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“I think I loved you from the start.”
Arthur huffs a laugh. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
“What do you mean?” Merlin sits up, indignant. “I’ve been saving your life since the day we met.”
“Not because you liked me, though, is it, Merlin?” Arthur replies easily. He squints up against the sunlight, shifting on the grass to get himself into a more comfortable position.
“I suppose not,” allows Merlin. “You were a massive prat.”
A grin spreads upon his lips. It’s such an easy opening. He kicks at the general vicinity of Merlin’s shin and teases, “Were?”
“Still are,” Merlin amends quickly, who was already shifting his leg away by instinct like he knew what Arthur was going to do. “Suppose now I can see some of your more… redeeming qualities as well.”
“Oh?” He says. Something terribly fond blooms in his chest at Merlin’s reluctance to admit things out loud. “What are they, then?”
It’s Merlin’s turn to aim a kick at Arthur’s shin, but much like Merlin, Arthur, too, was expecting this and is already shifting his leg away in anticipation. “Prat,” Merlin mutters without heat, but Arthur can hear the smile in his voice. It’s difficult not to smile in return.
They fall into a companionable silence once again. Arthur isn’t complaining. Spring came quite late this year. After a harsh, difficult winter, it’s a beautiful day to be spending outside of the castle. The sun is warm on his face, bright enough to force him to close his eyes against it, but not warm enough that it stifles the air. There is light wind, too, gently rippling through the grass and wildflowers all around him.
It’s not often, these days, that they get a chance to escape the hectic world of ruling a kingdom. It makes each opportunity all the more precious.
“Why did you save my life, that first time?” asks Arthur. He has thought about it much in the years that have lapsed, but he could never quite figure it out: here was a peasant boy who was very new to the city, not even one of his father’s subjects. He held no respect for nobility and clearly did not even like Arthur. “Don’t tell me it was duty.” He groans, and then adds, “or worse, destiny.”
Merlin’s answer is less than immediate. Arthur peers up to where Merlin is leaning against the oak tree in curiosity. The dappled sunlight is casting shadows upon his frowning face, the gentle breeze doing its best to make the shadows dance. Arthur’s heart skips a beat and he closes his eyes again, pretending that he never turned to look.
“I saw what she was doing, so I stopped it,” answers Merlin. “You might be an insufferable prat, but it doesn’t mean I would’ve stood by and watched her kill you.”
It was as easy as that.
Even back then, when he was just a boy standing on the cusp of adulthood, Merlin was always as selfless as he was brave. The sorceress who impersonated Lady Helen was clearly powerful. Any lesser man would’ve cowered, hiding under the table until the matter sees to resolve itself. A brave man would’ve fought, sure, but it would’ve been for glory, for the honour of protecting the Crown Prince.
Merlin didn’t see him as a prince, back then, either—he may have, but it didn’t bear any consequence on his actions. He only saw a man who was about to be murdered without a fair chance at fighting back.
“She could’ve killed you.”
“She didn’t.”
It’s an old argument, one they’ve been having ever since Arthur found out about all the things Merlin did behind his back. They are as stubborn as each other, so it goes in circles, round and round again, never to be resolved.
“Lucky.”
“Perhaps.”
Arthur sits up lazily, languidly. “Do we still have some of those nectarines you brought?”
“You had them last.”
“That was in the last place.”
Merlin doesn’t move a single muscle, still basking in the sunlight. “So it’s still on the horse, then.”
“Why didn’t you bring it with you?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m the king, Merlin.”
Merlin turns to look at Arthur incredulously. “You want me to stand?”
Arthur heaves a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes with feeling. “Are you the Court Sorcerer or not?”
Merlin beams jubilantly, the way he always does when Arthur asks him to use his magic. It makes him look like a young, guileless boy again, the way he did when he first walked into Camelot. It warms Arthur more than sunlight ever could.
Merlin stretches an arm out, his eyes glowing gold. He doesn’t have to say anything for a nectarine to come flying into his open palm. It would’ve been terribly impressive, except for the fact that the nectarine flew entirely too quickly, missing its target, and it says a lot about Arthur’s razor-sharp instinct and battle-ready reflexes that he was able to catch it without batting an eyelid.
“Very impressive, Merlin.”
“I aim to please my Lord,” Merlin deadpans, a cheeky glint in his eye. He leans back against the tree, closing his eyes again. “Besides, I knew you’d catch it.”
