Archive of Our Own ^beta

Arthur’s been in his new flat for just about a week when he takes home the guy from the bar. He’s only half unpacked, but with no one breathing down his neck and no cleaners to worry about impressing, it’s a hell of a lot harder to care about the state of the place. 

Moving to Nottingham is the first thing he can say he’s ever really done for himself, and even though he’s proud of it, part of him still feels sick with doubt every day that he doesn’t roll into the slick white marble lobby of Uther’s firm and punch the lift button for the 25th floor. The move was supposed to herald a new era of going back to school, finding himself, and pissing off his father, and even though so far it’s mostly just heralded a lot of anxiety spirals and takeout, it seemed like as good a catalyst as any to start being bisexual in practice rather than just in theory. 

So he’d gone out, and he’d had a few drinks — a couple of beers, first, and then, once he got up the courage, something off the cocktail menu that Uther would have scoffed at — and he’d flirted with the angular, ethereal barman until his shift was over and he could join Arthur for a couple of drinks, and then they’d talked until he felt confident enough to invite him back to his, and then — 

And now he’s slumped at a table, a dull headache still thumping behind his eyes and the waistband of his jeans biting into his belly. He’s put on weight, between all of the stress eating he did while trying to convince himself to quit the firm and all of the workouts he justified skipping by telling himself the time was better spent packing or applying to postgrad programs. Half of him — the half that’s afraid of never being enough — worries that it means Uther is right: he is lazy, undisciplined, tender. The other half finds it perversely satisfying and itches to do more. Uther loathes any sign of softness; becoming soft himself might be Arthur’s ultimate act of rebellion.

“Arthur,” says Morgana, poking his soft side. “Don’t you dare fall asleep. We’re counting on you to know all the sports questions.”

Arthur groans and straightens up some. Morgana is the only reason he chose Nottingham rather than simply closing his eyes and pointing to a map, but he’s realizing now that he might live to regret it. Doing a pub quiz while hungover is hardly his idea of a good time.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, flagging the server and ordering himself a burger, chips, and a beer. Hair of the dog, and all that. Who cares if he’s technically already eaten dinner. “Just tired. Getting the new place in order, you know.”

“We’re happy to help unpack,” offers Morgana’s girlfriend Gwen from across the table, sipping her cider. “Just say the word, we’ll pop round.”

“Thanks,” he says, fiddling with his napkin. “Who’d you say we were waiting for?”

“Our fourth,” says Gwen. “A friend of mine from uni.”

“You’ll like him,” says Morgana, her green eyes flashing. “Another queer.”

Morgana and Gwen are the only two people Arthur is out to, and for most of their adulthood he’s only seen them at holidays or talked over text. It’s strange to hear his sexuality spoken aloud so casually, and he tenses for a moment before realizing that no one else here could possibly care. The Hologram is clearly a gay bar — the ’80s-style decor is colorful and campy, and when Arthur told the host he was meeting a party for the pub quiz, they’d stamped his hand with a sparkly flower design that Morgana explained is an Oscar Wilde reference — and although it’s not Arthur’s first gay bar, it’s certainly his first in a long time, and he doesn’t quite feel like he fits yet.

“Merlin’s genderqueer,” Gwen adds. “They use he and they , just so you know.”

Arthur sits up straight. “Merlin?”

“Chosen name,” she says with a smile. “It really suits him, though.”

Their server drops off Arthur’s beer, and he slugs half of it down as Gwen’s face lights and she waves to someone behind Arthur. He doesn’t dare turn. How many queer Merlins can there be in Nottingham?

“Hiya,” says a new voice, warm and lilting, and Arthur stifles a belch as his stomach drops.

He’s been wrestling with the memory of last night all day, trying in equal measure to convince himself it was fine and normal and forget the whole thing altogether. He’d been drunk, but not enough that he couldn’t consent or wasn’t acutely aware of what was going on. At the time, the lack of inhibitions had felt like a free pass to act on his desires without second-guessing himself; now, he thinks maybe inhibitions exist to keep you from doing things you have to examine critically the next day.

It would have been fine if they’d just had sex. Arthur can do just sex. It was how Merlin had looked at him with wonder, how he’d touched his stomach and hips so appreciatively. He’d kissed Arthur’s jaw where there’d once upon a time been definition and now was just soft. He’d run his fingernails down Arthur’s stretch marks; he’d moaned hungrily when Arthur laid his full weight on top of him. It had made Arthur hungry, too. 

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to need more paracetamol.

Gwen and Morgana are saying their hellos, complimenting Merlin’s sweater and asking if he’s had his hair cut. And then Morgana says, “Merlin, this is my brother Arthur.”

