Something Borrowed Chapter 6, a merlin fanfic

Notes: Quick thank you to everyone who reviewed; it is so very much appreciated. And yes, I am updating this on a Sunday, because by the time it get to Monday evening I am so tired of Monday that it feels too much like effort to sort out a chapter of this. Hoping you all enjoy this one :) Peach

X 6 X

It's half an hour into Merlin's stag night when Arthur realises just how stupid it was to have Gwaine plan it for him, largely because that's exactly how long it takes Merlin to realise the club they're in wasn't Arthur's idea. He's not quite sure exactly what it is that clues Merlin in – the stage? The scantily (if at all) clad women? The tequila shots the waitress in the almost transparent dress keeps bringing over to their table? – but it's definitely something, and Merlin is not only tipsy, he's also pissed. He doesn't say anything, of course, but Arthur knows, and he knows he's made a mistake, even if Merlin said he didn't care about Arthur not planning the stag night.

It was easier in the short run, maybe, to get Gwaine to help out with his best man duties, because whilst Arthur is pretty sure he could have arranged an evening Merlin would enjoy a damn sight more than he's currently enjoying this one, he couldn't have planned it without a constant reminder of why he was doing it, and that, Arthur is more than sure he can do without.

So instead, when Gwaine came over to his for a beer one evening a month or two ago (his TV was broken and there was a game he wanted to catch, apparently, but it was just as likely that Gwaine was just tired of drinking away his own money) and Arthur's plans were still nothing more than a blank sheet of paper, he'd given up. "Look," he said, when he was enough drinks in to think it was a good idea. "I can't fucking do this, mate."

"Too much for you to plan something without Merlin there to help you out, is it, princess?" Gwaine answered, his tone borderline amused.

"Sure," Arthur agreed, because if he wasn't telling Morgana, he wasn't telling fucking Gwaine either. "Something like that, yeah. You want another?"

"Pope, Catholic?" was all the response that got (but then on a scale of one to ten of stupid questions, that one was pushing an eleven), and Gwaine was still frowning when Arthur returned to the living room with two opened bottles.

"Look," he said, and the git had the bad manners to sound sympathetic, when Arthur was fairly sure that everyone who was at all aware of his tiny, little, practically insignificant crush (such a teenage girl word, but even in his brain it sounded better than the truth, which was more along the lines of hopelessly, endlessly, always love)on Merlin was ignoring it entirely. "Do you want me to do it for you? Merlin never has to know, and all you'll have to do is turn up and not look too surprised."

"Whatever," he answered, and Gwaine knew enough to take that as a yes.

Now, though, he seriously fucking regrets it, because with each drink Merlin downs, the glare he's giving Arthur gets a little more present.

It's not that Merlin's glares are frightening, at all, not even in the slightest. It's just that it's Merlin, and whenever he's mad at Arthur, things always get way more difficult. No one else has ever made Arthur want to apologise so much, has ever made him wish so hard that he was better.

The second bar is worse, the tequila replaced by sambuca and the overly-revealing dress with hot-pants and a bra in a distressing shade of pink. It's the sort of place Arthur would never set foot in even if he wasn't gay, and since he is, the whole thing is pretty ridiculous.

"Here," Gwaine says, returning to the table, and Arthur was too busy hiding his face in his hands to notice him leaving but his reappearance is impossible to miss, thanks to the line of underwear-clad women following him (carrying trays above their heads and smirking, because Gwaine is incapable of being a human being sometimes).

"Jaegerbombs. Drink up, boys, and then I think there's a surprise for our Merlin, right, Arthur?"

No, Arthur thinks, then thinks it again just for good measure, as if that's going to change anything. "I think I've had one too many," he says, needing out before he has to witness his best friend/sister's fiancé/one-true-love getting a lap dance. "I'm just going to get some air. Enjoy."

He dodges through the crowd as best as he can on as many drinks as he's had, ignoring the voices calling him back. He should have just said no when Gwaine offered to plan this for him, should have said no when Merlin asked him to be his best man, should have said no when Morgana as good as asked him if she could marry Merlin, because he can't fucking do this anymore.

