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Merlin is standing beside the football pitch with his arms crossed and a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth, and it's pretty much stopped their game in its tracks. Arthur can't help sliding his gaze sideways to look at him, can't stop wondering what the hell he's doing there, and a quick glance around the field tells him he's not the only one. Gwaine's got the ball propped under one foot, Freya and Gwen are paused in their maneuver to flank him and take possession of it, even Elena and Percival, standing in as goalies at the opposite ends of the field, have abandoned their posts and are coming forward, looking concerned and confused.
Morgana gives Arthur a kick to the back of the calf that clearly says, Somebody has to go ask, and we've unanimously nominated you for the job, so get your arse moving.
Arthur jogs across the field and slows as he nears, until they're standing half a stride apart. Merlin still has his arms crossed, still looks faintly disturbed by something. Arthur tips his head to the side and looks him over a moment, but whatever the problem is, he can't divine it, so he just says, "Come join us," and jerks his head toward the field and their friends. "We've been playing with unbalanced teams and the girls are murdering us."
The corners of Merlin's mouth pull back in what Arthur supposes is meant to be a smile, but it looks more like a pained grimace. He shakes his head, says, "Can't, sorry. Not today. I'll stay and watch, though."
That just makes Arthur stare harder. Merlin having somewhere he needs to be is one thing. Merlin watching from the sidelines is something else entirely. Merlin's the reason they all get together to play football once a week in the first place, he's the one who nagged and browbeat them until they relented just to shut him up, the one who called everybody up every week and made them promise to be there until they'd realized they were enjoying themselves well enough to come of their own volition. Merlin never sits a game out. Merlin once infected them all with the flu because he refused to stay home on game day and convalesce like a sane human being.
"This isn't a spectator sport, Merlin." Arthur rolls his eyes and punches him in the shoulder. He means to continue, to say something about how Merlin needs to go put on his cleats and man up, but before he can speak Merlin gives a breathless gasp and nearly doubles over.
Arthur freezes and stares at him. "Merlin?"
He straightens slowly. There's a distant, startled look on his face, and when he says, "Nothing," his voice is wheezy and strained. "It's nothing."
A moment passes, and then Arthur starts smiling, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Merlin, you dog," he says. "Is that a hickey? Merlin, are you bruised? Oh my God." He laughs, hard and delighted. "You've been holding out on us. You've got a boyfriend, don't you?"
"No," Merlin mutters. "Christ." When Arthur reaches for him again, he shies away. There's a hardness to his gaze that warns Arthur off and holds him back. "Leave it alone, Arthur, Jesus."
Something's wrong. Merlin looks angry, and he looks embarrassed, and neither of those things make any sense at all. Arthur sobers. "Merlin, are you all right?"
"Christ," Merlin says again, and rolls his eyes skyward. "Yes, I'm fine. It's not a big deal, now will you please go finish your game?" Arthur starts backing away, nodding, because there's something guarded and defensive on Merlin's face that says any sort of pressing for truth will be unwelcome.
"Tighten up your wings," Merlin calls as he turns and trots away, dissatisfied. "That's why the girls are slaughtering you, because you guys get sloppy on the edges."
#
Arthur decides, rather savagely, that he doesn't care. If Merlin wants to be an arse about whatever this is, fine. Arthur can out wait him. He plans for them to be a man down again in this week's game and tells himself that it doesn't bother him, over and over again.
And then Merlin shows up on the field with everyone else and Arthur's heart fucking soars. He stands there beaming like an idiot, thrilled to his fucking toes, and all the admonishments of Christ, get a grip, Pendragon, do absolutely nothing to help him play it cool.
Merlin notices him beaming like an idiot, because of course he does. Probably the whole damn city has noticed him standing there like a loon. Merlin does a bit of a double-take, and it makes his frown grow deeper and even more puzzled. When Arthur trots over to ask him what position he wants to play, Merlin holds his hands up as though to fend him off.
"Not this week," he says, and his voice is apologetic but his eyes are already hard with warning. "Sorry."
"More crazy sexcapades?" Arthur asks, his words just as hard as Merlin's gaze. Yeah, it's a dick move, and he totally deserves the way Merlin's mouth presses to a flat line and all the welcome goes out of his expression, but fuck it. Merlin doesn't want to play anymore anyway, so it's not as though it's cost him anything.
