ‘fine’ would’ve done the job. It could’ve been worse, but it fuels the odious defamatory conception that Merlin can’t hold his drink. Oh wait... “Culprit!” he blurts out victoriously, then grins and slaps his hand on the table in celebration. Hah!

“Is he having a stroke?” Elyan asks, slightly concerned now. He’s a darling, Elyan is. A total darling.

“Nah, he’s just trolleyed.” Gwaine’s eyes twinkle like jewels. He’s such a lovable bastard. Merlin loves him to fucking pieces. He loves them all to fucking pieces. And he decides to tell them.

“I love you guys,” he sighs emotionally. “Even you, Gwen, even though you made us do these vile, vile shots.” He does something atrociously complex with his face to convey the level of vileness and the depth of his disappointment. Gwen’s supposed to be the sweetest. The one who understands him best. “Vile, vile shots,” he reiterates. “But I love you. All of you.” His long knobby fingers wave and wiggle to encompass them all in the immensity of his unconditional affection.

They all smile at him and exchange commiserating glances as they raise their drinks. Merlin has clearly overwhelmed them with his eloquent outpouring of love. That’s how he was raised. His mum taught him that. Always tell the ones you love what they mean to you, don’t put it off to another day. His mum’s the best. His friends are the best. And so they all need to hear exactly how much he loves them – well, except for a certain someone who shall remain in the dark as to the actual extent of Merlin’s hopeless love and devotion for him, because Merlin really can’t let that cumbersome cat out of the frazzled bag.

Merlin brings what’s left of his pint to his lips, only to have it magically absconded by a hand he knows very well. A hand that’s both strong and manly and graceful, and would doubtlessly feel phenomenal wrapped around Merlin’s cock.

“All right, I think someone needs a bit of water and fresh air,” Arthur announces, making Merlin sound like some sort of ailing potted plant. “Come on, up you get.” Summoning fingers pluck at the shoulder seam of Merlin’s t-shirt with gentle authority.

“I really like your hand,” Merlin feels the need to say as he gets to his feet. He can safely say that much. Once vertical, the world sways a little and said hand steadies him at the elbow. “It’s a great hand. They’re both great actually,” he adds, belatedly worried that Arthur might think Merlin lopsided and unfair in his appreciation of said agile appendage.

Agile, capable and dependable. Arthur’s hands are always catching stuff and that’s quite hot as far as Merlin’s butter fingers are concerned. Arthur’s hands are always there for Merlin. And they obviously feature heavily in his wank bank. Like all great talents, they started small with uncredited appearances, but stroked their steady imaginary way to fame, and are now firmly acknowledged and acclaimed as top billing.

They hover at the small of his back as Arthur guides him through the tables. They’re even here as Merlin’s lazy foot catches on the treacherous little step that leads to the beer garden. They prevent Merlin from faceplanting on the tiles outside. See? Catching stuff! That’s exactly what Merlin was saying. Thinking. Musing. Whatever. Man, he’s tired.

“Here,” Arthur says, handing him a plastic cup filled with a transparent liquid. “Drink this.”

Merlin does.

“Uh… Iss water,” Merlin notes after taking a trusting sip. Far be it from him to complain or show himself ungrateful, but…

“Nothing gets past you, eh Merlin,” Arthur mutters, rolling his eyes. “Keep drinking, you’ll thank me later.” Arthur nods at him encouragingly as he leans his arse against the low wall.

Right. Okay then.

Merlin drinks the bland water slowly but steadily, like a child taking a medicine under the watchful gaze of a clucking mother. As he drinks, he throws side-glances at Arthur and his hands.

They’re such familiar hands. Intimate hands. Hands that have poked, patted and held Merlin over the years, through thick and thin. They’re the hands that always find him. They’re the hands he could never not grab when they reach for him. But for all that he knows every last scar, mole and callus on them, they are sadly chaste and scrupulously friendly.

It’s sweet and kind of tragic. Much like Merlin.

“Want to talk about it?” Arthur asks with painstaking casualness.

Merlin shrugs. Arthur’s black leather jacket looks really nice. Soft and trim and setting off his broad shoulders. Merlin would love to—

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is a little hoarse with awkwardness. He’s not one to talk about the stuff that he feels needs to be talked about. He’s usually a very private man. But he makes the colossal effort to be that guy for Merlin. The shoulder to cry on. The best mate. Always the best mate.

“I’m fine.” Merlin drags a wan smile across his face. The alcohol-induced buoyancy that kept him going through the evening is swiftly evaporating, leaving nothing but numbness and dull misery in its wake.

Arthur sighs.

“How long had it been?”

Merlin sniffs. It’s beginning to feel cold out here.

