A/N: I honestly did my best to tone it down, cutting out certain descriptions and using more vague language/terminology. The rating systems needs to be more details on what it wants and can't have, IMHO. Otherwise here's Part 1.
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Part 1
How many years has it been since Gaius had brought him here? Before he had to worry about everything to keep himself alive: money for food and rent, staying away from danger, keeping far away from the eyes of the police. It had been a stroke of luck for Gaius to offer him the safety and comfort of The Avalon, which provided him with all the necessities he needs and more. In return, he is only required to stay in this room.
Cabin fever had set in fairly quickly in the beginning. Back then, Merlin had suddenly found himself stuck in an environment where the exit door locked automatically, the only people with keys being the servers and clients. The former bring him and the other workers three meals a day like clockwork, and the latter buy their time and talents. He's only allowed contact through the phone to talk with his other co-workers and, in the first year, the people who had trained him, but it hadn't been enough and he'd taken it out upon the room. Merlin had been expecting to get thrown out. Instead, the former manager had quietly gotten his room refurbished and renewed, and had placidly told Merlin he would have to work off the debt he now owed. No matter how loud his rants, Merlin had received the same calm response every time, until he eventually got used to it.
He talks with his co-workers now, sometimes gossiping about their clients or their techniques. He's made friends with the new phone operator, who connects their lines and places their orders to the kitchen when a client requests food. Lately, Merlin's been using these connections to gather any information he can about Arthur Pendragon.
The phone has been ringing consistently for the past hour, but looking at the clock as he exits the bathroom, Merlin knows he doesn't have anything to be worried about. He dries himself with a towel and checks the suit he's laid out on the bed. There's still an hour before he has to be prim and proper for his new client's arrival. He's aware of who Arthur Pendragon is: son of Uther Pendragon, crime lord of the Camelot Syndicate and also proud business owner of the Avalon, an illustrious high-class brothel catering to the wealthy. But Merlin shouldn't be thinking about his client's inheritance; according to the pestering of Cedric, the Avalon's current manager, the only thing he should be focusing on is that his client is the owner's son. Specifically, Cedric had told him to take extra special care of Pendragon's son, upon learning that the client had booked him for three whole days.
It's a bit nerve wrecking, with the length of time that he's required to provide for a client's every comfort and need being counted in days instead of the usual few hours, but he can't complain. When he was first told about the booking, he'd wondered how he had caught the attention of the boss's son. The Avalon does have catalogues, listing all of their 'residences' for potential clients to enjoy their time with. He'd seen them once, a couple of black leather-bound books, with two pages dedicated to describing each room's resident, their preferences and talents, and also the room's amenities. Yet the idea of Pendragon choosing him from the book is ridiculous. He can't imagine a crime lord's son choosing anything but the best, and while Merlin had gotten placement on the top floor, he knows the other top-floor residents are of a much higher caliber.
The more likely explanation for how he had attracted Pendragon's attention would be from one of his Viewing Room sessions, perhaps one of the last two. There had been the Lace Room, with Pierre from two doors down, and there had been the Velvet Room, where he and some of the guys a few floors below display their use of bondage. It's the usual affairs when they're working to entice more clients under their name.
Over the weeks between the booking and Pendragon's appointment, Merlin had tried to remember details from the two previous sessions. Each of the Avalon's five themed Viewing Rooms has a stage, split from the audience seating by a wall with a large window so their 'performances' on stage can be seen. He's not supposed to, but Merlin always tries to sneak a glance at the front row when he performs. His reflection on the glass obscures the view, but he's the curious sort.
He doesn't know what Pendragon looks like, and he can't recall anyone of the younger-age bracket showing him particular interest. He has some experience with men and women on the cusp of adulthood, eager to spend their money and ease their boredom. Merlin has serviced people of all ages and genders, members of the Camelot Syndicate as well as their rivals.
The first time he had an appointment with a member of a rival Syndicate, neither he nor the other residents were aware of what had been happening. Merlin laughs at his naiveté as he puts on his clothes, thinking about the certainty from back then that he was going to die, wondering what he'd done wrong. Apparently enough employees had shared the sentiment that Cedric had needed to make a conference call soon after to ease all of their fears. The manager could have saved himself the trouble by simply informing them beforehand, but it couldn't be helped that, upon the previous manager's retirement, the Avalon has fallen to the management of someone like Cedric, who doesn't even try to understand them.
Merlin looks with dissatisfaction into the full-length mirror, tugging at the sleeves of his suit. There is no information to be found about the younger Pendragon except for re-hashed rumours and stories about Uther, the crime kingpin, ruthless pictures that had been painted long before. Even when Merlin had lived on the streets, he'd heard grisly stories of small time gangs that had crossed a line into Camelot's territory and earned punishment, like the moral warning of a folktale. It makes him nervous that he might come away from his three day session severely bruised, or worse. Arthur is his boss's son—what can't he do?
The phone by his bedside rings again, and this time Merlin picks up. Though he much prefers to talk to the Avalon's sweetheart phone operator, Gwen, the manager's weasely voice comes through instead.
"He's on his way up," Cedric says.
"Not a problem Cedric," Merlin instantly cuts in, already expecting the manager's reminders to treat his client like a god. It irks him. Merlin hasn't caused any trouble since his first and only tantrum, but that incident is probably in his file along with the acquired debt he easily paid off within a year of working and the unusual way he was recruited. Merlin had gone through the years with his clients just fine, gaining a few returning patrons, but for some reason Cedric simply chose to watch him for trouble.
Merlin takes a moment to consider causing problems for Cedric so the sniveling suck-up won't have the chance to get in Pendragon's good graces, but decides it would only leave him at a disadvantage. If Cedric got that promotion from Pendragon, he would probably leave, so Merlin opts to put on his usual well-behaved routine.
He takes position at the entrance, combing fingers through his unruly hair and checking that the room is dusted, composed, and looks as sinful as ever. The Avalon's interior design is extravagant and outlandish, with the miniature chandeliers fixed to the ceilings. Various shades of red encompass his room, from the cherry wood front door to the darker shades of the carpet and walls . Complementing the red are the black doors of the bathroom and closet, and the startlingly rich ocean blue of his bed sheets. Everything seamlessly merges together to present the decadence that clients expect, with the exception of his bed, purposely made to attract attention and bring out the colour of his eyes.
Merlin whips his head around, hearing the sound of a key in the door's lock, and quickly fixes the lines of his suit. He plasters on his best sultry smile and intently waits for Pendragon to open the door, the nervousness of attending a new client thrumming through him, the stress of having to discover what they like and expect. Cedric's constant reminders begin to press on his nerves, causing his heart to pound, but he refuses to show any anxiety.
The door opens with a grand gesture, revealing a handsome man wearing a business suit. It's a strange thought but Merlin can't help but think that despite his attire, Pendragon looks like a modern age warrior. The shape of his face and body are chiselled, like the stone statues of heroes from Greek myth. Under the hallway's lighting, Pendragon's hair probably isn't shining as it usually would beneath the sun, but Merlin can identify the strands' wheat gold colour. His blue eyes appear a little cold and calculating, until he looks Merlin over with an appreciative gaze.
What first takes him off guard is the realization that Pendragon is only a few years older than him, but already holds a substantial amount of power, and will definitely hold more in the future. The second is how his suit forms to his body to show its strength, the slight bump in the jacket giving away the firearm beneath. The gun makes him falter for a moment, and Pendragon catches it. There's no apology in his smile, despite the Avalon's clear rules about weapons in the rooms. His client simply walks further into his residence with a cocky swagger, posturing, entitled. An inexplicable feeling of annoyance towards Pendragon threatens to rear its head, so Merlin soundlessly takes deep, calming breaths to tamp it down, and closes the door.
Upon realizing that he should have greeted his client when he first entered, Merlin turns around to correct his mistake. "Mr. Pendragon-," he starts, immediately cut off by the mouth connecting to his, teeth scratching his lips. He hadn't expected them to get right to it, and falters for a few seconds before remembering to kiss Arthur back with equal effort.
"Merlin," Pendragon says into his mouth, tapping a finger against his chest, and then grabs one of Merlin's hands and presses it near his waistline. "Arthur," Pendragon indicates to himself.
He could care less if that's how Pendragon wants to introduce himself, because his enthusiastic need to devour is infectious, and there's nothing more dissatisfying than someone who can't match your desires. So Merlin follows Pendragon's lead.
