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Arthur is ensconced in his favourite nook in his favourite bar nursing a glass of his favourite brand of whiskey when he sees them come in. Elena, followed by Gwen and Gwaine, and last but not least Merlin; loose-limbed and giggly, they push their way through the crowd towards the bar, eager to be served.
And well, that’s just bloody fantastic because truly the last thing he needs right now is having to watch the man he’s been crushing on for – well, let’s be kind and say the last few weeks even though it’s quite a bit longer than that, truth be told - flirting shamelessly with two drop dead gorgeous women they both work with.
Arthur checks his watch. It’s quite late (well, late for him at any rate), edging towards nine o’clock, and he’s definitely not in the mood to have to watch Merlin leave with somebody that’s not him at the end of the night so he drains his glass and collects his belongings; coat, scarf, briefcase. As he gets to his feet, in one last moment of weakness he glances over to where the friends are ordering drinks, and his stomach turns sour because Merlin’s arms are wrapped around Elena’s tiny waist, her blonde head touching his.
Just as Arthur is busy glaring a hole into the side of Merlin’s head, Merlin seems to sense he’s being watched because he looks up and into the mirror above the bar, catching Arthur in the act. For a moment Arthur feels pinned in place, unable to look away, but then he managed to wrench his eyes away, breaking the spell, and starts to shrug on his coat. The buttons though feel tiny now and his fingers too big and he’s fumbling at them in his eagerness to escape. By the time he’s managed to do up the top button, it’s too late because Merlin pushes his way through the crowd to stand right in front of him.
He’s wearing an almost see-through shirt that is clinging to his torso in way that is far too distracting, and which feels very work inappropriate, Arthur thinks.
“You’re not leaving are you,” Merlin asks, cheeks flushed pink with alcohol and heat, blue eyes sparkling.
“What does it matter to you,” Arthur says in a snide tone that wins him a arched eyebrow.
“Huh. Bad day at the office then. I saw you and Morgana arguing earlier and wondered if you’d end up here.”
He doesn’t like to say that he and Morgana argue most days about just about anything: the colour of the sky, how she hates getting cat hair on her clothes, why Arthur has the dating life of a nonagenarian. That sort of thing. Fuck, but she’s annoying.
“Are you implying I have a drink problem?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “I'm not sure how you arrived at that conclusion but anyway. It's still early so take off that stupidly expensive coat right now, and sit back down. My shout, what are you drinking?”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Arthur says a little plaintively, although there’s a confusing tug of something in his belly that tells him that perhaps he might not be entirely averse to being bossed around by Merlin, a fact that is both alarming and exciting in equal measure.
He sits.
“We’re not at work now, which means here you’re not the boss,” Merlin replies cheerfully. “Come on, what’s the harm in staying for one more drink?”
Quite a lot, Arthur thinks, on spotting a hint of nipple as Merlin shuffles from one foot to the other, fabric shifting as he moves. Mouth suddenly dry, he licks his lips.
“See, I knew you were thirsty. What do you fancy,” Merlin asks. For a horrible moment, Arthur wants to say ‘you’ but thank fuck that all that comes out of him is an odd sort of noise at the back of his throat.
“To drink,” Merlin prompts as Arthur gargles a bit more, his eyes darting around Arthur’s face with interest. He’s wearing this expression that Arthur knows all too well from their work interactions means Merlin’s not going to be taking no for an answer but before he’s gathered his wits and put in an order for a decent glass of wine that he knows won’t cost an arm and a leg, Merlin is saying, ‘don’t worry, I’ll surprise you. Back in a jiffy,” and turns away.
Arthur absolutely does not let his eyes settle on the curve of a rather fine arse in surprisingly well-fitted jeans, or allow his gaze to trail up and down what is a very nice lean body. Instead he shrugs off his coat and neatly folds it beside him, and fusses with his scarf, arranging it this way and that to give his hands something to do.
In next to no time, and did he use magic to get served that quickly because it’s three deep at the bar now, Merlin’s on his way back, and Christ almighty, what in the name of god is he bringing over. “Very pink,” is all he says though once he’s finished goggling at the drink put in front of him, which is no lie. It’s the same sickly shade as candyfloss and Arthur prays fervently it’s not as sickly sweet.