The bouncer (definitely the widest man Arthur's ever seen, even if he's far from being the tallest) looks at him oddly as he almost sprints past, but then he's probably used to seeing the one-man battering rams trying to get inside the club rather than trying to break out. Likewise, the two kids at the front of the very long queue (might be a dive, this place that Gwaine has picked, but it's both exclusive and popular, no denying that) who can't possibly be old enough to get inside give him looks that definitely suggest doubt in his sanity, but Arthur's outside, he can't see Merlin anymore, and he can breathe again, even if he's still too close.

It's killing him, this whole fucking thing.

His sister and his Merlin and they're so fucking happy. It's killing him.

"You know," Merlin's voice says, cooler than cucumber and as unwavering as steel, "You could have just told me you weren't the one planning tonight. I'd've understood."

"No," Arthur answers, and he'd actually prefer dying to looking at him, to having this conversation. "You wouldn't."

"No," Merlin agrees. "I wouldn't, but I'd've appreciated the honesty a lot more than you getting Gwaine to do all this and then lying to me about it."

Arthur sighs, feels something inside him break, and turns to look at Merlin; he's already there, under Arthur's skin, and pretending he isn't won't change that. "Go back inside, Merlin."

"Not without you."

You're doing everything else without me, thinks the worst part of Arthur, the part that a mixture of Merlin and alcohol always brings out in him. "I'll be there in a minute," he says, and something in his voice is enough to convince Merlin he's not just trying to fob him off.

"Better be, you git," Merlin answers, but he's smiling again, and Arthur's forgiven just like that. "I'm planning on staying at yours and vomiting on your carpet in gratitude for tonight, and that's going to be bloody difficult when Gwaine'll have me too drunk to remember your address if you're not with me."

No, Arthur thinks again, because Merlin is already drunk enough to be slurring and there's no way Arthur wants him over when he's going to be even worse later on. He's never managed to say no to Merlin and stick to it, though, and there's no point in trying now.

So he goes back in, and does his best to smile as a blonde straddles Merlin's thighs and waggles her enormous boobs in his face. He feels about as awkward, as uncomfortable, as Merlin looks, and has to try very hard not to grimace as the girl places Merlin's hands on either side of her waist and grinds down, her mouth far too close to Merlin's.

He does his best, it's all he can do, and when the girl finally climbs off his sister's fiancé, it feels almost like a reward that Gwaine starts chivvying them up, ready to move on to the next place, what Arthur can only hope is the last place.

Instead of heading down the street to yet another Soho club Arthur would rather avoid, Gwaine leads them to the closest bus stop, herding them all under the shelter and out of the drizzle.

"This isn't supposed to be happening," he mutters, glancing at his watch, then at the timetable on the side of the bus shelter. "The weather said it was supposed to be clear tonight."

"Where are we going?" Arthur asks, as close to silent as he can get, because everyone but the pair of them and Merlin are theoretically still under the impression that he planned this.

"You'll see," Gwaine tells him, just as quiet, digging in his pocket to fish out an Oyster card as a bus approaches them. "I hope you will, at least. But he'll like it."

He'd better, Arthur thinks; so far, Gwaine's estimate of what Merlin might enjoy has been a long way from the mark.

By the time they've switched from their second bus to the third, Arthur is feeling most of the way to being sober again, cool and rational and still not happy with this, still completely clueless as to their destination.

Gwaine continues to be obstinately silent, even as the seven of them climb from the bus (Merlin shouting a thank you at the driver, even though they use the second set of doors and there's a crowd of people between him and them, because he's never managed to accept that sometimes it's okay not to) and set off walking, Gwaine consulting the map app on his phone as they go.

"Come on, lads," Gwaine encourages, when the others start muttering complaints under their breaths (or not so much, in Elyan's case; Arthur quite audibly hears him wishing they were still back in the bar). "We're almost there."

Merlin, on the other hand, is looking increasingly cheery, which Arthur has to conclude is a good thing, even if he isn't entirely sure why.

