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“Hi,” Merlin says as he looks in the mirror—stretches his lips until his cheeks hurt, his teeth show—until he has as convincing a smile as he can make it. “Hi, my name’s Michael Emerson.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Arthur Pendragon lives in 3C. Merlin learns this one night when he can’t sleep, having woken up from another nightmare, and goes out for some fresh air. The inner courtyard’s community garden is ripe with the lingering smells of sunshine and well toiled earth and flowers, filled with the soft chirping of insects.
Arthur sits on a bench at the back by the tall hedges, smoking.
“Rough night?” he says, then blows smoke out the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah.”
Orange light from the pathway lamps spills over the ground, but the shadows are deep green and black, blue over Arthur’s face. Arthur offers Merlin a fag, and Merlin takes it slowly, rolls it between his fingers. The gesture looks weird, like his hand isn’t his, like his fingers are someone else’s. Someone who smokes. Someone who takes walks at night instead of tossing and turning until sleep comes again.
Merlin leans in when Arthur lits his lighter with an arched eyebrow. He rolls the smoke on his tongue, acrid and bitter, and when Arthur moves down the bench to free some space for Merlin to sit, Merlin does.
∆ ∆ ∆
“Hi,” Merlin says, sticks his hand out for his new employer. “Hi, I’m Michael Emerson.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Arthur Pendragon has a meaningful name. It used to mean more, Arthur tells him, used to be a Family Name—Merlin can practically hear the capital letters under the self-derisive tone of Arthur’s voice and his sarcastic quotation marks. That is, it was, before Arthur’s father lost everything. Before Arthur saw his trust fund emptied and had to work to pay his way through college. Now it’s a name, like everyone else’s.
But it still means something, Merlin wants to tell him. It’s still Arthur’s.
Merlin says it at random moments during the day. Like when they’re lounging about in his living room—Arthur sprawled on the sofa while sunshine spills through the windows and makes the worn wood of the floor look warm, and Arthur’s blond hair shine—or when Arthur’s sitting on the counter beside the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil, heels kicking at the cupboards with a dull sound.
Merlin watches the way Arthur instinctively reacts to it, hums in acknowledgement without lifting his eyes from the magazine he’s reading.
Merlin tries to remember that hum and the unconscious tilt of Arthur’s head toward the sound of his name—like an afterthought, or an instinct.
He practices them in front of the mirror every morning.
∆ ∆ ∆
“Nah, it’s just me,” Merlin says when his co-workers ask questions. That’s what the papers the cops had made him memorise said: Michael Emerson. 25. No family. “It’s just me.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Merlin wakes with the echo of a scream dying around him, unsure if it’s his or the one from his dream. He glances around, panic clawing at his skin, taking too much time to remember that his surroundings are familiar, are home.
He takes deep breaths and shivers, the sheets cool and damp with sweat around his waist. You’re safe now, son. You’re safe, the cop had said.
Arthur’s in the garden, and Merlin’s knees are so weak when he sees him—his chest heavy and filled with fear, with aches.
He misses home.
Arthur doesn’t say anything. He lets Merlin climb into his lap, legs on each side of him on the bench.
Merlin holds Arthur’s face between his hands. The air’s pungent and heavy with summer night, with soil from the garden and sun-drenched leaves cooling. Arthur’s mouth tastes like mint and the vague lingering bitterness of smoke.
You’re safe now, son.
When Arthur wraps strong, long fingers around Merlin’s cock, Merlin whimpers, panting loud, harsh breaths against Arthur’s jaw. He sucks wet kisses across Arthur’s neck, clings to him with sweaty hands, knees like a vice on his hips, and fucks Arthur’s fist until the slow burn of his orgasm building, and the biting edge of Arthur’s teeth on his shoulder are all he can feel.
Arthur wraps his arm around him, holds on tight, and says “Michael,” in a bitten off moan, right into the hollow of Merlin’s throat.
∆ ∆ ∆
Michael Emerson. 25. No family.
Michael Emerson. 25. No family.
Michael Emerson. 25. No family.
∆ ∆ ∆
Arthur takes him apart.
The wet, squelching sound of his fingers pumping in and out of Merlin’s arse, easy and deliberate, is obscene in the heavy stillness of the room.
Yellow light from the street lamps comes in through the slanted blinds, paints long shapes in the the darkness, over the rumpled sheets, their naked skin.
Arthur licks at Merlin’s stretched-tight rim and skims the edge with his thumb, curls his fingertips up until Merlin sobs, a whining sound low in his throat, like a wounded animal. Then, he pulls out. A slow drag that almost fills Merlin with panic at being left emptied, hole gaping, only made better by the sharp tug Arthur gives his cock before pushing back in, lazy with it.
They’ve been at it for so long.
Merlin bites at the covers, rubs the sweat off his face against the fabric. His limbs shake, his brain’s fuzzy, and he thinks this might go on forever, that he’ll spend the rest of his life open on Arthur’s fingers and tongue. His body forever just this; this opened, wet-trembling thing filled with Arthur, leaving no space for anything else.
He says, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” over and over again, and tries to put everything he feels into it—something bold and pure between his lips—needs to taste truth on his tongue.
∆ ∆ ∆
He traces the soft shapes around Arthur’s collarbones with a finger, follows another light-line across his nipple.
Arthur Pendragon is a truthful name.
“Em?” Arthur says, soft behind Merlin’s ear. It already sounds better between his lips. “Is that for Emerson, or, like, M as in Michael?”
As in Emrys. As in Merlin.
“Both. Either.”