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Merlin woke up with the unfortunately all-too-familiar sensation of being tired before the day had even properly begun. The first light of dawn was barely a blush on the horizon, but his night of rest was already at an end. He groggily rubbed sleep out of his eyes as he sat up in his narrow pallet, his mind clunkily going through the day’s list of chores.
First, herb garnering for Gaius, then lighting the fire in Arthur’s chambers against the chill of the morning, then Arthur’s boots to clean (because he’d been too tired to do it last night), then Arthur’s breakfast to put together and bring up. Then of course, dragging the prince out of his comfy bed before giving the chambers a cursory bit of tidying up (today was laundry day so sheets to change), helping Gwen carry the laundry baskets (and top up on castle gossip), and readying Arthur for the morning council meeting. After that, he had to head down to the armoury to make sure that all articles of Arthur’s gear and weaponry were cleaned, mended and ready for the knights’ afternoon training (including all the magical wards that no one knew about). Then it was back upstairs to serve Arthur’s lunch, followed by an afternoon of attending knights’ practice and delivering the mandatory dose of backhanded compliments (just doing his part to keep Arthur’s vanity in check). Next came the delicate moment in Merlin’s schedule: drawing Arthur’s bath and scrubbing his back (while firmly abstaining from letting his own lustful thoughts wander), then helping him dress for a formal dinner with envoys. And this meant he would then have to attend said dinner from the shadows making sure everyone’s cup stayed full and no one tried to slip poison in the prince’s drink for the whole duration of the feast. Then it would be bedtime for all good prats, and Merlin would be readying Arthur’s bed for the night (and resisting taking a nosedive into the soft sheets himself), before finally dragging his weary bones back to the Physician’s quarters for whatever last smelly task Gaius had in store for him until Merlin could hit the hay again tonight. And then wake up tomorrow to do it all over again.
And those were only the habitual chores, and didn’t include whatever unexpected ordeal the day might bring under the form of a magical beast to be slain, a political conspiracy to be foiled, or an enchanting sorceress to be thwarted. Life in Camelot was interesting like that.
With a sigh, Merlin got out of bed, and in the familiar semi-darkness of his cramped bedroom, he put on yesterday’s clothes, pulled on his bad boots (the ones he used when foraging for herbs), grabbed his satchel, checked his pocketknife was in it, and closed his hand over the shirt he’d hung to dry to see whether it’d be dry enough to put on when he came back. Thank goodness he’d realised last night that he’d run out of clean clothes (bit of a mix up with the laundresses, long story) and had managed to find an old, musty smelling blue shirt along with a yet unused and very stiff red neckerchief at the back of his cupboard. A quick soak and they’d be perfectly wearable, sparing him some uncomfortable remarks. He felt confident they would both be nearly dry by the time he got back from his errand – and if it wasn’t, there was always the drying spell. Intent on getting his day started, Merlin then quietly climbed down the stairs, picked Gaius’ list of herbs from the workbench, and pocketed a crumpet from a plate before tiptoeing past the snoring physician.
It was a little after sunrise when he returned, shivering from the cold and damp as he trudged back up the stairs to his room. He was running a bit late but he’d managed to find most of the plants on the list. His toes were wet and freezing from the April dew (those boots were in a bad state for a reason) and his fingers were still a little numb as he pulled the ripe shirt off his back. As he hopped on one foot to pull his good trousers on, he prayed that Morris had left the firewood in the hallway and not tried to bring it inside Arthur’s chambers, because the lad never failed to make a racket and Merlin wanted Arthur to stay fast asleep until he’d had time to catch up on his chores. Maybe he just had time to give Arthur’s boots a quick brush before he brought the princely prat his breakfast.
“What the…?” Merlin froze as he reached for the hung shirt he intended to wear. What the hell had happened?!
He hadn’t noticed anything wrong last night when he’d washed the garment in the candlelit room, but in the morning light it became obvious that the shirt wasn’t blue anymore. It looked rather… purplish now.