"Are we going where I think we're going?" he asks Arthur, and his grin makes the streetlights seem unnecessary. "Because if we are, I completely forgive you for letting Gwaine do the thing with the clubs."

Arthur smiles back, hoping that a mysterious non-answer is something Merlin can live with; he's not above taking the credit for whatever is going to happen next, if it's going to make Merlin this happy.

If he's honest, he's not above taking the credit for anything that makes Merlin happy.

When Merlin is practically skipping with joy, they stop, Gwaine slightly ahead of the rest of them as a woman peels away from the wall of the closest building and approaches.

"Hey there, sweetheart," Gwaine drawls, kissing her with far more tongue than can be necessary, given the fact that they're not alone, that they're not even inside. "Guys, this is Eira, my date for the wedding. Eira, these are the guys: Arthur, Lance, Leon, Elyan, Percival, and our groom and space nerd, Merlin. Merls, you know where we are, yeah?"

Merlin's grin definitely makes all other sources of light obsolete now, makes Arthur glad he had Gwaine sort the whole thing out for him, because he doesn't know where they are or why but he knows he'd never have thought of it himself. "Are we going in?" he asks, while Arthur exchanges slightly baffled glances with the others.

"Nah, mate, just thought I'd bring you here to stare at the outside. Not a problem, is it?"

Merlin just hugs him, and grins, and hugs him again, then turns to Gwaine's girl. "Do you work here?"

"Ever since I graduated," she says, drawing a ridiculously large bunch of keys from her bag. "Right, you all better pick up after yourselves, and leave everything exactly as you found it. It's my job on the line if anyone finds out you've been here. Other than that, welcome to the Observatory."

Arthur never would have thought of this, but looking at Merlin now, he really thinks he should have done.

Merlin's obsession with the stars started not long after Balinor left, although back then Arthur was too busy hating him to really notice too much. For years, Morgana had their father buy Merlin increasingly powerful telescopes for his birthday, camped out in the grounds with him on the rare occasion it was warm and dry enough to sleep without a tent, and dragged Arthur along with them to any star-related thing she could find close to home, but it was only once she was gone that Arthur started listening, started working out what it was all about.

Merlin loves the light, the distance, the knowledge that they're looking up at things long gone but still visible for them. Arthur has always thought the stars are just lights in the sky, sometimes pretty but not worth straining his eyes to look at, not worth the extra hours of study, learning constellations and distances and details, but Merlin? Merlin sees the past in the stars, and for once he doesn't want to change it.

"It takes years for the light to reach us," Merlin says, staring at the ceiling in the planetarium, at the images moving above them. "Centuries, sometimes even longer. It's the closest we're going to get to time travel."

I love you, Arthur thinks, in the softness of the dark and the silence, and whilst he's known that for a while, it's the first time he's ever let himself think it so plainly.

Sometime around one, when everyone but Merlin seems to be getting bored of looking at random space stuff, Gwaine breaks out the booze again, along with a couple of packs of cards, and sits in the best lit corner of the room (Eira is understandably reluctant to let them turn on too many lights, and Merlin doesn't really seem to care all that much about the fact that he's wandering around in the dark; at the very least, the quiet curses he utters each time he bumps into something sound fairly unbothered). He pulls Eira down next to him, then beckons the others into a circle and produces a full matchbox from somewhere, dealing out one of the many forms of poker he's familiar with (if a game involves betting, Gwaine can play it, Arthur is pretty sure, and somehow he's incredibly good at getting the rest of them involved as well).

Merlin ambles over to them from time to time, taking a swig straight from the bottle and laughing at Arthur's ever dwindling pile of matchsticks (he's already on his third loan from the 'bank', and Merlin still isn't showing any sign of getting bored). "Thank you," he says, each time slightly more slurred, but Arthur really doesn't have the heart to cut him off when he looks so pleased to be here.

Two o'clock passes, and Arthur has a brief period of victory around half past, enough so that when Merlin flops down next to him, he actually looks surprised. "Is he cheating?" he asks the group at large, and Eira giggles; she matched Gwaine drink for drink for the first half hour, and it's still showing even though she's slowed down a lot by now.

