Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; They and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.


Chapter 1

When Arthur was younger, his father insisted that his governess take Arthur to the museums, for a grounding in the arts. Uther made it very clear that it was not to learn about art or even—heaven forbid—become an artist himself, but so that when he was old enough, Arthur would be able talk to the others of their class, only the most important people, about the monetary value of art and donations and how to work tax write-offs.

Arthur didn't mind. It was almost relaxing. At least, he was out of the house and as far away from his cold and overbearing father as he could get. Besides, he liked to draw. His governess said he was good at it, and he began to sketch. On scraps of paper, on smooth wood, the inside covers of his schoolbooks, anywhere he knew that Uther wouldn't look.

Arthur wasn't stupid. Knowing his father as he did, any hint that Arthur might be interested in more than just looking at art would have been the end of trips to museums and instead off to boarding school where men were men and artists the scum of the earth.

So he hid the drawings, of landscapes and animals, of sorcerers and knights of old, of castles and dragons, of a boy with hair the colour of midnight, under his bed, and dreamed of a better tomorrow.

But he wasn't as sneaky as he thought and one day, he came home to a livid Uther, holding Arthur's drawings in his hands. There was screaming and fury and paper burning in the fireplace, all of Arthur's work torched into ash.

He went to boarding school after all, with discipline and beatings and bullies ready to make sure no one stepped out of line.

In time, he learned to be a bully himself, for protection, for self-denial, for wanting to draw more than anything in the world and knowing he would be mocked for it or worse. His father would never understand.

In time, he forgot even why he felt that way. Until he met Merlin.


Chapter 2

Standing in front of a brilliant piece of fantasy art from a mostly underappreciated but up-and-coming artist, thinking to buy it and add it to his collection, Arthur grunted a little as someone bumped into him, making Arthur spill his very expensive champagne all over his shirt. "Look where you are going, you buffoon."

"Sorry, didn't see you there. I was—," the idiot sputtered.

Glaring at the man, an instant of want flashing into fury, Arthur said, "Do you know who I am?"

His blue eyes glaring, the git said, "Yeah, a prat."

"What did you call me?" Arthur wanted to roar his disapproval. After all, much as the miscreant was gorgeous with dark hair and a full mouth, he was shabbily dressed for the gallery opening and wildly out of place among the jewels and designer clothes of the rest of the crowd. Instead, though, Arthur stood there, mouth gaping, as the idiot's face hardened.

"Ohhhh, my mistake. A prat, my lord." Then he bowed, the arse, rolling his eyes as he did.

Arthur didn't quite gasp but he glared a lot. "I'm not a lord, you git. Not royalty at all. And what makes you think that you can get away with insults after assaulting me?"

"I didn't assault you, you wanker. Mr Know-it-all over there," the git snapped, nodding toward the worst of the bunch, Victor Maldron, an obscenely rich patron who chose art for its price and didn't care if it was good or not. "Shoved me. I guess he thought I didn't belong here, in the posh section of town." He frowned then, looking up and down at Arthur's tailored jacket and Armani shirt, the perfectly coiffed hair and the Rolex watch on his wrist. "I guess you don't either. I'll… umm… just…."

He started to move away, but Arthur caught at his sleeve, pulling him back. "Who are you?" Arthur demanded.

Before the git could answer, Mithian Legrange, the gallery owner, hurried over to them. Arthur thought she might be trying to calm the situation, but instead, she smiled at Arthur. "Ah, Mr Pendragon, I see you've met our artist. Brilliant, isn't he?" When Arthur let go, blinking in surprise, she turned away, then started pulling at the other man, her smile turning predatory. "Come on, Merlin. Someone wants to buy one of your paintings. And for heaven's sake, be nice. I do have a gallery to run, you know."

"Sorry, Mith, it's just that…," Merlin stumbled to a stop, looking a bit guilty as he glanced at Arthur.

Mithian turned to Arthur, tutting at his wet shirt. "Merlin, you didn't." Then grimacing a little, she said, "Of course, we will pay for cleaning and any inconvenience. It's the least we can do, isn't it, Merlin?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Merlin whined, his face reddening.

Arthur was still trying to wrap his head around the apparent fact that Merlin Emrys was a clumsy idiot, hot as hell, and the artist of two works currently in Arthur's flat. Finally, clearing his throat, Arthur said, "It was an accident. Why don't we just call it even and let me buy Merlin here another drink? We have much to discuss."

