4、第 4 章 ![]()
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Interesting.
“You want something to drink?” Merlin suddenly asks from behind Arthur. He doesn’t sound keen to get Arthur anything, more as if he doesn’t want Arthur to continue examining the fridge collection.
“Some water would be nice.” Arthur turns to the kitchen table, pulls a chair out and sits down, watching Merlin grab a clean glass out of the dishwasher. He nearly drops it in the process. “You’re not this careless as a waiter, are you?” Arthur can’t help but ask. For all that he follows the question up with a grin, Merlin appears to miss it, his expression darkening. While he does fill the glass up with water, he sets it down before Arthur with an unnecessarily heavy clank.
“I thought you’d have better things to do than worry about Camelot’s stock of glasses.” The chair Merlin pulls out for himself creaks on the tiled floor. From the bathroom, the sound of running water can be heard.
“Oh,” Arthur assures Merlin, “trust me, I do.” He takes a sip from the glass, watching Merlin over the rim. Merlin stares back evenly, closed off.
“Really?” A pause. “Because you certainly seem to spend a lot of time at Camelot lately.”
“I wasn’t there last night,” Arthur says. He’d considered it, but hadn’t seen any particular reason to go. Besides, the flow of contracts and legal opinions in need of his final approval never ends, so a late night at the office wasn’t exactly uncalled for.
Merlin’s frown doesn’t waver. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“Did you?” Arthur smiles. “Missed me, then?”
“Hardly.” Merlin’s tone is dry. Arthur’s about to push him a bit further, just to see how long it will take before that angry flush darkens Merlin’s cheeks. Unfortunately, Morgana spoils his fun by returning from the bathroom, wearing a glittery top with a skirt that ends mid-thigh. Her hair falls loosely, black lines emphasising her eyes.
“Don’t let father catch you like that,” Arthur says.
Morgana shrugs it off. “He’s seen worse.”
There is a certain amount of truth to the statement: during her rebellious teen days, Morgana went through a phase that combined skulls with ripped clothes, as well as one that was best to describe with pink and short. Albeit Arthur would never admit as much, there are times when he envies that she had the courage to openly oppose Uther.
“Speaking of worse…” Morgana sets her backpack down, crossing her arms. “Lose the shirt, Arthur.”
“It’s not that bad,” Arthur says.
“Actually,” Merlin puts in, “it kind of is.”
“It’s fashionable.”
“It has long sleeves. Also, it’s pink.”
“Rose,” Arthur corrects. He looks down at the cloth and really, it certainly isn’t that bad. It’s a light rose, not a flashy pink, and recent examples in numerous fashion magazines display precisely that colour. The shop assistant told him it went great with his eyes and hair, but then, the guy might have been trying to hit on him.
“Rose,” Merlin repeats. “Could you be any gayer if you tried?” It’s possible that he intends for it to come out sharp and mocking, but the genuine amusement in his eyes thoroughly spoils the effect.
Arthur shakes his head. “No. Pretty sure I’ve always been that way.”
“I’m afraid he has.” Morgana hops onto Merlin’s counter, dangling her legs. She has yet to put her shoes on. “I think the fact that he always stole my Barbies somewhat gave it away.”
“I never did that,” Arthur protests. He scowls at Morgana, and it only takes a moment before her serious expression collapses, her smile wide.
“Okay, you didn’t. You only stole my Aragorn version of Ken, and I think it was because he had a sword.”
Merlin tries to suppress his laughter, or at least Arthur would like to think he did. It’s very obvious behind the hand covering Merlin’s mouth, though. Arthur decides to ignore him, getting to his feet to reach for the bottom of his shirt, dragging it over his head and draping it over the back of a chair. He turns around to notice the hungry look in Merlin’s eyes, his gaze focused on Arthur’s chest. Excitement sparks in Arthur’s stomach.
He spreads his arms and affects a smirk. “See something you like?”
“What?” Merlin’s gaze jumps away, focusing on the clock with curious intent. A faint flush is staining his cheeks. “Not that I know of, no.”
Arthur squints at him, still smirking, and he’s about to comment on how Merlin is very clearly lying when Morgana’s comment interrupts him. “Stop prancing around the kitchen half-naked and go find a shirt, Arthur.”
