Chapter Text
Merlin always leaves a trail behind him. Half finished mugs of tea, chunky rings taken off and littered on various surfaces, shrugged off clothing forgotten on the backs of chairs and sofas. Arthur can’t help but notice these things, he lives with the man after all.
So he can’t exactly help to notice other things about Merlin either, like the straight line of his nose, or the broad cut of his shoulders tapering to give way to his slim waist, the elegant shape of his hands, or the—
Arthur is observant, is what he’s saying, more than he’s given credit for anyway. So it’s strange then, puzzling even, that he’s only recently started noticing how Merlin smells.
And yes, he’s always known Merlin smells fine, it’s sort of the only conclusion to reach. But he’s never actually paused and thought that it’s nice, and now that he’s realised the fact it’s become incredibly difficult to not notice it.
it certainly doesn’t help that they’re constantly in each other’s space, that Merlin has no clue what boundaries are and Arthur doesn’t do much to establish any.
Arthur likes to think he had a relatively normal understanding of personal space before he met Merlin, once upon a time. It’s gone to shit now, blurred and forgotten in the familiarity of their friendship. Which is why he doesn’t think twice before stepping behind Merlin, where the man is dicing various vegetables on the kitchen counter, placing a hand on his hip and reaching over him to get something from the cupboard.
And fine, maybe he could’ve stood to the side and asked Merlin to move over for a second, maybe that would’ve saved him from breathing in the scent clinging to Merlin’s clothes, from freezing like an idiot and staring at the cupboard dazed, thinking for the thousandth time how nice it is, but they just—don’t operate like that.
When Arthur takes too long to move, Merlin glances at him with a raised eyebrow. It snaps Arthur out of it just enough to reach inside the cupboard blindly, fingers brushing past glass jars without actually looking at any of them.
He wraps a hand around one and steps back a little too fast, snatching his other hand away from the warmth of Merlin’s side.
“We need oregano.”
“Huh?” Arthur’s gaze snaps to where Merlin is still chopping away and then to the jar in his hand. Paprika. Not even close. “Oh, right,” he says, voice coming out weird and strained as he continues standing there with the wrong jar in his hand, mind embarrassingly blank. Merlin pauses his movements then, turning towards him, and if he notices the heat on Arthur’s face or the way he stands stiffly, he doesn’t comment on it. “Could you—uh, pass it?” Arthur asks, because he’s at least aware enough to not put his senses under assault like that so soon.
Merlin hums, swiping his hand on the front of the stupid flowery apron tied around his torso and reaching into the spice cupboard to grab the oregano. He holds it out, and Arthur almost shivers when their fingers brush as he takes the jar. What is wrong with him?
Arthur moves back over to the stove, trying to ignore the buzzing across his skin as he dumps oregano into the simmering pot. The steam rising from it does nothing to help the way the kitchen feels suddenly and terribly sweltering, but Arthur stands his ground, stirring around the contents of the pot aimlessly.
His gaze flits back over to Merlin despite himself, to the way the cords in Merlin’s forearms move as he works the knife, then to the elaborate bow tied on the back of his apron. Merlin is humming something Arthur doesn’t recognise as he scrapes the cut vegetables off the counter and carries them over in handfuls to drop into the pot, and every time he steps close, Arthur can’t help but breathe him in.
Arthur’s always hated how certain scents and perfumes are described. Overly ornate and detailed, to the point where nothing can really smell that specific, or entirely vague, more of a concept than anything tangible. But with Merlin standing next to him now—shoulder to shoulder as he swats away Arthur’s hand to stir the pot himself as if that’ll magically improve the flavour—Arthur can begin to understand the conundrum of describing smells.
There are some things he can pick up on. Frankincense, sandalwood, maybe even sage, though that may just be the effect of cooking in a poorly ventilated kitchen. And then there are the notes that Arthur wants to scoff at and dismiss, but he can’t deny the subtle scent of what he can only describe as rain soaked moss, underlined by the innate sort of clean warmth that clings to Merlin’s person—whatever it is, it’s infuriatingly appealing.
“Did you get a new cologne?” Arthur blurts, suppressing a wince as the words leave his lips.
Merlin, though, seems unperturbed, leaning over the pot to look into it. “Nope, same old. Why?”
