Summary: Merlin and Arthur are on a fairly easy diplomatic negotiations trip. The hardest part is their single bed and hiding their feelings from one another.
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When he and Merlin arrive to Mora, Arthur’s pleased that they know to put him and Merlin in the same room. Not that he would admit it, of course.
It just makes sense for them. They used to share on diplomatic trips like these when Merlin was his manservant, and Arthur knows the man keeps an obsessive eye on him. And this makes it easier for Arthur to try and keep Merlin from getting into trouble, as he long since discovered his Court Sorcerer’s hard-dying penchant for sneaking out in the night.
So when the servant leads them to one room with a bow, neither bats an eye. They each thank him, and once he’s gone Merlin’s making a snide joke about one of the lords’ bushy eyebrows, and Arthur’s straining to withhold an unkingly snort, and then they’re freezing three steps into the room.
“Maybe he keeps them thick to keep his face warm. I don’t know why it’s so cold in here, isn’t anyone tending to the fire. . .places. . .?” Merlin trails off absentmindedly.
In all honesty, it takes Arthur a few beats to realize what it is that’s actually wrong. When he finally thinks, the bed, you idiot , he involuntarily glances at Merlin and is relieved to find he isn’t the only one blushing.
“Nice going, Merlin,” Arthur says loudly, effectively cutting the thick air.
No matter how small or irrelevant any convenience or trouble is, it’s always easiest to just blame Merlin for it. For one thing, there’s actually a fairly good chance he has something to do with it — considering how involved he has been in Arthur’s life right under his nose for so many years, it wouldn’t surprise him — but also, poking fun at Merlin always makes him stupidly happy. This, obviously, is another thing that does not get mentioned aloud, or really, even acknowledged consciously, if he can help it.
Merlin turns slowly and shoots him an incredulous look and damn, despite the little issue they have, this alone is making him grin like hell. “ Me ?”
“It’s always you, isn’t it?”
Merlin huffs at him as he waves a hand and brings their bags floating in to settle on the floor on the far side of the room for now. “Someone just made a mistake. Happens. Remember that time in Odin’s kingdom?”
Arthur starts laughing. “Merlin, they put you in the servants’ quarters on purpose.”
“That was an outrage!” Merlin cries, gold eyes and raised hand revealing his compulsive habit of casting protection spells wherever they went. “After he tried killing you on multiple occasions, how was I supposed to leave you in a room by yourself?”
“I can defend myself, Merlin.”
“Tell that to the hundreds of times I’ve saved your ass.”
He drops his hand, evidently satisfied.
“Whatever,” Arthur reluctantly concedes, “I’m not sharing this bed with you. So you can figure it out or sleep on the floor.”
Knowing he has had to say this before makes his stomach kind of flutter like crazy. Except maybe that’s not it. It was probably just the fish they had for dinner.
Merlin rolls his eyes, but then glances at the door, then the window and back, before sighing and waving the wood shut. “I don’t want to bother anyone. It’s late enough because you wouldn’t shut up about hunting with King Stalgad.”
“Hunting is an art, Merlin,” he says haughtily as his friend steps forward to help him take off the chainmail.
Merlin snorts. “Yeah. So is Gaius’s potion making.” He sets aside the armor and helps Arthur take off his shirt out of habit, too, because he apparently thinks Arthur is an idiot. Arthur doesn’t stop him from doing it, though. “And at least that’s useful.”
“When I hunt, it feeds you,” Arthur reminds him slowly with wide eyes, as if speaking to a child.
Merlin frowns sulkily down at Arthur’s tunic that he’s folding. “It also causes me a great deal of misery. And stress. Every time we come back from a trip I have more grey hairs.” He tosses it gently beside Arthur’s bag and digs out Arthur’s nightclothes.
“Nonsense,” Arthur says cheerfully. “We both know you’re skipping grey and going straight to white.”
Merlin throws his nightshirt and pants at him. “That’s not even funny.”
He finds his own clothes and starts to kick his boots off and they haven’t solved their little problem and Arthur focuses critically on pulling on his shirt and changing his pants.
He stands there stupidly for a second before climbing into the bed, trying to quell the pace of his ridiculously flustered heart.
Merlin stops in front of him, and Arthur half ignores him, turning on his side and waving a hand dismissively. “Just use your magic to poof up another one.”
He’s facing away, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Merlin lean forward in disbelief. “What?”