“You told me to lose the shirt,” Arthur says, at the same time as Merlin says, “Hey, hey, wait! He’ll not just go through my things. These are my clothes, after all.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t mock.” Arthur pauses and reconsiders his words. “Well. At least not too much.” He drops his arms, smiles winningly and thinks about pulling the boss card on Merlin, but… no. It’s not—That would be wrong, somehow. Kind of. Definitely.
“Oh, thanks.” Merlin’s voice is acid, and he’s lost all traces of his earlier flush. “That really does make me want to give you free rein over my wardrobe.”
“Well, you pick something, then.” Arthur decides not to announce his scepticism of Merlin’s taste in club wear, scepticism that is mostly based on the fact that Merlin is dressed in yet another t-shirt with a slogan. This one comes with two tick boxes, one for Human and one for Dancer. It reminds Arthur distantly of something, but he can’t figure out where he’s seen it before.
“It would be easier if you weren’t quite so broad in the chest,” Merlin retorts. His gaze skitters over Arthur’s upper body once again, a fact that is most definitely worth noticing. Maybe not worth remarking upon again, though. Especially given their respective statuses. Then again…
“Was that an insult or a compliment?” Arthur asks, watching Merlin’s face. Merlin evenly meets his eyes, but doesn’t reply right away.
“Could the two of you stop flirting and get a move on? Lance and Gwen will be waiting.” Morgana’s heel thumps against the wooden cabinet. Inside it, pans rattle.
“We are not flirting,” Merlin says flatly, in a rush. “We are so very much not flirting that flirting lives on another planet.”
While Arthur would like to differ, he honestly isn’t sure. He remains silent.
Merlin gets out of his chair to disappear towards his bedroom. Arthur watches him go for a moment before he shoots a look at Morgana. “Was that necessary?”
“Was what necessary?” she asks innocently.
“You know what I mean.”
“What if I really don’t?” She raises a brow, waiting for several seconds to tick by, before shaking her head, setting her elbows on her knees. Her tone changes, voice lowering. “Sorry. But Arthur, you know you can’t. I mean, he’s your employee, and that complicates things. At least romantic things. Friendship is… That’s fine, I think Merlin and you could be great friends, but…” She stops abruptly, an unhappy expression on her face.
“It’s just harmless flirting,” Arthur says quickly. He leans his hip against the table, frowning. “Besides, you’re his boss more directly than I am.”
Morgana nods. “Yes and no. He didn’t know about my connection to you, or Uther.”
“Beg your pardon?”
She hesitates, glancing towards the bedroom. It isn’t far, but as they’re almost whispering by now, Merlin shouldn’t be able to hear them. “He knew I was doing some work for Camelot, as a job on the side. He didn’t know about the whole… daughter of the owner thing. Neither do Lance or Gwen, by the way, so they’re in for a surprise tonight.”
“You never told your friends about me? Or about father?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t know why it hurts quite so much; it’s not that he himself has never considered losing the baggage that comes with the name.
“Only vaguely.” Morgana sounds apologetic, but also firm. “I didn’t want them to treat me with care just because I’m rich and the daughter and all that. I wanted…” She trails off, and Arthur doesn’t get a chance to comment because that’s when Merlin returns, something that looks like a vest in his hand.
“Did I interrupt?” he asks, but he doesn’t really seem to care. For all that Arthur can see Morgana’s point, understand it, even, he finds it difficult to imagine Merlin treating anyone with more respect because they happen to be higher up in the hierarchy chain. If considerations like that even cross Merlin’s mind, he has yet to show it.
“Just talking.” Arthur draws closer. “So that’s what I’m supposed to wear?”
“You can go dressed like a dandy, if you prefer?” Still Merlin unfolds the vest shirt, laying it out on the table. It actually isn’t as bad as Arthur feared; for one, it doesn’t come with any writing, and secondly, it consists of two layers, red silk underneath a black material that gleams slightly and is torn in places to display the underlying red. Despite its artsy edge, it won’t clash too horribly with Arthur’s trousers. In addition, it might be close to his size.
“This should do,” he says. “Where did you find it?”