“No reason,” Arthur says, because he can’t exactly confess that he’s suddenly helpless to how Merlin smells every time they’re even slightly close to each other. He rips his gaze away from the shape of Merlin’s profile and focuses on a dry splatter of sauce on the stovetop instead. And then, because he just can’t leave it alone, it seems, “New shampoo?”
“Nah,” Merlin hums, letting the spoon rest against the side of the pot and turning around. “I did get a new body-wash the other day, from Lush.”
Arthur’s brows furrow. “The smelly shop next to that coffee place you like?”
“It’s not a ‘smelly shop’,” Merlin says, exasperated, as he crosses his arms over his chest. “It just smells good.”
Wouldn’t you know, Arthur scoffs to himself. Either way, he would have to investigate this new body-wash, figure out if it’s the reason he finds himself suddenly fixated on the way Merlin smells, even though it’s never been a point of interest before. It’s just strange is all, even a little annoying, to have his attention constantly being sidetracked, annoying because he’s failed to notice it before.
That’s all.
“You alright?” Merlin asks, bumping him with a shoulder and looking at him inquisitively.
Arthur clears his throat awkwardly and tries to seem unaffected by—by whatever has the back of neck flushing hot. “Great,” he says, entirely unconvincing. “—hungry, actually. What else do we need to add to this…concoction?”
Merlin peers at the simmering contents of the pot, something that’s meant to be a soup but is failing to resemble one. He turns to the kitchen counter and picks up his reading glasses, slipping them on, and Arthur hates—he hates those fucking glasses, the way they implicate Merlin with a sort of competence Arthur knows for a fact the man does not actually possess.
It’s unfair. Merlin is already tall and attractive and funny, he doesn’t also need to look infuriatingly casually intelligent. Arthur is slightly ashamed to admit the way his stomach twists (with envy, of course) at the sight of those glasses perched low on the bridge of Merlin’s nose while he pushes back sleeves that have crept down his arms.
Wordlessly, Merlin thumbs apart the pages of his cooking book, skimming the words of the recipe they’re supposedly using. And of course Merlin uses a cooking book, can’t just google recipes like the rest of modern society under the age of sixty.
“Beef stock,” Merlin reads, long finger tracing the ingredient list.
“…Do we have beef stock?”
Merlin bites his lip, taking his glasses off with practiced dexterity. The pot begins bubbling rather ominously now, the noise of it filling the quiet space of the kitchen. “I think there’s half a chicken stock cube behind the ketchup,” he says, pointing to a cupboard.
Arthur stares at him for a moment, coming to terms with the fact that their dinner will be less than perfect, and then, with a sigh, nods his head for Merlin to retrieve the stock cube.
And as Merlin offers him an insincere smile and brushes past him to get to the cupboard, Arthur is once again swept away in the lingering scent that occupies the trail of Merlin’s movements.
It’s just strange.
.
Arthur doesn’t know exactly when Merlin waged a boycott on tidiness, but judging from the hazardous piles of books scattered on the floor amongst half the contents of Merlin’s wardrobe, the fight is still ongoing.
Merlin is moving about his room in a chaotic flurry, picking up items of clothing from one place only to set it down in another and move onto a different task. Currently, after some much needed guidance, he’s tackling the nightmare of stationary that is his desk. Though Arthur isn’t sure how much progress he’s making, twirling around in the desk chair as he is, examining a particular pen.
“You’re meant to be tidying,” Arthur says from where he’s sprawled out on Merlin’s unmade bed, lying on his stomach and glancing flippantly at some documents he brought home from work.
“You know you could help me instead of making snide comments and holding domain over my bed?” Merlin shoots back, tossing the pen in his direction, only he has terrible aim and the pen lands on the floor past the bed.
Arthur scoffs, flipping to the next page of the stack. “It’s your mess.”
“I’m going to kick you out.”
“Go ahead and try,” Arthur hums, fingers skipping around the bed, looking for anything to occupy himself with. He hears Merlin groan, long suffering as if he isn’t dealing with the consequences of his own chaos.
“No point,” Merlin sighs, and Arthur glances over to see him finally get up from the chair. “You love my room too much, you’d just find a way in again.”
Arthur pauses for a second, eyes caught on Merlin as he scrambles to come up with something witty to say. When the effort provides no useful results, he resorts to making a disbelieving noise and turns back to his work. “Shut up.”
Merlin chuckles at that, only serving to fluster Arthur even more, because he does like Merlin’s room, despite the fact that it looks like a parkour maze half the time. It has a certain lived in quality that Arthur feels his own room lacks, soft lighting and stupid posters, worn bedsheets. It’s just surprisingly comfortable, that’s all.
