Work Text:
There were two things one should know about Gwaine:
1) He was incredibly brave and loyal, and was truly a man of the people.
2) He was an insufferable flirt.
Merlin knew both of these things. He had great respect for men with the first quality, men like Arthur and Lancelot. As for the second… well, it kept things interesting, to say the least. Merlin had grown used to Gwaine's incessant vulgarity, had even grown to like it. While Camelot was a large kingdom with lots of opportunity, Merlin wasn't exactly popular. That, and he'd been head over heels for Arthur for a fairly significant amount of time, now- Merlin didn't feel all that motivated to spend a night in the tavern getting chatted up by barmaids or leering men twice his age. For now he'd settle for Gwaine, who flirted with everyone. Gwaine, who was attractive in a rugged, daring sort of way and whose company Merlin genuinely enjoyed. It was nice to feel wanted but to not have to follow it through. And if they occasionally shared the odd drunken snog, what did it matter?
He'd been a kind and familiar presence in Merlin's very busy and complicated life for a while, now, and Merlin hadn't yet found a reason to complain. Arthur was a little much, sometimes. He was bright and brilliant and always there. Gaius was far too intense and focused upon Merlin's supposed destiny. Gwen, lovely as she was, was too similar to Lance in that she was simply too earnest for Merlin to deal with all the time. Merlin wanted fun, on occasion. Someone he didn't have to care around, someone he could forget with.
“Merlin,” Gwaine greeted, strolling over at training, his usual swagger shaping his movements. “Looking as dashing as ever, I see.”
“You flatter me,” Merlin replied dryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as Gwaine flipped his hair back from his face, wiping sweat from his forehead. He grinned flippantly at Merlin's indifference, shifting closer as he did so, wafting the scent of base masculinity and sweat Merlin's way. It was a hot contrast to the freezing cold of the winter, a tantalising temptation to Merlin here, of all places. In clear view of everyone he knew, right out in the open. Merlin was lucky enough to be blessed with a great abundance of self-control. One had to, when stuck with the gift of magic in a kingdom in which it was illegal.
“Oh, I'd like to do many a thing to you, Merlin,” Gwaine teased, winking, and Merlin, while far from repulsed, was much more interested in Arthur, currently locked in combat with Elyan.
Or he had been, at least. Merlin glanced over and happened to catch Arthur's eyes, which were determinedly focused upon him and Gwaine, drawing his attention from the fight. His expression was frozen in some sort of bewildered fury, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, a frown darkening his features. There was only a split second that passed before Elyan twisted and delivered a blow, the blunt handle of his sword and elbow colliding with Arthur's abdomen. Elyan appeared to have been unaware of Arthur's distraction. The force of his strike knocked Arthur to the ground, sending him flying onto his back with a sickening thump, a completely unexpected occurrence when considering it was Arthur who was now lying in a heap, releasing a pained groan. Silence echoed across the training ground, shock simmering along the lines of knights and servants.
“Arthur!” Merlin exclaimed, entirely involuntary, his voice accompanied by similar shouts from the likes of Leon and Lancelot. Merlin rushed to his side, dropping to his knees on the frosted ground, suddenly not caring about the cold, and peering at Arthur's tightly shut eyes and the distressed moue of his mouth. The damp grass seeped through Merlin's breeches, and he barely felt it. “Are you alright? Can you speak? Where d-”
“I'm fine,” Arthur answered, breathless, eyes peeling open. “I'll be okay. Just give me a minute.”
“Arthur, I'm so sorry,” Elyan interjected, hovering awkwardly beside Merlin, who hadn't even noticed that he and the other knights had crowded around the prone form of their prince. “I didn't… I'm so sorry.”
Arthur winced, pushing himself up. Merlin wanted to reach for him, to help, but knew he'd be shoved away. “It's quite alright,” he assured, eyes flicking down to Merlin's hands, which were clenched into fists and balancing on his thighs. Arthur glared at them as if they had personally offended him. “We were training, Elyan,” he continued. “Your besting me only means progress.”
In true Arthur fashion, he was up within minutes, all prepared to take on Percival, much to Merlin's disapproval. Thankfully, Merlin's pleading must have resonated, because he took a backseat for the rest of the day, instructing from the sidelines and occasionally intervening. His decision to step away from his own training only gave Merlin all the more time to spend with him, that particular day. Their light-hearted bantering seemed to brighten the dreary day, a little. Arthur was sporting an impressive bruise later, the once unblemished expanses of skin on his back now mottled and purpling, forcing tension into the shift of his impressive muscles. For the first time in a while, when Arthur asked Merlin to prepare him a bath, Merlin was more than happy to oblige, seeing the nasty mark it had left and feeling a phantom sting of pain himself. If heaving jugs of water up flights upon flights of stairs would ease Arthur's pain, Merlin was willing. If it was simply to make him pretty for the upcoming visit of a princess and potential love match… well, that was another story. Admittedly, it made Merlin far more reluctant.