Arthur wants it to be his business, though, that's the problem. He wants to be the guy Merlin can say to, So, I'm an idiot and I did this idiotic thing and don't fucking laugh at me, but now I can't walk without limping, or what the fuck ever. He thought he was that guy. They've been best mates for years. Arthur tells Merlin everything — nearly everything — and up until last week, he thought Merlin did the same.
He plays. Merlin stands along the sidelines and watches again, clapping and cheering for both sides like there's nothing at all wrong with this picture. Arthur plays the best damn game of his life, and he wishes Merlin were there to share it, not just to witness it. Vivian glares at him when he sends a kick whizzing past her, and Morgana pinches him viciously when the force of his pass nearly knocks Gwen down, but fuck that, too. They win, in the end. And Merlin was there to watch it, so now he knows that they don't need him. They can play and have a good time all on their own.
#
They're on the same team, because they always play on the same team. And maybe Arthur is a little more physical than he has to be when they're running around on the pitch, but it's only because he's missed it. And because Merlin has been out for two weeks on account of some mysterious infirmity, and it's Arthur's job as unofficial team captain to make sure he's really fit to play now. If he can't take Athur's jostling, he definitely won't be able to endure Morgana's relentless assault on their defense lines, so it's better that they know now if Merlin's going to flinch every time he's touched.
Merlin doesn't yield, though. He plays just as hard as he ever has, and by the time they call the victory for Morgana's team, he's knocked Arthur onto his ass in the mud more than once.
Arthur's grinning from ear to ear as he follows the rest of the guys into the locker room afterward, and he has no fucking idea why.
He showers under the hot spray until even the facility's copious water heater has run cold. Then he shakes himself off, wraps his towel around his hips, and steps out of the showers to find the locker room all but deserted, all the others long since changed and gone off to their homes or their jobs. The only person still left is Merlin, and he's still in the clothes he wore during the game. When Arthur comes out of the showers, Merlin startles and stares at him like a frightened deer.
"I thought everyone had gone," he says, and his voice is thin again.
Arthur raises a brow. "The shower was running," he points out. Merlin flushes and gives him a hard stare, like Arthur's somehow done something wrong just by being there. Two weeks has just about used up the last of any patience Arthur might have had for this nonsense. He starts to speak, to demand to know what the hell he's done to piss Merlin off so. Before he can speak a word, though, Merlin turns away sharply.
Arthur acts without thinking, grabs Merlin's arm and pulls him around. And Merlin makes a sound that goes straight to Arthur's heart and stops it cold. It's a cry, low and ragged and his eyes are round as marbles, staring straight at him.
"Fuck, Merlin," Arthur snarls. "You're still going to tell me nothing's wrong? You're hurt."
Merlin's laughter is choked and completely humorless. "No. I'm really not."
"Show me."
Merlin recoils and stares at him with something that looks a lot like horror. "What?"
"Show me."
Merlin is frozen, gaping at Arthur like he's a train bearing down on him. "What?" he says again. "No. Arthur, Jesus, leave it alone—"
"You're hurt, you think I'm going to leave that alone?" He wants to grab Merlin again, wants to fucking shake him until he's knocked some sense into him. "Fucking Christ, Merlin, what sort of a friend do you think I am?"
"Oh Jesus." Merlin passes a hand over his eyes. His shoulders rise and fall with a single sharp breath, and then he drops his hand and meets Arthur's gaze with a flat, unhappy look. Lines of tension bracket his mouth. "Fine," he says. "Fine. Christ, you pushy fucking bastard." He shakes Arthur's hand off and takes a single step back. Before Arthur can follow, Merlin's grabbing the hem of his shirt and wrestling it up over his head. He pulls it off, then stands there with his chin jerked high, his eyes blazing a challenge Arthur doesn't understand.
Arthur pulls his gaze down, searching for a wound, for a bruise. Merlin's skin is unmarked, but what Arthur does see rivets him. Merlin's nipples… God. He's got fucking barbells running through them, both of them, and that is definitely a new development. This isn't the first time Merlin's been shirtless in the locker room, and Arthur's certain he would have noticed if they'd been there before.
"That?" he asks, and it's his turn for his voice to be thin and reedy. "That's why?"
Merlin turns his face away, but it can't hide the red flush that crawls over his cheeks. "It's none of your business," he mutters, tense and unhappy. "Please, will you just leave it be now?"
But Arthur can't. Those silver barbells are running through Merlin's nipples, making them stand erect, and Arthur's reaching forward without thought because he has to know what that feels like. He has to.