“Five months,” he says. Five fucking months. His relationships keep getting shorter and shorter. “It’s okay. It’s not like we were picking curtains or anything.” But Merlin was already looking up Christmas gifts, because that’s what one is supposed to do when October rolls around. And maybe it’s the water he’s drunk or maybe it’s just the night’s chill, but Merlin feels the residual sweat on his skin cooling too fast, adding to the baseline of despondency. He had even begun to save up for a nice dinner in a posh restaurant, but in retrospect he’s not sure his heart was ever really in it. His eyes sting.

“He’s a twat,” Arthur tells him with quiet finality.

Merlin nods limply. It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t absolve Merlin from being a self-sabotaging tosser. This relationship was doomed to fail, like all the others. There are mortifying tears gathering in his eyes. He doesn’t know anything anymore, except that he needs—

“Come ‘ere,” Arthur murmurs and pulls him into a full hug.

Arms, wrapped tight around Merlin’s shoulders and back. Hands, spread and holding. Arthur is so blessedly warm and solid against him, so completely engulfing him in the kind of protective embrace that only he seems to get right. Arthur gives the best hugs. Always has. A whimper of a sob escapes Merlin as he clings to the soft leather of Arthur’s jacket.

“You really know how to pick them,” Arthur sighs and holds on, hands now rubbing comforting circles. “What was the excuse this time?”

“He said I was emotionally unavailable,” Merlin sniffles, feeling both soothed and too idiotic for words.

“What does that even mean?”

It means… It means that Liam was a damn sight more observant than Merlin ever gave him credit for.

And it also means Merlin is a right arsehole for hanging on to fanciful things that cannot be.

“Means there’s something wrong with me,” Merlin mumbles into Arthur’s collar. God, he smells so good. Merlin’s arms tighten in spite of his better judgement. How much more pathetic can he get? Does it even matter at this point?

“The only thing wrong with you is your appalling taste in men,” Arthur grouses, fingertips gently stroking Merlin’s hair.

Merlin snorts. “Can’t argue with that.”

But it’s not that his taste is appalling. His taste is impeccable. It’s just that it also happens to be impossible.

How long has he been repressing his feelings for his best friend? Fucking years.

“Just promise me something,” Arthur says quietly, the vibration of his voice rippling through Merlin’s chest and making his heart stutter with abject happiness.

“Anything,” he breathes, ready to die right here in the cold if that’s what it takes.

“Don’t throw yourself at the next guy who makes eyes at you, okay? Give yourself a break. Give single life a try for a few months. You never know, you might like it.”

A minute shift in the tender pressure of Arthur’s arms lets Merlin know that the hug has run its course. He draws back, dewy-eyed and wibbly-lipped as Arthur’s hands drift to his shoulders and hold him, forcing him to look upon everything he aches for.

“I wish I was more like you,” Merlin says wetly. Which is truth-adjacent.

Arthur rolls his eyes and lets his lips quirk into a sarcastic twist.

“O-kay, hit me with it. What is that supposed to mean?” he grumbles, irresistibly sweet in his sourness.

Merlin’s smile turns a little tremulous. Time to embrace the pain.

“You know,” he shrugs. “You don’t bother with dating or relationships. You just… have fun. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Wham, bam, thank you—"

“Brilliant. Lovely. Glad the superficial, promiscuous void that is my love life is so inspiring to you.”

“You’re not superficial. And only reasonably promiscuous, I guess.” Merlin shivers uneasily. “I just think that your way of doing things is better. It’s less…” He shakes his head weakly in search of the word. “Less disappointing? Less soul-gutting?” A shaky sigh leaves him and he sticks his clammy hands in his pockets. “Must be nice for a change. No expectations, no agonising feelings, no drama. Just a good rough shag, no strings attached.” Merlin forces a smile.

Arthur tips his head to the side a little and gives him an oddly guarded look.

“Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

***

But it’s a lie.

One-night stands have been simpler, shallower, sleazier and on occasions embarrassingly easy to come by – but not once has Arthur seen them as better.

Despite appearances, Arthur would give anything to be in a relationship. One specific relationship, to be exact. But he’s just too much of a coward. Too insecure about his chances of succeeding, when this is probably the one rejection he isn’t sure he could handle. Every time Merlin becomes single again, Arthur sinks into doubts, faffs about and eventually misses his window of opportunity. Every time Merlin’s boyfriends throw in the towel, Arthur tells himself, ‘this time'. This time will be the one. This time he will go up to Merlin and court him to within an inch of his life. Astonish them both with how articulately sensitive and romantic Arthur can be. Prove to everyone that the reason Merlin has never found true happiness in a relationship is because only Arthur can provide it.

That too is probably a lie, by the way. Arthur can’t know for sure whether he has what it takes to make Merlin happy, but he sure would like to be given the chance to try.   

“Come on,” he coaxes the shivering owner of his heart. “I’m taking you home.”

Merlin nods, a tired curve to his lips. They stumble through the pub again, give their friends a wave and finally make their exit onto the dark street.