He’d rather die than tell Merlin that in any kind of way, though.
Arthur’s fingers brush by something, a fabric different to that of the bedsheets. Absentmindedly, he pinches it between his fingers and tugs it closer. It doesn’t yield and Arthur frowns, shifting to see what and where it is.
Merlin is humming now, creating clatter as he sifts through the items on his desk. Arthur ignores it, squinting at the fabric in his hand. It’s one of Merlin’s jumpers, old and worn soft. The knit is chunky, stretched around the collar in a way Arthur doesn’t like because it draws attention to the stark line of Merlin’s collarbones.
Arthur seems to have the sleeve in his hand, and he looks down the length of it to see that he is, in fact, lying on top of the sweater, not having noticed it amongst the mess of other things on the bed. Arthur thumbs at a pulled thread on the cuff of the sleeve and then twists his finger around in it.
He brings it closer to himself, resting his chin on the hand that’s clutching it loosely. And, foolishly, he doesn’t anticipate the wave of disorientation when he next takes a breath, drawing in the scent of Merlin clinging to the fibers of the jumper. Arthur’s breath catches on instinct as it rushes his senses, rendering his mind blank for an embarrassingly long moment.
“Is this yours?” Merlin’s voice breaks through his stupefaction, making Arthur drop the fabric in his hand like it burned him. He looks to Merlin, feeling irritatingly warm.
Arthur swallows, his mouth dry and unwilling to form around the shape of any words. He blinks at the wire Merlin is dangling from his hand, a charger maybe. “Uh—” he starts, eloquently. He wets his bottom lip, feeling Merlin’s expectant gaze on him. “No—I don’t think so.”
Merlin glances to the wire, regarding it for a moment before shrugging and tossing it into an open desk drawer. Arthur rolls his eyes, if only to conceal the lack of any coherent thought behind them, and once he’s sure Merlin is occupied with ‘tidying’ again, he turns back to his own work.
The words he was perfectly able to read only a moment ago seem like scribbles now, and Arthur has a difficult time processing them enough to move onto the next paragraph, eyes skipping over the same sentence multiple times.
And then, because there’s something wrong with him surely, he picks up the sleeve of the jumper again, brushing it under his chin then under his nose, fingers fidgeting with the knit. He takes a stuttering breath, only to reaffirm what he’s smelling, of course.
It hits him again, something undeniably recognisant of Merlin, earthy and warm. His skin prickles as the fibres of the jumper brush his skin but he finds himself holding it closer to himself despite it, melting into the soft fabric. He stays like that for a while, only half paying attention to his work, Merlin mulling about making noise in the background, his mind quieted even as his stomach flutters uncomfortably.
Which is why it startles him more than it should, when Merlin drops onto the bed, making the mattress dip and then bounce back up as he adjusts his position.
Merlin lets out a sigh, clapping his hands together. “I’m done,” he announces. “It’s perfectly clean, take a look.”
Reluctantly, Arthur shifts on the bed, sitting up and chancing a glance at an unreasonably proud Merlin before taking a long look around the room. Approximately half the desk is clean, there’s now three tall stacks of books instead of several small ones, and most of Merlin’s clothes have been evicted from their home on the floor, though Arthur suspects he might have just stuffed them into the wardrobe and called it a day.
“Wow,” Arthur deadpans, putting his hands on the bed behind him. “It’s a miracle. Should we alert the press?”
Instead of answering, Merlin just grins and flops down on the bed, lying down right next to Arthur’s folded legs. “Oh,” Merlin turns his head, and it takes Arthur a second to drag his eyes away from where Merlin’s shirt collar slips across his shoulder to see what he’s looking at. “Forgot about this,” Merlin says offhandedly, picking up the jumper Arthur was fiddling with and tossing it in the direction of the chair.
Arthur doesn’t get to see where it landed because Merlin is stretching his arms above his head, wrists hanging off the edge of the bed, the strong lines of his arms on display. Arthur clears his throat and looks away, willing himself not to think of Merlin’s damned jumper, or Merlin’s collarbones, or—Merlin.
It’s difficult, immensely so, with the man droning on about how tiring cleaning is, voice low and lazy.
Gods, Arthur needs to get a grip.
.
Arthur needs to clear his head.