“Designer store around the corner.” Merlin studies the cloth somewhat balefully. “It’s too big, but it was fifty percent off, so…”
After a brief look to request Merlin’s permission, Arthur reaches for the shirt. He turns it over to take a look at its back – black cloth held together by criss-crossing lacings, red shining through from underneath – before he pulls it over his head, tugging at the hem when he finds it’s a little tight across the chest, too tight to move comfortably. He scowls down at it and rolls his shoulders to make it slide into place.
The only result is an irritated, “Stop that. You’ll tear it.”
Arthur frowns back at Merlin. “It doesn’t fit.”
“That’s because it’s still laced from when I tried it on. You’re obviously bigger than me.”
“Did you just call me fat?” Arthur asks. Beside him, Morgana tries to stifle a girly giggle, but Arthur is onto her. He’ll get his revenge eventually, maybe by switching out one of her jeans for an identical one in a size even smaller than hers.
“Well.” Merlin stalls on the word, grinning with all his teeth. He makes a show of leaning forward to get a good look at Arthur’s body, and for all that Arthur is mostly certain that it's taking Merlin longer than it would if he were merely making a point, the reply still is, “If the shoe fits…”
“Frankly, you’re too skinny,” Arthur tells him. “I, on the other hand, have some actual muscle definition.” Although in all honesty, Arthur’s seen enough to know that Merlin isn’t quite as scrawny as a first glance might suggest.
“Whatever you say.” Merlin’s grin doesn’t fade. He draws closer, stepping around Arthur, and Arthur is about to respond when he feels Merlin’s hands settle against his back. A moment later, the shirt’s tightness eases.
What kind of shirt laces in the back? Arthur intends to ask. Instead, he remains silent while Merlin sorts out the laces. Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Arthur resolutely doesn’t meet Morgana’s eyes.
It’s too quiet in the kitchen and he’s suddenly aware that it’s too warm. Merlin’s fingertips skim over the silken underlayer, making it press to Arthur’s skin – the small of his back, his spine, the hollow underneath his shoulder blades. Arthur isn’t entirely clear how the atmosphere changed so quickly, but he finds his body swaying towards Merlin without his consent.
He tenses. Behind him, Merlin doesn’t seem to be breathing.
For a hot second, Merlin’s fingers press to the nape of Arthur’s neck., no silken barrier to absorb the touch. Then, as unexpectedly as it started, Merlin backs away and clears his throat. “Better now?”
Arthur needs a slow breath before he’s able to figure out whether it actually is better. Nodding, he shifts his weight and chances a quick look at Morgana, who’s watching him with thoughtful eyes. Arthur doesn’t even want to know. “Much better,” he says evenly, “thank you.”
Merlin smiles, but doesn’t reply.
Straightening the shirt, Arthur glances around. “Do you have a mirror?”
“It looks okay,” Merlin says.
“Thanks.” Arthur lifts a brow. “However, that wasn’t what I asked.”
“Merlin’s wardrobe,” Morgana supplies. “He’s right, though. It’s fine.”
Arthur smiles widely at both of them. “Not a child, remember? I think I can make up my own mind about this.” He sets off for Merlin’s bedroom. It’s slightly bigger than he expected, just enough space to contain a small desk, a wardrobe, a bookshelf and the large, unmade bed. It’s tucked under the slope of the roof, a skylight right above it, and the blankets have been kicked down to the bottom. Arthur spots one pillow on the floor, the other one right in the middle of the queen-sized mattress.
One door of Merlin’s wardrobe is a large mirror. Arthur studies himself for a moment before he has to admit that they were right: the colours suit him, and albeit the shirt still isn’t what he’d call comfortable, it clings to his body rather nicely. It will do.
--
Merlin would be willing to bet good money that Arthur hasn’t used public means of transportation since he obtained either a driver or his license. It shows in how long it takes him to buy a ticket, in his dubious look at the turnstiles and the complete lack of orientation once they’ve made it into the tunnel system that leads to the different platforms.
They missed a train by a minute so, at this time of night, the platform is mostly empty when they get there, neon lamps bathing the tiled ground in dispassionate light. A cold breeze originates from the dark hole of the tunnel, and Merlin notices Arthur tugging at the jacket Merlin gave him. It’s too small for Arthur to close and clashes horribly with the black trousers, but it’s still better than nothing. Merlin doesn’t understand how anyone can leave the house without at least a pullover in mid-spring, when they’re likely to be out late.