Staring at him, looking a bit wary as if not sure what to think, Merlin nodded, but Mithian said, "Can we schedule it for later?" Before Arthur could agree, she started pulling Merlin away, talking rapidly to him. "Maldron wants the one in the back, Future Rising, and he's willing to pay full price and he wants to commission you, too. This could be—." They turned a corner and out of sight.

To Arthur, the air seemed colder, then, a room teeming with empty designer clothes, fake smiles, and not much else. A room where the paintings had more life than the art patrons laughing and guzzling champagne.

Feeling suddenly at sea, Arthur left, thinking not of paintings or champagne or galleries, but blue eyes flashing and midnight-dark hair and a full mouth against his. He was in big trouble.


Chapter 3

After that, somehow, Arthur bought pens and watercolours and proper paper for drawing on. His nights were filled with blue eyes and a mouth quirking in mockery or perhaps it was flirting, instead. Arthur was never good with that sort of thing, preferring a straightforward exchange of fluids and not much else.

But the drawing paper he bought remained clean, unsullied, and the watercolours bright in their containers. Every time, Arthur thought about it, his hands would shake, and he could hear the echo of his father's mockery.

Mithian called to ask if she should send money for the ruined shirt, but he just put her off, instead asking about Emrys and his next gallery showing. She rambled on about new paintings sometime in the spring and a second showing, and if he wanted to commission Merlin, she would be glad to pass on the request. She was a good businesswoman, but Arthur had no intension of taking her up on it. He was not going to get within miles of Merlin with those eyes and that mouth of his. That way lay madness.

Until he did.

For the hundredth time, he'd taken up the pens and put them down again, and he thought maybe Merlin might know what to do. Didn't artists get inspiration from the least little things and overcome whatever was blocking their art? He might know. He might even help Arthur.

It wasn't an excuse to see him. It wasn't.

Except it was but Arthur pushed that idea down into the depths of his chest and ignored it and arranged to meet with Merlin at his studio.


Arthur had expected some kind of wind-swept loft, one with snow falling gently down into the bed through a broken skylight, like some kind of operatic tragedy. Merlin's studio was very different.

The front room was bright with paintings on easels or walls, a computer screen showing other paintings that he had either sold or were currently in galleries, and chairs that didn't turn uncomfortable after a few minutes. Yes, there were a few streaks of paint on the doorway, Merlin must have been in a hurry, but it was more endearing than ridiculous.

Through the inner door, Arthur could see a larger space, several paintings in progress, and in the corner, a bed unmade. But before he could look further, Merlin shut the door with a firm click. "I was surprised to hear from you again. I thought maybe I had been a bit too… umm…, I may have opened my mouth and stuck my foot in it."

Arthur swallowed. He'd forgotten how beautiful Merlin was and the way the sunlight brought out the colours of dusk in his dark hair, and his mouth glistening a little as he worried it a bit.

"I have two paintings of yours already, I'll have you know," Arthur said, trying to keep from saying something stupid and ruining whatever he wanted to happen. "I was thinking about maybe a third to compliment the others?"

Merlin looked surprised about that but nodded. "Which ones were they?"

"The two dealing with King Arthur and his magician, one fending off the evil Morgana LeFey and the other welcoming Myrddin into his court," Arthur said. He loved those paintings, especially since, if Arthur squinted, King Arthur looked like him and if he thought about it some more, Merlin was in there, too, as Myrddin. They were bright and bold and exquisitely detailed. Arthur had even tried to draw the dragon, but it came out wonky and he gave up.

"Early works. I've always loved the Arthurian legends, and with my name, it seemed a perfect fit," Merlin said, looking a little flustered. "Did you have something in mind?"

"Perhaps, Arthur's last moments, with Myrddin professing his undying devotion, or maybe the first time they met, not as babe and rescuer, but as Arthur grown into manhood," Arthur said, watching Merlin looking both startled and intrigued. "The legends had them as old man and young boy but an old man in those days would be about 40 when Arthur was 20. Something more intimate."

"Intimate… that's a different approach," Merlin said, glancing at Arthur, looking him up and down and then away. "Did you have a model for Arthur in mind or did you want to pose yourself?"