At a particularly sharp hiss of discomfort, Merlin paused his own task and glanced across the room to where Arthur was submerged in the tub, rubbing at his shoulder, face twisted in agony. Merlin tried not to be stunned by the intimate sight of him undressed, the damp trail of hair on his chest and the ridges of his knees. It wasn't an unfamiliar view but it didn't half take Merlin's breath away.
“Does it hurt terribly?” he asked, and Arthur ceased any outward show of pain, letting his hand fall, face clearing of any hurt. His eyes traced Merlin's face.
“No, it's...” He sighed, and Merlin heard the water splash as his leg moved. “It's fine.”
“I can ask Gaius for some salve, if you want,” Merlin offered. “Might help.”
“If you think that's best,” Arthur agreed distractedly, voice distant. He barely waited a second before launching into his next line of conversation, the words sounding strained. “What happened today?”
“What do you mean?” Merlin questioned, struck suddenly with the panicked notion that Arthur had lost all his memory. What then? It had taken a while- years, in fact- but Merlin and Arthur had built a relationship and rapport that was quite unparalleled to anything either of them shared with another. To lose all of that… “You were knocked down by Elyan. You do remember that, don't you?”
“Of course I do, Merlin,” Arthur remarked snidely, but his gaze had withdrawn from Merlin's face and was now watching how the water surrounding him displaced whenever he shifted. There was something odd and almost shy about his sudden inability to make eye contact with Merlin, a rare phenomenon when it came to Arthur Pendragon. “I'm not an idiot. I was talking about you and Gwaine.
“What about us?”
“Today. You two looked… close.”
Merlin couldn't prevent the laugh falling from his mouth, both amused and mystified at Arthur's blindness to both Merlin's feelings and Gwaine's typical and indiscriminate tendency to flirt. As if it could ever amount to anything serious: Merlin didn't know anyone who was desperately attracted to the idea of promiscuity. There were surely some, as Merlin was certainly under the impression that Gwaine was quite popular in that department, but his flirting was usually harmless. One would know when Gwaine was truly interested in them, and Merlin was fully aware that his dynamic with Gwaine was one of a playful nature. But Arthur only looked sullen at Merlin's response, pouting down at his knees and refusing to meet Merlin's eyes, somehow unaware of this particular facet of Gwaine's personality. Scoffing at Arthur's childish behaviour, Merlin turned back to making his bed, surprised at Arthur's odd turn of mood and strange curiosity.
“Gwaine is… Gwaine,” Merlin explained, and that was that. It never quite occurred to Merlin that it wasn't explanation enough- not for Arthur, anyway. He had never been one to settle for simplicity, and his curiosity often got the best of him. He was royalty, after all; he was used to getting his way.
“Gwaine,” Arthur repeated, tone heavy with distaste and irritation, and Merlin wondered absently what Gwaine had done to warrant Arthur's wrath this time. He was an incredibly frustrating man and Merlin knew Arthur often lost his patience with him, but this was something else. Merlin had never seen him so angry about nothing in particular. But then, Arthur was still a prince, and Merlin glimpsed these errant frustrations more often than he would've liked. Decent and brave as he was, he could also be childish and impatient and spoiled, and while it entertained Merlin to no end, he'd fall in love all over again when Arthur behaved especially honourable.
Maybe Arthur thought Gwaine was distracting Merlin from his work. Though… he usually didn't seem to mind that Merlin was a careless, clumsy idiot and continued employing him despite his frequent mistakes and moronic tendencies, so the explanation didn't hold much weight. It was only a maybe.
Maybe would do Merlin just fine.
***
“Get back to work!” Arthur was snapping, only just having come across Gwaine having a nice long chat with Merlin while he polished Arthur's armour. Merlin started at the sudden bark of Arthur's voice, the breastplate slipping from his fingers with a finite clang as it hit the floor. He turned sheepishly to see Arthur glaring at them both in frustrated rage. Gwaine just laughed, drawn from their conversation about Gwen and Lance.
“Lay off the poor boy, Arthur,” he urged, ruffling Merlin's hair, making Merlin grin, cheeks going hot at the attention. Arthur tracked the movements of Gwaine's hand with a fierce intensity, scrutinising Merlin as he ducked away. His face was rather flushed, Merlin thought. “He works hard.”