-
Interesting.
“You want something to drink?” Merlin suddenly asks from behind Arthur. He doesn’t sound keen to get Arthur anything, more as if he doesn’t want Arthur to continue examining the fridge collection.
“Some water would be nice.” Arthur turns to the kitchen table, pulls a chair out and sits down, watching Merlin grab a clean glass out of the dishwasher. He nearly drops it in the process. “You’re not this careless as a waiter, are you?” Arthur can’t help but ask. For all that he follows the question up with a grin, Merlin appears to miss it, his expression darkening. While he does fill the glass up with water, he sets it down before Arthur with an unnecessarily heavy clank.
“I thought you’d have better things to do than worry about Camelot’s stock of glasses.” The chair Merlin pulls out for himself creaks on the tiled floor. From the bathroom, the sound of running water can be heard.
“Oh,” Arthur assures Merlin, “trust me, I do.” He takes a sip from the glass, watching Merlin over the rim. Merlin stares back evenly, closed off.
“Really?” A pause. “Because you certainly seem to spend a lot of time at Camelot lately.”
“I wasn’t there last night,” Arthur says. He’d considered it, but hadn’t seen any particular reason to go. Besides, the flow of contracts and legal opinions in need of his final approval never ends, so a late night at the office wasn’t exactly uncalled for.
Merlin’s frown doesn’t waver. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“Did you?” Arthur smiles. “Missed me, then?”
“Hardly.” Merlin’s tone is dry. Arthur’s about to push him a bit further, just to see how long it will take before that angry flush darkens Merlin’s cheeks. Unfortunately, Morgana spoils his fun by returning from the bathroom, wearing a glittery top with a skirt that ends mid-thigh. Her hair falls loosely, black lines emphasising her eyes.
“Don’t let father catch you like that,” Arthur says.
Morgana shrugs it off. “He’s seen worse.”
There is a certain amount of truth to the statement: during her rebellious teen days, Morgana went through a phase that combined skulls with ripped clothes, as well as one that was best to describe with pink and short. Albeit Arthur would never admit as much, there are times when he envies that she had the courage to openly oppose Uther.
“Speaking of worse…” Morgana sets her backpack down, crossing her arms. “Lose the shirt, Arthur.”
“It’s not that bad,” Arthur says.
“Actually,” Merlin puts in, “it kind of is.”
“It’s fashionable.”
“It has long sleeves. Also, it’s pink.”
“Rose,” Arthur corrects. He looks down at the cloth and really, it certainly isn’t that bad. It’s a light rose, not a flashy pink, and recent examples in numerous fashion magazines display precisely that colour. The shop assistant told him it went great with his eyes and hair, but then, the guy might have been trying to hit on him.
“Rose,” Merlin repeats. “Could you be any gayer if you tried?” It’s possible that he intends for it to come out sharp and mocking, but the genuine amusement in his eyes thoroughly spoils the effect.
Arthur shakes his head. “No. Pretty sure I’ve always been that way.”
“I’m afraid he has.” Morgana hops onto Merlin’s counter, dangling her legs. She has yet to put her shoes on. “I think the fact that he always stole my Barbies somewhat gave it away.”
“I never did that,” Arthur protests. He scowls at Morgana, and it only takes a moment before her serious expression collapses, her smile wide.
“Okay, you didn’t. You only stole my Aragorn version of Ken, and I think it was because he had a sword.”
Merlin tries to suppress his laughter, or at least Arthur would like to think he did. It’s very obvious behind the hand covering Merlin’s mouth, though. Arthur decides to ignore him, getting to his feet to reach for the bottom of his shirt, dragging it over his head and draping it over the back of a chair. He turns around to notice the hungry look in Merlin’s eyes, his gaze focused on Arthur’s chest. Excitement sparks in Arthur’s stomach.
He spreads his arms and affects a smirk. “See something you like?”
“What?” Merlin’s gaze jumps away, focusing on the clock with curious intent. A faint flush is staining his cheeks. “Not that I know of, no.”
Arthur squints at him, still smirking, and he’s about to comment on how Merlin is very clearly lying when Morgana’s comment interrupts him. “Stop prancing around the kitchen half-naked and go find a shirt, Arthur.”