Merlin slides into the other side of the booth next to Gwen and grins at Arthur. There’s a knowing in his blue eyes that sends dread scuttling down Arthur’s spine. 

“Hello again,” says Merlin, grinning, and Arthur manages to pull his face into something that’s only half grimace.

“Hullo.”

“Oh,” says Gwen, “do you know each other?”

“Not really,” says Arthur, as Merlin says, “A bit.”

Gwen and Morgana exchange a look.

Blessedly, the server returns with Arthur’s food, and he diverts himself to his plate, filling his mouth before he can say anything else incriminating. He looks up after a few bites to find Merlin watching him.

“What?” he says, mouth full.

Merlin gives him a crooked smile. “Nothing. Just looks good. Might get one myself, if they’ve got a veg option.”

“They have excellent chips,” puts in Morgana — for whose benefit, Arthur isn’t sure. He’s aware, at least peripherally, that he and Morgana might have similar — proclivities. It began as suspicion — Gwen is substantially softer and rounder than she was when she began dating Morgana three years ago — and then last year at Christmas, Morgana wouldn’t shut up about it when she and Arthur stole a couple bottles of wine and hid out in the carriage house after dinner. 

It’s different for Arthur. While Morgana took Uther’s tyranny about food and bodies and turned it outward to her partners, Arthur absorbed it and pointed it inward. It’s all twisted up with shame and self-doubt, but it’s there, indelible and only just starting to be accessible now that he’s out from under Uther’s thumb. He wants to eat whatever he wants. He wants to indulge himself, savor the illicitness of it, fall asleep full and totally sated instead of half-empty and anxious. 

Which is why, last night, he asked Merlin to feed him.

They’d gone once already, and Arthur was out of breath. He’d realized, hauling loads of boxes down to the lobby of his old building, how out of shape he was, and he’d hired movers to take care of the rest of it. There’d been a thrill to it, running parallel to guilt, and he felt the same way now, with Merlin lying half on top of him, idly kneading and jiggling his plump belly. 

“Your body is incredible,” murmured Merlin, and in his old life Arthur would have scoffed. He would have convinced himself Merlin was lying, because how could it be true? But now, he let it soak in. Merlin didn’t know him any other way — didn’t know how he’d whittled himself down again and again for his father’s approval, didn’t know what he’d looked like straight out of college football. And he’d still said something nice.

“Want to go again?” Merlin asked, laying a kiss on Arthur’s collarbone. 

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. But — maybe —” No. He was not going to lose his nerve after kicking up a fuss to himself about this being the start of the rest of his life. He was never going to see this person again. What did he have to lose? “Maybe … we could try something else with it?”

Merlin pulled themself up to a half-sit. “Sure. Like what?”

“Erm.” He threw his forearm over his eyes, but he could still feel Merlin’s cool blue gaze on him. “Like … you could, er, feed me first. Or during.”

He slid his arm a couple of centimeters so he could peek at Merlin’s response. His head was cocked like an inquisitive dog’s, and, gently, he moved Arthur’s arm from his face.

“Feed you?”

“Like … with your hands?”

Merlin nodded. “Sure, if you want. Can I … can I add something?” 

“Er, sure.”

“Do you have a necktie or a belt or something?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve unpacked that box yet. Why?”

Merlin shifted their weight. “If you’re okay with it, maybe I could … tie your hands?”

Arthur’s mouth went dry, his stomach filling with heat. “Erm. Yes? That’s — yeah. We can try that.”

“I’m sure I’ve got something,” said Merlin, unfolding his spindly form and climbing off the bed. Arthur watched the long, pale lines of his body as he crouched where he’d thrown his bag in the corner. He was lovely in a strange, not-quite-of-this-world kind of way, like the fae in old folk tales. 

“Merlin?” he called. Now he had to know.

“Yes?”

“Are you fae?”

“That depends. F-e-y or f-a-e?”

“... Both.”

“Then yes,” says Merlin, catapulting himself back into bed and landing with a knobby elbow in Arthur’s gut. Arthur oofs and Merlin says, “Sorry, sorry!” and holds up —

“Merlin. Is that a dog leash?”

“Um, yes? I’m in vet school. And I walk dogs. It’s all I’ve got with me.”

“I thought you were a bartender?”

Merlin dipped his head. “I’m also that.”

Now, Arthur asks, “Aren’t you cheating on your other bar? The — what’s it called?”

“The Sidhe?” They pronounce it shee , and Arthur’s glad he didn’t try to say it aloud. “Yes, I am. Don’t tell. We’re very sensitive about not having an organized pub quiz.”