“Your place or mine?” Merlin says as a joke, batting half-teasing eyelashes — it sends an unexpected spike of want lancing through Arthur’s heart.

“Mine,” he rumbles in answer. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”    

“Are you worried about my virtue?”

“I’m worried about you choking on your own vomit.”

“I have better manners than that.”

“No you don’t.”

Merlin chuckles, then hunches a little in his flimsy t-shirt, quelling another shudder.

Arthur takes his jacket off and drapes it over Merlin’s shoulders.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But Merlin’s voice sounds all soft and dreamy and it’s a siren’s call to Arthur’s dishonourable longings. “Thanks.”

Arthur’s place is not far and Merlin’s been there countless times. There’s a full change of comfort clothes — a pair of plush tracksuit bottoms and a loose-fitting fuzzy sweater — with all but his name on it in one of Arthur’s drawers. A glass of pre-emptive aspirin and a hot shower later, Merlin makes a legless, woolly-brained but very huggable appearance in Arthur’s living-room.

“How do you feel?” Arthur asks, decidedly not looking at the disarmingly cute toes.

“Not dead yet,” Merlin mutters as he slumps on the couch next to Arthur with a grunt and gazes unseeingly at the rugby players athletically running all over the tv screen. “What now?”

“Now? If your track record is any indication, you fall asleep on me and slobber all over my shoulder while snoring loudly.”

“You love it,” Merlin comments as he nestles against Arthur.

“I don’t.”

He does.

Arthur really, sadly, does love these little slices of homely Merlin he is able to snatch in between boyfriends.

“Is that a pair of socks in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he eventually asks.

Merlin chuckles sleepily.

“I couldn’t trust myself to bend over to put them on,” he replies.

Arthur gives a long-suffering huff, then digs a hand in Merlin’s pocket, which makes him yelp and squawk.

“Come on, you big baby,” Arthur grouses as he manhandles Merlin’s sensual and somewhat ticklish feet into his lap and yanks the socks onto them.

“Damn, we’re venturing into proper fetish territory,” the cheeky bastard announces, wiggling his now socked tootsies.

“You wish.”

Merlin snorts.

“I do wish. This is the kinkiest thing I’ve done all year.”

“I don’t want to know.”

But Merlin apparently doesn’t care and hooks his feet over Arthur’s in a way that tries to be suggestive, but ends up being painfully adorable.

“Are you always so solicitous with your one-night stands?”

“You’re not a one-night stand. You’re my annoying best mate with shit taste in boyfriends.”

Merlin sighs and rubs his itchy nose against Arthur’s shoulder.

“Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all along. Maybe casual sex would suit me better. Can I be your next one-night stand?”

And Arthur’s heart has some sort of mini-breakdown.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I’d really like to know what it’s like. Being your hook-up. Are you sweet? Are you rough? Are you thorough and diligent?”

“Thorough and diligent?!” What is he, a chartered accountant? “It’s having a shag, Merlin. It’s not… It’s not…” Christ, what sort of harebrained ideas live under that dark and entirely too sexy mop of hair? “It’s not what you think.”

“So educate me.”

“Why are we having this conversation anyway?”

“Because I’m drunk and I’m vulnerable and I need to be distracted from the utter mess that is my dating record,” Merlin mumbles.

“And you really think my sex life is enviable?”

“Well, I don’t see you getting twatted and maudlin.”

“Exactly. Important verb there. You don’t see me.” It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have his moody, pityful, self-flagellating nights in front of the telly. “And I think you guys seriously overestimate my bodycount. Not everyone who leaves the club with me ends up in bed with me.” Far from it. Although he may have let his friends assume just that for bragging reasons. “Sometimes they get cold feet. Sometimes they just come in their pants before we’ve had a chance to do anything. Sometimes they’re just too drunk to know what they’re doing so I just drive them home.”

Merlin makes a frustrated, almost pained noise against him.

“Bloody gentleman,” he mutters. “What about the other ones?”

“What, do you want me to draw you a picture?” Arthur snaps. This conversation is getting uncomfortable, and he’d really like to shock Merlin into silence. “We get each other off, okay? The quicker the better. So it’s any combination of handjobs or blowjobs, but more often than not it’s me fucking them up against a wall until they beg for mercy and come so hard they pass out.”

And finally that shuts Merlin up. He even has the decency to blush, which makes the perversely self-loathing part of Arthur quite smug. But Merlin is nothing if not tenacious — and horribly curious. 

“Do you kiss them?” he eventually asks in a small but slightly hoarse voice.

For fuck’s sake.

“You’re getting morbid, Merlin.”

“Do you?”

Arthur closes his eyes and counts to ten but knows his asinine best friend won’t let it go until he’s got his answers.

“Usually.”

And that, thankfully, seems to properly shut him up.

For all of five blissful minutes.

“So… Can I be your next one-night stand?” Merlin asks, nudging him with a socked toe.

...