It is. He sticks his tongue out to try and lick the residue from around the corner of his mouth conscious that Merlin is watching him intently as he sucks vigorously on his own straw, drawing up some sort of terrifyingly electric blue liqueur. His stomach does a loop the loop, not used to this sort of intense scrutiny from someone he fancies the pants off.
“Didn’t think this would be your sort of place,” Merlin opines, head cocked, his lips shiny and wet. “Thought you’d be more a gentleman’s club kind of guy. Not that I’m complaining about seeing you here tonight. I, um. Yeah." He draws off a cherry bobbing on the surface of his drink with his teeth like he's bobbing for apples at halloween and rolls it around his mouth while pointing at Arthur’s so far pretty much untouched drink. “Go, on, try it, it won’t kill you.”
Arthur thinks that is a very bold statement indeed. It looks like it belongs more in a chemistry lab than here. At the very least some of his teeth might instantaneously rot and fall onto the table but it’s hard to resist Merlin’s puppy dog eyes which are still fixed unblinking on Arthur’s face so he gamely does what he’s told because he doesn’t want to be thought of a stuck up pompous prick.
“Oh my god,” he gasps.
“Good, eh?” Merlin looks very pleased. His eyes flick down to Arthur’s mouth and linger there for a second, and Arthur runs his tongue over his lips in case they’ve got radioactive stains on them.
“It’s not bad,” is about the best that Arthur can say without outright lying. Disgusting is what it really is but he doesn’t want to hurt Merlin’s feelings and really, how has Merlin managed to turn him into such a pathetic sap. Morgana would be laughing like a drain if she was here with them, instead of being out on the town with Mithian and doubtless terrorising susceptible young men who can’t see what lies beneath green eyes and a charming smile.
“What’s yours like,” Arthur asks, desperately wanting to stave off having to take another mouthful of this alcoholic form of torture. Perhaps if he can keep Merlin talking long enough, he’ll need to pop to the loo and then he can dispose of his drink. Or perhaps he could accidentally-on-purpose knock it over. Although he suspects he’d never get the stains out of his trousers, it’d be a small price to pay. Rather a hefty dry cleaning bill than having to get your stomach pumped.
“Delicious.” Merlin plucks out a slice of fruit that has seen better days and bites on it with very white, even teeth.
No edible substance should be blue in Arthur’s opinion but then he’s heard Merlin declare vegan cheese to be the best thing since processed sliced white bread was invented. So he’s hardly a man to be trusted on matters of good taste.
“Hold on, I’ll just – um, one second,” and Merlin gets up. Oh thank god, Arthur thinks, Merlin’s going to excuse himself which will give just enough time to dispose of this crime against good taste and all humanity. But instead, Merlin comes around the table and scoots in so close to Arthur he can feel the warmth coming off him. “Do you want to try some?”
“What are you doing,” Arthur says in alarm, conscious his body is having a strong reaction to the scent of citrussy aftershave that’s assailing his nose.
“Budge up.” Arthur finds Merlin is pressed up against him, thigh against thigh, even though the table could comfortably accommodate six other people. “I didn’t want to spill any of it so thought it’d be easier to be side by side to make it easier to share our drinks.”
Arthur tugs at his tie which is feeling uncomfortably tight.
“Here you go,” and the blue concoction is slid under Arthur’s nose. He thinks there might be smoke coming off it. “Mind the umbrella else it might get stuck up your nose.”
Arthur looks at Merlin out of the corner of his eye to see if he’s taking the piss but he’s sitting there, dimpling away, all wide-eyed innocence, so Arthur admits defeat. “Fine, give it here then.”
It is pure alcohol and absolutely disgusting and Merlin has to clap him on his back several times. Arthur could swear even his eyeballs are on fire.
“What is in that,” he wheezes in pain. Merlin’s hand is still on his back, but somehow has come to rest low down, sitting snug where his spine curves inwards. Arthur feels like his world is spinning out of control and he’s not sure how much of the blame should be pinned on the slow but steady build of lust that’s making his heart beat out of his chest, or the toxic mix of spirits now sloshing around his blood stream.
“Tequila, vodka, curacao and triple sec.” Merlin sucks down about a third of the drink in one go, apparently quite unaffected by the trauma he’s inflicting on his internal organs. “Yum.”
