The blonde of his hair was extremely distracting.
Merlin glared at the back of Arthur's neck. This wasn't fair; of all the people Monmouth could have assigned to sit in front of him, this was easily the most painful. His own personal purgatory. Arthur Pendragon was already the main center of his attention if they were separated by fifty feet. Putting less than two between them was not something that Merlin was going to be able to handle for long periods of time.
If he didn't watch himself, he might take advantage of that closeness…Wrap his arms around those broad shoulders, lightly kiss the back of his neck where fine blonde hairs stood out, and get his hands under that far too tight shirt…
Okay, he really needed to stop thinking. Thinking never led to good things. It didn't even lead to halfway decent things.
Why, oh why was this insufferable clot the subject of his inappropriate fantasies? Why couldn't it be Lancelot, who was as charming as he was chivalrous or even Gwen, with her kind eyes and bubbly attitude?
Merlin groaned mentally as he jabbed his pen quite ferociously into the notebook lying open in front of him. He had no idea what the assignment was, despite the other students working diligently around him. Monmouth had said something about an essay, but Merlin had been preoccupied with the way Arthur's shirt rode up ever so slightly, revealing an expanse of pale skin at his hipbone.
No one could be expected to listen to a dreadful lecture while that was going on in front of them.
Only half realizing what he was doing, Merlin violently ripped a page out of his notebook, the tearing sound echoing slightly in the quiet classroom. He scribbled down a quick stanza, and before he knew what had possessed him, poked Arthur in the shoulder, handing him the paper.
Arthur gave him a puzzled look as he took the sheet; it wasn't like they spoke all that often, just a few 'can I borrow a pencil's and the like. Merlin had a moment of internal panic – oh my god what the fuck did I just do – but came to the realization that it was too late to do anything about it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I think you're a prat
And I can't write poetry
But I fancy you madly
And if the epic cheesiness of this doesn't weird you out
I'd like to go out with you
Part of him wanted to die of embarrassment, but watching the backs of Arthur's ears turn crimson, he felt an odd sense of pride at being able to get a response. If he was going down, he was taking the object of his affections down with him, and hopefully Arthur would be even more mortified than he was.
It was something to hope for, at least.
And Merlin was absolutely shameless in any and all situations; he could definitely deal with whatever the response was. Even if it was a firm rejection.
Well, maybe.
It really depended.
He wouldn't think about that yet.
Or at all.
He was broken out of his reverie of possible, imagined scenarios, the best of which involved sex in the middle of the classroom – Merlin was probably an exhibitionist, now that he thought about it – by the paper being slid back onto his desk. Arthur's back was still turned to him, determinedly avoiding eye contact. It seemed Merlin wouldn't be getting any hints beforehand as to what his response was.
Directly beneath his less than stellar attempt at poetry was a response in neat, immaculate writing that paralleled his own messy scrawl.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You're a horrible poet
But I wouldn't be averse to going out with you
Merlin snorted despite himself, an unbidden grin twisting on his features. Leaning forward, he whispered into Arthur's ear without warning.
"Wouldn't be averse? Oh, talk dirty to me."
Arthur's barely audible response came a moment later. "Maybe on Saturday at eight. If you should be so lucky."
"I look forward to it."
They didn't speak again for the rest of the class hour, but as the bell rang shrilly and Arthur turned to leave the room, he flashed Merlin a brilliant white-toothed smile. Merlin grinned softly to himself.
That went so much better than anticipated.