"I can do that?" Arthur said, startled. He hadn't thought about it, really, just wanted to reconnect with Merlin and see where it would go.

Merlin grinned. "I won't have to pay a model if you agree. Although if you continue to be a prat, I will kick you out and find someone else."

Arthur was already thinking of days posing, talking with Merlin about everything, getting to know him better, and maybe sharing a love of art. It was the perfect solution.

Nodding, Arthur said, "Name the day and I'll clear my calendar. Will I need to bring anything?"

"Only yourself. I provide everything else," Merlin said. "Will you mind taking your clothes off, though? If I'm doing Arthur's last moments, his armour would be gone and Myrddin trying desperately to cure him."

"I'll deal with it. I just hope you keep your couch warm. I'd hate to freeze my bollocks off," Arthur replied.

"Don't worry. Your bollocks are safe with me," Merlin muttered, then realising what he said, turned a bright red. "Anyway, my current commission is almost done. Can you start next week? Saturday?"

"I'll be there," Arthur said. And he would be, too, bollocks and all.


Chapter 4

Arthur was nervous.

Saying he was going to take off his clothes and actually taking them off were two different things. He stood there in the back room of Merlin's flat, the bed made but piled with props behind him, and watched at Merlin gathered supplies and set up a canvas. Arthur tried not to shiver with anticipation.

Merlin, on the other hand, was talking nonstop about positions and colours and using mirrors since he was going to base Myrddin on himself again. Finally, he glanced up, biting his lip, looking like he was trying not to laugh.

It didn't help Arthur's nervousness. At all.

At least, they had already decided on what Merlin was going to paint. He had done several sketches and Arthur, trying not to gather them all up and take them home to try and copy Merlin's techniques, chose his favourite of them all. Arthur dying and Myrddin desperate to save him. The agony and love on King Arthur's face was amazing, and even in black and white, Arthur could see the anguish in Myrddin's face.

It was going to be fantastic.

If only he didn't have to worry about being naked and maybe a little too excited in the groin area for a painting of a dying Arthur.

Merlin looked over and frowned. "Umm, Arthur, you need to take your shirt off. And remove your trousers and shoes and put these on, instead." He handed Arthur what looked like ancient braies and boots and chainmail which was surprisingly heavy.

Struggling, Arthur finally stood there in boxers, shivering a little in the cool air, holding onto the props. He must have looked bewildered because Merlin came over, leaned down and helped Arthur into the braies, Merlin's face right there, right at Arthur's groin and it was embarrassing and exciting and Arthur had to think about pustules and old people to keep from getting hard.

Merlin didn't notice or maybe he did, but he didn't say anything, just got up again, nodded toward the bed, and muttered something about boots.

When Arthur sat down and put the boots on as Merlin asked, Merlin grunted a little, then his face flushing, he came over and positioned Arthur on the bed, draping the chainmail and armour just so, before he began to draw on the canvas.

Arthur thought it would be a few minutes at most, but it took hours before Merlin was satisfied, sometimes complaining about Arthur moving or making a face. The bed was comfortable at least.

A little too comfortable. In the end, Arthur did fall asleep, and it was only Merlin shaking him awake that Arthur realised how late it was.

Never mind that they bumped heads. Arthur's forehead was going to have a large bruise on it but then Merlin reached over to gentle Arthur's pain, forgetting that his fingers were charcoal-dusted, and smeared black all over Arthur's skin.

In the end, they both laughed about it and cleaned up and that was that.


The next weeks were torment. Arthur's dreams were full of Merlin's smile and gentle hands turning rough and pulling the most brilliant pleasure out of Arthur.

If only it were true in real life, too.


Chapter 5

At last, the painting was done.

In the weeks since they started, Arthur would visit Merlin's studio once or twice a week, first to pose but later, just to watch the process. Merlin making his own paints, using photography and mirrors to model himself into the painting, talking about what he would do next and his shows coming up, his hopes for the future, his past problems with breaking into the art world.

Arthur, too, began to talk about his father had done and art, showing Merlin his first drawings that he'd done in years. That had been hard because Arthur knew he could do better, but Merlin was gentle, suggesting things to try, explaining that art was a process with lots and lots of failures, that Merlin had tried for years in some things and not succeeding, but never giving up. That art was for the person within and not really for accolades or money or power—although the money helped.