Merlin cursed and frowned as he took the shirt closer to the window so he could better see the extent of the damage. Yep, it was a bafflingly perky purple. He scowled at the culprit: the now only slightly less red neckerchief drying on the makeshift washing line.
There was no time to mourn the sartorial mishap, unfortunately. It was Merlin’s only clean shirt. With an aggrieved huff, he punched his arms through the sleeves and yanked it over his head. It felt a little not-quite-dry over his skin, but it was soft and smelled of lavender (courtesy of Gaius’ medicinal stash). It would have to do for the next couple of days.
Jacket, neckerchief, good boots – Merlin finished getting ready and trotted down the steps. Thank gods for small mercies, Morris had dumped the firewood in the deserted hallway, so Merlin was able to cast a silence spell while he built and lit the fire. Meanwhile, the prince snuffled blithely, still fast asleep in his opulent bed of lush pillows and soft sheets, reminding Merlin that some things in life were wildly unfair. Next stop was the kitchens, for Arthur’s breakfast.
Cook opened eyes like saucers upon seeing him. Oh for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t that late.
“I’m not that late,” he muttered as he sidled past her and began to assemble the prince’s breakfast. “And I’ve got a very good excuse.” Which he had no intention of giving her.
She remained eerily quiet as she stared at him throughout the highly arcane process putting together breakfast. She didn’t even say anything when he nabbed a little cake from the tray in afterthought and bit a sizeable chunk out of it before stuffing the rest into his pocket. He was famished.
“Been hard at it since before dawn,” he defended around his mouthful.
He noticed the way she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his shirt. Who knew the woman could be so judgemental with regards to fashion? As if she could talk!
“New shirt,” he lied. He was certainly not going to admit he’d fumbled his washing.
Surprisingly, Cook still wouldn’t engage in their usual verbal sparring and grumblings for some reason. But he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth on that one.
He picked up the tray and walked over to the monstruous stove where Molly was busy cooking sausages in a huge black pan.
“Hey, Molly,” he greeted. “Could you add two more, please?”
“Hello, Merlin. Sure,” she said, then sort of froze upon looking up at him. Her eyes took him in, shirt and dimples and all, and she blinked. “Um…” She blinked some more, looking a little flushed (she’d been manning the stove for some time apparently). Without a word, she began to add a couple of big, fat, juicy, perfectly sizzling sausages to the already brimming plate.
“You know what? We need to keep his strength up. Make that four,” Merlin amended, fully intending to steal at least two for himself. “You know the man is keen on his sausage.”
Cook gave a squawk of outrage and Molly clapped a hand over her mouth to contain a burst of snort and giggle, then gave Merlin a blushing sidelong glance. Merlin didn’t know why they were getting so flustered: everyone knew Arthur enjoyed his food.
The kitchens had gone strangely quiet. Behind them, Cook further muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘brazen little tart’. Merlin wasn’t sure if she was referring to the evening’s menu or Molly (which would’ve been terribly rude).
Once the tray was fully loaded and the plates covered, Merlin made his ascent up the grand staircase. He was used to drawing the attention of the people he encountered with the enticing smells wafting from the food, but this morning, they all looked like they’d never seen a prince’s breakfast before.
Even Leon looked at him funny.
“Merlin?” the tall knight said, a pleasantly surprised expression on his face that Merlin didn’t know what to make of. There was an inexplicable glimmer of something tender in his serious eyes. “I’m…” Leon seemed momentarily lost for words, then he smiled warmly and gave Merlin’s shoulder a heartfelt squeeze. “I’m glad,” he finally said with unusual affection. “Take good care of him.”
And with those cryptic words, the knight walked away, leaving a stumped Merlin standing in the middle of the hallway.
What on Earth was the man on about? A flutter of worry went through Merlin. Had something happened to Arthur while he was downstairs?