“Not hard enough,” Arthur snarled, and Merlin scrambled to retrieve the breastplate from the floor, hauling it up once more. “I think you should be going, Gwaine.”
Gwaine took a moment to simply stare at Arthur, amusement written clear on his face. After a short meeting of eyes, some silent battle, Gwaine eventually rose, holding his hands up to Arthur in surrender. “Fine,” he said, eyes sparkling with mirth as they shot to Merlin, making Arthur tense where he stood in the doorway. It was rare for Gwaine to admit defeat. “Have it your way.”
With that, he was gone. Simply threw Merlin a cheeky grin, and flounced from the room, forcing Arthur to step aside and accommodate for him. Once he had left, however, Merlin knew he would be the sole recipient of Arthur's wrath. Usually he'd have a rude remark or two to fling back his way, but… it had been a long day. Merlin's arms were aching from all the scrubbing since Gwaine's presence had prevented his using of magic and he was feeling particularly tired with Lance's tentative advances on Guinevere. That, and Yuletide was fast approaching. Merlin, knowing he would have most of the day off, found that the days leading up to it seemed to drag, making the wait longer than ever. He'd only have to work for a few hours- dress Arthur for the banquet, serve him there, and then Merlin was free to do as he pleased. He and Gwen had made plans to attend the servants' after-party and get roaring drunk. Merlin was desperately excited for it all: the drink and decorations and freedom of it all. A night off from Arthur. He'd been needing it for a while.
“Sorry,” he muttered, too tired to protest any of Arthur's inevitable comments. Perhaps it was the lack of his usual bite, but Arthur's anger quickly dissipated to something far more tame and far more worried as he eyed Merlin shrewdly.
“It's… forget it, Merlin,” came his quiet response, and he crept further into the armoury, surprisingly hesitant. “I, um. I didn't mean to shout?” he attempted, and his pathetic excuse for an apology sent Merlin's head rearing up in shocked delight, some distant and secret joy unfolding within him. Arthur had mistaken his exhaustion for upset and had tried comforting him, and it was hilarious and pleasing all at once. Hilarious because it was yet another thing Merlin could use to mock him. Pleasing because it meant that Arthur cared enough.
Arthur, Merlin knew, wasn't a cruel master. He threw things and he shouted but it was often in jest, and when he was truly angry Merlin was never scared. He knew that Arthur would never hurt him, not like many of the brutish visiting lords whose servants would be sporting bruises all over. For the Crown Prince and a huge prat, Arthur treated Merlin with respect and even affection, though the latter was rare, but Merlin tried not to lose himself to the fantasy that Arthur genuinely enjoyed his company. Tolerated it, perhaps, but Merlin wasn't one of his knights, was far from a companion that would follow him into battle and later drink by his side. Merlin was a necessary evil that Arthur treated kindly due to his unwavering nobility. Maybe once upon a time he'd been perfectly happy to abuse his servants, but he had grown a lot since then. Merlin couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but was grateful for it all the same. It had made Arthur a lot easier to fall in love with.
"That's not something I hear everyday,” he remarked, unrestrained humour in his voice, and Arthur realised, heaving a sigh. Momentarily, shame flashed across his face. Of course it did- Arthur, showing any sort of concern? It seldom happened, and for him to do so in vain was likely a display of vulnerability he was embarrassed to have shared. He was far too staunch in his masculinity and worth as a strong warrior to allow it without chagrin.
“Shut up, Merlin,” he said flatly, visibly deflating. “Get on with your work.”
“Gladly, Sire,” Merlin replied haughtily, and was relieved Arthur had nothing in his hands to hurl his way. Just as Arthur turned to leave, Merlin fumbled for the vial he had set aside. “Hold on- Arthur! I have your salve. If you want.”
“Oh.” Arthur looked at the vial as if it was poison. “Right.”
“Would… you like to take it?” Merlin prompted, and Arthur finally made his way across the room and snatched the vial from Merlin's hands, lifting it up to examine its contents. The salve was a simple one: an off-white colour that stuck to the sides of its glass container. Arthur wrinkled his nose a little, but nodded all the same.
“You'll help me apply it later?” he asked, a spark of something in his voice as he did so. The thought hadn't really occurred to Merlin, but of course he would have to help him apply it. Of course he'd have to spend his evening with his hands all over Arthur's bare back, feeling the heat of his skin and the pull of his muscles. Of course Merlin would have the most torturous and rewarding job in Camelot. Later would bring some interesting things.
“Yes, my lord.”