For the next two days, Pendragon is aggressive, confident, and insatiable. Other than sex, they haven't really interacted with each other in any way. Most clients like even the smallest amount of chatter, especially the regulars, probably because of the relief the Avalon and its residents provide with these short-term partnerships. There's a familiarity in knowing someone's enjoyment, listening to their grievances, dining together—or whatever else a client deems an entertaining time.
Pendragon's view of a good time seems to solely be sex. It makes everything else Merlin's used to a bit awkward. When they call for food, Pendragon sends Merlin to shower as he eats his meal, and Pendragon takes one of his own when Merlin comes back to eat. When they're resting from exhaustive rounds of sex, Pendragon talks business on his phone, and Merlin finds his company is unwanted and has to struggle to find something to do. Never before in his time in the brothel could he have said he actually felt a bit used, and could only put it down to the Avalon softening the actuality of him being a prostitute. Merlin can at least comfort himself with the fact that he's at least enjoying Pendragon's wanton aggressiveness, though he doesn't think his suit is repairable by any means, and neither are his bed sheets.
By the third day, Merlin knows that his two day break after this session won't be enough, and the likelihood of Cedric extending his cool-down time is dismal. As he catches his breath from another bout of sex, he traces his fingers along the newest rip in the sheets, and silently hopes his client leaves a considerable tip downstairs when he leaves. They're not technically supposed to, but Cedric encourages it, mostly due to his cut in the share.
The Pendragon heir looks content lying beside him, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. Merlin's sure that his pleasure during their activities, not having needed to fake an orgasm or a shiver, only adds to Pendragon's ego. In fact, if Merlin even tries his usual submissive routine, he gets tiresome insults thrown his way. Pendragon doesn't even have to vocalize the remarks anymore, effortlessly conveying them with mere look or derisive snort. The annoying thing is that his client catches his performance every time, which makes Merlin feel less than adequate at his job.
Rolling over to straddle Pendragon, Merlin places adoring kisses from his jaw to his chest, discreetly checking the clock on the bedside table. There's only ten hours left of Pendragon's bought time and the second his client leaves the room, Merlin's going to fall into a deep, blissful sleep. His muscles ache like they haven't for some time, and the joints in his knees are starting to feel stiff. The rug burns don't help.
Merlin looks at Pendragon's turned away face and wonders why his client had come to him particularly. There's an odd scrutiny on his face every time he pushes Merlin to the bed, like being dissected and examined. It's a bit frightening but, regardless, Pendragon can't have been too pleased with him these past few days, so Merlin probably won't have to see him again anyway.
"You hungry?" Merlin asks, seeing from the clock that it's nearing dinner hours.
"Starving," Pendragon says, reaching for his lighter and pack of smokes.
"What would you like?"
Pendragon takes a moment to light up his cigarette, and takes a puff before answering. "You decide."
"And if you don't like it…" Merlin pouts.
Pendragon snorts at the expression, tearing down Merlin's instinctual attempt to appear a docile bed partner. Turning away to hide his frown, Merlin crawls off Pendragon to lie stomach-down, grabbing the phone on the nightstand, and presses a single number for the operator.
"Hi, I'd like a Sole de Douvres Poêlée servie avec Beurre Blanc and a bottle of Château de Bel to be sent up to room 506," Merlin says to Gwen.
"Not a problem Merlin. Do you need the bottle sent up first?"
"That would be lovely."
"It'll be right up," Gwen giggles out.
"Thank you." He tries not to groan his appreciation.
"You're tired," Arthur says, climbing on top of him, stretching across to place his lit cigarette in the glass tray.
He almost drops the phone, but catches himself and casually places it back as though nothing had happened. "It's hard to keep up with you." It's another piece of habitual flattery that receives another snort. Merlin hopes his smile doesn't appear as strained as it suddenly feels.
"And if I'm telling the truth," he challenges, letting his irritation get the better of him.
A warm breath skims the back of his neck, and then he gasps from the pinpricks of pain as Arthur softly bites into his skin. "Then I'm doing better than I thought."
Arthur's weight is suddenly gone as he heads off to the bathroom, and when the door closes, Merlin is surprised to feel his shoulders relax, unaware of how tense he'd become. He flops onto his back, staring at the red of the ceiling and the crystals from the small chandelier. He knew he shouldn't be letting his client get the better of him. He doesn't know how Pendragon can get beneath his skin so easily, causing him to break away from his usual role. He's serviced his fair share of pompous clients, even before the Avalon.
He gets up, muttering a mantra to 'get it together' as he pulls two robes from the dresser drawers for himself and Pendragon, before the server arrives with the wine. Walking around the room makes the ache in his arse more apparent, and he stifles a few groans, wishing he had a whole week off instead of two days. The cool feel of cotton and silk draped over his skin comforts him. He places the other robe on a hook situated beside the bathroom door, where he can hear piss streaming into the toilet. Until Pendragon finishes, Merlin has a moment's reprieve to tidy the mess they had made. One of his nightstand drawers had been roughly pulled out in Pendragon's hunt for the lubrication. All the contents inside are now strewn across the floor.
Halfway through the clean-up, he hears the bathroom door opening at the same time as a knock on the front door. Merlin instantly heads to the entrance, knowing the wine has arrived, and leaves the rest of the mess for later. He smiles politely at the server, taking the glasses and the bottle of wine, snug inside a bucket of ice. He almost drops the items when he turns around and sees his client hunched down, placing the last of the condom and lubrication packages into the drawer.
"You didn't have to do that," Merlin says, as Pendragon slides the drawer back into place. He places the wine and glasses on the coffee table in the entertainment area, embarrassed. This doesn't happen—a client cleaning a resident's room.
Pendragon blinks blankly at him, looking as though he hadn't been sure of the action himself, before his swagger reasserts itself. "It's the least I can do," Pendragon says, standing and sauntering over, "especially after the mess I made." An arm wraps around his waist, one hand going beneath Merlin's short robe to breach into him.
Merlin gasps, not expecting the sudden sensation, and the only thing Merlin can do is hold onto Pendragon's shoulder and let him play. It's too soon for him to get it up again, but the intensity of the pleasure wrecks him. Merlin trembles violently, trapped in Pendragon's arms as he tortures him.
"I like you like this," Pendragon whispers, sounding like a cat that had just caught its next meal.
Merlin's not sure what he should say, or if he can even answer, before Pendragon finally releases him, leaving him empty to the echoes of pleasure. The sound of the wine bottle's cork distantly popping strengthens him to gather himself and do his job, fixing the ties of his robe and watching Pendragon sniff the cork of the wine, then pour two full glasses. Pendragon hasn't even bothered with his robe's ties, letting it hang freely open.
He drinks from his glass and extends Merlin's out to him, which he graciously accepts, plastering on a smile. "Is it to your liking?" he asks.
"Expected nothing less," Pendragon apathetically answers, before switching topics. "So, Merlin. That's a real name?"
He tries to not let his eyebrows rise in surprise, since he'd been expecting Pendragon to reach for his phone and begin conducting business with the outside world. It excites him a bit to finally see some normality, and he responds with a flirtatious tease. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"
Pendragon frowns at Merlin, dismissively answering, "Hard to say." He reaches for his phone, leaning back on the couch to drink the wine, and completely ignores Merlin again.
In his mind, he's wrenching his hair and crying out in frustration. The residents at the Avalon were required to learn techniques and etiquette in the art of pleasure and good company, but Merlin feels he can only complete half the equation with Pendragon. He can't get a handle on what his client wants. If Pendragon wants to be dominated, then he's chosen the wrong resident to entertain him.
The brush-off shouldn't be so demeaning, but it offends his pride. He isn't the top of the Avalon's list, but with five steady clients and a reasonable stream of one-timers vying for his attention, Merlin knows he isn't as hopeless as Pendragon makes him feel. What does his client want from him?
He supposes it's an error on his part. He considers briefly that the only information he has of Pendragon are rumours, which could possibly mean he's a first time client at the Avalon. Merlin takes a large drink of wine from his glass, looking at the Syndicate heir from the corner of his eye. Merlin had simply thought Cedric didn't want him to screw up this appointment.
And if he does disappoint, he'll only have himself to blame. The first few minutes of a session are usually spent getting a handle on what the client wants, but Pendragon had jumped right in, skipping the introductions. Merlin had fallen back on his usual patterns, his attempts at providing pleasant company receiving only indiscrete eye-rolls and offending comments. He hadn't been able to keep his cool and think things through. In the end, if things go badly, Cedric will have no leverage for a promotion and Pendragon will go off to find someone more pleasing. The thought of the former edges a smile onto his lips, even if Cedric will make him pay for it somehow.