Like every morning for the last week, he wakes up feeling restless, skin crawling with frustration at nothing in particular. It makes him feel all out of sorts, like there’s something he’s missing but can’t name.
And like every morning, he tries to fix it with coffee, and then a freezing shower, and then an attempt to busy himself with one thing or the other. None of it works, nothing displaces that low thrum of dissatisfaction, which is how he finds himself clad in a t-shirt and running shorts, lacing up his trainers a bit too tight. Maybe burning through his lungs will fix whatever this is. He’s just pent up.
He pushes up from the sofa, running a hand through his hair and begins mentally mapping out the route he’s going to take. The local park is more than adequate for a run at this time and he hopes the weekend won’t mean it’s terribly busy.
With that, he heads for the door, grabbing his keys from the hook on the wall and just about getting a hand on the doorknob before his thoughts pull him to the uncomfortable silence in the flat, to the empty space behind him. Arthur usually goes running alone, can’t put up with chatting or having to adjust his speed to someone else’s. It’s what he’s always done. And yet today the thought of trudging through the park with only his own thoughts and the barks of over excited dogs for company is entirely unappealing.
He needs to get out of his head, needs to be distracted.
Arthur groans, dropping his hand from the doorknob and turning around. He’s knocking on Merlin’s door before he can talk himself out of it, waiting impatiently for a reply before just opening a door and sticking his head inside.
Merlin is clearly just waking up, hair wild and looking at Arthur blearily.
Arthur lets himself in and begins pacing the room, stretching his arms above himself. “Get up,” he says simply.
“Get out,” Merlin replies, head dropping back onto his pillow.
“We’re going running, come on.”
Merlin groans, turning sides and still refusing to look at him again. “We aren’t going anywhere,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Go put yourself through hell if you want, I’m staying here.”
“No, you’re not.” Arthur glances around the room, finding a shirt hung on the back of the door and flinging it at Merlin’s face. “It’s a Saturday, you can’t spend the whole day in bed. You have to be more active! Physical movement, fitness, what not. You know, studies show—”
“Shut up. Oh my god, shut up.” Merlin turns onto his back, hands scrubbing down his face, and then sits up, looking like he’s risen from the dead. “I couldn’t go with you even if I wanted to—which I really, really don’t—because I haven’t got any athleisure, because I’m not insane.”
Arthur disregards Merlin’s blabbering entirely, walking out of the room as he calls behind himself, “You can use mine!”
.
This was such a terrible idea. God awful, really. What was Arthur thinking?
Why did he have to ask Merlin to come with him? Why did he have to lend Merlin his old uni sports jacket? Why did it look like that on him?
Arthur swallows, glancing at Merlin in his peripheral despite himself. He can’t help fixating on the way the jacket clings to Merlin’s shoulders, snug across them but hanging loose around his hips. Then, Arthur’s gaze refuses to budge from where he’s watching the hem of the jacket sway as Merlin moves, so much so he nearly trips over himself in what would have been a pathetic display if he were not athletically gifted.
He forces his eyes back onto the pavement ahead, clenching his jaw and trying to focus on running faster.
Still, he can just about make out Merlin pushing away his damp hair away from his face, breath coming in fast as the sun makes a sudden appearance and bombards them. “Fucking hell,” Merlin huffs, and Arthur can tell he’s gearing up for another round of complaining. “You know, most people go to brunch on weekends,” he says, voice breathless and exerted. “How come you never take me to brunch?”
Arthur scoffs, half hearted. “We can go to brunch tomorrow.”
“Nah, too posh,” Merlin pants, tugging at the zipped up collar of the jacket like it’s suffocating, And Arthur knows it is, because he wore it religiously for three years and nearly came down with heatstroke once. Arthur turns, looking at Merlin, lungs burning as he takes in the red flush tinging the man’s face.
Merlin yanks the zipper down slightly, opening up the collar and letting out a tired groan, head dropping as Arthur refuses to slow down. Usually on a run, Arthur makes an effort to enjoy the fresh air, the movement of people in the park, today though, it’s all lost on him. He runs like a man being chased, out of pure survival. He can’t stop thinking about that fucking jacket, about Merlin wearing it, about Merlin leaving that infuriating scent on it.
It isn’t fair. Arthur wanted to clear his head, wanted to be distracted—well, he is distracted but in the wrong way and—and too much.