Arthur props himself back up on his elbows because of course he can never just say one thing to Merlin and leave it at that. “You know. Make another.” He does another airy hand gesture and wiggles his fingers, and he thinks that maybe this is what irritates his Court Sorcerer.
“I can’t just poof up another bed,” Merlin snaps.
“I thought you were the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth,” Arthur says, because he loves teasing him about that.
Sure enough, Merlin’s ears burn red. “That’s just not how it works!”
“What do you mean? You do stuff like that all the time,” Arthur points out.
“That’s a little different,” Merlin sniffs. “I’m able to summon a lot by instinct, but depending on the size of the object spells are best to ensure-”
“You didn’t even try,” Arthur interrupts. He’s being an ass. He knows he’s being an ass. But the banter is a welcome and familiar distraction, and also he wants to see how mad Merlin will get at him. “Just wave your hand and see what happens.”
He can practically see the throbbing at Merlin’s temple and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. But, sort of to his disappointment, Merlin composes himself with a small breath through his nose and then looks condescendingly at Arthur. “ You ’re gonna tell me how magic works. With your wiggly fingers.”
“Yes.” Arthur flips back onto his side. “I know more. You’re fired.”
Merlin huffs at him again before walking across the room to their bags for something. After that he lights the fireplace and grumbles to himself about the cold again, and Arthur thinks to himself that maybe the man would be warmer if he weren’t all skin and bones. He’s suspiciously quiet for a bit, but Arthur refuses to open his eyes.
The next thing he knows, there’s a loud cracking noise.
He sits up. “What- Merlin!”
His Court Sorcerer doesn’t bother turning his golden gaze as he studies the wardrobe in front of him. A strip of wood splinters off the back and hovers before him, then lays down horizontally. Once this is successful, he begins to remove the entire backing.
“Merlin! What are you doing?!” Arthur shouts incredulously.
This time, Merlin spares a look. “What you told me to do, sire,” he drawls, inclining his head mockingly. It’s unfair for him to use that voice and that look together with those startling, glittering gold eyes. Criminal, really.
It takes Arthur a flustered second to compose himself and find a response. “I don’t remember telling you to destroy the furniture!”
“I’m making a bed,” Merlin says, wholly unconcerned as the feet of the wardrobe detach themselves and settle to the four corners of the backing (rejoined to its trial piece he’d first ripped off) so that some semblance of a bedframe grows evident.
“Stop that!” Arthur demands. “Do you even know how to put that back together?”
“I know what I’m doing,” Merlin tells him. “Relax. No one’s gonna start a war over a piece of furniture.”
Arthur, for one, knew that was not actually true. “Merlin, fix that wardrobe right now,” he orders.
“No.”
Well, it was kind of dumb for him to expect Merlin to just comply.
“For the Triple Goddess’s sake,” Arthur finally exclaims, “put it back the way it was and get in the bed.”
The current strip of wood hovers at an indecisive angle. Neither of them speak for a second. “You said you wouldn’t-”
“I know what I said,” Arthur snaps, heart thudding painfully. “That was before I knew you were going to dismantle the whole room like a poorly behaved pet.”
Merlin spins around with a nasty golden glare, and shit if that doesn’t make Arthur hot. He swallows involuntarily and then silently curses himself. “Look, I’m tired,” he tries to appease his warlock. “There’s no need for this ,” he says, waving a hand at the haphazard bedframe, floating wood, and the remainder of the wardrobe, which dances just off the ground because it’s missing its legs.
Merlin stares at him a few moments longer, and for those anxious seconds Arthur thinks he’s going to outright refuse when Merlin raises his hand again and all the pieces of the wardrobe slowly fit together as if nothing had happened. His eyes fade to that familiar beautiful blue, only shaded with exhaustion. It was a long trip, and a long evening.
The warlock heads to the right side before Arthur even scoots over, because fuck, he knows , he remembers, of course he does. Arthur faces away from him and prays that Merlin can’t feel his heavy heartbeat through the vibrations of the mattress.
His pulse starts to calm at last, but frustratingly, he still can’t seem to fall asleep, despite the exhaustion of the day. He’d be able to tell if Merlin were awake just by his breathing, but the shivering is what makes it obvious. “You’re shaking the whole bed.”
“Sorry,” Merlin murmurs. He sounds closer to sleep than Arthur. He controls his quaking a little better, but certainly does not still.