Merlin is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't realize Pendragon is rustling through the pile of their folded clothes until the sounds become more agitated. Panic seizes his body, and he stays still like a deer caught in a predator's gaze. Closing his eyes, he lets the bitter taste of the wine soak his senses, and breathes to calm himself. He knows the exact moment Pendragon makes his discovery, those strong shoulders stiffening, and his hands go clammy with cold sweat.
"Where'd you hide my gun?"
Merlin hopes he isn't shaking too much. "I'm sorry sir. As stated in the Avalon's rules, guns are—"
"The gun," Pendragon snarls.
It's a moment of irrational stupidity that's caused something like this to happen. The gun is against the rules, but Merlin knows better than to act on that. It isn't his place. The worst part about this situation is that Merlin knows it has nothing to do with Pendragon breaking the Avalon's guidelines. He'd hidden it as soon as he had been able to when Pendragon first used the bathroom. He'd picked up his clothes to fold them. The gun invading his home had been right in his hands, and he'd had the sudden, undeniable urge to tuck it out of reach.
There had been no thought to it. Merlin thinks his mind may have been entirely blank, but his hands had known what they were doing.
He tries now to state the rule again, this time looking directly at Pendragon, expecting to see his client's hand outstretched to him, his eyes raging like a bull. Somehow, it's more frightening to find Pendragon has his back to him, immobile as a statue. Merlin is afraid that Pendragon will turn around and show him the true meaning of his Syndicate entitlement.
"The gun," Pendragon repeats, enunciating each sound.
Merlin puts down the glass and heads towards the bed, reaching beneath the mattress near the headboard to retrieve the gun. Pendragon's already behind him to take it from his hands, looming threateningly in his space.
"I think you should leave." Merlin usually does have the right to kick a client out if they get out of hand by the Avalon's standards, but they both know that his suggestion has no meaning with a Pendragon.
"Are you going to spout about rules again?" Pendragon laughs, though somewhere in his throat it almost turns into a growl.
With nothing better to say Merlin responds with a clipped, "Yes."
The sudden rough push onto the bed is impromptu—Arthur pins him and leans down to whisper, "But I still have a few hours left, don't I."
A slow tug on one end of the robe's tie slowly loosens it. Arthur turns to place the gun on the nightstand. Merlin stays still beneath him, watching Pendragon take his time, his heart beats wildly and thoughts throwing themselves into disarray. Again, they are both equally aware of each other, hunter and prey.
Underneath it all, anger begins to boil. Merlin can see that Pendragon is enjoying this, so he finds himself disregarding the ingrained rule not to smack clients across the face, hand swinging out in a severe lack of judgement and professionalism. Pendragon follows the motion of Merlin's attack with ease, catching his hand and bringing it over his broad shoulders, then steadying Merlin against his chest in an parody of a hug. His fingers begin to skim down between Merlin's legs, and Merlin resents both the humiliation and the utter lack of control he has in this moment.
What had he been thinking? Hiding the gun had been a mistake, and he still doesn't know why he did it. The only way he can see to rectify the mess he's made is by doing exactly what Pendragon wants, even though his mind is having trouble distinguishing left from right, even though the urge to fight against his client is still present.
Suddenly, they are flipped around, Pendragon lying back as he gets Merlin to straddle his waist. At some point, Pendragon's rolled on a condom.
"Come on," his client taunts, holding Merlin's hips to settle him down onto his length.
"You're a fucking asshole," Merlin growls, forcing himself not to gasp.
"This is more like it." Pendragon's smile is tinted with wickedness.
Pendragon's mobile is ringing off to the side, but goes ignored. Merlin does his best not to let any of the pleasure show on his face, withholding any gasps as a particular spot makes his vision swirl. The muscles in his chest are ready to burst as the tries to keep his breathing calm and steady. But it's a losing battle, and the frustration is beginning to etch on his face.
Merlin wants to punch that smile as it widens, but Pendragon's holding his wrists together in a vice-like grip. His client's other hand is tracing the lips of his mouth, rather than holding his hips, and Merlin reacts by clamping his teeth down onto the nearest finger. Not enough to do serious harm, but a fair bit harder than a playful bite.
"This is what I saw," Pendragon says breathlessly to himself, looking to be in a state of ecstasy.
Merlin tries to comprehend Pendragon's words as his client's hands begin tracing the contours of his face, traveling down past his jaw, browsing the light muscles in his shoulders, and down to his hips. With sudden strength, Pendragon pulls him up higher, and let's gravity provide a deeper reach. It's what finally breaks him, shivering from the sensation, making a heat low inside him wind so much tighter. Pendragon continues to raise and let go, until Merlin can't deny how much he likes it, only then does Pendragon stop.
He's left panting while Pendragon's hands climb back up his body, pressing down on his skin as though he's memorizing the shape. Eventually, those fingers flow up to his throat, and in the next moment Merlin completely whites out, barely realizing his body is moving while his mind tries to catch up. When he does regain enough focus to follow his own actions, his hands are shaking badly, cold metal in his grip.
"Now you're crossing a line." Any trace of amusement is gone from Pendragon's face, only leaving behind a cold, placid mask. The heir's arousal has wilted, but he's still lying on the bed.
Merlin knows how wrong this is, pointing a gun at a client; it's screaming in his head along with a jumble of other thoughts and feelings he can't discern. Why does he have the gun? He doesn't feel safe holding it, but he also doesn't want to drop his aim.
"I don't…" Merlin whispers, uncertain how he should continue on.
"Drop the gun," Pendragon slowly commands, holding himself up with one arm, not appearing the least bit worried. But Merlin isn't fooled, and knows the rigidity in Pendragon's body is like a predator readying his energy for the pounce, and it makes him even more anxious.
Pendragon's phone starts ringing again, grabbing Merlin's attention. The crime lord's son uses the momentary distraction to smoothly lunge with a kick off the bed, and with a simple maneuver to get behind Merlin, twists his wrist so he'll let go of the weapon. Pendragon easily blocks the reflexive jerk of the elbows and the kick of heels. It's an easy feat for Pendragon to lift Merlin and throw him on the bed to immobilise him.
Predictably, Merlin struggles, feeling that every inhale of breath is strangling his throat, and it takes much too long to recognize the blue sheets he's lying on, and the safety of his home in the Avalon.
"I'm sorry," he can barely say, unable to catch his breath but still apologising over and over, even when Pendragon's weight is no longer on him.
The distant patter of feet across the carpet tells him that his client is a safe distance away, and Merlin dares to take a peek, watching as Pendragon answers the mobile that's been ringing constantly the last few minutes.
His client looks at the mobile, frowning at the number listened there before answering. "Pendragon," he greets gruffly, a perfect businesslike acknowledgment. "When?"
Merlin stays where he is, but wonders if he should hide away as Pendragon becomes more agitated with whatever information he's receiving.
"We'll meet at the yard. No one moves until I get there." The mobile is snapped shut, and Pendragon swiftly moves about with purpose. "Looks like I have to leave," Pendragon says, without looking at him, deftly pulling on his suit to look presentable once again. He's using his hands to smooth and flatten his hair, and he walks to Merlin with the same cocky swagger from when he waltzed in three days ago. Pendragon sits beside Merlin's prone body. It's as though nothing had transpired.
He leans down, running a finger across Merlin's lips, slipping the tip inside as he whispers, "You should know you left the safety on."
Merlin doesn't do anything when Pendragon gets up and leaves. There's a conversation at the entrance, someone else outside in the hall, and then the door closes with a sharp click. He takes a moment to lift himself up, wrung out by the events. At the front entrance the server's cart stands beside the door, two covered trays sitting on top. Food is the furthest thing from his mind.
He attacked a client, and the worst part is that he doesn't really get why. He doesn't even want to know. The rip in his bedsheet runs beneath his thigh, and he has the greatest desire to take the fabric and widen the hole. Merlin flops onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillows, with only one thing to say quietly to himself.
"Fuck."
"Merlin!" the Avalon's manager cries out joyfully.