Later came far quicker than Merlin would've liked, the polishing of Arthur's armour a task that he finished in record time when considering he'd used no magic. He whined about Arthur's request briefly to Gwen, who was all too aware of his feelings, and simply laughed at Merlin's façade of irritation, seeing right through him to the burning excitement inside. Fucking Gwen. He couldn't even complain to her, nowadays. So, in typical fashion, when Gwaine acknowledged him in the courtyard, Merlin mentioned it, and well. Who could blame him for engaging in simple conversation with an old friend? Gwaine was fun and easy to talk to, facts that Arthur apparently didn't understand. His face was stormy when Merlin finally entered his chambers with his dinner.
“You're late,” he sneered, moving from his position by the window to seat himself, frowning down at the table.
“Sorry,” Merlin apologised, grinning and setting down Arthur's food. “Got distracted.”
Arthur was especially vicious as he stabbed at his food that night, and dinner was spent in awful silence as Arthur ate, staring ahead determinedly. Merlin couldn't even draw a glance or glare from him when he stole a sausage, and his playful and familiar dodging of their class expectations almost seemed to go unnoticed. Most days, it would be used as an opportunity to tease and Merlin would get to revel in the attention. Arthur appeared to be deep in thought, drinking down his wine like it was water. A flush spilt across his cheeks as the evening wore on, the alcohol working its way into his system. Merlin generally loved when Arthur got drunk at banquets, loved how his limbs loosened and his expression softened, how he would lean on Merlin on the way up to his chambers. Today, however, he seemed to be nothing but morose, brow furrowed. It was unusual he would drink alone in his rooms, but Merlin couldn't deny there was a certain appeal to having a drunk Arthur all to himself.
“My back hurts,” he finally announced, only halfway through his meal, dropping his fork. He was up and tearing his shirt off before Merlin could even acknowledge his words, and through the vague surprise of it all, he simply obeyed as Arthur moved to lay face down on his bed, presenting himself to Merlin.
Merlin swallowed. Having Arthur hand over the care of his body like this, to Merlin of all people, was slightly arousing and incredibly exhilarating. Merlin didn't dare speak, was far too afraid to break the odd silence that surrounded them, and instead opted to reach for the salve and spread some of it on his palm, wincing at its slick sounds in the quiet. Arthur shuddered at Merlin's first touch, which Merlin chalked up to the cold. He shivered at Merlin's second touch, which Merlin believed to be the pain. He gasped at Merlin's third touch, and at that point Merlin was too caught up in his own enjoyment to even think on Arthur's responses. The bruise was now yellowing in colour, only deepened by the flicker of candlelight, but even with the unpleasant sight of it all, Merlin couldn't deny its romance. Arthur's hair always looked like sunshine in this sort of light, and Merlin was unfailingly struck by it. He wanted to wind it through his fingers, feel it soft on his skin. Trust Merlin to want to play Icarus: Arthur was the type that would burn him.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, voice lower than Merlin had ever heard it. There was a distant swoop in Merlin's stomach. “What were you saying to Gwaine earlier?”
“In the armoury?” Merlin asked, and dragged his hand across Arthur's shoulder blades, sending him arching beautifully under Merlin's touch.
“No,” he replied, breathless, “outside.”
“You saw that?”
“Yes.”
Arthur's voice was choked, caught in his throat. Merlin trailed fingers down his spine, leaving a smudges of cream behind. The labouring of Arthur's breath had Merlin's head swimming more than he cared to admit, and why Arthur wanted to talk about Gwaine of all people, during a time like this, was beyond Merlin. Moments like these, their quiet moments, were rarely filled with anything but steady friendship and support. Late at night, moonlight falling through his window, Merlin liked to count the times Arthur had looked at him late in the evening, candlelight shrouding his expression, the deep glow of the flames accentuating the blue of Arthur's eyes.
“We weren't talking about anything in particular,” Merlin bluffed, remembering Gwaine's teasing camaraderie and Arthur's likely reaction. He wondered why it bothered Arthur so much. His fingers pressed a little harder and Arthur moaned, the involuntary sound falling from his mouth, hands clenching in his bedsheets, fingers tangling in their rich red colour. Merlin's ceased his ministrations, shock and arousal striking him right in the stomach, a clean hit.
“Leave me,” Arthur uttered at once, tense, so abrupt and sudden that Merlin almost jumped, hands stealing back from Arthur's skin. Reeling, Merlin couldn't summon a single question as to why and only stumbled back, eyes wide. “Leave!”
Merlin turned from the bed and practically ran from the room, heartbeat rocketing within his chest, perhaps the most erotic moments of his life replaying behind his eyelids well into the night.