Arthur stiffens, nearly startling when Merlin readjusts himself onto his back with his side pressed against Arthur’s back.
“Merlin,” he says calmly. “Didn’t I give you enough room?”
“’M cold and you’re warm,” he half whines sleepily. He burrows deeper under the covers and tilts his head just enough to make contact with Arthur’s shoulders.
He can’t say a word. His voice is fucked. He ’s fucked.
“Merlin,” he manages, but by then the warlock’s breathing has evened out in slumber.
✦✦✦
Because his destiny is to suffer, Merlin wakes up first.
Arthur is on his back, and Merlin’s tucked neatly into every angle and curve, facing the king on his side. His chin sits on Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur’s nose must be in his hair because there’s a slight fluttering tickle as he breathes. Arthur’s left arm is trapped underneath him, he’s definitely going to complain about that when he wakes up —
Oh gods, when he wakes up .
Merlin’s eyes shoot open from their daze with a sudden panic.
He could hardly believe when Arthur’d given in last night. The man was always funny about those sorts of things. Merlin’d sort of been joking about making the bed — if Arthur had really seemed bothered, he would’ve just slept on the floor. It would hardly have been one of the biggest sacrifices he’d made for the king.
So when Arthur basically threw up his hands and said, Fine, Merlin! Whatever! he’d been astonished. Maybe Arthur was finally mature enough to think that he could touch Merlin without someone judging him.
And now this. Fuck, now they were probably set back a couple of years.
Arthur’s breathing stutters a bit and every inch of Merlin’s skin heats up with embarrassment until he realizes the man is still asleep, breathing back to normal.
Merlin lets himself close his eyes for just a second, guiltily storing every sense of the moment in his memory: the little puffs of air startling his hair; the broad shoulder beneath his chin and a distinct scent of Arthur that he shouldn’t know, but does ; the warm muscles pressing against his body moving with his as their breaths synchronize; the arm beneath him that’s curved just a little bit around his waist, unless he’s imagining it. . .
Arthur’s head moves a little; Merlin manages to stop himself from starting.
If he doesn’t succeed in detaching himself before Arthur wakes up, that prat will blame him , of course he will, and then he’ll act all weird about it and their dynamic will be off at least a week — fucking hell —
A small swell forms at the back of his throat at the unfairness of it all. But then reason and panic catch up with him, and he decides to do the right thing and pretend it never happened.
Carefully, Merlin alleviates his weight from Arthur’s arm and pulls away reluctantly. He slips out of bed and shivers, ignoring the little traitorous whisper in the back corner of his brain suggesting he crawl back to the warmth and fall asleep again.
By the time Arthur wakes up, Merlin’s dressed. They don’t mention anything at all about it because why would they, there’s nothing to say. He helps Arthur dress like usual and then they’re off to long meetings and forced charm and pleasantries.
It isn’t bad, though. King Stalgad and Queen Clarice are amiable enough, and most of the negotiations are going without a hitch. Much of the time is spent on tedious things, like proper wording or finer details. To break it up, they engage in easy conversation throughout the morning.
“How long have you known each other, did you say?” Queen Clarice asks them.
“A little over a decade,” Arthur beats him to the response. To Merlin’s surprise, he adds casually, “I believe it’ll be eleven years next month,” because that’s exactly what the warlock was thinking.
He glances at the king as nonchalantly as possible while his thoughts flounder. Eleven years. Eleven years, and I’ve been in love with you for at least ten, gods help me.
But he quickly shoves that away because it isn’t helpful. His affections don’t help to protect Arthur, protect Camelot, won’t fulfill his destiny, and won’t help these negotiations. It’s just something he has to live with.
And honestly. . . even if it’s painful sometimes, he doesn’t really mind. The thought of rejection or disgust makes him nauseous, but keeping this last little secret to himself is just fine. He’s not hurting anything if he’s irrevocably in love with his best friend. Even though it’s unrequited, the warm feelings that attack him when Arthur jokes around with the palace staff’s children, or when he lets his hounds hop up on him, or when they’re out riding and he can’t stop smiling, or when he just looks at Merlin a little too long. . . well, it’s worth the immediate resulting ache.
The rose is worth the thorns, petting the puppy is worth the bite, the sweet blackberry is worth the bitter aftertaste. Arthur. . . Arthur is worth anything.
“You must be very close,” says Queen Clarice.