When Arthur's thumb presses firm against Merlin's nipple, he jumps as though Arthur has hit him with an electric shock. His hands come up, gripping tight at Arthur's forearms. "Don't," he gasps. His gaze is frantic, his mouth an open wound. "Arthur, don't."
Arthur freezes. He can't not, not when Merlin sounds like that, not when Arthur's the reason. He looks up to meet Merlin's eye, and Merlin is desperate, pleading. "Does it hurt?" he asks, hushed and afraid.
"No, it's not that, Christ. I can't… Arthur." He shuts his eyes as his voice breaks on Arthur's name. "Just let me go, I knew you wouldn't understand, damn it, this is why I didn't say—"
"I like it."
Merlin's frantic ramble silences as abruptly as if Arthur had flipped a switch. His mouth is still hanging open, his shoulders still heaving with each breath. He's half-dressed and slim and strong between Arthur's hands, and Christ, Arthur wants more fiercely than he's wanted anything or anyone in his entire life.
"Can I?" he asks, because the last thing in the world he wants is to make Merlin go wide-eyed and panicked again, but he can't make himself pull away.
"Arthur," Merlin breathes. "Arthur, you don't—"
"Please, can I?"
Merlin swallows his words on a broken moan. He doesn't say anything, but he leans forward, pushing in against Arthur's hand, and his eyes flutter shut. His hands on Arthur's arms pull him in, instead of pushing away, and relief nearly takes Arthur down to his knees.
He pushes his thumb against Merlin's nipple, pushes hard, and the sound Merlin makes is half cry, half shout. He rocks up onto his toes and his fingers go tight on Arthur's shoulder. His head falls back, baring the long line of his pale throat. Arthur pulls him in tighter, so he can feel Merlin tremble, and rocks his thumb over the hard nub of flesh and steel. "When?" he asks, looking into Merlin's face. He watches as the effects of his touch flicker there, in the tension that flashes across Merlin's brow and the way his mouth gapes open on a breath.
"With… with Gwaine. I went with him to get his sleeve touched up and — Jesus — and I thought… It was an impulse."
Of course it was. Merlin was eminently practical, perfectly reasonable. If he'd planned it in advance, he would have talked himself out of it. Or at least thought up a better excuse for why he couldn't play football after.
"Did it hurt?"
"Of course it hurt, Arthur, you dolt."
Merlin's pulse is a jackhammer beat beneath the pressure of Arthur's thumb. It flutters in the hollow of his throat beneath thin, delicate skin. Arthur closes his mouth on it and drags his tongue over the skin, licks and sucks until blood rises to the surface and blossoms into a bruise. "You like it, though." Not a question. It doesn't need an answer. Arthur's answer is in Merlin's broken whimpers and the way he clings, in the rocking pressure of his hips every time Arthur drags his touch over Merlin's pierced flesh.
He catches the end of the barbell between his fingers and twists it slightly and oh, that makes Merlin keen. His hands are wild in Arthur's hair, grabbing, pulling. Arthur presses a kiss to the sharp line of Merlin's clavicle and lets him wrench at it. "Is that why you got it?" His voice is breathy, but urgent, insistent. He twists the piercing again and makes Merlin swallow back a sob. "Have you been doing this by yourself?" The thought of it, of Merlin lying in bed with his hands on himself, twisting at the jewelry, pulling it, it knocks the air right out of Arthur's lungs. "Have you been playing with it?"
Merlin shakes his head wildly and swallows back a whimper. "No," he gasps. "Can't. They said— Not for two weeks."
Arthur freezes. Disappointment is a physical blow, and it makes him ache. It's completely unfair, to be dangled a temptation as irresistible as this and then told he can't have in it. "How long's it been?" he asks with a rough voice, and he tells himself it's okay, that there's a lot more of Merlin that isn't off-limits, that they can explore this new thing between them and waiting will only make it all the better, when they're finally allowed to play with the piercings. He tells himself that, and he knows it's the truth, but he wants so keenly that it's hard to think of anything but the hunger.
Merlin pushes his fingers through Arthur's hair. "The weekend before last."
It takes too long for Arthur to make his brain work well enough to do the mental gymnastics required in those calculations. It's Sunday. The weekend before last means— "Two weeks," he says suddenly. His gaze flies up, seeking Merlin's out for confirmation. "It's been two weeks already."
Merlin smiles shyly and nods. "You should only stop if you want to," he says quietly.
It's a ridiculous thought, but Arthur doesn't waste time correcting him. He bends his head and pulls Merlin's nipple into his mouth.