***
Yuletide brought thick layers of snow as it arrived in Camelot, spreading across the ground only days before the annual celebratory banquet. Arthur had been in an odd mood for days, but the dropping temperature made him even stranger. He'd watch Merlin like a hawk as he worked around his chambers, would fall quiet as they walked across the courtyard, wrapped tightly in his cloak while Merlin shivered in his thin tunics. He was especially gloomy during training, and Merlin suspected that it was to do with more than just the cold- by the end of the day, Gwaine was sporting many a bruise, and when Merlin offered to get him some salve, Arthur dragged him away and set him to cleaning the floor with an impressive force, making sure to observe him the entire time. Merlin rarely saw him so passionate about chores.
Morgana did nothing but laugh in his face when he asked what an earth had gotten into Arthur. Gwen, bustling about the room behind her, only gave a great sigh, not even looking up from her work. “You know Arthur,” Morgana said, turning back to her mirrors, running a brush through the waterfall of her dark hair. “He may be the strongest warrior in the land, but he's far from the cleverest.”
Merlin was beginning to think that perhaps he didn't know Arthur so well after all. Recently he had been so snappy and rude and if Merlin weren't so sure he was over Gwen, he'd blame it on that. There was a melancholy in his furious silences, some sort of internal struggle that had Merlin dredging up his own sorrow in sympathy. Whatever was going on with Arthur, it seemed as if the upcoming banquet was only making him angrier, growing sullen during meals with his father whenever it was mentioned. Uther, on the other hand, was positively glowing. It had been a good year for Camelot. Morgana had returned good as new and the lower villages were flourishing, even with the harsh winter. There wasn't a thing to despair about, and yet Arthur had apparently found a way to dampen the joyful mood of the whole castle.
“I've heard the prince is moping about a woman,” one of the serving girls remarked.
“I've heard he just hates Yule!” another exclaimed.
“I thought he was injured during training. Perhaps it's that,” the third suggested.
Merlin typically abstained from their petty gossip and was rarely interested by it, but this time it was a real task to ignore it. Of course they were wondering. Arthur was visibly infuriated as he stormed about the castle, going from task to task with an immovable scowl shadowing his face. And Merlin, his manservant, his confidant, his friend, had absolutely no clue as to why. Arthur didn't have a woman- Merlin would know, would notice him sneaking about Camelot and acting all lovesick. And Arthur didn't hate Yule. Last year he had been stuck in a ridiculously good mood as he went about his days leading up to Yuletide and subsequently, the turn of the year. Perhaps it was his injury after all: he had acted oddly as Merlin had rubbed the salve on him, and it was plausible that he had been in so much pain he was desperate for Merlin to leave, to not show weakness. It seemed the only explanation, all things considered. But the bruise upon his back was disappearing as the days went by and Arthur's mood grew ever-darker, sending many a servant scuttling from his presence as he walked by, even shying the likes of Morgana and the knights from his presence, those who were usually so fearless.
Merlin, it seemed, was the only one with enough courage to brave his company. That, and the fact that it was his job.
“You're to arrive at my chambers before nightfall,” Arthur was instructing him, glaring down at the Castle grounds from his window, brooding. “I'd like to be prepared for the banquet in good time.”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin obeyed mechanically, lost deep in thought as he sifted through Arthur's formal wear, envisioning each garment on Arthur's impressive form. Merlin let his hair grow long during these colder months, and it tickled his neck where it refused to lay flat, worming its way down from his scalp. When he turned, glancing to Arthur for reference, he was no longer looking outside but instead at Merlin, eyes zeroed in on the messy silhouette of his hair.
“You should keep it long,” he blurted, and Merlin was taken aback. Arthur flushed, swallowed, seemingly regaining control of his words, and clarified: “it makes you look like less of an idiot.”
Merlin huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”
“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, uncharacteristically timid. “You seem...”
“I seem?” Merlin shook his head, moving back to the closet. “I hope you realise the gossip flying round about you. People are starting to notice the foul mood you're in. I've had to assure three different servants that you're still single.”
“They think I'm courting someone?” Arthur asked, a hint of panic edging his tone, and Merlin hummed his affirmation, deciding that he would most definitely like Arthur to wear red tomorrow. He always looked lovely in red. It made his eyes stand out and his hair look prettier than ever. He truly was Camelot's golden boy.
“That, or lovelorn.”
“Lovelorn?”
“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin sighed, giving up and shifting to face the prince once more, who was gazing at him in abstract horror. “I might know you aren't seeing anyone but you have to admit you're acting a right prat. You're so irritable with everyone, you're constantly lost in thought, you aren't excited at all for the banquet. It's like you're in love, or at least bemoaning the loss of it.” Arthur didn't say a word, only clenched his jaw and looked away. “Are you in love?”