“I trust Merlin with my life,” Arthur replies, then side eyes his friend, “even if he lied to me for most of that time.”
“That’s not fair,” Merlin protests, but he can tell Arthur’s fighting a small smile.
“Rumor has it you’re inseparable,” she says, her own lips curving pleasantly.
“We can’t trust the other not to get into trouble,” Merlin explains, and he can tell from his periphery that the smile has won out on the king’s face. “But unfortunately, together we just attract double the danger.”
All of them laugh a little before continuing on with the stacks of papers strewn around the table.
Dinner, whether with visiting nobles or when visiting nobles, always feels strange to Merlin. He’s grown used to eating in Arthur’s chambers, oftentimes while they’re both working on something. Yesterday, he was tired from their journey and glad to sit down. Now he’s restless from sitting all day, and part of him wouldn’t mind standing around with a jug of wine if it meant he got to move a little.
He doesn’t realize his knee is bouncing a bit wildly beneath the table until Arthur’s hand alights there. He turns to find an eyebrow raised at him.
A beat later, the touch disappears, and Merlin tries to focus on the food — which really is quite good, a proper feast to celebrate their official alliance, but he’s simply too out of it — until the hand returns, clamping just enough that it tickles.
“What’s with you?” Arthur mutters to him, but before Merlin even responds, he feels when he meets the king’s eyes that he already knows. He had, afterall, mentioned this before. “Just a little longer,” Arthur tells him when he hesitates, and then the wicked king tries to purse his lips against a smile as he starts to squeeze up and down Merlin’s leg.
“Arthur,” he grits out as quietly as one can while being tickled, swatting the man’s hand, “stop that, you absolute prat-”
He pulls out of the chair to escape and several gazes turn his way — including those of King Stalgad and Queen Clarice.
Arthur’s face immediately molds into a near perfect, politely interested expression; only the slight tip of his mouth gives him away. Seeing his face, Merlin knows one little poke, a small push, the right words will make him lose grip and send him laughing. But he decides to let it be.
“I’m going for a walk, if you’d excuse me,” he explains before one of them can ask, and finds himself relieved by the prospect. Not that the atmosphere here isn’t warm or that he doesn’t enjoy the company. He’s just dying to stretch his legs.
Since he feels Arthur’s eyes on him, Merlin shoots him a look - edging a little more fond than annoyed like he wanted - just so he knows Merlin’s alright and to hopefully stop him from following.
The room where they’d been feasting was almost hot from all the bodies and steaming dishes, but once he leaves, the castle feels cold as ever. Snuggling a bit into his neckerchief, he tries to warm up by taking fast strides. Even as he starts to adjust, he decides to step out onto the balustrade into the true cold, just for a moment to take a glance at the view.
The glance turns into a stare as he takes in the soft flurries lit up by torches in the courtyard below and the rising moon above. It’s supposed to be getting warmer, but spring has been reluctant to come. Years ago, this would pose problems for him — doubling up on shirts and trousers trying to keep warm, a shortage of food. Now he has all the comforts of being Camelot’s Court Sorcerer. Really, he hasn’t had the same problems ever since he became Arthur’s manservant, either.
Knowing this, the cold seems more tolerable, and he lets himself watch the snow for a bit.
“Really,” a voice startles him. “All you do is complain about the cold-”
His eyes flicker to Arthur as the man steps up beside him, also leaning on the railing. They both look at the night sky. “I couldn’t help myself when I saw the snow.”
“Yes, well,” Arthur’s gaze finds Merlin’s, then drops lower. “Your lips are blue.”
Arthur’s looking at his lips. Arthur’s looking at his lips, and Merlin’s a disaster.
Merlin berates himself as he faces away for his own good, but he’s grateful for the rush of heat that suddenly warms him. Hopefully the cool air will explain his reddening complexion. “We’re being rude,” he distracts himself. “You shouldn’t have followed me. I’m fine.”
The king bumps against his shoulder. “It’s like you said. Gotta make sure you stay out of trouble.”
Just that bit of contact and Merlin can feel how warm he is. He’s Merlin’s sun: a source of light, all dazzling grins and golden hair; radiating heat, warm by body and warm by countenance, smouldering gazes and hot breaths clouding the air; fiery courage and confidence from being the center of the universe. His universe.
Not yours , Merlin reminds himself automatically, but fuck, it’s so easy to pretend when Arthur looks at him like that. An easy, genuine smile. Eyes half mast in amusement. Head inclined toward him alone.