And, okay, fine, it’s his fault for dragging Merlin out in the first place, but it’s not like he knew the man was going to be like this, all flushed, and sweating, and complaining every two minutes!
“When can we take a break?” Merlin asks, clearly worn but somehow still managing to stay in step with Arthur. Just barely, but Arthur will give credit where credit is due.
“Er—just, uh, just after the next bench.” Arthur wants to slap himself, exasperated at his recent inability to speak properly.
They come to a stop soon enough, pulling off to a plane of grass. Arthur bends at the waist, hands on his knees, legs burning as he catches his breath, being more winded than he usually is. Merlin isn’t any better off, breathing heavily and running a hand through his hair.
Arthur stands straight then, squinting as he glances around the park, if only to stop himself looking at Merlin instead. Any efforts to avoid Merlin are rendered useless though when the man steps close, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder and hand clenching in his shirt.
Arthur’s blood is near boiling, heating his skin fervently. His own breath hitches as he feels Merlin’s panting exhales brush along the front of his shirt. “I think I’m gonna die,” Merlin whines, his other arm coming to rest across Arthur’s shoulders. “You’ve killed me with your pointless cardio, Arthur. What will you tell my poor mother?”
“That her son is astoundingly unathletic and that she should have made him join more sports clubs in school,” Arthur somehow manages to say, head pounding from the rush of blood and from breathing in the air Merlin carries, still exactly like him, but impossibly warmer. Flushed. Damp.
“Cardio and sports is the layman’s skill,” Merlin blathers, soft hair picking up in the wind and tickling Arthur’s jaw. “My athletic prowess comes through in other ways.”
At that Arthur finally jerks away, getting a hand in the scruff of Merlin’s (his?) jacket and yanking the man back too, feeling so warm he thinks he might be getting heatstroke again. “Get off me,” he mumbles, watching as Merlin sighs and turns around.
“So cruel,” Merlin says with a faux pout. Arthur starts shaking his head, both incredibly frustrated and a little fond, about to say something about to take another crack at mocking Merlin again only to see that he’s fumbling with his jacket, which is soon unzipped and tugged away.
Arthur takes a shallow breath, nearly lightheaded as the shirt Merlin is wearing underneath is revealed, though he may as well not be wearing anything with the way the damp white fabric sticks to him, clinging to Merlin’s shoulder blades, the dip of his lower back.
Merlin tosses the jacket onto the grass and drops down himself. He stretches with a groan, making the shirt ride up around his torso, exposing smooth pale skin against a backdrop of green. Arthur should look away, he should—or at the very least, he shouldn’t stare at the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of Merlin’s joggers.
And then it’s all made so much worse, because Merlin gets a hand around the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and wiping off his face with it and Arthur can just about see the warm pink blooming across the expanse of Merlin’s chest, the lines of his torso.
Arthur’s temples throb, his stomach and chest clenching near violently. This is—fuck, it’s practically public indecency. It’s obscene. Can anyone else see this? Or is it just him being tormented? Arthur spares a quick glance around the park. No one’s watching. Of course, no one is. Only him, like some fucking pervert, fixating on every bit of skin Merlin reveals.
He takes a stuttering breath, sitting down on the grass himself before his legs fail him. His heart is pounding against his chest, thoughts scattered everywhere. He needs to exercise more often clearly, has grown feeble and lazy if he’s this disorientated after a short run.
“You’re really red for someone who supposedly does this for fun,” Merlin comments, turning his head sideways to look at Arthur.
Arthur blinks at him, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, feeling like he’s been caught peeping, which is fucking ridiculous really. “It’s—really hot today,” he says, and technically it isn’t a lie, the sun is beaming down on them full force now, unencumbered by clouds. Arthur wants to jump into a pond.
Merlin just hums, slow and tired, and Arthur swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth for the thousandth time. Merlin is practically glowing, sunlight beaming onto his face and creating highlights on the planes of his face that Arthur has a difficult time looking away from. “Lie down,” Merlin orders then, no room for argument. He watches keenly until Arthur gives in and lies back on the grass next to him, and only then does he close his eyes, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
He’s so close. Close enough for Arthur to trace the path of a bead of sweat as it rolls down the peak of Merlin’s Adam’s apple and onto the grass beneath. Close enough for the breeze to carry the smell of him, so that it surrounds them.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, registering Merlin’s elbow brushing against his arm, and tries not to think about the slow roll of heat in his gut.
This was a terrible idea.