When Arthur didn't reply, the idea seized Merlin for one wild minute, the possibility that Arthur was infatuated with some nameless serving girl or visiting lady from before. The notion was a ridiculous one, surely? Arthur hadn't shown any interest in anyone in a long time and Merlin was certain he would've noticed if he had. Merlin practically followed him everywhere, knew almost everything about him. It would've been impossible for Arthur to slip a love affair past Merlin, obtuse as he could be sometimes.
But things like that, Merlin noticed. Merlin noticed everything about Arthur, too much, all the time. Couldn't stop noticing Arthur, actually, the set of his jaw and the curve of his smile and broad span of his shoulders. Merlin dreamt of his translucent eyelashes, his hands, soft and strong and practised around the hilt of a sword, around Merlin. He was certain he'd realise if Arthur was courting anyone. It would drive him far too mad.
“Don't be stupid, Merlin,” Arthur eventually muttered, resuming his position by the window. Merlin wondered what was down there that made Arthur retreat back into his unapproachable shell. If something was bothering Arthur, standing by his window was usually where he could be found.
Don't be stupid. It was a dismissal, clearly ending the conversation, but Merlin couldn't help but think that there was more to be said.
***
The air was heavy with merry intoxication when Merlin came to serve at the banquet. Lords and ladies packed the room from top to bottom, blushes blooming along their faces as Camelot's stocks of wine and ale depleted. Arthur slipped Merlin a slightly bleary smile at one point and Merlin suddenly forgave all his sins of the past week, drunk off the reddened bow of his lips and the loving crease of his eyes. Despite not having consumed a drop of alcohol, Merlin felt more dizzy than he'd ever been. It appeared even Uther was enjoying the festivities. He beckoned Merlin over at one point, who complied with fearful hesitance, only to have him lean forward and slur, “I can't decide if you've been a fantastic influence on my son or an extremely terrible one,” and Arthur flushed a frightful shade of crimson and so did Merlin and the whole situation was just incredibly embarrassing. Morgana, Merlin believed, cut him off at that point, vast amusement in her voice.
Arthur, tonight, was more beautiful than ever. His stark red jacket cut out a crisp figure where he sat, the crown on his head an addition that had Merlin's heart warming. Arthur was royalty and he looked at Merlin like an equal, let him jest and mock and Merlin loved him so deeply he worried he'd never get free. Because Arthur was royalty. He would never look at Merlin, not like that, not the way he so desperately wanted. Why would he? Merlin was a simple servant and a complete idiot. Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and a contrast to every belief Uther had instilled in Arthur.
For now, Arthur was drunk and he had nothing but fond respect for Merlin. Merlin would take it.
“So, Merlin,” Gwaine began as Merlin moved to pour his wine, “who should I shag tonight?”
Merlin tried to stifle his laugh, hand shaking as Gwaine giggled behind him, revelling in his crude humour. “Percival,” Merlin answered, picking the first knight he saw across the room, and Gwaine made a contemplative sound, fingers dancing around the rim of the goblet.
“I'll try Percival if you try Arthur,” Gwaine suggested, and Merlin's breath dipped sharply. Speaking of Arthur, he was watching them now, distracted from his conversation with his father to stare down the table at Merlin and Gwaine's exchange, frustration written all over his features. It was that familiar glower that Merlin had been seeing all week, such an oddity to be witnessed during this time of the year, a time that was filled with so much cheer that even Uther hadn't a bad word to say.
“As if Arthur would ever want me,” Merlin dismissed, and Gwaine scoffed. Merlin finally drew back with his jug, glancing down to see Gwaine shaking his head in kind exasperation.
“You'd be surprised,” was his response, but Merlin gave up on questioning him any further as his gaze diverted to Percival. Once Gwaine chose his lover for the night, he was simply impossible to talk to. Merlin could do nothing but walk away with his mind clouded in confusion.
The night passed in a daze of bewilderment, and Merlin didn't pay all that much attention to the low swing of the musicians or the buzz of talk around him. Arthur didn't appear to either, and given the amount of times Merlin was called to refill his goblet, he started to worry about Arthur's alcohol intake- that much wine couldn't have been healthy, but Merlin was far too afraid to refuse Arthur anything in front of Uther. In fact, Arthur seemed to have a lot to say to Merlin throughout the banquet, a far cry from the near-silent nightmare he'd been all week, with no words that resembled anything other than orders. Now, he was fit to bursting with information about all the people in the room, all their dirty secrets and petty squabbles. It was pleasant, having Arthur's attention like this.
Merlin almost found himself despairing as the food finally diminished and people started filing from the room, hand in hand, arm in arm. The servants busied about the room, retrieving plates and goblets and half-eaten turkeys, all the while Arthur rose from his seat, unsteady, reaching for Merlin's shoulders to regain his balance. He grinned loosely at Merlin, swaying on his feet, eyes fixed on his face.