There it is. The bee sting after lingering too long in the honey-sweet moment. His jaw clenches as he forces himself to peer down at the courtyard instead. “I like the view from your window better,” he says out of nowhere, absentminded, because he is an idiot.
Hopefully Arthur won’t read into it. He himself doesn’t know what, precisely, it implies.
Arthur’s too dumb to read into it , he assures himself.
A hand lands on his shoulder, just like it sat on his knee earlier. The king hums. “I think it’s time to go back in.”
Arthur’d never been touchy-feely, but after the first few times they’d saved each other’s lives, they were close enough that he was suddenly predisposed to these sorts of uncommitted touches. Another form of torture. Not that Merlin is complaining. He catches himself leaning into the warm contact and plays it off by pushing away from the railing. “If you insist, sire. ”
Arthur shoves him as they go back inside. Almost tripping, Merlin scowls and shoves back harder, and soon they’re running down the hall pushing one another. It really is unseemly, especially in another kingdom where they are guests, and Merlin shouldn’t be digging his elbow into his king’s ribs, but none of these things have stopped them before and probably never will.
They straighten themselves just before they reach the guards outside the door and sit back down in time for dessert.
King Stalgad and Queen Clarice seem pleased by how delighted their guests are with their cook’s famous buttercream cake. It’s moist and rich and swathed in icing as white as the flakes of snow that have yet to melt in Arthur’s hair.
He can tell his best friend is trying to be kingly, but he still eats his slice quite fast. He attempts to decline a second, but Queen Clarice is already handing him another plate and tells him, faux-haughtily, it would be rude to Zachary (the cook) not to eat it.
Merlin tries and fails not to laugh. He settles for concealing it with a small cough. Arthur trods on his foot under the table.
Halfway through this piece — which Arthur manages much slower — Merlin’s laughing again. “You’ve got icing by your nose.”
“No I haven’t,” Arthur denies even as he swipes at his face.
“Still there.”
Arthur spreads his hands at him in half exasperation, a clear indication: then you get it .
Merlin’s amused grin freezes on his face.
He’s helpless , he thinks, heart thudding irrationally hard. Can’t do anything for himself.
His eyes haven’t left Arthur’s, and for a wild moment he thinks he sees. . . something. Like Arthur knows that Merlin’s head over heels for him and he’s messing with him, knowing stupid shit like this drives him half fucking mad.
But that’s crazy. Arthur would be uncomfortable, possibly disgusted if he knew, not poking fun.
Merlin reaches out casually and barely brushes his thumb to remove the offending icing. This backfires as it only serves to smear it.
“Shit,” he mutters, “hold on-”
“What are you doing?” demands Arthur, pulling back suspiciously.
“Wait, I made it worse-”
“Nothing new, then,” Arthur sighs.
That hurt. A little. Merlin’s nose scrunches. He manages to get rid of the icing while Arthur watches, unimpressed.
Before he can think better of it, or at all really, he licks his thumb. Only right after does he consider how intimate (and frankly, sort of gross) the action is. So he settles for making a face as if he’d tasted something bad.
This time, Arthur scowls. He takes a contemptuous bite of his cake, and Merlin decides that the king can get a whole smear on his forehead, but the warlock won’t be doing a thing about it.
✦✦✦
They get back to the room and it becomes evident that they both forgot something.
Merlin curses. “I didn’t even think-”
“Do you ever think?” Arthur says, but his voice is playful. He himself had thought of it earlier. On a few occasions, actually. And then conveniently forgotten again. He figured it wouldn’t hurt anything.
“No matter. Long as it keeps you from playing with the furniture again.”
“I would’ve made a fine bed,” Merlin sniffs.
“If your carpentry is as unfortunate as your other skills, I’d love to see it.”
He’s suddenly grabbed by his chainmail and spun around forcefully to face his Court Sorcerer's half irritated glare. His breath doesn’t catch. It doesn’t. He’s just caught off guard.
“Says the man who can’t dress himself,” Merlin snaps, then begins to take it off.
As his friend folds the chainmail by hand and walks over to the table, Arthur says, “I’m perfectly capable. You’re just so eager to do it for me.”
Even with a mere view of his back, he can see Merlin freeze for a moment. He should not have said that, he should not have said that.
But then, over his shoulder: “I just don’t want you to get hurt actually trying to do something for yourself.”