Arthur scowls into his beer. Morgana kicks him under the table, and he glares at her.

“Ouch! What’s that for?”

“I need to borrow you for a moment,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Father’s calling.”

Morgana hasn’t voluntarily taken calls from Uther in at least six months, so this is an obvious ruse, but he hauls himself out of the booth and she herds him to the opposite corner of the room. 

“What are you doing ?” she hisses. “Why are you being such a dose?”

Arthur avoids her eyes. “I slept with him last night.”

“ What ?” she fairly shouts, and he cuts his eyes at her. 

“Shut up!”

“Was it bad?”

Arthur crosses his arms over his gut. “No.”

She widens her eyes. “Then why are you so moody?”

“It was weird, okay?” Arthur bursts out. “It was like — kinky. I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel about it.”

Morgana’s eyes light up. “Kinky how?”

“I really don’t want to discuss this with you,” he grumbles.

“What do you want me to feed you?” Merlin had asked, kneeling by Arthur’s hip. “Anything in particular?”

“The cabinet on the right of the fridge,” said Arthur, feeling slightly high on the words. “There’s a bunch of stuff in there, crisps and biscuits and the like. Anything from in there. As much as you like.”

“All right,” said Merlin, and they’d disappeared for a few minutes. Arthur listened to the sounds of them rustling through his kitchen and tried to tamp down the feeling of electricity rising through his belly. 

Merlin returned with an armful of snack foods — Arthur had said as much as you like , but even then he hadn’t really expected Merlin to choose more than one or two things. But he’d come loaded down with two flavors of crisps, a package of chocolate digestives, Jaffa cakes, and a sleeve of shortbreads.  

“Too much?” he asked sheepishly, and Arthur yanked him down and kissed him.

“Perfect,” he murmured into Merlin’s mouth, and Merlin gave the soft mound of his stomach a little pat before straightening up. 

“All right, love. Let’s get you tied, yeah?”

Arthur raised his arms obediently, and Merlin gently bound his wrists around the rail of his headboard. “How’s that feel? Not too tight?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, it’s good.”

Merlin nodded, sinking back down beside him. “Are you ready, then? I thought we could start with some sweet, then some salty, then back to sweet to finish.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, rolling his hips. “Yes, that’s brilliant.”

“Gentle or rough?” they asked, and Arthur faltered. 

“Er — gentle, I suppose? And then maybe we can reevaluate?” God, was he at a business meeting? Reevaluate? “I mean — we can try the other way too.”

Merlin tore open the shortbreads. “Just say the word.”

“You can tell me,” Morgana wheedles now. They’re standing by the bar’s speakers, and some kind of synth throbs against Arthur’s headache. “You know my stuff, you can trust me with yours.”

It’s somehow so much more mortifying that it’s the same stuff, just inverted. Sometimes he still instinctively bristles at all the places he and Morgana overlap, thanks to the years Uther spent pitting them against one another. He’s long past any real resentment toward her, but sometimes now she feels like a mirror that shows not only his vulnerable parts but all of the twisting and pruning that made him that way. 

The bar is broadcasting Man U versus Arsenal, the screen a few meters behind Morgana’s head. He focuses his eyes there, on the familiar reddish blur of the uniforms. “Similar to your stuff,” he mumbles. “Just — opposite.”

Morgana’s gaze instantly drops to his gut, but only for a split second, which he appreciates. “Oh, Arthur , I’m so happy you’re exploring that. With the right person it really is wonderful.”

“I don’t know if he’s the right person!” Arthur yelps. “I barely know him. He tied me to the bed and fed me and we fucked and that was it. He had to leave early for his other job. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again or I wouldn’t have even asked —”

“Oh, and now you’re not going to let yourself keep having something nice because you’re embarrassed?” Morgana’s hands are planted on her slim hips. It’s not Halloween for another few weeks, but she’s already fully transitioned her look from Summer Goth to Autumn Witch. A new tendril of mossy green hair hangs down toward her face, and her eyes and lips are shaded a smoky purple-gray. 

“I’m not embarrassed , I just don’t want to discuss my sex life in the middle of a pub!”

“Then why don’t you go talk to Merlin instead of giving out to me?”

“You started this!” Arthur complains. Morgana rolls her eyes. 

“Because I couldn’t risk you being a pain in the hole all night and ruining our chances of winning a year’s free wine and cheese subscription.”

Arthur glares at her. “I’ll behave, but if we win you’d better share.”

“We’ll see about that,” she snips, but she gives Arthur’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze as they make their way back to the booth.