Merlin lengthened his stride.
Arthur’s quarters were still wrapped in semi-darkness when he got there, and the usual soft snuffles were coming from the big bed. There was nothing out of place. Everything looked exactly as it had been and as it should be. Merlin checked that the wards were still firmly in place, then extended his magic to the sleeping bane of his existence. Everything seemed all right. Leon must’ve been in one of his existential moods again. The man was a treasure, but he needed to lighten up sometimes.
Merlin quickly checked on the fire, then summarily arranged Arthur’s breakfast on the table, then went to open the drapes.
This was one of his favourite moments of the day. Waking up Arthur with a flood of light and an overly cheerful phrase. The sight of a tousled, bare-chested (he was always bare-chested these days), grunting and owlishly blinking Arthur never failed to make Merlin inexpressibly smug and tingly. The enticing abundance of skin on display had something to do with it of course, but more than that, it was the familiar intimacy of being able to catch Arthur at his cutest and most vulnerable that had Merlin feeling all soppy and protective. Sometimes he even caught Arthur clumsily trying to hide his morning wood.
“Go away,” came the croaky mumble from amongst the sheets.
“Breakfast’s ready,” Merlin announced, going about the room tidying bits and bobs, which amounted to dumping stuff out of sight, rather than doing any actual tidying. No one would be the wiser, anyway.
“I don’t care,” Arthur grumbled peevishly, his voice muffled through layers of soft linen.
“Awww, don’t be like that. I got you your favourite: sausages!”
A dismissive grunt from the bed.
“And they’re delicious,” Merlin wheedled, picking one from Arthur’s plate and sampling it lovingly. He huffed and hissed as it was a little too hot, but gods it was heavenly.
“Hands off my breakfast!” Arthur warned, his dishevelled head finally sticking out from under the covers.
“Then get your lazy arse out of bed,” Merlin advised, savouring the delicacy. Cook may be a crabby old crone, but her bangers were amazing.
“This is no way to speak to your prince,” said the lazy arse as he finally consented to shuffle to the edge of the mattress.
“It gets the job done, though,” Merlin dimpled. And popped the last bit into his mouth, then sucked the succulent, greasy juice from his digits.
There was a predatory growl from the vicinity of the bed.
“Get your grubby, pilfering hands off my food,” Arthur rumbled as he lumbered over to the table, still half asleep. Merlin poured him a cup of small beer, then went to the wardrobe and began sorting out Arthur’s clothes in view of the council meeting.
Arthur was slow to mentally emerge from slumber in the mornings, so it gave Merlin the time he needed to catch up on the menial chores around the chambers. The prince munched on his breakfast, leisurely commenting on the day’s business while Merlin changed the bedsheets. Then Arthur got up, drained his cup, and ducked behind the screen to prepare for the council meeting.
“You haven’t finished your breakfast,” Merlin noted, coveting the lone remaining sausage.
“Leave my food alone, Merlin,” warned the voice behind screen.
“I’m just saying, it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“Hands off!”
Merlin grinned and bid his time. They both knew Arthur would eventually let him nab whatever he wanted (within reason) from the tray.
A quiet knock at the door announced Gwen’s arrival with her basket of laundry.
“Morning, Gwen,” Arthur’s disincarnate voice greeted.
“Good morning, Sire.”
“Hey, Gwen,” Merlin said, his arms full of dirty sheets.
“Hello, Merlin,” she said as he dumped the bundle of bedlinen into the large basket. Then her eyes went a little wide with surprise when she got a proper look at him. “Merlin…” She fluttered her eyelashes and said his name as though it were a question, a soft chiding and a praise all rolled into one. “I didn’t know…”
Merlin frowned for a few uncomprehending heartbeats, then realised she was staring at his shirt, or rather at its unconventional colour.
“Oh. Yeah, happened last night,” he mumbled, not very proud of his ineptitude.