The king scoffs at him, mostly relieved, whips off his shirt, and tosses it carelessly to the floor.
“Well done, sire!” Merlin praises in a falsetto. “Maybe next decade you’ll learn to fold it!”
Arthur wants to snog the smug look off his best friend’s face. He wants to make him forget what he was saying, for every thought in his head to float away. Or maybe he wants Merlin to grab him again, to grip his hips or shove his shoulders with those strong hands until he’s against a wall—
He doesn’t know what he wants. But it doesn’t matter, because he can’t have any of it.
These thoughts get stamped out. There is no space in his head — in this moment — for them. “Careful, Mer lin,” he says. “I’ll make you sleep on the floor. The cold, hard floor.”
“Then I’ll turn you into a toad,” Merlin says as he chucks Arthur his nightclothes, then appears to consider this. “Or a newt, perhaps. Do you have a preference? Nothing with teeth or claws will do.”
Arthur doesn’t respond until the shirt’s over his head. “You can turn me into what you like, but I’ll still find a way to make your life a living hell.”
“Don’t I know it,” Merlin mutters, tying his sleeping trousers.
When he climbs into bed, Arthur tries desperately to focus on sleeping. Or to think about Queen Clarice’s story about one of the maids’ daughters leaping out a window. . .
But then, as the warlock follows suit, he thinks about how Merlin slipped close to him last night, and wonders, does he still think it’s cold in here? Is it possible that their brief time on the balcony settled a chill in his bones?
She was only seven years old. It wasn’t a death wish, though she was lucky to survive it.
If he lies awake for a while, can he inch closer without Merlin noticing?
Evidently, she wanted to see what it felt like in the air. A free, stringless moment before gravity stole her to the earth.
Merlin shifts and Arthur holds his breath, but the man doesn’t come any closer.
To her mother’s horror, she’d been caught doing it again not a year after her recovery. Thankfully, this time she had the foresight to cushion her fall with a pile of laundry, and only sprained her ankle.
He catches himself listening to Merlin’s breathing as it starts to even out, and finally manages to escape the thoughts holding him hostage.
Angry, the mother demanded to know why on earth she had done it again. And the girl told her that it was worth it to feel like she was flying. She said it was the best feeling in the world.
She’d risk hurting herself for that stupid feeling. Why? It was such a girlish thing to do. Arthur can’t imagine why anyone would —
“I’m the girl.” He whispers it aloud, he’s so astonished.
“What?” Merlin asks, not nearly as groggy as Arthur would have liked.
“Nothing.”
He listens as Merlin turns over. “I heard you say something. Sounded like-”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Mer lin.”
The other man scoffs at this. “What, you were thinking aloud? Your head’s huge, certainly it’s big enough to fit the occasional thought in there?”
Arthur whips around. “Maybe your big ears are just hearing things,” he snipes.
“They did,” why is he smiling?, “You said you were a girl.”
“No, I didn’t!” Arthur denies immediately.
“You did!” Merlin crows. “I’m telling everyone I know. All the knights. Leon, Percival, Gwaine-”
Arthur nearly tackles him off the bed.
“You will tell no one,” the king snaps, glaring down at him. “You don’t even know what you heard.”
Merlin’s laughter drains away, and Arthur is absolutely mortified to realize that he’s straddling him. . . in the bed.
His heart might be in his throat, or maybe tonight’s dinner; whatever it is, he can’t breathe. This is Merlin , his best friend, trapped beneath him; Merlin, who used to clean his socks, who put up with him when he was a spoiled whiny prince, who knew (almost) every secret he had, who was with him every fucking minute of the day and was slowly killing him because of it. . .
Gods help him, he’s out the window, he’s flying, want and desire and fuck, love , clouding every sense he has, and now he’s just waiting for the crash. What would it be? A sprained ankle? Or seven months of recovery?
“Arthur,” Merlin huffs a nervous laugh. “You’re heavy. Shouldn’t have had that second slice of cake.”
He slips off the warlock with an eye roll, but suddenly he’s a nervous wreck. He hates himself for it. He can ease into a battle mindset on will, but it continues to grow harder to raise any defenses around Merlin. Triple Goddess, he really is a girl.
Thankfully, their banter is second nature. “I didn’t bring you along to keep track of my diet, Mer lin,” he manages.
“Of course not. That’s at least a two person job.”