Arthur hums, ignoring the way his stomach flutters at Merlin’s words. He bites into his nectarine, savouring the way the flavours burst on his tongue. Nectarines aren’t even meant to come in season until later in the year, and Arthur hadn’t asked for them, not really—he just mentioned wanting one in passing once, and Merlin returned the next day to his chambers carrying a basket full.
“Merlin,” Arthur chided fondly, even if his heart felt fit to burst.
“What?” replied Merlin rather defensively, even as his eyes widen to emphasise his innocence. “I found them outside the city walls when I was out gathering herbs this morning.”
“Did you really.”
“Seems like this one tree decided to bear fruit early.”
“My lucky day,” Arthur’s lips twitched. It’s just as well that Merlin was not standing close to him—Arthur wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from kissing the man silly. “Thank you.”
It’s a little game they get to play again, now that Merlin’s secrets are well out of the way. It took them forever to be comfortable enough to get back to this. Merlin truly is a terrible liar, and Arthur knows that he’s a terrible liar, but this is small enough, inconsequential enough. And how could he be angry when Merlin was looking at him like that, as though Arthur was his sun and his moon besides?
“I don’t think I knew what it was, for the longest time,” Arthur offers. It seems only fair, after the admission Merlin volunteered. “You were irritating. You still are, mind. And incredibly insolent too.”
“You wouldn’t have it any other way, really,” replies Merlin easily, all too knowingly. “You’d get bored.”
“Shut up,” Arthur tells him, his cheeks feeling inexplicably warm. “I wouldn’t. There’s no end to people who would queue to entertain the King of Camelot.”
“How about entertaining a prat?” mimes Arthur, just as Merlin says, “how about entertaining a prat?”
Merlin looks down at him, betrayed, as Arthur laughs out loud. “You’re becoming predictable, Merlin.”
“My apologies,” deadpans Merlin. “I will endeavour to always keep my Lord on his toes.”
Merlin falls quiet for a moment, but it doesn’t last long. It never does. For all Arthur accuses him of idleness, he knows Merlin can be just as restless as he is.
“Can you imagine what it would’ve been like?” asks Merlin. “If you weren’t a king, and I wasn’t—“ he gesticulates, trailing off.
“An all-powerful warlock? A dragonlord?” Arthur supplies gleefully. “An immortal deity worshipped by the Druids?”
Merlin cracks an eye open to glare pointedly at him.
Arthur hides his smile, albeit not entirely successfully. “We’d run, wouldn’t we,” he sighs, shifting to get into a more comfortable position. “Me with my farm,” he murmurs, suddenly finding himself rather melancholy. “You, with your house upon the lake.”
Merlin snorts a quiet laugh. “I doubt you’d know the first thing about tending to a farm.”
“Perhaps not,” Arthur agrees. He looks up to where Merlin is leaning back against the tree, his eyes closed once more in contentment. “Perhaps you’d be able to show me.”
“It’s hard work,” warns Merlin. “Simple, perhaps. But hard.”
“You know what else is hard, though?” replies Arthur without missing a beat, rolling to lie on his side. “Running a kingdom.”
Even without looking up, Arthur can feel Merlin rolling his eyes. Merlin lets out an exasperated sigh, but Arthur reckons there’s a distinct undertone of amusement running through it.
“It’s different.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes crops fail, and there wouldn’t be enough to store for winter,” muses Merlin. “Sometimes there’s not enough to eat, let alone feed to pigs—“
Arthur tunes him out, not paying attention to Merlin’s words but content to let his voice wash over him. There’s the slightest lilting quality to Merlin’s voice that Arthur adores, a tiny quirk that marks him for being from Ealdor. It has faded in the years he’s settled in Camelot, but Arthur can just about make it sometimes, when he strains to hear it.
“See, that’s where your magic comes in,” interrupts Arthur when Merlin is going on about goats and chickens. It surprises him, how easily he gets used to it: as though it was always everywhere all along and it’s only now that he pays attention to it.
Merlin sighs. “Figures that you’d get me to do all the work.”
“Not all of it,” denies Arthur quickly. “I’d fix fences, or thatch roofs, maybe. Tending to manure, though… that’s always more your territory.”
Merlin snorts again in amusement. “You’ve never fixed a fence once in your life.”
“How hard could it be?”
“Dunno,” Arthur feels, rather than sees Merlin’s answering shrug. “Neither have I, to be honest with you.”
“Lazy,” accuses Arthur, with affection.
“Coming from you?” returns Merlin. “If you’d like, we can get you a couple of chickens, I’m sure. Get you started on something small.”
“Merlin, when would I have time to rear chickens?”