The phone that had been cradled between his head and shoulders is dropped to the newly spread out bedsheets. On the other end of the line, Cedric continues on jovially, unaware that his employee isn't listening. It's been a few weeks since the disastrous appointment with Pendragon, and nothing had been done about the incident. After the first week, Merlin had realized that Pendragon hadn't informed Cedric about Merlin threatening him with a gun. Merlin spends the following weeks trying to regain his normalcy, attempting to piece together exactly what had happened so he wouldn't do it again.
Merlin had believed that Pendragon's silence had been a stroke of luck. But if Cedric is calling, exclaiming his name and acting chummy with him, as though they were best friends, then it probably hadn't been luck at all.
Merlin hurriedly picks up the phone, barely understanding the words the manager is rambling. "I'm sorry Cedric, you'll have to repeat what you were saying. I accidentally dropped the phone."
"Ah, well as long as you're not clumsy with him, I'll let it slide, Merlin." The buddy routine drops slightly as Cedric's attempt at authority slips in. "It's seems you did very well with Arthur Pendragon. He's scheduled another appointment in a few weeks' time. Congratulations are in order."
Merlin's attention fades out. He wants to decline the job, but the choice isn't his.
"—Keep this up and I'll see about a few upgrades to your room."
"Right," is the only word Merlin can offer.
"You're on the right track here! I'll reserve some of the best wine for Pendragon's appointment, and give you a menu to memorize for his stay."
Merlin can practically hear the flicking of paper bills going through his manager's head, as well as the dreams of promotion upwards from a lowly brothel manager. "How long is the appointment?" he asks.
He can almost hear the frustration in Cedric's breathing, but his manager persists with the jolly tone. "It's about a two and a half week stay."
Merlin covers the mouthpiece of the phone so Cedric can't hear him trying to steady his breathing.
"Merlin, you are listening right?" Cedric snaps out, finally losing patience.
"That's a long time," he says on a thin breath.
"Yes, longer than usual. I don't know what you did during the last appointment, but don't fuck this next one up."
Cedric hangs up with a hard click, leaving Merlin with no further arguments, not that he could try. What should he do when Pendragon is staying in his room for two and a half weeks? The possibilities swirl in his mind. The Syndicate heir had seemed amused by Merlin before he'd left, but he can clearly remember the fury in Pendragon's eyes, as though he had absolute control over where and when to fire it, like a weapon.
Despite the time he's had to think things over, Merlin hasn't been able to understand his actions. He doesn't think Pendragon had done anything no other client had, but with the way Merlin's memory blanks with an overwhelming feeling of terror, making his fingers twitch and lungs tight, he's not sure. It had affected him, making it difficult at times to handle the other clients. Even his regulars had started giving him questioning stares.
With it nearly certain that he'll lose one regular to his behaviour, he's been making the effort to keep himself in check, leaving the memory locked down. But Pendragon in his presence again will make that challenging.
In the coming weeks, Merlin tries to sink himself into Cedric's demands as his manager comes to investigate his room, nitpicking at anything he dislikes. Merlin does his best not to roll his eyes at Cedric, even getting snappy a few times. There are moments where he can see Cedric's hands itching to rise up and smack him, but he didn't have that kind of power to be damaging the Syndicate's assets, with or without the Pendragon's upcoming appointment.
His enjoyment of Cedric's ire is interrupted too soon as the date nears, until finally he finds himself standing by the front entrance, hearing the key scrape into the lock and watching Pendragon swing open the door. Seeing him again gives Merlin no doubt to whether his considerations of Pendragon as a feral warrior with a hardened composure had been illusions. The recollection of his client's indifference and sexual drive hits him low in the gut, and he finds that he can't bring himself to smile as he should.
They eye one another, assured the other will speak first. It's only a moment before Pendragon says, "And here I thought you'd be a quivering mess." Pendragon moves about the room as though he owns it, and Merlin supposes that right now he technically does.
He twitches in annoyance, but he doesn't bother to respond and moves to close the door, though he's uncomfortable putting his back to Pendragon. For the time being he'll stick with one motto: if he doesn't say anything he can't do anything wrong. It's not a good tactic, because eventually he'll have to be a good host. Yet the motto of silence is the only policy he can take where he can be sure not to lose control of himself again. Still, he should do something. There are the usual training routines to fall back on, except there's never a suitable temptation to hold Pendragon's interest. In the end, he's left with nothing.
The weight of a gaze has fallen on him, and Merlin notices that Pendragon has finished his circles around the room. He'd been taking note of the changes, not watching him, but now… He's sure the hair on his arms rises in fear.
An idea hits him, and he looks over to the wet bar Cedric had installed near the fish tank. The bar is an easy way in, so Merlin makes a beeline towards it. Yesterday, Cedric had arranged for the servers to come and fill it with various types of alcohol, which would be a nice addition with other clients willing to pay for the booze. Of course, the Pendragon heir would instead be getting exclusive access to a fully stocked bar.
"Is there anything you'd like?" Merlin can hear Pendragon follow, close on his heels. He can imagine nails digging into the back of his neck, like stray dogs that try to bite as they chase you.
Pendragon hums, eyeing the bar and its contents with interest. "Whisky," he drawls, and casually lounges against the counter beside him.
Merlin quickly pours two glasses and extends one out to his client.
"Don't you want to take something first?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see that Pendragon has taken off his suit jacket, unconcernedly exposing his sidearm. Merlin can feel the mocking intention in the action.
"No," he briskly says, attempting to keep his gaze away.
He almost jumps when Pendragon goes for his gun. Despite the slowness there's something very smooth about the motions as he pulls it out, like muscle memory, frequently performed without needing the time to think. Completely instinctual.
"Here." Pendragon's teasing him. The gun, handled almost as if it's a part of him, is extended out to Merlin with the business end towards its owner.
It's as though he's being dared to take the gun, trigger in easy reach. The teasing makes him nervous, further fueling his contempt for Pendragon. Something's boiling over with a fire that's been lit since Pendragon had first waltzed in less than two months ago. The heat of it burns him as it scorches its way out.
"Go to hell." Merlin's sure his words are barely a whisper, but Pendragon would have heard it all the same.
"If I do have to go, want to keep me company?" Pendragon jokes, adding a wink as he places the gun on the bar.
Merlin tries not to look at it, but he can see the gun is oriented so that he can easily get a grasp on it, and he follows the only action he can think to do.
Throwing the small amounts of whisky at Pendragon's face won't do much good, but trying to smash away that mischievous smile with the glass itself would be considerably worse. Some of the whisky splashes back onto Merlin, and there's a sliver of it still in the cup, but he has the satisfaction of seeing the liquid speckled on Pendragon's face. His client's tongue peeks out to trail across his lower lip for the little bit of alcohol that's there.
"You know I'm here for two and a half weeks, right?"
Despite the wording, Merlin can hear it isn't a threat and it bothers him, because Pendragon should be upset. Normal clients would be furious and demand compensation for the insult, and there's no way the Avalon wouldn't comply.
Instead, Pendragon crowds Merlin against the bar so his back is pressing hard against the edge. He takes away the other glass of whiskey that Merlin is holding and downs it in a couple of gulps, seeming to enjoy the burn that settles in his throat. Merlin opts to not struggle, as though staying still will keep him from being noticed. When Pendragon puts the glass down, he leans forward to draw his wet lips over the curves of Merlin's face.
Merlin feels the fire inside of him flare up, mingling with the heat Pendragon's body gives off. When their eyes connect, it seems as though they're suddenly sharing thoughts, and it's perturbing to see the similarities. Merlin sees Pendragon's fascination with him and a simultaneous fear. There's a mutual feeling between them, and neither does anything about it.
"Don't worry. I won't be here all the time," Pendragon says, breaking the connection.
Merlin doesn't have the chance to respond as Pendragon's arms wrap around him to blindly pour another cup of whiskey. He can hear some of it splash onto the bar. When Pendragon brings the drink to Merlin's lips, he can feel the spill starting to wet the fabric at his back. He obeys his client's silent command, drinking until the glass is tilted back at a normal angle, leaving less than half of the amber liquid left. Merlin coughs against the burn in his throat and works to not let it bother him. Pendragon smiles at him, pleased to see his unwillingness to back down, and presses his body against Merlin once again.
"Just need a place to sorta hide out," Pendragon whispers, unbuttoning Merlin's dress shirt.
"Sorta hide out?" Merlin pulls back as much as he can to see if Pendragon is being serious about hiding out at a brothel, apparently on a part-time basis. It doesn't sound like he's hiding out at all.
"Don't worry about my business, it's not going to affect you."