"Not that we've seen," Leon answers, shuffling sideways and back a little bit so that Merlin's feet aren't in his lap anymore. "We aren't ruling it out, though."

Merlin grins, silly with glee and whatever it is in Gwaine's bottles, and they deal him in to the next hand of cards.

Over the course of the evening (well, morning, if Arthur's being particular) and their game, the rain has moved from a light mist to a steady pounding on the roof, but by the time Merlin joins them it's very definitely a downpour, thundering violently on the roof above them, and Gwaine is not pleased.

"This isn't supposed to be happening," he says again, and since he's just put down a royal flush and scraped together a mountain of matchsticks, Arthur figures he's not talking about the game. "Sorry, Merls."

"Yeah," Merlin agrees. "Because you control the weather, don't you?"

"It's been said," Gwaine says, and it's a testament to how drunk they are that most of them laugh with him. "Really, though, I'm sorry."

"Shut up and deal, moron," Merlin says, slumping against Arthur's side, his head hanging limply on his shoulder. "Maybe it'll clear up, anyway."

"Aye, maybe."

It doesn't, though, and by the time four a.m. rolls around and the thunder starts, Merlin's cheer has been replaced by a lazy kind of not-quite-maudlin. The others have mellowed a little, too, the ribaldry of earlier softening to an almost dozy happiness, and Arthur thinks they're all just waiting for someone else to call it a night.

"Come on," Merlin says eventually, peeling himself away from Arthur's side with a suddenness that leaves him feeling cold, even though Eira had flicked a switch she said was the heating when they came in. "The weather has made up its mind. We're not going to see anything tonight, might as well head home."

"Oh, thank God," Elyan mutters, enough enthusiasm in his voice that Arthur feels obliged to kick him across their make-shift card table; he may have included himself on the list of people who want to clear out, but this is Merlin's night and he isn't going to let anyone cock that up. "What were we hanging around for, anyway?" he continues, glaring at Arthur, possibly for the kick or possibly just because he still thinks this is Arthur's plan.

"Mercury, Venus and Jupiter," Merlin answers, like that explains everything. "They're in conjunction, should all be visible at the same time tonight. It's rare, and definitely worth seeing, but apparently Gwaine forgot to sort out the weather for us, so all we're seeing is clouds."

Gwaine takes the jibe with his usual good nature, scrambling up with a grin. "Come on, lads, I'll call a cab and then we can finish off the bottle before it gets here."

Gwaine being Gwaine, he drinks the lion's share of what's left himself, although, this being a special occasion, he does make an effort to get Merlin to drink a fair bit too; by the time the taxi arrives, Merlin is clinging to Arthur again, pliant in his arms, and Arthur decides it's necessary to bundle him in the back of the seven-seater with the others while he sits up front with the driver, making awkward conversation.

It's for the best, though, because every time he breathes next to Merlin he's welcoming temptation. Every time he breathes next to Merlin, it makes it harder to step away again.

The taxi disgorges people one or two at a time, until it's only him and Merlin and the handful of tenners Gwaine left him with to pay the driver, and Arthur has no idea what he wants. The part of his brain that's still sober, that still thinks like a decent human being...that is telling him to give the driver Merlin and Morgana's address and leave him there, with his fiancée, with Arthur's sister. The rest of him just wants Merlin, beside him, always, and after next week that won't be an option.

After next week, he won't even be able to pretend that Merlin is his anymore.

"Where to, lads?" the driver asks.

Arthur gives him his own address; he already hates himself for wanting everything Morgana has, and a few more hours of having Merlin to himself isn't going to make that any worse.

Merlin giggles and clings as they walk from the road to Arthur's door, continues to cling through his house, all the way to the spare room, where Arthur lets him go, dropping him on the bed and kneeling to pick at the knots in his shoelaces; Merlin has always struggled with tying a bow, battling his shoes off every day, and being drunk enough that Arthur isn't entirely sure he knows where he is right now won't help that.

It's not a simple task, particularly not when Arthur's brain seems determined to think of all the things he never normally lets himself think of. How soft Merlin's hands are as they thread through his hair, how close up, Arthur can see lines of muscle in Merlin's thighs that aren't normally visible, even through his jeans, how easy it would be to lean forwards and press his face to Merlin's crotch.