They even spent one day, just outside, walking around the neighbourhood, each with a sketchpad, drawing whatever came to mind.

It was brilliant, it was simple, it was inevitable that it had to come to an end.

After all, Merlin had his life and Arthur wasn't in it.


Merlin's second show opened in the spring.

Arthur had been busy, closing deals, traveling to far-flung areas, lining up acquisitions and factories, and his contact with Merlin was left to occasional texts or funny memes or descriptions of art gone wrong. And cat videos, lots of cat videos. Never anything more personal. He told himself that Merlin wasn't interested in him that way and Arthur mostly accepted it.

The dreams hadn't stopped though, but Arthur knew it was just not meant to be.

Still, he remembered the quiet times they'd shared, and Arthur was drawing again, and it only seemed right that he go see Merlin's new gallery opening.


The gallery was more packed than last time. Grabbing a glass of champagne, Arthur walked around, looking at Merlin's work. It was brilliant as usual but this time, Arthur couldn't be sure, but they felt different. The choices of subject, the way the colours seemed to merge to give a sense of longing and emotion, hidden depths of feeling that made the newer paintings seem almost melancholy.

Not paying attention, staring at one painting that reminded him so much of Merlin that it hurt, when a hand came out and twisted Arthur around, his champagne spilled all down his front. "What the—."

Merlin grinned, staring down at Arthur's clinging shirt, then glancing back up at Arthur. "Oops," Merlin said. He didn't sound sorry, though.

"Merlin, is this going to be a thing?" Arthur said, putting down the glass and wiping at his wet chest.

"Apparently so." Merlin reached over and began scrubbing away, pulling out a tissue and dabbing at Arthur. When that proved ineffective, Merlin said, "I've towels in the office. Come on, at least let me get you dried off."

"Only you, Merlin," Arthur snickered, then let Merlin pull him along, trying not to enjoy the warmth of Merlin's hand in his own.

With the door closed and just the two of them, Merlin did indeed grab some paper towels and began to wipe him down, fast at first but slowing as the shirt dried. Arthur was breathing fast, and he watched Merlin, watched the way his mouth moved as he concentrated, the way his fingers slid over Arthur's drying chest, the way his eyes darkened as he glanced at Arthur's mouth and then away.

Arthur felt like he was on a precipice. But if he never tried, he'd hate himself forever.

Capturing Merlin's busy hands in his own, Arthur pulled him close, leaning in for a kiss.

Merlin didn't jerk away. Instead, he plunged in, groaning a little, devouring Arthur as if he were a feast and Merlin a starving man.

It was brilliant, Merlin's hands all over him, his mouth doing sinful things that Arthur had only dreamt about. Arthur wasn't far behind, finding ways beneath Merlin's shirt, skin hot under his fingertips, and going further down, trying to get past jeans and buttons and barriers to curl his hand around Merlin's hard length.

Grunting at that, pushing himself into Arthur's grip, Merlin, too, was trying to bring Arthur off.

But just then, Mithian barged in, took one look, mumbling apologies, and quickly closed the door again.

Pulling apart, both of them half-way to ecstasy, Merlin stared at Arthur. "I thought… this… is this just you having a one-off?" Trying to slow down his breathing, taking a gulp of air, Merlin said, "I'll take what I can get but I've missed you, prat."

Merlin looked fuckable as hell, his mouth red with kisses, his skin flushed, his eyes heavy with want.

Reaching over, hands cupping Merlin's face, Arthur said, "I didn't think you'd want me. Or else we would have been fucking every day for all those months I was half-naked in your bed."

A smile began to grow, and Merlin turned to kiss Arthur's palm. "I couldn't say anything when you were a client, could I? But now, you're not my client and half-naked sounds good. Hell, full naked sounds better, and my bed's been far too empty without you there."

Looking past Merlin towards the closed door, Arthur said, "Do you think Mithian would be upset if we left?"

"I think Mithian would be cheering us on." Merlin began to tuck himself back into his clothes, then nodded toward the door. "You coming?"

"Not yet but soon," Arthur said. Merlin blinked a second at that, then laughed when Arthur continued, "And maybe more than once."


Merlin's show was a smashing success but even better, Arthur finally found his muse, and the love of his life.

Thanks to spilled champagne, an idiot's clumsiness, and art.