Gwaine’s been sitting on Merlin’s roof for twenty minutes when the window opens and Merlin climbs out, huddled into the hoodie he must’ve thrown over his pyjamas.
“Hi,” he says, like he finds people outside his bedroom window in the middle of the night all the time.
“Hi,” Gwaine replies, shuffling over to give Merlin room to sit next to him. “Sorry, I- couldn’t sleep.”
“So you thought you’d sit on my roof all night?” Merlin asks around a yawn. He smiles at Gwaine, lopsided and bemused and so, so sweet.
“Yeah,” Gwaine says quietly. He hasn’t got the energy for a witty retort, for a joke and a laugh and a tease. He’s just so- tired. “Do you mind?”
“Of course I mind,” Merlin says, and Gwaine’s stomach drops, “it’s freezing out here, you’ll catch your death.”
Gwaine exhales, slowly, and follows Merlin into his room. He stumbles jumping down from the window and swears softly, mindful of Hunith asleep in the next room.
“Here,” Merlin says, “you can have my bed and-”
“No,” Gwaine says sharply. “Fuck, Merlin, I already- I’m not fucking taking your bed. It’s not like I’d get any use out of it anyway.” He forces himself to smile. “The floor’s fine.”
Merlin looks like he’s going to argue, but then he just sighs and makes Gwaine up a bed on the floor, turns around to let him shed his jeans and t-shirt. The blanket is soft and warm and smells a bit like Merlin, and Gwaine lets himself breathe it in for just a second, just one.
“Good night,” Merlin whispers, “hope you get some sleep,” and Gwaine echoes the sentiment as he lies back, counting Merlin’s breaths until he’s sure he’s asleep.
Gwaine must drift off at one point because he jolts back to awareness at the sound of stifled moaning. At first he thinks maybe Merlin’s having a nightmare, but then- oh.
It’s not that kind of moan. It’s not that kind of dream. Gwaine wonders, momentarily, what it is Merlin’s dreaming about to make him make noises like that and has to fist his hands in the blanket.
No. No. He’s not going there. Merlin is one of his closest friends and Gwaine can’t- fantasising about Merlin when he’s jerking off, about Merlin’s perfect hands and perfect mouth, is bad enough. He can’t think about Merlin naked and wanting when Merlin is in the same fucking room as him. That way lies madness, and also failed friendships.
He rolls over and jams his head under Merlin’s pillow, willing the blood to rush back to his brain where he needs it, and closes his eyes.
He’s awoken a few hours later by the sun streaming in through the window – they forgot to close the curtain after they climbed in, dammit – and he is hard. Like, achingly hard, like, you-were-having-a-really-fantastic-dream-before-you-were-rudely-awoken hard. Gwaine groans, wondering if he was dreaming about Merlin, and if that would be ironic or just pathetic.
A quick glance at the bed shows Merlin’s still asleep, the jammy bastard, and Gwaine’s hand is in his boxers before he can think about it. He bites his lip, hard, and thinks about getting Merlin to make those noises again, about panting into Merlin’s neck as he jerks him off, about sinking to his knees and taking Merlin’s cock into his mouth, about fingering Merlin open until he’s begging for it, and comes.