Amazed, Arthur has to turn around at this comment. “The floor,” he says. “You get the floor for that.”
He glances at Merlin’s shit eating grin and knows that he’d have no hope enforcing this even if he wanted to.
But as he’s facing the opposite wall to try and forget the past quarter hour and go to sleep, Merlin prods, “What were you talking- er, thinking about, anyways?”
Arthur shifts, but doesn’t turn back. For a second, he wonders if he should even respond at all. Then, “That girl. The one who jumped out the window. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
He expects Merlin to laugh at him, but the man just hums. “Like. . .blackberries.”
If Merlin could see his face, he’s sure the man’d be laughing now. At this, Arthur flips back. “Blackberries,” he repeats, incredulous.
Merlin looks a bit sheepish, staring up at the ceiling, but goes on, “Y’know. They’re really good but they’ve got that odd aftertaste.”
“What?”
“You have to decide if they’re worth eating at all,” he explains. “Just like the girl was willing to hurt herself to, uh, fly.”
“That’s really not the same at all,” Arthur protests. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it.
“They’re on quite different scales,” Merlin concedes, “but it’s about losses versus gains.”
“Sacrifices in chess,” Arthur suggests.
“Yeah! Or Gwaine.”
“Gwaine?”
Merlin laughs a little and Arthur smiles at him before remembering himself. Thankfully, the warlock’s eyes are still on the ceiling. “How he’s always getting shitfaced. It costs him in the morning, but he does it anyway.”
Arthur knows this, obviously, but he never really thought about it like that. They both drift into comfortable silence.
The king lets himself think that it is nice to lay here beside Merlin, talking idly and leaving a soft warm buzz in his chest, even if the morning after, when they leave behind the single bed and intimacy, the heartache of these memories will give any hangover a run for its money.
Upon waking, Arthur discovers he must, metaphorically, still be drunk.
Merlin’s head is tucked neatly under his chin, and gods, he’s half certain those are the warlock’s lips grazing his neck as he breathes.
He can’t feel his left arm because Merlin’s crushing it, but who needs two arms, anyways? As long as he has his sword hand.
Maybe his legs are asleep too; he can’t tell where his end and Merlin’s begin and realizes that he doesn’t really care to find out.
And suddenly, the hangover — reality — comes crashing down.
This is everything he can’t have.
He can’t wake up next to Merlin like this unless he can blame it on single-bed scenarios and unconscious movements. He can tell Merlin anything, like how he was hung up on the maid’s daughter, but he can’t even tell the man how much he means to him, let alone how in love with him he is. Merlin’s the most calming, comforting presence he knows, and at the same time it can physically hurt to be too close to him, to see him smile, hear him laugh.
A thought from yesterday spirals back: he’s killing me. He’ll do anything to save my life, and he’s killing me.
A tickle on his neck means Merlin’s eyelashes are fluttering open, and Arthur knows he’s supposed to close his own eyes and pretend to be asleep. Instead, he stares listlessly at the ceiling and awaits his doom.
Merlin gingerly lifts himself off Arthur’s arm and appears to be carefully planning his next move when he sees Arthur awake and startles.
“Arthur,” he says, nervous.
The king wonders if he had to do this yesterday. He doesn’t want to know.
“Sorry, I-”
“Don’t.”
The word cuts through the air and ruins any chance to diffuse the tension. But he can’t hear Merlin make excuses or jokes for him. Not right now.
Merlin scrambles out of the bed hastily, made even more awkward by the need to detangle their legs. “I’ll ready the horses,” he says, sounding strangled. Which is ridiculous, because King Stalgad already arranged for someone else to take care of it.
“Merlin,” he says tiredly. Is this how it’s going to be? His best friend, running away?
The warlock turns back and Arthur freezes, because Merlin’s eyes are quickly filling up with tears.
“Why are-?” Arthur can’t form a coherent sentence. His stomach has dropped through his feet to the cold stone floor. He expected a poor reaction when ruining their friendship, but the warlock looks as utterly miserable as Arthur feels.
“I know you don’t want to hear it,” he says hoarsely, gaze falling, “but I can’t help it.” He licks his lips and shrugs, a manic, jerky movement. “I never meant for you to know.”
Arthur slides out of the covers until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. “What?”
“You’re the-” his voice wobbles, and he makes an empty hand gesture to try and fill in the blank, then laughs sadly at himself. “The blackberries. Just enough sweetness in the moment to outweigh the aftertaste.”