"Water," he says, standing up quickly before he can act on the impulse. "You need water, Merlin, or your head's going to be killing you tomorrow."

By the time Arthur returns with a full pint glass of water (straight from the tap, complete with ice cubes, because Merlin refuses to accept it any other way when he's drunk), Merlin has thrown his shoes to one side and hauled his legs up on to the bed, the whole long length of them sprawling before him, and when he beckons Arthur to sit down next to him, Arthur is a little too hypnotised to refuse. Merlin's hand closes around his, seemingly heedless of the glass Arthur is holding, and Arthur tingles everywhere they touch, from the tips of Merlin's fingers to where their thighs lie pressed together on the slightly too narrow bed.

"Before Morgana," Merlin says, with the seriousness that belongs only to the very drunk or the most earnest of break ups, and Arthur feels a little bit like this is both. "Before your sister, I thought I was gay."

Arthur really doesn't know what to say to that, but Merlin's complete lack of silence suggests he doesn't actually need to say anything at all.

"I mean," he continues, babblingly drunk, close enough that Arthur can feel warmth radiating from his skin, "I just...Most of the boys in our class were all about girls, you know, and I- I just wasn't. Once Morgana left, when you stopped trying to be horrible to me, I don't think I saw anything other than you."

"Drink your water," Arthur tells him, because he's not drunk enough to think that putting his hands over his ears and scrunching his eyes shut as he chants not listening, I'm not listening is in any way a reasonable idea. "You'll regret it tomorrow if you don't."

Merlin obeys, his eyes wide and guileless, deeper than the ocean as he stares up at Arthur. Trusting, too, and every second Arthur's in his company he's betraying that trust, taking advantage.

"You were my world," he says when he's done, putting the empty glass on the bedside table. "You kind of still are, Arthur, at least as much as she is, and...Arthur. Just- Arthur."

I can't listen to this, Arthur thinks, but the words that spill from his lips aren't that. "You're marrying my sister," he says, and it sounds bitter and awful and just a little mournful.

"I am," Merlin agrees, and Arthur wonders if he realises just how fucked up this situation is, or if he's drunk enough that all there is is Arthur and the fog. He wonders how much alcohol it would take to keep Merlin here like this, here with Arthur and Arthur alone, caught together in a bubble of truths that seems eternal from the inside. "But even knowing that, I can't help but wonder what it would have been like.

"My wedding is a week away," he says, "And all I can think is that I want to kiss you while I still have the chance."

It's okay to be selfish sometimes, Morgana told him, once, so long ago, maybe before she left or maybe not so long after she got back. She was yelling at the time, furious at him for one reason or another, so mad at him for refusing to admit whatever secret she wanted him to own up to then, is probably still waiting for him to own up to. You're allowed to have the things you want, Arthur, she shrieked, right in his face, and if there's ever been a time he's wanted to follow through on that advice, it's now, even if he knows damn well that kissing her fiancé is not what she meant.

"Oh, God," Merlin says when his words finally seem to catch up with him, his eyes gapingly wide, and Arthur is still so fucking speechless. "Pretend I never said that, please, Arthur. Please."

It's okay to be selfish sometimes, Morgana told him, and he knows she wouldn't want him to be selfish now, but it's late and they've both had several too many and Merlin won't remember saying any of this tomorrow, Arthur knows how it is with him. Merlin won't remember this in the morning, Merlin is marrying his sister a week tomorrow, Merlin is as good as offering Arthur everything he's ever wanted, only if for the night, and how the fuck is Arthur supposed to turn that down?

"Shut up, Merlin," he says. "In the name of all that is good, shut up."

"But-" Merlin starts, and Arthur cuts him off before he can get started, cuts him off with a single, quick press of lips. That's all he really ever intended to do, just kiss Merlin once, soft and sweet and gentle, just once and only once, before going to his own bedroom and closing the door, not to keep Merlin out but to keep himself in.