Merlin slips out from Pendragon's grasp, turning to ask him seriously, "You couldn't find somewhere else to 'hide out.'" He uses the air quotations in a rather churlish manner, which makes Pendragon laugh in genuine amusement.
"This is certainly more enjoyable than my last visit." Pendragon grabs the open bottle and goes to sit on the leather sofa, near a new coffee table and the sleek business magazines Cedric thought to place there. He eases into the cushions, resting his feet on the table. Holding up two glasses, Pendragon tells him, "Come here," still chuckling to himself.
"It's wonderful that you find me so amusing," Merlin says, not bothering to hide his discontent as he sits beside his client.
"You're more enjoyable when you're not acting like a whore."
Pendragon rolls his eyes, and Merlin wonders what he's thinking about in particular. He hasn't been called a whore in a long time. The term makes him feel lower than a dog, even though he can't delude himself about his purpose at the Avalon. "What do you think you're paying for?" he asks, picking up the glass of alcohol Pendragon pours for him.
"Beautiful men and women who will provide for my every fantasy and comfort for a few hours or even more. There's more to it, but I stopped listening to your manager about halfway through." Pendragon smiles at him. It doesn't seem like anybody likes Cedric, from Pendragon's dig. "You're a beautiful man, like Snow White."
What the hell is he talking about? Merlin thinks as he looks at Pendragon, flabbergasted. "Snow White?" he asks, not appreciating the comparison. His ire only makes his client smile.
"But definitely not a princess," Pendragon says, sounding pleased, and ignoring the strangeness of his own words.
"Good, because you're obviously unfit to be a prince," he says without thought, shocking himself for a brief second before realizing that he may be on the right track, because Pendragon doesn't appear upset at all. If Merlin is honest with himself, he enjoyed spouting the remark, how he had rebelled without the fear of consequences.
Pendragon is an arse, like a kid with more power than he understands, doing things like making ridiculous excuses to book an appointment. But Merlin's thinks that maybe he doesn't have to concede to Arthur's every whim. It would make the time they have to spend together more endurable.
"You think being a heir to a large Syndicate doesn't make me a prince?"
"I think your ego could be knocked a few notches down."
Pendragon laughs with gusto. "I definitely like you like this." He takes his feet off the table and lies down on the couch, giving Merlin a look of consideration while he rests his half-filled glass on his chest. "Had to watch you a few times before I saw that spunk."
"I'm sure you've seen my spunk plenty of times."
Another laugh from Pendragon, which wears away the roughness from his image. "Come here."
"I am here," Merlin says, testing how far he can push till his client pushes back.
"You know what I mean," Pendragon drawls, annoyed now. "I'm the customer."
"You said you didn't want a whore," he childishly replies.
"Don't make me fetch you," he commands with an aggressive growl, but Merlin can hear the playfulness underneath. It's why he stays put, rather than putting on his flirtatious laugh and crawling forward on his knees. This is a new game he's never played and he's excited.
The sudden realization that he's truly enjoying himself, in a way he hasn't since trailing behind his mother to the city park, almost makes him physically reel. The vague memories quickly dissipate as he looks at Pendragon, finding an expression of delight that mirrors his own, with an underbelly of attraction that suddenly fills his visions of being pressed down onto the coach. Pendragon's aware of his lust as his breathing deepens, lips slightly parted so more air can fill his lungs.
"Come here," he softly commands, and almost in a state of hypnosis, Merlin follows the sound of Pendragon's voice. Going around the coffee table has somehow become an arduous task, but then he's settling into his client's lap.
"What would you like me to do?" It's not a question they're supposed to ask; it's something they're supposed to figure out for themselves. The last time he'd had to ask had been two hours before he was taken away to the Avalon, and the words feel strange in his mouth. There's a weird sense of nostalgia for those times, but not longing.
"What do you want to do?" Pendragon replies, as a hand travels the seams of his trousers.
Merlin's head goes blank at the question, and he laughs, because he doesn't know anymore what he should or shouldn't be doing.
Pendragon snorts, but doesn't seem too put off. Instead, the Syndicate heir mischievously asks, "What would you like me to do?"
What would he like Pendragon to do? His client has given him control. It makes him feel awkward, uncomfortable in his own skin, because it's never been a position he's held. The years of experience hold him back, unable to bring himself to give his client orders. He settles for telling Pendragon to watch him as he shrugs off his suit jacket, using one hand to teasingly unbutton his dress shirt underneath.
"Talented," Pendragon chuckles, thoroughly enjoying the show.
Halfway down, Merlin begins rocking against Pendragon in a perfect imitation of what's on both of their minds. He watches the flutter of pleasure glance over Pendragon's face, and suddenly Merlin finds he does want something. He wants to see how long he can keep his client like this, teasing him until he grows impatient, dangerously poking at the feral nature pacing inside his client. It's funny to think that when he's been given a choice, he chooses to be reckless.
He begins the lap dance, grazing his arse against Arthur with a feathered touch. He's still slowly working off his buttons, and he doesn't stop moving when Pendragon's hand reaches out to help. Merlin gracefully twists away to evade, earning a cold stare that only encourages him. When Pendragon begins rocking his hips upwards, Merlin pulls back far enough to keep him dissatisfied, and now his client definitely knows what he's doing.
The moment the last button pops free, Pendragon takes that as his cue and resumes control, pulling Merlin down onto his lap. A rush of air leaves Merlin's lungs as he feels Arthur right against him. He doesn't get the chance to breathe as Pendragon drives up to catch his lips, so the kiss is cut regretfully short when Merlin has to pull away for much-needed air.
"You're even more of a tease when you mean it." Pendragon's voice is husky with hunger, staring at Merlin's reddening lips. A familiar mischievous glint manifests on his client's face before he orders, "Take everything off but the shirt."
Merlin gets off to make quick work of his trousers, pulling his pants down with them all in one swift move. It's not the first time he's been asked to bare himself vulnerably in front of a fully dressed client.
"Condom?" Pendragon asks to his turned back.
"Nightstand," he answers, turning to see if Pendragon would get the right drawer. The sight of Pendragon's equally undressed state surprises him. The expensive business suit has been discarded, lying precariously in bits on the floor around him, and Pendragon steps on the pieces as he heads to the drawer though most men take care of their suits as if they're a second skin.
Merlin's already seen Pendragon naked and understands the danger behind it, but now he lets himself enjoy the play of muscles and thinks about running his hands over them. Distracted, he almost removes his shirt as well, before Pendragon reminds him not to.
"Leave it on," Pendragon repeats, openly smiling at the view as he makes his way back to Merlin. Pendragon twists and falls back onto the sofa, tugging Merlin down with him. It hurts slamming into Pendragon, but if his client feels any pain he doesn't show it.
"Put it on me." Pendragon hands Merlin the condom and jerks his hip, almost jarring him off.
"Shit," Merlin says under his breath as he grabs onto Pendragon for support, making his client laugh.
Pendragon's mirth irritates Merlin, and he decides to show it by shimmying lower until his face is level with Pendragon's arousal. He leans in with an open mouth.
Pendragon tries to direct his movements, but Merlin resists and flicks his tongue to distract him.
"Such a fuckin' tease," Pendragon hisses, and snaps a hand forward. He attempts to dodge, but he's too slow. Pendragon pulls Merlin back up to land roughly against his chest, and seconds later the sensation of being fondled makes him curl up, back arching to the ceiling as he practically bows to Pendragon.
"Stop," Merlin whines, clawing at the hard chest that supports him.
"Will you do as you're told?"
Something lightly smacks into Merlin's chest. As he looks down, he sees it's the condom he had completely forgotten about.
"Can I still say no?"
"Don't make me torture you." The fingers inside move. Merlin gasps, squirming from indecision—let them sink deeper, or lift up so they'll slip out? But Pendragon acts more quickly than he can decide, using his other hand to keep Merlin down. Merlin feels Pendragon's member close to where those fingers are and freezes.
"I'll do it if you don't put it on me. I don't really care about the Avalon's rules."
"Rules don't apply to you?" Merlin shivers from the feel of the heat so close, without the cover of latex.
"I'm sure they do."
Merlin thinks that Pendragon is utterly serious, except for the edge of a smile that peeks out at the corner of his lips. He scoffs, "You'll just worm your way out of it."
Pendragon chuckles, pulling Merlin down so he is just starting to push in, before backing off. "The manager would be more than happy to oblige me. And I'm pretty sure your mouth was sucking on it a moment ago."