“Oh, wow,” she said, blushing inexplicably. “Last night,” she echoed. “I had no idea that… things could take… that you would want it to be… I mean… You should’ve told me,” she admonished, smiling shyly and giving his arm a gentle little squeeze. “Not that you should, mind you, as it’s none of my business,” she hastened to add, another quick blush suffusing her cheeks. And really, Merlin couldn’t make any sense of what she was trying to tell him, until she finally said something that sounded like proper English. “The colour suits you,” she offered, nodding at the garment with one of her timid, cheeky smiles as she rolled onto the balls of her feet.
“Well, not too sure about that,” he said, looking down at the perky purple. “But yeah, it’ll have to do for now. It’s better than walking around shirtless at any rate.” He then leaned down and picked up the heavy basket. “Here, let me take this for you.” Then he turned to the screen, behind which clothes were haphazardly whipping about in all directions. “Are you going to manage without me, Sire?”
“Believe it or not, I do know how to dress myself, Merlin.”
“Right.”
“If you take too long, I might have a go at my sausage, though,” the prince taunted.
Beside Merlin, Gwen started to cough and choke, and turned an alarming shade of red.
Merlin just smirked and shook his head. “He doesn’t mean that,” he promised lightly as he walked down the hallway with the laundry basket. “That sausage’s got my name on it.”
The morning progressed strangely from there.
The maids were unusually giggly and the stable hands were giving him catcalls. And truly, Merlin had never suspected that a simple laundry blunder could get people so giddy over something so trivial. The knights were the worst. A roar of mirth and cheerful congratulations erupted as soon as he entered the armoury. His back was slapped, his shoulders were rattled, his hair was ruffled, and more intriguingly, money passed hands, with Gwaine seeming to rake in on some obscure wager.
Merlin was afraid to ask, and for once he was relieved to see them file out of the room for their morning patrols – he’d never liked not being in on a joke.
But the real coup de grace came at lunchtime when Arthur had a pause as he took a proper long look at Merlin’s attire for the first time that day.
“Um… Merlin?” he asked with dry cautiousness. “Care to explain?”
“Explain what?”
“What’s with the shirt?”
“It’s just an old shirt,” Merlin muttered defensively.
Arthur pursed his lips, tipped his head to the side and gave him a pointed look – quite obviously waiting for Merlin’s full confession.
Ever the contrary lad, Merlin toyed with the idea of being his usual argumentative self, but soon came to the conclusion that it would only goad the prat on. He elected to be the grown-up just this once.
“There was a bit of a mishap when I washed it,” Merlin admitted.
“A mishap.”
“Yes.”
The pursed lips pushed into dubious pout territory.
“So, there is no… hidden meaning to this.” Arthur’s ringed forefinger described a vague loop at Merlin’s whole lanky frame.
“Hidden meaning?”
“Yes. You’re not… trying to tell me something,” the prince enlarged, his guarded composure daintily accented with an arched eyebrow.
“Uh… No?” Merlin said, slightly puzzled. “Unless of course you want to gift me a new shirt, which would be most welcome,” he suggested with a winning smile. He usually got one for Yule. It was the Royal tradition that servants would receive the gift of a sweet cake and an article of clothing on that festival. Last year, he’d even been offered one of Arthur’s discarded shirts.
“Mmmm-no,” decided Arthur, now giving him an amused look. “So, just so I understand, you’re going to be wearing this shirt all day?”
“Well, all the others are dirty. Would you rather I went bare-chested?” Or in his night shirt?!
Teasing blue eyes roamed slowly over Merlin’s purple-clad chest in a way that made him feel not a little self-conscious.
“No, that would only make the situation worse,” the prat mused.
“The situation?” What situation? There was a situation? Merlin didn’t like the sound of that.
“Never mind, Merlin,” Arthur smirked fondly. “Don’t you worry your pretty head.”
Warning bells were now ringing somewhere in the back of Merlin’s befuddled mind.