“You told me to lose the shirt,” Arthur says, at the same time as Merlin says, “Hey, hey, wait! He’ll not just go through my things. These are my clothes, after all.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t mock.” Arthur pauses and reconsiders his words. “Well. At least not too much.” He drops his arms, smiles winningly and thinks about pulling the boss card on Merlin, but… no. It’s not—That would be wrong, somehow. Kind of. Definitely.
“Oh, thanks.” Merlin’s voice is acid, and he’s lost all traces of his earlier flush. “That really does make me want to give you free rein over my wardrobe.”
“Well, you pick something, then.” Arthur decides not to announce his scepticism of Merlin’s taste in club wear, scepticism that is mostly based on the fact that Merlin is dressed in yet another t-shirt with a slogan. This one comes with two tick boxes, one for Human and one for Dancer. It reminds Arthur distantly of something, but he can’t figure out where he’s seen it before.
“It would be easier if you weren’t quite so broad in the chest,” Merlin retorts. His gaze skitters over Arthur’s upper body once again, a fact that is most definitely worth noticing. Maybe not worth remarking upon again, though. Especially given their respective statuses. Then again…
“Was that an insult or a compliment?” Arthur asks, watching Merlin’s face. Merlin evenly meets his eyes, but doesn’t reply right away.
“Could the two of you stop flirting and get a move on? Lance and Gwen will be waiting.” Morgana’s heel thumps against the wooden cabinet. Inside it, pans rattle.
“We are not flirting,” Merlin says flatly, in a rush. “We are so very much not flirting that flirting lives on another planet.”
While Arthur would like to differ, he honestly isn’t sure. He remains silent.
Merlin gets out of his chair to disappear towards his bedroom. Arthur watches him go for a moment before he shoots a look at Morgana. “Was that necessary?”
“Was what necessary?” she asks innocently.
“You know what I mean.”
“What if I really don’t?” She raises a brow, waiting for several seconds to tick by, before shaking her head, setting her elbows on her knees. Her tone changes, voice lowering. “Sorry. But Arthur, you know you can’t. I mean, he’s your employee, and that complicates things. At least romantic things. Friendship is… That’s fine, I think Merlin and you could be great friends, but…” She stops abruptly, an unhappy expression on her face.
“It’s just harmless flirting,” Arthur says quickly. He leans his hip against the table, frowning. “Besides, you’re his boss more directly than I am.”
Morgana nods. “Yes and no. He didn’t know about my connection to you, or Uther.”
“Beg your pardon?”
She hesitates, glancing towards the bedroom. It isn’t far, but as they’re almost whispering by now, Merlin shouldn’t be able to hear them. “He knew I was doing some work for Camelot, as a job on the side. He didn’t know about the whole… daughter of the owner thing. Neither do Lance or Gwen, by the way, so they’re in for a surprise tonight.”
“You never told your friends about me? Or about father?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t know why it hurts quite so much; it’s not that he himself has never considered losing the baggage that comes with the name.
“Only vaguely.” Morgana sounds apologetic, but also firm. “I didn’t want them to treat me with care just because I’m rich and the daughter and all that. I wanted…” She trails off, and Arthur doesn’t get a chance to comment because that’s when Merlin returns, something that looks like a vest in his hand.
“Did I interrupt?” he asks, but he doesn’t really seem to care. For all that Arthur can see Morgana’s point, understand it, even, he finds it difficult to imagine Merlin treating anyone with more respect because they happen to be higher up in the hierarchy chain. If considerations like that even cross Merlin’s mind, he has yet to show it.
“Just talking.” Arthur draws closer. “So that’s what I’m supposed to wear?”
“You can go dressed like a dandy, if you prefer?” Still Merlin unfolds the vest shirt, laying it out on the table. It actually isn’t as bad as Arthur feared; for one, it doesn’t come with any writing, and secondly, it consists of two layers, red silk underneath a black material that gleams slightly and is torn in places to display the underlying red. Despite its artsy edge, it won’t clash too horribly with Arthur’s trousers. In addition, it might be close to his size.
“This should do,” he says. “Where did you find it?”
