Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Behind the screen, Arthur pressed his palms flat against the wall, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. For a few seconds, he stood there, willing his pulse to steady. He wouldn’t fall apart in front of his manservant, no matter how kind said servant was. Arthur had an image to uphold; it was unbecoming for a Prince to lose his composure. 

He took one more deep breath, then worked on his trousers, pulling them down and draping them over his screen for Merlin to collect (which he didn’t). He picked up his sleeping trousers from the floor and put each leg through the holes, lacing them loosely.

When he turned to step back out, he froze as he caught sight of his reflection in the polished bronze mirror hanging on the wall. Heat rushed to Arthur’s ears. His hair stuck out in different directions like an unruly child’s, the whites of his eyes were rimmed red from his unprompted breakdown earlier, the side of his lip was slightly swollen, and his left cheek was darkly bruised by the King’s hand. And he knew for a fact his tunic had been a disaster too, before Merlin helped change him, which meant he looked worse moments ago. 

His manservant — Merlin — had seen it all and had fixed the mess he was. 

Oddly enough, Arthur didn’t feel the same furious humiliation he had felt earlier when Merlin had entered. It was frightening — no, uncomfortable; princes didn’t get frightened — to be seen after crying, but Merlin hadn’t pointed it out, hadn’t joked. He had been a good friend as always. 

Arthur’s heart clenched. He didn’t deserve Merlin… The thought came sharp and clear, the same way it always did. Yet he couldn’t sack him. For all his threats, he knew he could never let him go. Not anymore. He couldn’t remember a time before the bumbling idiot, and he didn’t want to. As selfish as that may be.

He knew it was undignified to show himself in this state, but honestly, being struck by his father as if he were still a boy hurt his ego much more. It hurt more to be viewed as a failure by the one person he kept trying to prove himself to. He thought they had made progress in their relationship, just for it to unravel over a slight dispute.

“How is it,” Uther said, carrying the sharp edge of a warning Arthur had long since learned not to poke, “that a knight of your caliber took days to track a single sorcerer? A weak one at that, as you said yourself. I had expected more swiftness. More efficiency.” 

The room seemed hotter than the summer sun outside, stifling and airless, sweat prickling at the back of Arthur’s neck, and he was quietly grateful he took off his armor prior to this meeting. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and exhaustion gnawed at his patience. He had come to give his report, do his duty, and finally rest.

Instead, a lecture awaited him. 

Arthur bit his lip. He had already braced himself for his father’s disappointment, but it was still infuriating. He lowered his gaze, nostrils flaring. He had explained there must have been magic involved because the sorcerer was impossible to find, as if he never existed. There was nothing else he could say to defend himself. Best to stay quiet, take his criticism, and leave without making a scene. 

“Before the peace meeting with the kings,” Uther stated, “I want you to straighten your act. You’re a Pendragon, Arthur; don’t embarrass me.”

Perplexed, Arthur’s head snapped back up at the subject change. He stared at Uther, blinking a few times. He heard the unspoken words — the negotiation of marriage if the gathering went well — but there was more, something the Prince couldn’t decipher. 

He frowned. “What do you mean, sire?”

The King leaned back in his throne, fingers drumming against the armrest while studying his son with the cold detachment of a general assessing an incompetent soldier. Supercilious as ever. 

“You waste too much time with that boy. You never kept a servant around, but now you can’t be seen without him as your shadow. Everywhere you go, you insist on dragging him along like a favorite toy: to training, to hunts, even to council meetings.” He paused, his lip curling in disdain. “A Prince spending most of his days with a peasant… It’s unseemly. You don’t see Morgana and her maid attached at the hips, do you?”

Of course, his father had to compare him to Morgana. Morgana, who could do no wrong despite constantly contradicting Uther. Morgana, who wasn’t Uther’s child, yet he doted on her as if she were. Arthur’s temper spiked. He drew in a sharp breath but remained calm, years of training steadying him. 

He swallowed the urge to yell, forcing his voice flat and measured. “Merlin is my manservant. Is it not his duty to attend to all my needs? You hired him yourself as a reward for saving my life. Yet now you’re upset that he follows me like a loyal dog.”