“You think my head is pretty.” This could be a nefarious enchantment.
“I think many things. And so will all the people who see you dressed like this today, I’ll vouch.”
“All right. What is going on, now?” Merlin huffed. “There’s something going on,” he added when Arthur merely beamed at him. “Everyone’s been weird to me today. It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”
“There really is no limit to your powers of observation, is there Merlin?”
Merlin scowled.
“I’ll drop you a hint: in all the years you’ve lived and worked here, have you ever seen anyone wear the colour purple?” Arthur asked very pleasantly. “Anyone who wasn’t royalty, that is.”
Merlin frowned. A horrible doubt began to take shape and wedge itself sideways in his throat.
“No?”
“Aa-ah. Now, would you like to venture a guess as to why that is?”
“Are you telling me that purple is a colour that only members of the royal family are allowed to wear?” What nonsense was this?! So, not content with the indecent amount of privilege they already enjoyed, royalty had also hogged a whole bloody colour for themselves?! And people let them?!
“That’s right,” Arthur said, an evil glint of mischief in his eyes as he got up. “And do you know what it means when someone outside of the royal family wears purple?”
Oh gods above, he wasn’t going to like this, was he?
Arthur leaned right into Merlin’s space, smelling of something nice and looking far too alluring in his insufferable arrogance. Merlin made a strenuous effort to pay attention to the words about to come out of that entirely too kissable mouth.
“It means this person is a favourite,” Arthur murmured, childishly infusing the word with salaciousness.
Oh for gods’ sake…
“You’re joking,” Merlin breathed, feeling himself turn hot and cold and a whole new shade of mortified. He immediately plucked the front of his shirt as if to keep the fabric from being in contact with his skin. For a moment there, he seriously considered taking it off right where he stood.
“Oh no, you’re most definitely keeping it on, Merlin,” Arthur warned with uncharitable glee. “You’re wearing this beautiful shirt until the end of the feast tonight.”
“Why?! Everyone’s going to think that I’m… I mean, that you’re… that we’re…”
“Bumping uglies?” the prat supplied perversely.
“Augh!” Merlin shuddered rather theatrically. It wasn’t the notion of doing excitingly obscene things with Arthur that he objected to (that would’ve been most welcome, truth be told), but the atrocious turn of phrase. “That is disgusting!”
“Merlin, do you have any idea how many people in Camelot would sell their soul for the privilege of having my favours and sharing my bed?”
“Not enough, apparently, if you have to prey on your innocent manservant.”
“My innocent manservant?” Arthur scoffed.
“Your innocent and uninterested manservant,” Merlin clarified, absolutely not lying through his teeth. “Seriously, Arthur, you can’t expect me to keep this thing on now.” He was going to burn this bloody shirt.
“On the contrary, I expect you to do just that.”
“But… The knights and the maids and…” Gods, everyone he’d come across today. They all thought he was Arthur’s bedwarmer! “And what will your father say?”
Arthur shrugged. “Oh he’ll probably ask what took me so long.”
“WHAT?!”
“From what I understand, bedding your manservant was quite the done thing back in the days.”
And Merlin felt the world tilting under his feet, because there was simply too much to unpack in that single sentence.
“Are you telling me that when your father made me your servant, he actually expected you to… to…?!”
“Rail you senseless?” the clotpole provided. “Possibly.”
“But…” Dear gods! They – theoretically, and only for the sake of the argument, of course – could have been fucking with Uther’s blessing all this time?! Merlin was having a tiny bit of a breakdown.
“Except for the fact that my servant was clearly innocent and uninterested,” Arthur reminded him easily.
“But… But don’t you mind that people would think that I’m your… your…?!”
“My naughty little strumpet?” he smirked insufferably. “No, it’s actually hilarious.” He clapped a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gave him a laddish shake.
“But surely you can’t be serious about my parading in this shirt until tonight. I have to serve at the feast. The whole court will see me.”