“They’re not too difficult, as far as farm animals go,” Merlin points out. “And then we can work up from there. Get you a pair of goats, maybe even a nice cow.”
Arthur snickers. “I’ll get you a nice cow.”
Merlin schools his features into a stern, disapproving frown, but Arthur doesn't miss the way his lips quirk up at the corners. “Very mature.”
He’d be happy with it. It would be leagues away from everything he knows, but he could always learn. For all that Merlin accuses him of being spoilt, accustomed to the level of luxury most can only dream of, Arthur knows that he’d be content. A roof over his head, a warm bed he can crawl to after a day’s toil, and the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth by his side—what more could a man possibly need? No sane man would ever want to be king. To bear responsibility over the fates of so many lives, to live under constant scrutiny from too many prying eyes. It would’ve been a terribly lonely life, too, if not for Merlin.
Arthur spits out the pit of his nectarine, looking around for a cloth he can wipe the sticky juices off his fingers with. But seeing Merlin there, eyes closed against the relentless sun and his walls entirely down, Arthur sees an opportunity present itself. He swipes his fingers against Merlin’s cheek, cackling when he flails to push Arthur away.
“Arthur!” Merlin cries, “Oh, you git, you—“
Arthur is already up and running away before Merlin can get up to chase him, laughing. He should’ve known better and expected it when a vine catches his ankle and he trips face-first into the meadow, grass tickling his nose. Merlin is on him immediately, clearly not too upset if the way he is laughing is anything to go by. They grapple on the meadow like adolescent boys—Arthur’s strength may be superior, but Merlin is a slippery bastard with magic on his side. They end up with Arthur sitting on Merlin’s chest, breathless and beaming, Arthur realising full well that Merlin only lets him win.
“Brute,” accuses Merlin.
Arthur plants a wet, smacking kiss on Merlin’s cheek, chuckling as Merlin tries to duck away.
“You taste like nectarines.”
“Whose fault was that?” demands Merlin, wiping his cheek on his sleeve. His eyes are bright with joy, though, blue like the sky above them.
“You, obviously,” says Arthur. “You were the one who brought them.”
They walk back to their spot under the tree, their footsteps light and ridiculously carefree. Merlin picks up the book he brought with him and leans back against his tree. Arthur plonks his head on Merlin’s thigh, wriggling to get Merlin’s arm over his head. Merlin obediently raises his arm before lowering it back down, holding Arthur’s head in an almost-cradle.
“You need to eat more,” Arthur tells him. “Your thighs are too bony.”
“You are so annoying—”
“People will think that I’m not taking good care of you.”
Merlin looks down at him, smiling softly. He looks at Arthur with such fondness that it makes Arthur’s heart constrict. From this view, with his head haloed by the sun, Arthur has no difficulty believing everything the Druids say about Emrys.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Arthur shuffles to make himself more comfortable. Merlin sighs, putting his book aside to thread his fingers lightly through Arthur’s hair. Arthur closes his eyes again and leans into Merlin’s touch, indescribably content.
They could stay like this forever—how wonderful would it be? It’s just the two of them here, leaves gently rustling overhead, the air sweet with the scent of blooming wildflowers. Worries of Camelot seem forever away, tomorrow’s problems peculiarly distant. Merlin is humming lowly, a charming melody that Arthur has never heard of but sounds somehow familiar.
It’s bewildering, how closely they had come to never having this at all. Between the looming threat Morgana posed, Arthur’s near-death at the field of Camlann and the sheer, back-breaking weight of Merlin’s secrets, it once seemed impossible that they would ever go back to the way things were, let alone grow closer from it. It was a lot to work through, a wedge that very much could have driven them apart, but they managed it eventually. Now that Arthur knows what it’s like to have this firmly within his grasp, he wouldn’t know how to live without.
“What are you thinking about?” comes Merlin’s quiet voice. “You have that pinched look on your face again.”
“Nothing,” Arthur lies smoothly.
Merlin’s fingers still and he withdraws his hand away in a silent protest. Without looking, Arthur reaches for Merlin’s hand and puts it back where it belongs: combing gently through Arthur’s hair.
“You’re not as mysterious as you like to think you are,” says Merlin exasperatedly, but he complies and continues carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He lifts his knee lightly, causing Arthur’s head to loll. “Come on.”
“Truly, it’s nothing.”
“I’ll really stop,” threatens Merlin.
“Just glad you’re here,” Arthur huffs imperiously. “If you must know.”
“There, was that so hard?” says Merlin, insufferably smug. He scratches lightly at Arthur’s head. “Love you too, Arthur.”