“Merlin,” he said, “Merlin.”
“Yes, Arthur?” Merlin asked, utterly failing at keeping a straight face and beaming at him in return, grasping at his waist to help straighten him.
"Love it when you call me that,” he whispered, awed. “Arthur.”
“It's your name,” Merlin pointed out, and Arthur's hand came up from his shoulder to stroke at his face. Merlin was suddenly violently aware that they were in full view of all the servants and viciously reminded of the fact that he couldn't care less. Arthur was touching him without prompt and Merlin was dizzy with it.
“I know,” Arthur murmured. “You say it best.”
“I think you need to sleep,” Merlin laughed, shifting Arthur away from the banquet tables and through the doors, plunging them into the dim of the corridor. Arthur gazed at him through heavy-lidded eyes, dark and full and desperate.
“No,” he said, quiet. “I don't want to sleep. I want to be with you.”
“Well you're more than welcome to come and drink yourself to death with Gwen and I,” Merlin offered, frowning at Arthur's strange but charming new desire to spend time with him. “I just didn't think you'd be all that interested.”
“Please.”
Merlin had always had trouble refusing Arthur.
So that was how Arthur ended up crowded in the kitchens with Merlin and dozens of other servants who, once they saw how drunk he was, paid him no mind, shifting back into their own humble lives. Arthur watched as Merlin picked at leftovers and poured ale down his throat at a similar pace that the nobles had with their wine, feeling it take hold of him and dizzy his senses. Gwen took one look at them both slumped on the kitchen floors, using the wall for support, and sighed, slipping back into the crowd and leaving Merlin to deal with Arthur alone. Not that Merlin was complaining. He was feeling the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his system and Arthur was being especially affectionate. Merlin couldn't be happier. It was this sort of thing he dreamed of, sometimes. To be quiet and alone with Arthur, for things to be simple, for things to have no need for words. Merlin could imagine that anything was possible, then. Merlin could imagine that Arthur would take his face into his hands and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him until he wasn't breathing and Arthur was the only thing he knew. It felt like he didn't need Arthur's touch to feel that, sometimes. Arthur was a whirlwind that Merlin lost himself in daily.
“Do you love Gwaine?” Arthur whispered at one point, voice quivering, and Merlin swivelled to look at him in shock. His face was so close and so sad and Merlin ached at his expression of sorrow, an emotion that he never wanted Arthur to have. Merlin wanted Arthur to be happy. To smile at Merlin like he had tonight, carefree and graceless.
“No?” he answered belatedly, watching as Arthur's expression fell with great relief.
“Good,” he said, “good. You're so much more than him.”
“You don't like Gwaine?” Merlin questioned, and Arthur sighed, struggling to articulate his reply.
“I do,” he insisted. “I just don't like him with you.”
“Don't worry about that,” Merlin assured. “He's with Percival tonight.”
Arthur barked a surprised laugh, mouth wide and pretty. Merlin was giddy off his joy. “Oh,” Arthur realised. “That's what you were talking about earlier. And there I was calling you over all night to help you escape his clutches.”
“His clutches?” Merlin repeated, and then they were laughing like the drunken fools they were, falling all over each other.
It was wonderful, to be with Arthur like this. To be the cause behind his smile, the quirk of his lips and the flash of his teeth. There was a surreal transience to each second here that Merlin clung to, holding on not just because it would be gone by morning, but because he wanted to live in each moment spent with Arthur like it was forever. Because the truth of the matter was that Merlin loved when Arthur threw pillows at his head just as much as he loved Arthur spilling his secrets and sharing his burdens with Merlin.
“I have something for you,” Arthur confessed once they had sobered, his breath smelling overwhelmingly of wine, warm and strong.
“For me?”
“You,” Arthur said wistfully, and heaved himself to his feet once more, extending a hand to Merlin, who took it gladly, abandoning his plate on the ground.
Silence befell them on their journey to Arthur's chambers, but it wasn't anything like the awkward atmospheres of earlier. It was comforting and companionable, punctuated with vague coughs and drunken hums, the echoes of their footsteps down the stone corridors of home, leading them all the way to the rooms that Merlin knew so well. It felt funny to be invited into them like a guest when he'd scrubbed their floors only the other day, on his hands and knees before Arthur. Arthur, who was dragging him into the room with a lost laugh, spinning him around, dancing to music only they could hear. Beautiful Arthur, who Merlin had wanted and watched and wanted some more. Arthur, Merlin's destiny.