“Exactly. And that will get quite a few scheming ladies and their noble fathers off my back.”
“Why?”
“Because then they’ll know I’m in no hurry to get married as I’m quite blithely enjoying the untold delights of my manservant who’ll never get pregnant with my bastards,” Arthur explained with a completely straight face and a congratulatory pat on Merlin’s suddenly toneless shoulder. “The Mercia envoys are here to negotiate an alliance under the form of a strategic marriage, and I want them to know that I’m not that desperate.”
“And so you’re using me,” Merlin accused.
“No, I’m using your laundry mishap.”
“But you clearly don’t care how that is going to affect me.”
Arthur frowned at that. “You’ve worn the shirt all damn morning. And it’s only for a few more hours, Merlin,” he said reasonably. “You can take the shirt off after that. And dye it any other colour you wish.” With a winsome grin, Arthur turned from Merlin and filled his cup. “You’ll be thanking me. This will do wonders for your reputation.”
“By sparking rumours that I’m your sex slave?!”
“Merlin, do you honestly think I’m the one sparking anything? This is a big castle, you know. The place is filled with rumours of people having sex with everyone else. I’d wager you’re already rumoured to be sleeping with Gwen, Gaius, half the maids and all of my knights,” Arthur informed him with a smile. “It’s the dimples. You should be more careful who you aim those babies at.” Then Arthur gave an amused little frown. “And sex slave sounds terribly kinky. What turpitude lurks in that nebulous brain of yours?”
Turpitude, my arse, thought Merlin.
“So you’re perfectly okay with all of this?!” he muttered, exasperated to be made to feel like a prude.
“Protesting won’t help. You should hear the number of virgins I’m supposed to have deflowered. Men and women,” Arthur noted placidly. Then, shaking himself out of his indulgent mood, he drained his cup and slapped it back onto the table. “Come on, enough with the empty chatter. Help me prepare for the knights’ training.”
Which Merlin did, in a baffled stupor.
The knights’ practice on the meadow that afternoon… was something else. The men were in a jocular mood, Arthur was hideously flirty and there was a suspicious number of gawkers who had no business whatsoever being here. On the sidelines, Merlin polished weapons, retrieved bolts, carried water, and generally tried to remain outwardly undisturbed while privately devising inventive ways to get his revenge. On everyone and soon.
His ordeal would’ve been bad enough had he simply been embarrassed by it all. But there was an additional secret layer of aroused annoyance and longing to Merlin’s torment. Everyone was having a wonderful time taking the piss out of him, thinking he was something that he only wished he could have been – but decidedly wasn’t. And the cherry on the cake was that Arthur had never seemed so attractive, so titillating or so desirable, the rank tosser.
Then, practice was done and it was time for Arthur’s bath – and truly Merlin never thought a crown prince had the right to be such a consummate cock-tease.
The feast was to be the final stage of his day-long trial of fortitude. There were side glances and blushes and giggles and murmurs behind hands, and Merlin promised himself that he would make Arthur pay very dearly for this, one way or another. He met Gaius’ eyebrow as stoically as could be expected – and wished had found the time to see him earlier to explain. Then he met Uther’s eyebrow, which was a different sort altogether but surprisingly supportive – and that was just seven kinds of creepy as far as Merlin was concerned.
“Oh cheer up, Merlin,” Arthur said, patting his arm once they were back in the prince’s chambers following the well lubricated banquet. “You make it seem like being my favourite is just about the most dreadful thing that could happen to anyone.”
“Well…” Merlin said – and then left it at that.
“I’m not that bad.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Merlin remarked rather testily as he went about his final duties for the day, turning down the sheets, fluffing up the pillows and smacking the bolsters.
“Would you like to know?”
The question was so innocuous that Merlin didn’t really pay attention to it, intent as he was on keeping his count of cushions. Then he realised Arthur had gone quiet, and finally the words registered. Merlin turned to where Arthur was seated at the table.