“Gwen,” says Morgana, reaching out for her hand, “come to the bar with me. Let’s get something to split.”

Gwen’s brows furrow. “All right?” she says, scooting out of the booth. Morgana throws an arm around her ample waist and shoots a pointed look at Arthur over her shoulder.

In his absence, Merlin has also ordered something — falafel and chips, maybe? — but he pushes his plate away once Arthur is ensconced beside him again. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is bright but cautious. “Everything okay?”

Arthur nods, taking a gulp of his beer. “Yeah. Just family stuff. It’s fine.”

Merlin nods, rolling their lips together. “And us?” they ask, their eyes not leaving Arthur’s. “Are we okay?”

Arthur was just the right balance of still-drunk and sleepy to get chatty. He was spent and practically too full to breathe, but the words spilled out of him as Merlin stroked his hair and rubbed his bloated belly. 

“I’m trying really hard to, like, like my body,” he’d said, trying and failing to stifle a burp. “Oof, sorry. Like, I’ve never been thin, not like thin thin at least, not like you, unless I’ve been really making an effort, and it’s not really fun and it makes me feel bad so, you know, why should I keep doing it, right?”

“Mmm-hmm ,” soothed Merlin. He was definitely less drunk, but he’d gone out on Arthur’s fire escape a while ago and come back smelling faintly of weed. “You don’t need to do that if you don’t want to. Your body is perfect. However you want it to be is perfect. Maybe it doesn’t feel natural for it to be thin.”

Arthur nodded sleepily, head lolling against Merlin’s bony chest. “My dad was always on us about it. It really fucked us up, I think. I mean, he really fucked us up in general, but my sister had an eating disorder for a while because of it and honestly I think I did too.”

Merlin paused in their stroking. “I didn’t just enable your eating disorder, did I?”

Arthur scoffed. “No. God no. That’s … something else. Something good, I think. It feels good to just … let go. When I was eating less it never felt good. It always felt like I was teetering on the edge of disaster, you know? Like one wrong move and I would ruin all my progress. This doesn’t feel like that. I promise.”

“Okay,” said Merlin, kissing the nape of his neck. “I want you to feel good, okay? You deserve to feel good. You did so well for me tonight, you ate so much. How do you feel?”

“Good,” sighed Arthur, hiccuping. “I feel really good .”

Merlin took one of his hands and brought it slowly to their lips. “Good.”

Arthur is trying not to tense up the way he’s used to when he feels threatened. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m not — I don’t do this much. And I didn’t exactly plan on spilling my guts to you about, like, my family trauma and everything. Or my, uh, my … kinks, I guess.”

Merlin’s lips curl up at the corners. “I bring it out in people. I’ve been told I have a very trustworthy face.”

Arthur laughs against his will. “It’s probably more that you serve people alcohol.”

“No, even at my real job! People tell me all sorts of things about themselves and their dogs and their divorces, it’s so odd. But it’s nice, in a way. They need to offload those things, and I’m a neutral party.”

“You were not a neutral party last night.”

“No, I was quite invested.” Merlin grins. “I’m sorry if I put you on the spot earlier. I didn’t realize you and Morgana were related. Believe me, I’ve heard plenty about your father already; it’s not as if you cast the first stone.”

“Can’t blame her. They’ve barely spoken since Christmas; she’s got a lot to complain about. He’s, erm, very uncool about Gwen.”

Merlin nods, their grin falling away. “So I’ve heard. Is that why you moved out here?”

“Sort of. He doesn’t really — we were always closer, my dad and me. He thought I’d grow up to take his place in the firm, and that I’d want to — golf and have business lunches about quarterly reviews. I haven’t even told him that I’m — that I’m bi. He was so hard on Morgana that I wasn’t brave enough.”

“I think getting out is plenty brave,” says Merlin. His hand finds Arthur’s below the table and grips it firmly. “What do you want to do, then?”

Arthur deflates a bit. “I don’t know. I’ve been applying to Classics programs, but that’s not exactly a career either. I just think they’re interesting.”

“Well, let’s hope we get a category about the Odyssey then, yeah?”

“And what do you contribute to the team, hmm?” asks Arthur, draining his beer. “Not many questions about veterinary science, are there?”

Merlin grins. “Bartender. Food and drink, love. Lots of questions about cocktails. And I’ve got some other interests that’ve made me quite well-versed in food.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Oh, do you.”

Morgana and Gwen are making their way back to the booth, and he catches Morgana’s eye and nods: all good . Merlin squeezes his hand.

“I’ll have to show you sometime,” they say. “For now, d’you want the rest of my chips?”

Arthur does.