The snort Merlin gives is defensive. He knows the truth of the statement.
"Put it on me," Pendragon opens the packaged condom and presses the round rubber against his lips, "like this."
Merlin smiles, transgressions forgotten as he eagerly obeys Pendragon's request, shimmying down with the barrier of thin protection on his lips.
The task is done effortlessly, as Pendragon vocalizes his appreciation, and soon he's reached the base of Pendragon's member. He sets to work, mapping the shape in his mouth and throat to memory. The familiar taste of latex is no hindrance. He ignores the saliva forming at the corners of his mouth, despite the messiness.
I'm enjoying this too much, Merlin thinks, quickly pulls off, using his heaving breath as an excuse. Pendragon doesn't seem to realize Merlin's alarm, which he takes as a blessing. Enjoying his little rebellion against the Avalon's rules is one thing, but taking personal pleasure to heart is against one of his own rules. It's not a vow spoken or pledged, but rather common sense.
"What's the hold up?" Pendragon pulls Merlin into his lap.
"Just thinking of how good you'd feel."
"None of that," Pendragon says lowly, the ends of Merlin's shirt grasped in a fist. He can feel the pull against his shoulders.
"Sorry." Merlin feels embarrassed the minute he says it. Apologizing is such a newbie mistake.
"I'm surprise you know the word." The following laugh is practically a cackle to Merlin's ears.
"Well you obviously don't think much of me, if at all."
"What I want is less thinking and more action."
"I think I should think about it," he replies, slipping back into the banter they share.
"Such a cheeky fucker."
Suddenly, Merlin's arching his back with an erotic cry, as Pendragon is suddenly halfway in.
"Any time now Merlin." Pendragon's voice is sultry, coaxing, and impatient. Merlin follows the command though his body shakes from the shock of a quick intrusion.
Merlin quickly gets a rhythm going. The shirt he's wearing sticks to his skin, clinging to the sweat as his body heats up from the burn that flows and recedes like a tide. Beneath him, Pendragon's eyes are half-lidded but still watch him just as intently.
Merlin doesn't know how long it's been when his panting is more than simply pleasure. He feels the muscles in his legs wear down from fatigue and it becomes more difficult, but Pendragon says, "keep going," whenever Merlin slows down by even a fraction.
His legs are ready to give out too soon, and Merlin's sure he can no longer follow Pendragon's insistent demands.
"I'm tired."
"Keep going."
"Go to hell," Merlin snaps, letting himself sink down. The pain in his legs is great enough that he can barely take any pleasure from the sex. There's so much sweat that his dress shirt is molded to his skin, a translucent second layer that doesn't hide anything.
Pendragon sighs dramatically, but the smile and his rolling hips tell a different story than impatience. He wants Merlin worn down. Hands begin to wander over Merlin's form, slipping beneath to pry the shirt from his skin, then flattening it down to stick it back.
"That's uncomfortable."
"Don't care."
A sudden grab at Merlin's hips has him lifted and dropped back down, over and over. He whines as white dots cross his vision. Pendragon has never done this before, and Merlin is starting to believe that he was holding back during their first appointment, though not by much.
The pleasure begins to build as his sore leg muscles tighten in rhythm with those in his guts at a frenzied tempo. He's curled up on himself, uncaring if he looks hunched over and sick, because he feels the exact opposite. Even if it's almost difficult to breathe through every motion, his body is in absolute ecstasy.
Like the snap of a rubber band, Merlin suddenly arches in the other direction, head to the ceiling as he shoots to ecstasy. It's only then that Pendragon keeps him still so he can reach completion.
They take their time to recuperate, neither moving to dislodge or to clean themselves up, until Pendragon tugs Merlin to lie on top of him.
"So, Merlin." Pendragon says his name with slow exaggerated drawl, as though he's feeling the formation of the words. "Why'd you give yourself that name?"
"That's always been my name," he replies, slightly insulted.
"Well, then Merlin. Stop using Mr. Pendragon, my father has nothing to do with this."
Merlin blushes, though he thinks he shouldn't. "I never called—"
"You don't call me by anything, expect 'you,'" Pendragon interrupts. "You avoid my name all together. I can practically hear you saying 'Mr. Pendragon', even through that misshapen head of yours."
Pendragon rubs the tip of his ear between his fingers, and Merlin jerks away to make him stop.
"Go to hell."
"As your customer, I demand that you call me by my first name."
"Now you're pulling that card."
"Come on, Merlin," again he draws out his name, "we haven't got all day."
"You're staying here for two and a half weeks."
Pendragon flips them so his weight crushes down upon Merlin's thinner frame. Hands spread his legs so they're a touch too wide, and Merlin can't do anything with the heavy body on top of him.
"Don't," Merlin grits out.
Pendragon pushes a tad bit more, making Merlin curse at him in pain.
"The hell!"
"Say it."
Pendragon is completely serious, and Merlin realizes that he inaccurately thought this to be just another game.
"Fine then, Arthur." After a moment's pause, he adds, "You shit." His legs are free, and Merlin pushes at Pendragon…or at Arthur, so he can massage the muscles that were so close to being overstretched. "That could've hurt."
"I wouldn't have," Arthur says softly, placing a string of kisses at the nape of his neck. "You hungry?" he asks, moving to collect his clothing.
Merlin's frozen, unsure of what to make of the affection his client had displayed. The kisses felt incredibly intimate, and it oddly makes him feel vulnerable. He quickly regains his senses, answering, "Are you? I could order what you missed last time."
They carry on like normal, though Merlin finds himself looking at Arthur and wonders.
The next few months are interesting. Arthur's second appointment passes without much trouble, though laden with Merlin's bewilderment, and another lengthy session is set up fairly soon after that. When Merlin inquires if Arthur is still 'sorta' hiding out, his client flashes him a smirk and stays silent. It's infuriating, but probably for the best. He shouldn't delve into the affairs of the clientele, yet the strangeness of the boss's son treating Merlin's room as a regular home makes it hard not to wonder. Nonetheless, Merlin endures the curiosity, getting to know Arthur's preferences, mostly sex and food, with each new appointment.
Other clients complain lightly about trying to schedule times with him, but Merlin's good at easing their tensions. As for his appointments with Arthur, the sessions are strange as he watches his client enter and leave throughout random days of his paid time. Sometime the Syndicate heir would leave for a few hours or more and then come back, smelling of gun powder and cigars, or talking on the phone, his grip a little too hard. Merlin watches, wondering if the cellphone in his hand will crack, and if there's something he should do.
Usually he would ply clients with sweet-nothings, cooing in their ears and kneading the tension away, but Arthur would only scoff at him. And as much as they enjoy throwing insults at each other, Merlin's not dumb enough to try it when Arthur's brow is furrowed so deeply.
"Do you need something for the headache? I can call for some medicine."
Arthur looks at him in surprise, but Merlin can see his expression soften a tad.
"You don't have any in the room."
"Safety precaution, so no."
"They have enough money to buy you, but are still willing to resort to cheap highs."
"I guess everyone starts off from somewhere. Who cares? A high's a high."
"Really," Arthur reaches out, tugging a sleeve up past his elbows, "Do you know this for a fact?"
"No, I was taught better."
"By who, The Avalon?"
He opens his mouth to give an answer, but a satisfying one doesn't pop into his head. Merlin has always stayed away from drugs, a woman's voice advising him to keep safe, away from needles and the wrong people amongst the crowd of degenerates. "I don't know," Merlin says to himself, trying to remember a face he's long forgotten.
"I don't understand you at times." Arthur is looking at him, perplexed, but Merlin can see that the edge has been taken off his shoulders, so he's done something to help.
"I can't imagine you understanding anything."
He doesn't see Arthur pounce until it's too late, he has Merlin laid flat against the bed, a wide sinful smile on his face. "I'll get you screaming for me. Want to see if I understand that?"
The vague picture of the older woman leaves his mind in favor of the thrill of Arthur Pendragon.
But afterwards, the blurry memory wanders back in, and it's frusturating because he doesn't know anything about himself or who might be that can clear the image, answering his questions. Instead, all the inquiries he can ask end up going to Arthur, who doesn't at all mind talking about his privileged life.
"That seems excessive" Merlin says, unable to imagine the grandeur Arthur is describing, despite the miniature chandelier hanging above his head—the lighting fixture doesn't belong to him, and that's the main difference between him and Arthur. Said client has his hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling, while Merlin lays tummy down.