.
They really do need to have a conversation about boundaries. It’s high time now, a necessary measure.
Arthur’s been repeating this sentiment to himself for the better part of half an hour. He started right about the time Merlin had sauntered into his room, damp and warm from a shower, a towel and hoodie slung around his shoulders. Both have since been abandoned somewhere by the foot of Arthur’s bed, where Merlin has also taken up residence like it’s his room.
Arthur shoots another glance at him, trying to be as subtle as possible, though Merlin seems too absorbed in whatever it is he’s scrolling through on his phone. His glasses are perched lazily on his nose, the glow of his screen reflecting off the lenses in the low light of Arthur’s room.
He looks like a grandfather, Arthur tells himself, trying not to think about how Merlin is settled against one of his pillows, barely towelled hair surely leaving patches of water on the fabric. He’s so annoying, Arthur thinks, looking away hastily when Merlin drops a hand to his stomach, brushing up the hem of his shirt to scratch there absentmindedly.
With a sigh, Arthur drops the report he had been working through before bed, turning to Merlin from the corner he’s confined himself to. Which is insane, it is his bed, even if Merlin doesn’t treat it as such. “You’re getting my bed wet,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound irritated instead of a little breathless.
Merlin just hums, not even bothering to look up from his phone even as he pushes up his glasses and shifts on top of the duvet.
Arthur swallows around the tightness in his throat, blinking at the way Merlin’s plaid pyjama rides lower, the ‘v’ of his hips barely showing, but it has Arthur feeling like a scandalised Victorian lady, regardless.
He snaps the lid of his laptop shut with more force than strictly necessary and regards Merlin with what he hopes is a strict glare. Boundaries. They need boundaries. “Why are you even in here?” he asks.
“I haven’t fulfilled my daily quota of irritating you,” Merlin quips, squinting at something on his screen. He finally looks up then, brows furrowed as he takes in the awkward way Arthur is holed up in the corner. “What are you doing?”
“…Nothing?”
Merlin’s scrutiny increases, and he gets an elbow beneath himself, rising up slightly. “You’re being weird.”
Well, shit. Arthur scoffs, the sound entirely too performative even to his own ears. “No, I’m not.” He rubs a hand over the back of neck, looking anywhere but at Merlin to avoid his gaze, the one that always makes him compelled to spill the truth like an idiot. He doesn’t even know what the truth is! Arthur picks himself up off the bed, keeping a healthy distance from Merlin as he walks over to the side table and drops his laptop onto it, Merlin’s eyes following him the whole time. “I’m completely normal. It’s you who—"
“Come here.”
Arthur turns to him, confused, as Merlin looks at him expectantly. “What?” he asks, only feeling more harried when Merlin rolls his eyes like Arthur is an idiot and jerks his head towards the empty space on the bed. Arthur glances there, mind racing, and lips floundering around an answer before he can even fully process it. “No—"
“No?” Merlin sits up properly now, pinning Arthur in place with a raised eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘no’? Come sit here instead of falling off the edge—”
“I can’t,” Arthur blurts, standing sheepishly while his eyes dart to the space next to Merlin.
Merlin doesn’t seem like he’s going to let up this instance anytime soon, certainly not when he scoffs and moves closer to the edge of the bed, kneeling as his lips set in a stern line. It should be comical, or ridiculous, or infuriating. It should not make the tips of Arthur’s ears red hot. “You can’t?” Merlin parrots. Arthur nods, scouring his mind for an excuse and finding that he has none, all thoughts replaced with the image of water dripping from Merlin’s hair onto the hollow of his collarbone. “You have a really punchable face, you know that?”
Arthur’s brows furrow at that, and he crosses his arms over his chest defensively, hands squeezing into fists. “What is that supposed to m—” he doesn’t get to finish his opposition, what with Merlin suddenly reaching forward, getting a hand into his shirt and yanking him forward.
He just about manages to catch himself, doubled over the bed with a hand supporting his weight, face far too close to Merlin’s.
“Merlin,” he chastises, trying to pull away and stand again to no avail considering the death grip on his shirt. Merlin, for his part, is clearly enjoying this, much too smug as he twists his hand around. Arthur’s fingers dig into the duvet, throat bobbing as he’s held captive by Merlin’s gaze, by the damp curl of his hair, and the glint in his eyes behind those glasses. “Take off those bloody glasses,” Arthur mumbles, finally able to drop his gaze.