Arthur studies him for any signs of ill-effect. There are none. “How can you still speak after drinking that”, he muses out loud. “I’ve always taken you for being a lightweight, seeing how you’re built like,” and he waves a hand, “an anorexic beanpole, but perhaps looks are deceiving.”
“Given my looks much thought have you?” Merlin looks very pleased with himself and then flexes his arm muscles. “I’ve been going to the gym recently, what do you think?”
Arthur thinks many things, all of them treacherous, so reaches blindly for his own drink and takes a too large gulp. For a moment he thinks he’s actually died because his throat is burning up.
“What the bloody hell is in this,” he croaks.
“No idea,” Merlin says too cheerfully. “It’s the cocktail of the day and I saw it was pink and thought of you for some reason.”
For a man used to running his own organisation and being across all manner of complex and technical information, Arthur’s really struggling right now to parse the words tumbling Merlin’s mouth. It’s all very confusing. “Why is it so pink?” Arthur says mournfully, under his breath, because that’s an easier question than asking if Merlin is messing with him right now.
“Oh that’ll be the rhubarb.”
That at least helps explain the garnish that’s draped artistically over the side of the glass. Arthur plucks it free and drops it on the table.
Merlin slurps down the rest of his drink and looks expectantly at Arthur. “Come on drink up, it’s your turn to get the next round in.” He’s snuggled into Arthur’s side now and Arthur is strangely reluctant to disturb this cosy set up, but on the other hand at least if he’s in control of ordering the drinks he might be able to get away with a gin and tonic without the gin. As if he’s reading his mind, Merlin leans even closer in to breathe fumes that fan across Arthur’s face that are so strong that if a match was lit, Merlin would go up in a ball of flames, and says, ‘Actually don’t worry, I’m too comfy to move right now,’ and he whistles across the bar to where Elena is being chatted up by a huge bloke the size of a tree, and yells when he gets her attention, “Oi love, get us two more of the same when you get a second.”
Elena gives them a thumbs up and Arthur prays that somehow she’s misheard Merlin and will be buying a large bottle of mineral water for the table.
“You drink very slowly.”
Arthur glares first at Merlin and then at the offending cocktail. “I won’t be bullied into drinking faster than I want to.”
“You drank that whiskey quick enough.”
Arthur ignores the shiver that runs down his spine at the thought of Merlin watching him. “Because, Merlin, that whiskey was fifteen pounds a glass and won’t rot your insides and require a visit to hospital.”
Beside him Merlin’s mouth forms a moue of disappointment. “So you don’t like your drink.”
Fucking hell, bloody Merlin and those bloody big doe eyes of his. “No, no, that’s not what – look, it’s fine. Mmm. See,” he lies and manfully takes two or three sips and is pleased at how he doesn’t choke on either his words or the drink. Two more good glugs and he places the empty glass down in front of him, and sends a mental apology to his dentist.
Merlin studies him for a moment or two and Arthur has to resist the urge to squirm. He’s used to admiring Merlin from afar; this close to each other he can almost count the freckles across the bridge of Merlin’s nose.
As always, his instinct is to deflect attention away from him. He points over to the bar. “Shouldn’t you be over there with Elena and Gwen? Won’t they be wondering why you’ve ditched them for me?”
Merlin doesn’t break eye contact but the pink colouring his cheeks has spread lower down to where his shirt collar hangs loose. “Lance is going to be here soon and Elena looks like she’s got her hands full with Percy and you looked a bit lonely over here all on your own so I thought I’d come and keep you company.”
“I was leaving as it happens and I enjoy my own company.”
“At nine o’clock on a Friday night?”
Arthur bristles at the implication he’s boring. “I have lots of weekend plans as it happens,” he says although in actual fact the only appointment he has tomorrow is with his cat and the sofa once he’s finished with his daily early morning run.
“Oh. Like what. With your girlfriend?” Merlin fiddles with the yellow paper parasol in his drink, opening and closing it, opening and closing it, busily not looking at Arthur.
“Hardly,” Arthur says with a snort that would have his father rapping his over the knuckles with the Sunday Times, “seeing as how I’ve been gay ever since I went to Eton.”
Lifting his head, Merlin says ‘oh’ again, but this time in a very different tone, and then, ‘snap, but I was eight when I found out because kissing Lois Jones was less appealing than eating a worm sandwich, rather than being at some posh boarding school and finding out I liked boys, not girls.”