Once isn't enough, though, was never going to be enough, because when Arthur pulls back Merlin chases him, is halfway to sitting up before Arthur manages to break free of him.

Arthur will never be free of him.

I'm sorry, he thinks, but whether it's to Merlin or Morgana or even himself, maybe, he's really not sure. I'm so sorry for this, he thinks, and for a second his guilt wins.

Then Merlin licks his lips, like he can still taste Arthur there, like he wants to keep tasting him there forever, and the second is over.

Arthur kisses him again, making up for the softness of the first one with pressure now, flicking his tongue over Merlin's lips until Merlin opens for him, and then it feels a little like he's trying to climb inside, like if he kisses Merlin hard enough he'll never have to-

"Stop," Merlin says, and even if it's muffled by Arthur's mouth on his it's clear what it is; Arthur doesn't know how he's misread everything, all of the signs, all the things Merlin just said to him, but it seems pretty clear that he has, and he has no choice but to listen.

He pulls back, realising as he does so that he's climbed on top of Merlin, knees either side of his thighs, his left hand gripping the headboard beside Merlin's head, his right tangled in Merlin's hair. "I'm sorry," he says, still retreating, and this is why this was a bad idea. Merlin wants his sister, his twin, his other half. Merlin will never want him, not really. "God, Merlin, I'm so sorry."

"Shut up," Merlin answers, like they're taking it in turns, and Arthur tries to brace himself for the slew of curses that will follow, for Merlin spitting in his face and telling him to leave and never come back. I never want to see you again, Merlin will say, and even if this all will be a fuzzy blur tomorrow, something that Merlin will chalk up to his imagination if he remembers it at all, Arthur thinks hearing those words will break him anyway.

"Shut up," he says again, but instead of following it up with the words Arthur is both anticipating and dreading, he just crosses his arms over his stomach and peels the long sleeved t-shirt he's worn all evening up over his head. "Don't talk, Arthur. Just kiss me."

It's okay to be selfish, Arthur thinks, and he is. He is selfish, horribly, unforgivably selfish, and when Merlin half invites and half orders him to kiss him again, refusing is beyond impossible; Arthur kisses him, feels Merlin's lips crease into a smile beneath his own, feels Merlin welcome him with everything he is.

"Arthur," Merlin says, the first time they pause for breath, and Arthur doesn't know if it always sounds like that when Merlin say his name. It can't, logically, because Arthur would have noticed that hitch, that gasp, that desperate, wild hunger. He'd've noticed, responded, stolen the air from Merlin's lungs the same way he has to steal it now; he would have noticed, and yet, somehow, it's exactly the same, even though it's not, and that just proves that sense and logic and even thought have no place here. Not here.

"Arthur," Merlin says again, just his name, and then, "Arthur, please."

They've barely started anything and already Merlin sounds broken, shattered and shredded and just waiting for Arthur to put him back together again, and who is Arthur to refuse?

I love you, he thinks again, even thinks of actually saying it, but that is one truth too many, one truth that will make the world unbearable tomorrow. Instead, he resists when Merlin tries to drag him down on top of him again, resists as Merlin pouts at him, flushed and frowning like he can't work out why they aren't still kissing, and Arthur has to look away before he wonders the same thing, before he kisses Merlin again, before he comes in his pants like the inexperienced teenager he is such a long way from being.

"Please," Merlin says, begs, unashamed and so trusting it actually hurts.

"Hush," Arthur tells him, rising up onto his knees and shuffling backwards down the bed until he's almost at risk of falling off the bottom of it before shrugging off his own shirt, throwing it to the floor next to Merlin's. "Hush," he says, leaning back down and pressing a tiny, gentle kiss to the most ticklish place on Merlin's stomach, enjoying the way Merlin squirms under him, enjoying more the way he freezes when Arthur places a palm against him, rubbing once, twice, before unfastening his jeans and tugging them down his thighs.

"Hush," he says a third time, though Merlin is now so silent Arthur thinks he could hear a pin drop, were anyone around to drop one. "Merlin," he says, lowering his mouth to Merlin's cock, and it's the last word he manages for quite a while.