"Really," Arthur sounds incredulous, "And what do you suggest happens at a birthday party?"
"I don't know." Merlin takes a minute to think it over. "Normally there's a cake and presents."
"Good for you, you got the basics. Do you really not know?" Arthur almost sounds affronted, making Merlin feel self-conscious.
"Not really. I've never really had a birthday party. I don't know when my birthday is?"
The shocked silence that follows has Merlin laughing at Arthur's astonished expression.
"Isn't your birthday April 1st?" Merlin looks at Arthur with a raised brow, interrogating. With no apology, Arthur answers, "I'll admit to looking at your file. You're an employee after all."
"I'm sure that's why you were looking," Merlin mumbles, rolling his eyes and continuing with the birthday inquiry, "But how can you know so many people that would come to your party?"
"I don't. Most of them are my father's associates. You play nice and make an impression."
"What kind of impression?" he asks.
"Whatever impression I need to make."
The ominous Uther Pendragon. Merlin wonders what's it's like to have a crime lord for a father? Or to be the heir of a Syndicate? Merlin scans Arthur's body for the scars and bruises that he's seen on members of street gangs. He'd once even seen a guy with part of his ear missing, having been grazed by a bullet in a territory dispute. The only scar he can see on Arthur is barely visible, something too difficult to catch with a quick glance over, even hard to see with Merlin's careful check. He probably wouldn't have caught it if Arthur watches stretching his body out on the bed, easing his overused muscles.
"Why April 1st?"
"April 1st was the first date that came to mind when I was asked, once. I stuck with it."
"You put April Fool's as your birthday? Why am I not surprised," he says sarcastically, though his amusement is apparent.
"Well, I still can't believe you had a girl pop out of your cake."
"That wasn't my fault. My men can be…practical jokers."
"Your men. Like henchmen."
"Friends, bodyguards, whatever you want to call them—they're my men."
"How can your friends be bodyguards?"
Arthur sighs, rolling onto his side so he can look at Merlin. "My father gave me some people to command. Of course they were also gonna keep me safe, but they work for me and they work with me on whatever I'm given to do. I'm their leader. I give them orders and expect them to comply."
"And as friends?"
Merlin watches Arthur choose his words carefully. "We've been with each other through thick and thin."
He waits for more, expecting another lengthy speech, but Arthur stays silent and contemplative. "You sound like you're leading an army," Merlin says, breaking the quiet atmosphere.
Arthur flops onto his back, clearly exasperated. "Merlin! How does anyone stand you? You ask so many questions."
"That last thing I said wasn't a question."
"Same difference. You don't shut up."
"Well I can't be that terrible if you're willing to hide out with me." Arthur glowers at him, imploring him to stop, but Merlin opts to mindlessly smile back.
As more appointments are made over the months, he learns more about Arthur's friends. There is Leon, who sounds like everything like a right-hand man should be. Lancelot, a man whose loyalty to Arthur is almost a fault, betraying his own street gang for his client's benefit. Percival is described to be a mountain of a man, who had joined the group with a personal vendetta to dispatch a particular drug lord, and later stayed. Gwaine, a con artist who had tried to swindle out of a tab at a Pendragon-owned club, and had somehow been recruited by Arthur—he was also responsible for the girl in the cake. Lastly, there's Elyan, an expert weapons technician, who Merlin is almost elated to hear is Gwen's brother.
Truthfully, Merlin is surprised that Arthur or Uther hadn't had some of these men killed on the spot for the stories Arthur told, the notion fuelled by the whirlwind gossip of Pendragon ruthlessness. The more stories Merlin listens to, the more he wonders what Arthur actually does for his father. Dealing with Arthur's agitation doesn't get easier either, as he continues to randomly come and go during his appointments. Lately Arthur's been out longer, and seems to come back feeling more defeated. One time, Arthur ends up breaking his phone, throwing it across the room so hard it shatters against the wall. It becomes harder for Merlin to soothe him.
It's almost a year since the first appointment when Merlin decides to ask, "What do you do?"
"In what?"
"Your father's…business." They're naked atop the sheets, damp with sweat where they lay.
"Anything he needs done." The familiar answer is cold, but not stilted.
Even though he started the topic, Merlin wonders how to continue the conversation and blindly puts forth the first thing that comes to mind. "Is it true the Pendragon Syndicate has their fingers in everything?"
"I would think you'd know." Arthur's joke is forced, but Merlin follows along.
"That's low-brow, even for you," Merlin says with a artificial chuckle.
When their forced amusement subsides, Arthur looks at him. "Did someone say we've got ventures everywhere?"
Merlin shrugs. "I hear rumours."
"What kind of rumours?"
He doesn't want to say. There were a lot of rumours. There were also spews of gripes from clients that worked for other Syndicates or had legitimate businesses with under-the-table deals. He can't say, because the Avalon is neutral territory. "Rumours that your father's really the devil," Merlin settles for, aiming for the more ridiculous chatter he's heard.
Arthur smiles at him, probably hearing this many times before. "Possibly true," he shrugs, exaggeratingly exuding nonchalance.
"Which makes you the devil's son."
He gives a thoughtful and interested, "hmm."
"So you command a legion of demons."
"They could be considered that."
"And you have a big three-headed dog?"
Merlin's joke gets Arthur laughing uproariously. "Now I know you're making that up." He kisses Merlin's lips before pulling back to say, "No massive three-headed dog. But I did always want a dragon."
"Where would you keep it?"
"I don't know. A dungeon?"
"You keep prisoners in dungeons, not pets."
"I don't know. Some dogs need to know their place."
The comment catches Merlin off guard, because underneath their joviality, he knows Arthur isn't talking about pets anymore. Merlin looks over, expecting to see the animalistic cold dead stare he's seen before. Instead, he finds an expression that matches the barrenness of a stone statue.
"Do you have a dungeon?" He's somewhat serious.
"I'm sure I can build one." Arthur sounds serious too.
After a moment of silence, Merlin finally gathers the courage to ask one question in particular. "Do you kill people?"
Arthur looks at him carefully. "Where exactly do you hear these rumours?"
Merlin shrugs, and miserably fails at a coy response. "It's a secret."
He feels like he's spent more time with Arthur in these scant months than he has with the regulars he's known for years. He's not sure when their time with each other had begun to change, when the sex between them had started coming almost second.
"Come here."
"I'm lying right beside you," Merlin says, yet doesn't hesitate to shuffle closer, until they're pressed together.
Arthur lifts his chin to kiss him, nipping his lips when he isn't exploring his mouth with his tongue. They kiss for hours, until the ring of a mobile pries Arthur from Merlin and back to the outside world.
Merlin takes the opportunity to shower when Arthur leaves, and almost misses his telephone ringing. It's such a surprise that it keeps him stock still, listening to the tones chime through his room. He quickly wraps a towel around his waist and rushes to pick up the phone. They don't get calls during appointments unless it is important.
"Hello?"
"Hey Merlin, how are you?"
"I'm fine." Merlin frowns, wanting to know the reason for the call. He's about to remind Gwen that he's currently on the clock, but Gwen speaks first.
"I know I shouldn't be doing this," she nervously rushes out, "but Gaius wants to talk to you. In person."
Confusion and elation mix as Merlin plays with the phone's cord. "Send him up," he says hesitantly, wondering why Gaius couldn't talk over the phone, or at least wait until between appointments. The elderly man knows the Avalon's system. "Tell him to be quick. I don't know when my client will be back."
"I will," Gwen says, before hanging up.
It's been a long time since Gaius last visited. The elderly man has been the closest thing Merlin has to a family ever since he brought him to shelter at the Avalon. Every once and a while Gaius would come to check on his progress, when being the Pendragon's on-call chauffeur didn't take up his time. He had never asked for any favours, or suggested that a payment would be required. The only thing Gaius ever does is inquire about his well-being, and make sure he's adjusting to the Avalon. Merlin also notices Gaius's sad eyes whenever the chauffeur looks his way. He can see a pool of regret.
He doesn't understand Gaius's relation to him, and he'd never asked, but the small pendant that Gaius had dropped in his hands...
That blurred image of a woman suddenly clears a bit, and he can vividly see the small pendent handing from a chain around the woman's neck. 'Mother,' he thinks. He almost repeats it to himself out loud, to make the fantasy real, but a knock at the door interrupts.
The wide smile that stretches across his face as the door opens is completely involuntary. He is truly glad to see Gaius again.