“Designer store around the corner.” Merlin studies the cloth somewhat balefully. “It’s too big, but it was fifty percent off, so…”
After a brief look to request Merlin’s permission, Arthur reaches for the shirt. He turns it over to take a look at its back – black cloth held together by criss-crossing lacings, red shining through from underneath – before he pulls it over his head, tugging at the hem when he finds it’s a little tight across the chest, too tight to move comfortably. He scowls down at it and rolls his shoulders to make it slide into place.
The only result is an irritated, “Stop that. You’ll tear it.”
Arthur frowns back at Merlin. “It doesn’t fit.”
“That’s because it’s still laced from when I tried it on. You’re obviously bigger than me.”
“Did you just call me fat?” Arthur asks. Beside him, Morgana tries to stifle a girly giggle, but Arthur is onto her. He’ll get his revenge eventually, maybe by switching out one of her jeans for an identical one in a size even smaller than hers.
“Well.” Merlin stalls on the word, grinning with all his teeth. He makes a show of leaning forward to get a good look at Arthur’s body, and for all that Arthur is mostly certain that it's taking Merlin longer than it would if he were merely making a point, the reply still is, “If the shoe fits…”
“Frankly, you’re too skinny,” Arthur tells him. “I, on the other hand, have some actual muscle definition.” Although in all honesty, Arthur’s seen enough to know that Merlin isn’t quite as scrawny as a first glance might suggest.
“Whatever you say.” Merlin’s grin doesn’t fade. He draws closer, stepping around Arthur, and Arthur is about to respond when he feels Merlin’s hands settle against his back. A moment later, the shirt’s tightness eases.
What kind of shirt laces in the back? Arthur intends to ask. Instead, he remains silent while Merlin sorts out the laces. Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Arthur resolutely doesn’t meet Morgana’s eyes.
It’s too quiet in the kitchen and he’s suddenly aware that it’s too warm. Merlin’s fingertips skim over the silken underlayer, making it press to Arthur’s skin – the small of his back, his spine, the hollow underneath his shoulder blades. Arthur isn’t entirely clear how the atmosphere changed so quickly, but he finds his body swaying towards Merlin without his consent.
He tenses. Behind him, Merlin doesn’t seem to be breathing.
For a hot second, Merlin’s fingers press to the nape of Arthur’s neck., no silken barrier to absorb the touch. Then, as unexpectedly as it started, Merlin backs away and clears his throat. “Better now?”
Arthur needs a slow breath before he’s able to figure out whether it actually is better. Nodding, he shifts his weight and chances a quick look at Morgana, who’s watching him with thoughtful eyes. Arthur doesn’t even want to know. “Much better,” he says evenly, “thank you.”
Merlin smiles, but doesn’t reply.
Straightening the shirt, Arthur glances around. “Do you have a mirror?”
“It looks okay,” Merlin says.
“Thanks.” Arthur lifts a brow. “However, that wasn’t what I asked.”
“Merlin’s wardrobe,” Morgana supplies. “He’s right, though. It’s fine.”
Arthur smiles widely at both of them. “Not a child, remember? I think I can make up my own mind about this.” He sets off for Merlin’s bedroom. It’s slightly bigger than he expected, just enough space to contain a small desk, a wardrobe, a bookshelf and the large, unmade bed. It’s tucked under the slope of the roof, a skylight right above it, and the blankets have been kicked down to the bottom. Arthur spots one pillow on the floor, the other one right in the middle of the queen-sized mattress.
One door of Merlin’s wardrobe is a large mirror. Arthur studies himself for a moment before he has to admit that they were right: the colours suit him, and albeit the shirt still isn’t what he’d call comfortable, it clings to his body rather nicely. It will do.
--
Merlin would be willing to bet good money that Arthur hasn’t used public means of transportation since he obtained either a driver or his license. It shows in how long it takes him to buy a ticket, in his dubious look at the turnstiles and the complete lack of orientation once they’ve made it into the tunnel system that leads to the different platforms.
They missed a train by a minute so, at this time of night, the platform is mostly empty when they get there, neon lamps bathing the tiled ground in dispassionate light. A cold breeze originates from the dark hole of the tunnel, and Merlin notices Arthur tugging at the jacket Merlin gave him. It’s too small for Arthur to close and clashes horribly with the black trousers, but it’s still better than nothing. Merlin doesn’t understand how anyone can leave the house without at least a pullover in mid-spring, when they’re likely to be out late.