“What did you say?” Surely he didn’t mean…
“I’ve often told you that were our circumstances different, we would’ve been friends, you and I,” Arthur murmured, rubbing a meditative fingertip over a defect in the wood. “I should probably add that, had we been friends and equals…” Arthur hesitated for a heartbeat, then trained gently cautious eyes on Merlin, “I often feel that we would have been lovers too. Inevitably. At some point.”
Merlin stood still. Unable to move or think or breathe. He was nothing but a pounding heart.
“It’s the strangest thing,” Arthur continued, his voice soft and earnest. “The way we behave, you and I. These lapses in good sense and due propriety. I keep trying to remind myself that you shouldn’t address me the way you do, that I shouldn’t find you so irreverently appealing, and yet I think I would absolutely hate it if you kept me at arm’s length and showed me the respect and submissiveness I’m owed as your prince.” He frowned slightly. “I would feel like something fundamental was missing from my life if you weren’t who you are.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Merlin whispered, afraid to break the delicate mood.
“I just wanted you to know that the reason why everyone took one look at that silly shirt this morning and jumped to conclusions, is simply because anyone with two eyes and half a brain knows that you already are very much my favourite, Merlin. In everything but the carnal delights, really.”
“I don’t think...”
“I take you everywhere I go,” Arthur explained.
“You wouldn’t last a day without me,” Merlin concurred.
“I value your opinion above anyone else’s.”
“You never listen to me.”
“I also have it on good authority that we banter and bicker like an old married couple.”
“Well, you need to be put in your place some time.”
Arthur snuffed a chuckle and shook his head fondly. And still, Merlin dared not move. The wispy tendrils of tenderness between them were very rarely acknowledged, which made this all the more precious.
“Tonight, at some point during the feast, I was so caught up in our deception that I fooled myself into thinking that I would finally get to taste your lips,” Arthur murmured. “For one brief moment, I was genuinely…” Arthur’s mouth curved into a vulnerable line “…dangerously close to happiness.”
And Merlin had absolutely nothing to answer to that, because the words were simply annihilating him in the most bittersweet way imaginable. This had to be an enchantment of some kind. Nothing so good could ever happen to them.
Arthur tipped his cup to peer inside it, as though sharing Merlin’s sentiment.
“I’ve had a few,” he noted mildly, then trained a resigned smile on Merlin. “I should remove myself to bed.” And he did just that. Pushed the goblet away with a fingertip, got up tiredly and walked past Merlin.
So that was it? The fragile, tender moment was slipping through their fingers and Merlin was going to let it go?
Like hell he would.
It wasn’t a very well thought-out gesture. It wasn’t suave or graceful or elegant. It was, basically, Merlin simply lunging at Arthur, all neediness and grasping hands, grabbing at the prince’s stunned face and planting a panicked attempt at a kiss on slack, unready lips. For a brief sickening heartbeat, Merlin thought he had utterly screwed things over and made a complete fool of himself.
Then Arthur’s hands reflexively closed around his elbows, just holding for an instant before gliding with more sensual intent up to the back of his shoulders and dragging him closer. Meanwhile Arthur’s lips caught up and found their mark, and the kiss as a result had improved exponentially, currently draining Merlin of any thought and replacing everything with a burning hunger for more and now. Arthur’s fingertips pushed into Merlin’s hair as his tongue pushed into Merlin’s mouth, with a kind of rushed, breathless reverence that made Merlin want to weep with joy.
By common agreement of their hardening feelings, they decided it was high time they both worked on Merlin earning that bloody purple shirt by way of very purple delights.
And they worked hard at it.
With sweaty, vigorous and single-minded determination.
All night long in fact, and like animals.
Merlin woke up to unusual warmth and comfort, not to mention mild ache and stickiness in unusual but interesting places. He also had a clotpole stuck to his back and gently chewing on his shoulder.
Life in Camelot was beautiful like that.
***