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Pink. Bloody pink. It's never been Merlin's favourite colour, but this term it is driving him mad. Mad with lust, with longing, with shame for being so bothered by it, so affected by his new flatmate's everything.
It is the colour of the gum Arthur chews as he studies, the dwindling nubs at the ends of his pencils, and the fringe of post-its sprouting from the books massing in towers around his laptop.
It is the colour of his cheeks coming in from the cold, of his tongue worrying at chapped lips, of all his skin after a hot shower.
Pale, it is the colour of the crisp, buttoned-up shirt he wears when his posh relatives come down to take him to lunch.
Bold, it is the colour of the scrimmage vest he wears for weekend footie.
Ridiculous, it is the colour streaking the thin, soft cotton joggers he sleeps in—when he bothers to sleep in anything at all. A mix-up in the wash, he'd said when he first caught Merlin looking, something about a half-sister and a disastrous tie-dye project.
That night, he had said Merlin was lucky to be an only child, then perfectly arced a balled-up pair of socks at the light switch. And Merlin, who'd had every reason to be offended, not to mention annoyed, had instead been grateful for Arthur's assumption that the colour of the joggers was the issue, rather than Merlin's fascination with everything they were covering, but miserably failing to hide.
Because pink is no longer just for sissies, but wanting fit, rich, straight boys still is, at least where Merlin is from. There were times when it had felt like wanting anything, anywhere outside the village—or even making it past sixteen with his face and fists intact—was sheer fantasy.
He is now miles and years away from all that, but Arthur brings it back. Every pink dawn. Every pink day. Every pink inch of his rosy, untouchable skin.
* * *
"Oi, Emerson, wake up."
" 'M not asleep," Merlin mutters, face planted on a—surprisingly comfy—anthology of English mystical verse. He curls one arm over the back of his head. When words fail, Arthur is prone to throwing things. Mostly soft, lightweight things, but still. "Reading. Very busy. Go away."
Arthur chuckles, a warm, low, intimate sound—for fuck's sake, he even sounds pink—and Merlin clenches his teeth. He has to contain himself.
"Hate to be the bearer of bad news," Arthur says, "but after much trial and error, I can confidently say that's not how books work. The words don't just seep into your brain."
"They might do." Merlin drags his head off the book and straightens up, wincing as his spine protests the change. "What would you know? Perhaps my brain is spongier than yours."
"Glad you can finally admit it."
"Wait, no, I only meant—"
"Ah, ah!" Arthur looms into view, waggling a finger at him and grinning. "We all heard you. No taking it back."
"We?" Merlin glances about. "We who? Or has someone died and made you King?"
"Very funny. I was referring to the Knights, of course." Arthur hooks a thumb towards the massive footie poster over his bed. Before Merlin can scoff, he adds, "Pretty sure old Oscar there heard you, too," nodding at Merlin's contribution to their room's décor.
It is one of Will's irreverent sketches, framed and given as a buggering-off-to-uni gift, featuring Oscar Wilde as a punk lounging on a park bench, singing the line about true friends stabbing you in the front. Merlin is surprised that Arthur recognises the subject—impressed, even—but he'll be damned if he shows it.
"I was not aware you two were on a first-name basis."
"Well, Spongebrain, apparently you aren't aware of a lot of things."
Merlin glares over at him. "Did you actually want something, Pendragon? Or were you just working on your advanced pestering technique? It exceeds expectations. Well done you."
Arthur grins, but he at least has the decency to look a bit sheepish as he backs away from Merlin's desk. He does not, however, have the decency to stop looking impossibly handsome. He is in a jacket and nice trousers, hair still wet from his post-run shower. His shirt is blue today, not pink, but given the way it plays up the colour of his eyes, it is just as distracting.
"I wanted to make sure you saw this." Arthur pulls a glossy card from his pocket, the kind street promoters are always handing out around the student union, and tosses it onto Merlin's desk. "New thing they're trying out Thursdays at the Rising Sun. Some of my mates helped put it together."
Merlin glances at it with an awkward, "Oh, right then. Cheers."
Beneath the pub's sleepy-eyed sun logo and a QR code, the card reads: The Rising Sun presents the #f15bb5 Delta Club Salon – Thursdays @11 – Cocktails, Card Games, Conversation & More!
"Thought it might be more your style."
"More my style than what, exactly?" Merlin snaps, swivelling so he's facing Arthur. He is now confused as well as sleep-deprived and sexually frustrated. Whatever happened to applications and A-Levels being the worst of it, all those assurances from teachers that he'd absolutely thrive at uni?
Arthur's smile falters, but he holds Merlin's gaze. "GaySoc lecture series, In-or-out-tramural League football weekends, or even the clubs down by the docks…you know, all the places I hoped I might see you outside the halls."
"You...um. What?" Merlin gawps at him, then jumps up, glancing around wildly, looking for a phone propped where it shouldn't be.
Arthur watches him with a curious expression, then swears, pulling his chiming mobile from his pocket. "I've got to dash, sorry. Just…think about it, alright? No pressure. We could grab a meal beforehand if you like, discuss how you came by this grave mental affliction of yours."
"What?!"
Arthur claps Merlin on the shoulder—the briefest of touches—then he's out the door, saying, "Get some rest, Spongebrain. We can't have you burning out your first year. And please, try a pillow—or at least some decent prose."
* * *
Pink. Gaudy, glorious pink. It is the colour of the logo that fills Merlin's mobile screen when he scans the QR code and fully grasps what he had missed before: that #f15bb5 is a hex code, Delta in Greek is written as a triangle, and these particular mates of Arthur's are clearly a flaming, fabulous bunch of nerd queers. That Arthur, himself, is…well, still fit and rich, but perhaps not so straight.
Pink is the colour of Merlin's embarrassment, flushing his face. It is the blush of anticipation for Arthur's return, the rosy lens of hope that he didn't imagine all those things Arthur said about GaySoc and gay clubs and going for a meal.
When exhaustion finally wins out over giddiness, pink is the colour of Merlin's dreams. Pink lips and tongues and fingertips—and other, more hidden places—not so untouchable after all.