“Why?” Merlin demands, tugging him closer sharply. Arthur tries to resist as much as possible, conceding only when he fears the amount of stress being put on his shirt. He thinks Merlin is just going to get him to sit on the bed, maybe slightly closer than he was before, so he moves forward, giving into Merlin’s insistent pulling. He gets a knee up on the bed, and then mirrors Merlin, about to exasperatedly ask if the man is happy now.
He doesn’t get the chance because Merlin lets go of his shirt, hand hovering up before it’s pressed flush against Arthur's sternum.
Arthur prays to any deity that’s listening that Merlin can’t feel the frantic pace of his heart, though it seems he doesn’t have to worry about the point of contact for long because Merlin pushes him firmly. And Arthur can’t possibly fathom why, but he goes willingly, falling onto his forearms on his side of the bed.
Merlin shuffles closer, not quite kneeling over him but close enough that Arthur has to resist the temptation to reach out and settle a hand over the beckoning line of his hip. Merlin is asking him something, though it’s muffled to him, barely filtering through his conscious as he stares up at the silhouette Merlin makes, tall and broad with a lazy smirk. “—What?” he asks, voice sounding distant to himself.
“I said,” Merlin enunciates, rolling his eyes. He gets a knee over Arthur’s thigh, pressing it into the mattress and fixing the perch of his glasses. “What’s wrong with my glasses?”
Arthur gapes at him, before dropping onto his pillow with a sigh as he stares up at the ceiling. What has this night come to? He was supposed to go over his report and then sleep. And then came Merlin, complaining about the fucking water pressure, dripping wet and smelling like that with his low slung pyjamas and utter lack of respect for Arthur’s sanity, taking over his mind and night. Arthur can’t have one second of peace.
He runs a hand over his face and then drops it, finding Merlin is still looking at him, waiting for an answer. What’s wrong with his glasses? Fucking nothing. They make him look like a bloody intellectual wet dream. He could easily be a hit in a shitty teacher porno, the bastard. “They make you look old,” Arthur mutters, hoping that will offend Merlin enough to stop whatever special type of torture this is.
Arthur’s luck has never been that fortunate though because Merlin just hums, swiping his hair back and leaning closer, almost like he’s trying to give Arthur a good look at them. Almost as if Arthur isn’t constantly looking whenever Merlin wears them. “What, like senior citizen old or sexily older?”
“I’m not fucking answering that,” Arthur huffs, getting a grip on Merlin’s shoulder to shove him away, feeling the warmth of his skin even below the worn fabric of his shirt.
Merlin grins, reaching up to hold his wrist as he presses closer, hopefully oblivious to the heat rising to Arthur’s face. “I think I know the answer, then.” Exasperated, Arthur groans, shoving at Merlin’s shoulder a little more forcefully now, just enough to knock the man slightly off balance and offend him. “Rude.”
Arthur clenches his jaw, watching skeptically as Merlin rests his weight on his hand and uses the other to swipe his glasses off, hovering above him. Then Merlin turns the frames around, lip drawn between his teeth as he focuses on getting them on Arthur without poking his eye out.
The bridge of the glasses sits warmly on his nose, slightly askew and reducing his vision so that the image of Merlin smiling at him is blurred and out of focus, more like a hazy memory than something he’s actually being subjected to in real time. “There you go,” Merlin beams, finally moving his knee away from the space between Arthur’s own legs and sitting down on the bed. “Now you can look sexily older, too.”
“Piss off,” Arthur mumbles, taking the glasses off and tossing them on the side table somewhere. He presses his hands against his face, his skin boiling hot as his stomach lurches. What did he do to deserve this?
Merlin snorts, and Arthur hears the shuffle of him getting up from the bed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he says. Arthur risks a glance at him, seeing him move his head to the side, stretching the graceful columns of his neck. He swipes his phone from where it was forgotten during their—um, whatever it was. Merlin walks to the door, getting a foot out before turning to blow a patronising kiss in his direction. “Night. Don’t miss me too much.”
“I won’t!” Arthur shouts as Merlin pulls the door shut, the resounding click stark in the new silence of the room. He listens as Merlin shuffles down the hallway, before he reaches his own room and that soon stops too.
