This will be a multi chaptered fic, maybe with a sequel, i haven't decided yet

as usual, any constructive comments are welcome

Thanks to easyluckyfree83 for her advice, it really helped, i hope she dosen't mind me putting her name here, and that she approves of the changes i made

eventual Arthur/ Merlin, rated M for dark themes, hints alcoholism, drug abuse, prostitution

and as always i do not own anything, i just make the characters do crazy naughty things

enjoy :)

A Chance Encounter

chapter 1

"Hi my names Arthur and I'm an alcoholic" the anonymous faces sat in the circle, staring at him with disgust? Shock? Awe? he didn't know, but it wasn't nice

"Why is when you state that word, alcoholic, people throw on their mask of pity? Well I don't fucking need their pity, don't deserve it in fact. Not for the things I've done. Alcohol has been my demon for too long, brought out the evil in me. It needs to stop. So that's why I'm here, to get my life back on track"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot and scrubbed his hand through his hair, trying to get comfortable with their penetrating gazes

This was the third week he'd been coming here, and every time, he'd sat with a scowl and refused to say anything. It was about bloody time he manned up and spoke, it was reason he was here after all.

"So I reckon you think you know all about me, huh? I mean I've been plastered across just about every fucking British rag there is. So you'll know all about how I'm a disgrace to my father, The Uther Pendragon; how being a "trust fund brat" means I've never worked a day in my life? How I've spent all my time partying?"

The blonde gritted his teeth. Anger was another one of those issues he really needed to work on. It would really not help his situation if he went bat shit crazy at these people he didn't even know. They hadn't even said a word and he was starting to get riled up, like they were the ones that had put him here.

He snorted, anger quickly giving way to dark humour; the only person he could blame was himself. And now they were all looking at him like he was crazy. Great Arthur, laughing at an alcoholics meeting, real nice.

Arhtur shook his head, trying to remember what the hell he'd been talking about. He swore his mind was like a fucking commentary sometimes, no wonder people thought he was an absolute waster, he couldn't even finish a sentence.

"Well let me tell you what my life has actually been like. My mother died giving birth to me, which is quite rare in this day and age, but it still happens. My father business had just started to take off, so being the piece of shit he is, he put his every waking moment into it, meaning I never saw him growing up. I was passed from hand to hand, every time I forced one out, my father would just pick a replacement, he never saw that all I wanted, the only thing I wanted was his attention."

His breath left him in a rush and he rubbed his hands across his face, trying to calm down. He still held a lot of resentment towards his father. He was working on it. He forced himself to carry on.

"I can look back now and admit I was an awful child, I was so cruel to all those child minders and nanny's, who were only trying to do their job. But in my eyes they could never fill the void my mother had left."

He felt his voice faded as he thought back over that period of life, which, with all that he'd done since, still caused him the most pain.

"Arthur?"

"Uh, yeah, sorry" He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes in rapid succession. He was not crying, it was the dust.

Merlin swam slowly back into consciousness, and the first thing he noticed was the smell. Jesus Christ, what was that? He sniffed at his armpits, oh it was him.

He stretched his arms above his head, trying to work the kinks out of his body. This blasted alley wall was so hard! He supposed that's what he got for being homeless. He got to his feet, gathering his meagre belongings into his arms. Blanket, check. Knife, check. Day old bread, check. 5 pound coins, check.

He stood, looking at his collection for an unmeasured amount of time, his mind whirring. Was this really all he owned? Of course he had the clothes on his back, but they weren't exactly, well, practical. He could feel his despair creeping over him once again.

Perhaps he should return to that brothel, at least there they kept him warm, fed and clothed. And of course, doped up, so he could forget about his miserable existence, and give little resistance when those greasy old men would paw at him, pushing into him, not caring about the pain they caused.

He scratched absently at the track marks on his arms, thinking about that blissful, floating feeling it gave him, and how he really didn't care what happened to him when he was in that state.

NO! He shook his head violently, his matted dark hair whipping about his face. No, he refused to do that again. He'd escaped it, he had his freedom, he was clean, and though it may not seem much better than in there now, he was independent. Going cold turkey in a place like that was bad enough; alone, scared, trying to go undetected and still perform without vomiting. He would not do that again.

It had taken him months to wean himself off whatever concoction of drugs they had been giving him. Lying on a filthy pallet, rags for blankets, sweating and shivering and trying not to scream out loud at the anguish. So many times he'd nearly snapped, and begged, pleaded with them, to just give him something, anything to take it away, to make him lucid and unfeeling. But each time, he'd look out of the skylight directly above his so called bed, and see the moon and the stars, twinking all merry and unconcerned, and free. That was what he wanted. Freedom

So he did it, he got clean, over all those months; clean enough to think and see and realise he was in hell. So one night, when it was quiet, and all the others were doped up and snoring on their pallets, he smashed the skylight, fearing the racket would bring them running. When no one came, he climbed out and shimmied down the drainpipe, as quick as could in what he belatedly realised, were his hooker clothes and entirely impractical for escape.

But it had worked, he had done it, no one had chased him, apparently too safe in their arrogance to think one of their sluts would ever try to escape.

That was 2 weeks ago now and his resolve was faltering. They say the grass is always greener on the other side. Too bloody right it was, because this alley was bleak.

"It may look bleak now, Merlin" he said to himself "but you are strong, you are smart, and you can claw your way out of this situation"

"You will not go back to being someone else's mindless plaything"

He stashed his belongings in the dumpster, where obviously no one would steal them. He pushed his shoulders back, tilted his head up, and strode out of the alley and into the bustling morning of London.