Arthur stands. “You and those fucking blackberries,” he says under his breath. Before Merlin can dart away, he snags hold of the warlock’s chin and gives in to a decade old urge.
Barely two seconds after he presses their lips together, Merlin rips away. “Woah,” he says, putting his hands up. Arthur mirrors him, suddenly terrified he’s completely misunderstood again. “What are you doing?”
And then they’re back at the start, when Arthur refused Merlin’s hug. When he’d been too stuck up for contact and too afraid of its implications.
Now it’s up to Merlin and shit, it does not feel good to be on this end.
“What was that?!” Merlin demands when Arthur fails to respond.
“I was. . .” he trails off so soon there was no point opening his mouth.
The warlock’s vulnerability transforms to defensive rage. “Don’t make a fucking joke out of this, Arthur.”
Arthur blinks in surprise, then tries to take a step closer, but Merlin’s accusing finger makes him pause. “Every day for the last ten years, the least you could do is be serious-”
This time, Arthur grabs his face with both hands when he kisses him. Merlin allows it and doesn’t move away when Arthur pulls back to murmur, “Do you ever shut up, Merlin?”
The warlock’s hands find his waist to slam him against the bedpost in retaliation, and the king can’t goad him anymore because he’s lost all his air.
Merlin gets a little too eager and slams their foreheads together, causing them both to groan. Arthur’s mind drifts briefly to thoughts of headaches and hangovers. Damn, that metaphorical bullshit is going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Why’d you act like such a prat when I woke up?” Merlin asks. His low voice is doing something to Arthur’s stomach.
“Same as you,” Arthur gives a half grin. “Thought this was unrequited.”
“Comforting to know we both suffered pointlessly for a decade,” Merlin says dryly.
“Nice going, Merlin.”
The warlock bites with the next kiss. And well, this time, the ache is pleasant.
✦✦✦
Just before they mount their horses, the king and Court Sorcerer bid their allies King Stalgad and Queen Clarice farwell.
“Having you has been a pleasure,” Queen Clarice says, then adds genuinely, “We’ve never gotten along with another royal couple so well. Come back anytime.”
Merlin’s brow furrows. He’s certain he misheard her. “Royal couple?”
“Yes,” she says. “They’re always so cold and formal. Clearly arranged marriages. Not to mention they always make a mess of the room. We’ve had to remodel the one you two were in several times.”
The warlock nearly chokes. “Actually-”
Arthur stops him with a filthy open mouthed kiss right in front of their allies, then smiles winningly at them. “No arranged marriage here. In fact, my father’d drop dead if he weren’t already.” Merlin has to hold back a snort. “Thank you for your kindness. One day, you’ll have to visit Camelot.”
“It’d be our pleasure,” King Stalgad tells him.
As they pass out of the courtyard to leave Mora, Merlin says, “This whole time. They thought we-”
“I know.”
“Total strangers. And they just — knew.”
He pauses, letting the footfalls of the horses fill the air alone before continuing, “Who else do you think knew?”
They exchange a glance at this consideration. Arthur screws up his face as he looks at the road ahead of them. “You know, that sounds like the next set of thoughts I’m going to ignore.”
“Gwen definitely knew.”
“Merlin.”
“All of the knights. Oh no. You don’t think Morgana-?”
“Merlin-”
“If she knew, then she’d have known your death would destroy me. That she could’ve killed two birds with one stone.”
“Merlin, please ,” Arthur complains. “one traumatic thought at a time.”
“It really would explain some of Gaius’s cryptic behavior if-”
When Arthur groans, Merlin shoots him a wicked grin and cuts off at last. But then he grows a bit suspicious and sidles up closer, almost conspiratory, as though they aren’t completely alone in the woods on the way back to Camelot.
“You wouldn’t have anything to do with it, would you?” he asks lowly.
“Excuse me?”
Merlin’s expression grows unassuming. He shrugs. “I’m just wondering what your correspondence was like. If it led to some conclusions being drawn.”
He’s close enough that Arthur can snag his hand. He studies it for a moment, as if considering what to reveal. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” The king presses a kiss to his knuckles, looking up at him fondly, almost mischievous, and Merlin decides to let it go.
“I do wonder, though,” Arthur muses, “how King Staldgad and Queen Clarice will respond to a wedding invitation.”
By didthattwinkjustcommittreason on ao3