Arthur’s revolted because really, who would even think of doing such a thing, digging up worms and putting them between two slices of bread?
They look at each other. “I thought,” Arthur started to say, feeling a little embarrassed now, “when I saw you tonight that you might have been on the pull.”
“Who with, Percy.”
Arthur feels even more foolish now. “Not exactly,” he says and points over to Elena, who’s making her way to them now.
Merlin laughs softly. “God no, we’d kill each other in under a day if we were ever to date and Gwen only has eyes for Lance. And even if I was straight neither of them are really my type.”
They look at each other some more. Arthur really, really wants to ask Merlin what his type is and is just summoning up some Dutch courage when Elena plonks down a tray bearing an assortment of drinks, from the obscenely coloured to tiny, colourless shot glasses. Arthur’s not sure which is worse.
“Here you go, gents. On us.” Gwen uses her one free hand, the one not wrapped around Lance’s waist, to wave at them. Elena looks between Merlin and Arthur, where their hands are resting within touching distance on the table and grins toothily at them. “Not interrupting anything am I?”
Arthur lurches away from Merlin as though he’s been burned, which earns him a hard look.
“No, no, we were just talking about – um.” He casts around in his mind for a likely subject, “the monthly accounts.”
“Sounds absolutely fascinating,” Elena drawls, clearly not believing a word he says. “Well far be it from me to get in the way of such a terribly important debrief,” and she imbues debrief with a lot of meaning that makes Arthur’s toes curl in his five hundred pound handmade brogues before whooping at Percy and setting off at the fastest trot her shoes will allow.
“Idiot,” Merlin says from next to him. He waits until Elena is out of earshot and then turns to Arthur. “You are a terrible liar,” he says looking a bit fond, and then in a terrible parody of Arthur’s accent that is truly upsetting because he does not sound like that at all, repeats ‘we were going over the accounts’. Is that really the best you could come up with?”
“At least I tried. You were sitting there like a stuffed lemon.”
Merlin makes a scoffing noise and then leans over to study the drink selection.
“Cocktail or shot.”
“Do we have to do either?”
“Oh you’ve had such a sheltered upbringing haven’t you.”
Arthur glowers and then randomly selects a tequila. “Cheers,” he says and flings it down his throat. “Christ alive, I bloody hate this stuff,” he says, eyes watering.
Merlin’s looking at him now, a soft expression on his face, before he downs his own shot. “Need salt and lime,” he says, “but not bad.” He looks consideringly at Arthur. “Seeing as you’re such a shit liar, I fancy my chances taking you on at truth or dare. And a shot every time you pass. Up for it?”
“Nothing I’d hate more,” Arthur declares fervently, head buzzing lightly. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh no reason.” There’s a press of a foot against Arthur’s which he finds rather thrilling, and then Merlin’s looking at him. Really looking at him, eyes darting across Arthur’s face. “Want to get out of here instead, then?” he asks eventually.
“God, yes please, I thought you’d never ask.” Arthur gets to his feet.
Merlin hesitates, looking up at him. “Um. Separately or.” He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air that’s suddenly crackling with tension.
Arthur, with his heart suddenly in his mouth, grabs hold of Merlin and pulls him up so they’re chest to chest. They’re almost the same height although Arthur’s a bit mortified that he finds he has to very veryslightly look up into Merlin’s face.
“Now who’s the idiot?” he says, smirk firmly in place as he savours the precise moment his words land with Merlin. Feeling giddy and not sure who’s leading who, they leave the warmth of the pub and the moment they’re in the shadows Merlin’s cupping his face with his hands, pressing chapped and slightly sticky lips to his before licking into his mouth. Arthur relaxes into the kiss, but then he reluctantly breaks free.
It takes a moment for Merlin’s eyes to flutter open, a downward turn to his mouth but Arthur really doesn’t want to look back on this moment and have a dark, stinky alley conjured up in his mind. They deserve more than this; they deserve a comfortable sofa that can accommodate two, and a bed with fresh linen and a crisp duvet, and a proper cooked breakfast in the morning, so Arthur leans back in so they’re sharing the same air and breathes, ‘your place or mine,’ not caring where they go so long as they’re together.