But the worry lines creasing into the man's face say that this isn't a social visit. It looks as though a few years have been taken from Gaius, and his slow gait now seems stiff.
"Gaius?" Merlin asks, hurriedly closing the door behind his guest.
"Merlin, my boy, how are you?" Gaius pats his shoulders, as though affirming a pulse.
"I'm good." He watches the elder fidget, nervousness threatening to shake the old man apart. "I'm with a client though, and I don't know when he'll be back."
"Yes, yes." Gaius fidgets even more.
Suddenly, Merlin gets an inkling of what this is about before Gaius opens his mouth.
"I've heard that the young Pendragon boy has taken an…interest in you."
"He's set up a few appointments," he says cautiously.
"He hasn't asked you anything about yourself, has he?"
"What sort of questions would he ask?" he questions with suspicion.
"Merlin," Gaius places both hands on his shoulder as a comforting gesture, "I need you to be careful with the Pendragon boy."
Merlin's mind goes to a number of things: Arthur's ice cold stares, the predator-like muscles of his body, the gun hidden in his jacket that seems like an extension of his arm. A sudden memory of hands around his throat almost chokes him, and for some inexplicable reason, he feels echoes of the warm pendant dropping into his palm and his hand starts clenching.
"Is it about my mom?" The question surprises him as much as it surprises Gaius.
"It's about your parents," Gaius hesitates to say after a lengthy silence between them.
"Parents," Merlin says, testing out the word.
Gaius sighs, looking as though he needs to take a seat, but has resolved to stand instead. He keeps silent though, at a loss for words. And Merlin can understand, because he doesn`t know where his own thoughts should begin.
"I think I might remember my mother a bit," he says, to give Gaius somewhere to start.
Gaius gives Merlin a sad smile. "She was a very kind woman."
Faded memories trickling in bit by bit. "Was she a prostitute?" The memory could be a trick of his mind, but he can recall his mother putting on high heel boots, telling him to be a good boy while she went to work.
The grimace on Gaius's face is all Merlin needs to see. "And was my father one of her clients?"
Gaius shakes his head, surprising Merlin. "I can't say I really know the details. I knew your father first, and met Hunith through him."
"Is that her name?" Merlin quickly asks, eager to know.
"Yes," Gaius smiles softly at his enthusiasm, yet that small joy dissipates. "But Merlin, you can't say any of this to the Pendragon heir."
"Arthur? Why would I tell Arthur?"
Gaius's brows rises, and Merlin doesn't know why until he realizes his slip. "I mean Mr. Pendragon."
His guardian's frown only deepens, grasping his shoulders tightly. "Merlin, it's not safe."
"What do you mean?"
Gaius sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. "Your father, Balinor, used to work for Uther Pendragon."
Merlin's throat goes tight. "I'm guessing it didn't end well."
"Balinor betrayed the Syndicate, and Uther hunted him down for it. Your father had to go into hiding. And your mother did as well, with you. I didn't know she had died until much later."
"So you went and found me."
"Yes." Gaius lets the information sink in. "So Arthur Pendragon hasn't tried to ask you anything—"
"—No!" Merlin exclaims. "We don't really exchange personal information." While clients tend to divulge their own secrets and woes, Merlin never has a reason to. Now there is a reason not to.
"Arthur Pendragon can't know about you. Uther will find out."
"Is Uther really that bad?" Everything he's heard are rumours, but Gaius's worry seems to make every elaborate story true.
"Betrayals are never taken lightly within Syndicates. I've worked for Uther Pendragon for many years, and you need to keep safe. Don't tell the Pendragon boy anything I told you."
"Would he tell…" Merlin's voice drops off, recalling Arthur's words a few hours ago, how he did what his father needed done. "Of course, I won't tell."
Gaius nods, satisfied with his answer. "I should go," he says, heading towards the door. "It's good to see you well."
"You too Gaius." Merlin replies, watching as Gaius searches his pockets for the door key.
"Remember, keep safe," Gaius advises him, right before turning to envelop him in a tight hug.
"Don't worry Gaius." Merlin hugs him back, before recalling that Arthur could be due to come back. "Come on. You can't be here if my client comes back. " He makes particular care to not use Arthur's name.
Merlin closes the door behind Gaius, and leans against it. Everything Gaius had said repeats in his mind. More importantly, he has a name for her face: Hunith.
Despite the fact that Arthur could come back any minute, he needs to take it out and hold it. Merlin retrieves it, sitting on the bed to study the tiny object. The pendant is small and there's nothing extravagant or expensive about it, but he treasures it, keeping it safe in the pocket of a torn shirt which he places amongst his socks.
The image of Hunith with the pendant around her neck is one that Merlin inadvertently falls asleep to, turning the pendant between his fingers, this way and that. He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep, until the click of the door opening jolts him awake. His first instinct is to hide the pendant in his fist. When he checks the time, he sees that it's the morning of the next day.
"You were out for a long time," Merlin comments, trying to devise a way to put his mother's pendant back to safety.
"Yeah," Arthur says gruffly.
Merlin straightens at Arthur's drained voice. "Are you okay?"
Arthur pulls a bottle of scotch from the bar, pouring himself a glass and gulping it down. He doesn't say anything to Merlin, opting to pour another glass, as well as one for him. The Syndicate heir ambles over, sitting heavily beside Merlin on the bed, causing him to bounce with the momentum. He places the second cup in his hands, then clinks their glasses together harshly.
"Cheers," Arthur says moodily, raising the drink to his lips. Merlin follows suit and drinks the alcohol, albeit at a much slower pace than Arthur, who looks like he wants to drown in it.
"You can tell me?" Merlin urges.
Arthur studies him, which makes him nervous, thinking about Gaius's warning and with the pendant still in his hand.
"There may be some evidence against me," Arthur finally says.
"Evidence?"
"When you commit crimes, sometimes evidence is left behind." Arthur sounds bitter and frustrated. On instinct, Merlin uses his free hand to knead a shoulder that seems to be perfectly mimicking a concrete slab. Arthur groans in satisfaction as Merlin's fingers grind the stiffness away.
"So you used this place as a hideout."
"Sort-of-hideout, remember?" Arthur teases, looking around the room, before settling back to him, "Don't worry about it."
"I'm not."
Arthur snorts at Merlin's blasé unconcern, "Clearly not." He smiles at Merlin, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. But the moment Arthur frowns and cocks his head, Merlin knows he's in trouble. "What are you hiding behind your back?"
"Hiding?" He hadn't even realized he'd placed his closed fist behind himself, in the most obvious of fashions.
"Yes, hiding." Merlin doesn't fight when Arthur reaches around to pull back his hand, nor when he pries it open. The best chance of not being perceived guilty is to not act guilty. So, Merlin tries not to twitch as the pendant is revealed. A scenario crosses his mind of Arthur's angry shock before he drags Merlin out into the hallway. He imagines being taken to Uther, limp between two henchmen, as Arthur presents the pendant to his father.
None of that happens. Arthur looks at him curiously, wondering why Merlin had been hiding a piece of jewellery behind his back.
"Is this a gift from a client?" The side of his mouth curls in distaste.
"Yes," Merlin exclaims, jumping at the given lie.
"I would think the clientele that come here could do better than this. Rather girlish too."
"You would know."
"I would in fact," Arthur says with no shame, practically oozing an aura of experience with women. "But stories of that will have to wait for some other day. My time here is going to have to be cut short."
"What?" Merlin hadn't been expecting that. Arthur is cancelling the appointment? That hasn't been done since… he could almost laugh at himself, because the last person who had cancelled an appointment during the session was Arthur himself.
"Don't worry." Arthur takes Merlin's empty glass, dropping it to the floor.
"Right, because you aren't." The beginnings of one of Merlin's rambles is coming on. "You're saying you're going to be arrested."
"Merlin," Arthur reproaches, giving a deep kiss to stop the flow of words. They take their time, letting things intensify, only pulling away when their breathing becomes short. Arthur plants a final kiss and casually says, "Until next time."
Merlin gets up, following someone's lead towards the door for a second time. The pendant is still clenched in a hand, but thoughts of his mother are far from his mind. As Arthur opens the door, Merlin has to ask, "Will the charges stick?"
Arthur gives him a cocky smirk, "I won't let them," before leaving down the hallway, with no fear that he could be spending the next few years, or even a decade more in prison.
Next Update – Part 2 – 09/23/2012