Was destiny still destiny if Merlin chose it? Everyday, Merlin decided: Arthur. Arthur before himself, before the entire world.
To Merlin, that sounded more like will than fate.
“Here,” Arthur was murmuring, retrieving something from the trunk at the foot of his bed, and Merlin took the parcel from him as if it was the most precious thing he'd ever held. It was light and the paper was scratchy but Merlin had never received a better gift.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
Inside was a cloak, deep red and thick, and when Merlin swung it around his shoulders, it enveloped him in enfolding warmth. It felt like heaven upon his skin, and he knew it was more than enough to protect him from the cruel winds of this winter. He knew it was a gift of great gravity and riches, of great care and thought. He gazed up at Arthur in dazed gratitude, finding a similarly dumbfounded look answering him. A pair of greedy eyes drunk in his form in the cloak, consumed his appreciative expression like wine. A pair of lips met his, crashing down like snow upon the Yule, dragging him closer, tugging at the cloak, scrabbling at his waist. Merlin could do nothing but respond in kind, winding his arms around Arthur's broad body, tongue meeting his, pulling and pushing until they were collapsing on the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Arthur groaned as he fell onto his back, so very reminiscent of his accident with Elyan. Now, it was Merlin's turn.
“Wanted you,” Arthur gasped, “so much.”
“Me?” Merlin said, mostly in shock, basking in feeling of Arthur's strong body beneath his, yielding to him the way Merlin had never seen him once do.
“You,” Arthur confirmed, suddenly tender, hand trailing along the curve of Merlin's jaw. “It's always been you.”
“I thought you were angry, this week,” Merlin whispered, still a little raw from it all. Every day had been an awful surprise.
“I just…” Arthur sighed. “Gwaine. I thought you wanted him. I suppose I was lovelorn after all. Tell the serving girls they were right.”
“Gwaine?” Merlin exclaimed, laughing. Arthur pouted below him, sullen in his envy. “No, Arthur. It was you I wanted. Forgive me for catching Gwaine's eye like everything else with a pulse in this Castle."
“He is a bit of a slag, isn't he?”
“Massive,” Merlin agreed. It was so dark in the room that Merlin could scarcely see Arthur, could only deduce his expressions from the strip of starlight falling gracelessly through the window. Dust littered its path, and Merlin was once again struck by the separation from reality he felt, lost in the breaths of Arthur's body and the heat of his mouth. “I'm more into monogamy, myself.”
“Really? Me too.”
They were kissing again, and it was everything Merlin had dreamt of. Arthur rolled Merlin onto his back, hands splayed on his hips, thighs bracketing his. Merlin could imagine how he used this frame to his advantage, to put his strength behind swinging a sword and slashing blood from another man, but for Merlin, this was far from the case. His size, his strength, they were used as a comfort. Merlin felt safe, he felt wanted. As if Arthur would ever hurt him. He was fierce and noble and sorcerer or not, Merlin had never felt threatened by him. Perhaps this was why. Arthur would never see him hurt because Arthur wanted him. Arthur loved him(?).
Moving above him, Arthur yanked at the cloak, ripping the clasp open and revealing Merlin's simple tunic and breeches.
“Careful,” Merlin warned. “You'll tear it.”
“I'll buy you a new one,” Arthur promised carelessly, diving back into their kiss, sending Merlin's heartbeat wild as a result. Through his lashes, he saw Arthur's eyes clenched shut, his forehead creased in concentration, in passion. Merlin squeezed his own eyes shut, let himself be held and kissed and touched, let himself be taken out by the tide of want.
They were far from the only ones like this. Merlin had seen, earlier, the mismatched pairs leaving the banquet hall. Had seen Gwaine and Percival creeping from the room together. He could only imagine that throughout Camelot, there were an abundance of lovers like them, caught around each other, seeing the Yuletide through to the morning. But there wasn't anybody like them, not really. Arthur was the Crown Prince and Merlin was his magical manservant, and when they kissed it felt as if they were in their own world altogether. Merlin was willing to bet that half of those gone home with one another were temporary; a convenient escape for the night. Merlin and Arthur were forever. Merlin and Arthur were two sides of the same coin.
Sure enough, Arthur only smiled when he saw him the next morning, entwined in the sheets next to him, naked as the day he was born. Drunk as Arthur had been- as they had both been, really- there wasn't an ounce of regret. It was as though they had always been heading for this, since that fateful day of their meeting. Something bright and true had sparked between two strangers and it had set alight a partnership that had the potential to transform an entire kingdom. Was it so ridiculous to imagine that the definition of their partnership transcended simple friendship?
“I love you,” Arthur said, and Merlin kissed him from the pure thrill of it all.
Merlin kissed him because he could.