Arthur groans, picking and dropping his head onto the pillow a few times like a deranged man, tormented by the rush of blood in his veins, the pounding in his chest. His eyes dart around his room, trying to distract himself. Though it doesn’t help, his gaze catching on the glasses on his table, the hoodie at the foot of his bed, the impression Merlin’s form left in the soft duvet, the small wet splotches on the other pillow.
He looks away from the pillow like it’s particularly vile, swallowing down insistent thoughts of it. Heat gathers low in his gut, all too distracting.
Arthur tries to ignore it for as long as he can, tries to convince himself he still has some discipline and control over his mind. But it seems the more he pushes away the idea of it, the stronger it grows.
He reaches down, pressing the heel of his palm against the forming arousal at his crotch. He tells himself he’s just adjusting himself, just relieving some pressure, but his hand doesn’t retract and his movements don’t stop.
Arthur bites his lip, head tilting back slightly at the thrum of pleasure that travels through his body. He presses down more insistently, unable to stop now that he’s started, and forces himself to adapt the narrative.
This is fine, he thinks as he snakes a hand below the waistline of his joggers, palming himself over his boxers. He’s been pent up. He’s just releasing some tension, some frustration. Arthur breathes in shakily, hips rolling in rhythm with his hand.
A particularly good pass has him turning his head to the side, eyes squeezing shut before fluttering open again, which is when he commits the dire mistake of letting himself lay eyes on the pillow Merlin had used.
It would be cool to the touch now, the wet patches especially. It would smell like Merlin.
He barely manages to stifle a moan, hips jerking erratically. He forces himself to calm down, pressing against his cock slower in an effort to think clearly. He bites the inside of his cheek hard, mind racing as he thinks of the pillow. With a resigned sigh, Arthur picks his head up, reaching around to pick up the pillow he’s using and throw it somewhere. The foot of the bed, the floor, he doesn’t care.
With a moment of hesitance that the lurch of heat in his gut pushes down, Arthur gets a hand on the other pillow, dragging it until it’s below his head. He settles back then, taking shallow breaths that mean Merlin’s clinging scent is drawn into his lungs over and over.
He’s only using this pillow because his own is too warm now, an unpleasant addition to the scalding heat travelling along his skin already, that’s all. A small whine finds its way past his lips as Arthur finally shoves down his boxers enough to get a hand around his cock, swiping his thumb over the wetness at the tip and dragging it along his length.
It’s barely enough, the friction teetering on too much, but Arthur can’t will himself to stop and find lube, not when the pleasure has his hips jerking up into his fist.
Arthur turns his head into the pillow, nose brushing the soft damp fabric as he tries to draw in deep breaths, only managing to flood his senses with the smell of Merlin’s shampoo, his stupid body wash, his warm skin.
More pre-come pools at the tip and Arthur’s forearm burns as he strips himself faster, free hand clenching white knuckled in the pillow. This—this isn’t about Merlin, not in any meaningful way, anyway.
If he thinks of Merlin’s long neck and bold collarbones, of them marked up in reds and purples, then it’s just the heat of the moment, the cloud of arousal. It doesn’t mean anything. Not if he thinks of Merlin hovering over him, long fingers teasing along his skin and strong hands holding him down. Not if he thinks of the happy trail starting beneath Merlin’s navel, of mouthing down it, still damp from a shower, while Merlin watches him from behind his glasses, that scrutinising expectant gaze trained on him.
He could turn that gaze hazy, half lidded with lust.
“Fuck—” Arthur whines into the silence, stomach clenching as his movements grow uncoordinated. He presses himself deeper into the pillow and wonders through the haze of arousal if Merlin would taste the way he smells.
His fingers scramble against the pillow, pressing it closer to himself as his hips roll desperately. Briefly, he thinks of turning around and shoving the damn thing between his legs, moving his hips along it until his come joins the splotches of water. Dazedly, he wonders what Merlin would think if he knew, if he saw it happen—
Arthur is helpless to stop the broken, pathetic moan that slips past his lips as he arches off the bed, hips continuing to press meekly up into his fist as he comes. He keeps stroking himself through it, unwilling to let it end, to let the mindconsuming pleasure ebb, burning images of Merlin flashing behind his eyelids.
He becomes overstimulated soon enough, letting his hand fall away and lying limp on his bed, heartbeat deafeningly loud in his ears. The room is completely silent, save for his own laboured breathing.
When Arthur feels both alive and brave enough, he lifts his head, taking in the mess on his hand and stomach, and then laying back with a mortified groan.
So much for fucking boundaries.
.