Merlin's responsiveness is a thing of beauty. His hands in Arthur's hair suddenly grab on tight and his body bows, shuddering against Arthur's as the most glorious, strangled noises come falling out of his mouth. "Oh Christ, Jesus, Arthur, Arthur, your fucking mouth oh my god," he babbles, pulling Arthur in hard against his chest. Arthur sucks carefully, and flicks the tip of his tongue against the bead at the end of the barbell. And as Merlin's speech goes garbled and incoherent again, Arthur pulls his shorts and briefs down with one hand and wraps his fingers around Merlin's stiff cock.
Merlin cries like he's dying and grabs onto Arthur's shoulders just before his knees buckle, dragging them down into a tangle of limbs. It's the floor of a men's locker room, and it's a little sticky and gross down there, but holy God, Arthur does not care. He pushes Merlin down onto his back and holds him there with one hand spread on his waist, grasps his cock with the other and strokes him off as his lips toy with Merlin's nipples and their new adornments.
He leaves them flushed and pink beneath the onslaught of his mouth, leaves Merlin a trembling, gasping wreck. And when the noises Merlin makes turn sharp and urgent, when his grasping hands start pushing at his shoulders and he gasps, "Oh my Christ, they're healing, Arthur, have mercy," Arthur releases him and rises up on an outstretched arm.
Merlin is vocal when Arthur strokes him, but when Arthur pulls his hand away and matches their bodies together, when he pushes his towel off and rolls his hips against Merlin's so their cocks catch and slide against one another, Merlin drops his head back and gives a low moan that is positively filthy.
Arthur braces himself and fucks against him hard and fast. Merlin gasps beneath him and reaches out with a desperate, grasping hand, like he's seeking purchase or an anchor. Arthur just grabs him behind the knees and pulls his legs up to wrap around Arthur's hips, giving him more room to rock and fuck and move against him, driving him on until even breathing starts to seem impossible.
"Oh Christ," he gasps, high and strained, "oh my God, Arthur, want you so bad, wanted you so bad, for so long, why did I let you do this here, want you in me, want you to fuck me, please God say you'll fuck me."
And Arthur is answering him with the same desperate babble, lowering himself to an elbow to wrap his other arm around Merlin's back and growl against his ear, "Of course I will, of course, I want to fuck you all the time, I'm never going to let you go, you're going to kill me, Merlin, Jesus fuck."
He isn't going to last, and oh, this is going to be embarrassing, it's going to be mortifying, except that Merlin's vocalizations are turning to high, frantic whines and Arthur thinks maybe he's close, too, maybe they can be mortified together. He leans down and sucks at Merlin's throat and his shoulder, then further down until Merlin's nipple is right there before him, a contrast of soft pink and metallic shine. Arthur wants to taste it, but he wants this to be good for Merlin, he doesn't want to hurt him, so he just breathes over that sensitive flesh and presses the flat of his tongue to it, not moving, not sucking, just wet heat and pressure.
Merlin jumps beneath him and for half a second, he chokes back a cry. Then Arthur rolls their hips together again and it escapes from him, comes out as a long, stunned cry that has Merlin shaking beneath him, coming up off the floor and arms wrapping like vises around Arthur's shoulders.
Arthur holds him as he slows to a gentle rocking. He presses Merlin's face in against his shoulder, where he gasps wet and whimpering against Arthur's skin. He strokes Merlin's hair and murmurs meaningless reassurances to him as he shivers and shakes and slowly comes back to himself.
Arthur's still hard enough to drive nails, but it doesn't matter. This was never really about his private parts, after all, was it? But he knows the moment Merlin realizes because he goes stiff and his expression crinkles with something that looks too much like dismay to bear. Merlin looks down, but when he reaches his hand between them, Arthur grasps it gently around the wrist and moves it to the more neutral territory of his shoulder.
"But," Merlin says.
Arthur shakes his head before he can say any more. "You still want me to fuck you, don't you?"
Merlin's expression goes soft with wanting. His eyes are black as onyx when he nods.
Arthur grins, sharp and hungry. "How far's your place?"
"Fifteen minutes, if the trains are running on time."
Arthur leans in and skims his lips across Merlin's. He holds back, keeps it shallow and slick, until Merlin's lips part and Arthur can taste his breath. "Think you can keep your hands to yourself until we get there?"
"No," Merlin says shakily, and he sounds like he means it.
Arthur's grin spreads. "Good." He drags Merlin up to his feet and pushes Merlin's gym bag at him, with its fresh change of clothes. "Me either. Let's go."