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*
This isn't quite what Merlin expected.
Then again, he had a firm suspicion: nodding off drunk in the middle of a cemetery wasn't a common problem.
Merlin sucked in a long, harrowing breath through his teeth, mouth lacking saliva, and curled in from his eagle-spread position.
No doom and gloom overcast, at least. Being pelted in the face with rain while Merlin's head felt like it was splintering apart at his temples… yeh, no.
As a matter of fact, the sky appeared a lovely, immaculate blue, dotted with lemon flavoured candy-floss puffs. Merlin would know. He was staring right at it, bleary-eyed and with the seat of his jeans covered in freezing, caked mud—and most definitely blanking on where the last few hours gallivanted off to.
(Maybe not about the white clouds being lemon-flavoured. They were cloud-flavoured, of course.)
He must have been tankered out of his wits, to imagine falling asleep here was a sound idea. Even if this was the quieter portion of the neighborhood. The chiseled, granite-shine steps dug harshly into his back, into those soft bits of Merlin's body. Not that there was many bits to start. He had always been mortifying thin. Even at twenty-four.
Will preferred the term 'skeletal as fuck, mate'. But he also liked to call Merlin 'a complete tosser' and shove him with both hands off the couch during violently loud gaming nights.
"Oi, you."
Merlin groaned with as much disdain as he could vocalize, sweeping a hand across an eyelid.
"Fuck off, prick," he mumbled, throaty.
"You can't address me like that," the stranger told him.
"Just did," Merlin said, moving his hand to shield his eyes from the horrible, soul-sucking morning light.
He heard a disgruntled release of air.
When a pair of hands snatched onto the front of Merlin's coat, digging in and aiding him up from the steps, he thrashed. "Get the fuck—!" Merlin stopped as he caught a familiar glimpse of yellowed, fine hair and gold-browned skin. He sagged in the man's arms, feeling their hearts pound together, strong and muffled through layers of fabric.
A tinge of lightheaded sensation close in on him. Merlin's head feeling like it was going to burst.
"… Arthur?"
The other man looked back at the granite steps leading up to a mausoleum, with the plaque over its entrance: Ygraine Penford.
Arthur fought back a wince, as Merlin's weight went slightly limp, trying to get them away from the fallen bouquet at their feet.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmured.
*
Hot water cleared up some of the fog settling over him.
Dark bangs dripping over his eyes, Merlin reached uncertainly for items in the shower. Uncertain because they weren't his.
This was Arthur's shower.
Even standing up on his own, Merlin felt unsteady, gut shrunken and empty. He had emptied his stomach a couple times now—twice during the walk to Arthur's car and once before going inside the studio. Still couldn't remember how he managed to get that much alcohol in him.
But knew why.
And that was the part Merlin wished he didn't so much remember.
He rinsed out of his hair, carefully, slowly, letting the water hit him on his face. The block of soap pitched off the rack where Merlin's elbow smacked it. He turned and slipped forward, gripping onto the shower curtain. Merlin let out a soft groan, gut roiling, and the silhouetted figure beyond the curtain got larger and larger.
Keeping his eyes on Merlin's shoulders and up, ignoring his lack of dress, Arthur helped him to a sit on the tub's edge when the other man dry retched.
"Never thought you were much of a drinker, Emery."
Merlin hesitated before accepting the fresh towel, moping off the water and new beads of sweat off his face, wiping off his mouth.
"I'm not," he muttered, and then nodded politely in Arthur's direction. "Cheers."
Arthur's hands clenched into themselves, as if he battled an urge.
"Is this…?" He cleared his throat. "Is this about your friend? The one from the Tubes?"
Merlin balled the terrycloth, hiding his lap, tasting a bit of soured nothing on the back of his tongue.
"Put your fucking shite away, mate," Will had yelled, pitching a crumpled towel at Merlin's skull. "It's like living with a homeless person!"
"We ARE homeless!" Merlin yelled back, grinning.
Arthur watched his stoic expression, running fingers through yellow-blond hair.
"I'm sorry to hear about your loss," he concluded.
Merlin shrugged, eyes downcast. There was a television broadcast about a physical brawl underground, including gunfire, right when the afternoon hour subway from London passed through. Several bystanders injured. One person fell into the tracks, after getting shot in the chest.
He had called Will's mobile, repeatedly. Merlin had called again, even after getting the coroner's report. Leaving messages to a ghost.
"S'was the wrong cemetery anyway," he announced, smacking his dry lips.
Arthur loosened up his plain, black tie from his collar.
"I was visiting my mother," he spoke up, and Merlin stared up, emotional barriers dropping.
God, he felt like a complete tit. He only knew Arthur through the firm they were at, in some of the legal file-work Merlin went over as a paralegal, but Arthur wasn't just an ideal—the notably successful lawyer or Merlin's often masturbatory fantasy. He was a damn person.
"Sorry you had to leave."
"I'm not," Arthur replied, shortly, meeting blue eyes with his own.
Merlin thanked God or gods, or the bloody Prime Minister, that he used mouthwash before getting naked in the shower. Arthur's mouth touched his, no more than feather-light. One of Merlin's wet hands crept into Arthur's hair. He kissed him with a little more intent, before realizing Arthur was still as stone, hardly breathing.
"Sorry…" Humiliation flushed Merlin's cheeks. "I thought you were…"
"I am," Arthur corrected him, breathing hot against Merlin's jaw. He shook his head, frowning. "I can't take advantage of you in this state. I can't, Merlin."
The noises of rushing water filtered in, buffering the silence.
"Except you're not," Merlin said, leaving no trace of disbelief in his voice.
The hot water caressed down his sore back, sore from the hard mausoleum steps, as Arthur stood them up, guiding into the cramped, damp space, but refused to back away or push on. Yellowed strands of hair plastering to Arthur's forehead.
Merlin's slippery fingers held his face, tilting Arthur's chin up, and he shivered at the tentative, sweeping brush of Arthur's hands on his sides.
He pushed his cock against Arthur's thigh, grinding subtly. Merlin opened his mouth for a bruising kiss, slotting themselves and lean bodies together. Not quite the perfect match. He didn't think there was such thing as perfect anyway.
Will would still be here with him, cursing, smirking—Arthur's mum, what remained of Merlin's dignity, all of it would still be here.
The lightheartedness, the quick in Merlin's breathes, he attributed with Arthur's presence—their hands raking, pelvises rolling into each other, nails burying.
This was much nicer than any fast jerk alone in Merlin's own shower.
Arthur gasped raggedly in the shell of Merlin's ear, bucking into Merlin, lips sliding down his neck. He felt Arthur practically vibrate against him, like a charge of thunder and air.
Even if this was a pity fuck. Even if Arthur pretended he didn't exist the following day, Merlin at least had this vivid, unmarred memory.
Something to occupy him while hovering in the world, lonely.
*