“I hired him as your servant, not your confidant. You’ve been slacking more lately. You hunt longer and train less. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m also aware that you’re allowing the boy liberties no peasant should have: indulging his chatter and his insubordination, and treating him as an advisor. For the Gods' sake, Arthur, you risked your life for a replaceable servant. A mere peasant. What would the people think if word got out?”

What would the people think?

Arthur nearly scoffed. 

The people of Camelot would rejoice knowing someone in the royal family cared for simple folk like them, not scorn him. And how could he not? Farmers, blacksmiths, seamstresses, and all the other workers were the backbone of the kingdom. Without their hard labor there would be no food, no weapons, no clothes, not even water. 

Camelot’s strength came from her people. Something Uther didn’t understand. Or never cared enough to consider. To him, their subjects were tools. Expendable. Worth less. He didn’t care what these people thought; they were easily silenced with coins or punishment. 

No, Uther hadn’t meant them. When he said people, he meant the lords, the council, the kings — men whose approval seemed worth more to him than the loyalty of his subjects. He worried for his reputation, not his kingdom. For appearances, not the lives in his hands. It would harm Uther’s pride if anyone learned the King’s son valued compassion over power, unlike his glorious father.

And in this pristine world, Merlin was a stain to him.

Arthur’s muscles tensed at the mere thought. This wasn’t the first time he had heard Uther complain and diminish his manservant, and it wouldn’t be the last. Nonetheless, something inside him bristled every time all the same. Every instinct screamed to leap to Merlin’s defense: to say that despite being a bumpkin who tripped over his own feet, Merlin could be wise and capable, that he was braver than any knight, that he was fiercely loyal to Arthur like no other, and that he trusted him with his life. Merlin was no ordinary servant. And he certainly wasn’t replaceable. Not to him. 

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, tongue firm against the back of his teeth to keep the words from spilling out. He didn’t want to drag this argument any longer; he wanted to return to his chamber sooner rather than later and rest.

But Uther wasn’t done. 

“You have forgotten your station, Arthur,” he rebuked, stopping his drumming. The eerie silence, when no one spoke, returned. “I thought you had become a smart, competent man. However, it seems you aren’t yet ready. Naive and influential as you still are.”

The words settled like a stone in Arthur’s chest. Not ready. Naive. After all the gruesome training and all the successful challenges, his father still thought him nothing more than a reckless child. He inhaled, refusing to lose his cool, and exhaled. 

He wouldn’t be like his father. 

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said, the words sharper than intended. He took another breath. “I know exactly who I am. I’m Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot. And if protecting and caring for peasants makes me weak, so be it. I’d rather be liked by my people than other lords.”

Irritation and pride warred across the King’s face before he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. Reopening them, he replied exasperatedly, “There’s a difference between protecting the lot of Camelot and protecting one boy.”

“What’s the difference? What kind of Prince would I be if I can’t keep my own manservant — one person — from harm? How could our people trust my ability to protect them all from threats when I failed one of them?”

Uther’s gaze sharpened. Arthur was close to crossing the line; he felt goosebumps covering his arms, but he didn’t cower.

“You would be a Prince who understands sacrifice. Peasants die. Knights fall. That’s the way of the world, Arthur. You need to think about the mass and not worry about each individual person. Everyday, I have to do what is necessary for the greater good, which isn’t always an easy task. And it’s best you finally accept the reality of kingship: difficult decisions must be made to ensure order and safety.”

Arthur tightened his fists until his knuckles turned white and trembled at his sides. He knew he should bow his head, bite his tongue, and walk away without making a scene. That was the wise thing, the safe thing. He tried. Really. He counted to 5, slowly inhaling and exhaling after every number, willing himself to let it pass. But Uther’s words swirled around in his mind. Sacrifice. Necessary. The greater good. Always the same justifications for cruelty.

The patience he had clung to all evening dissolved into nothing. The last string snapped. A man could only be pushed so far. And he was, after all, his father’s son. He could also state his unsolicited opinion and not feel sorry about it.

Arthur lifted his chin, heat surging through his veins. He would show Uther the kind of Prince he wanted to be to Camelot.

“You speak of sacrifices as if they’re pawns on a board. They’re men, women, and children — they’re our people. I won’t idly sit around if I can help the weak. As a knight as well as a Prince I can’t accept that.” He stepped forward, confident and apoplectic. “You take comfort in domination, in punishment, calling it justice. You’d rather throw away innocent lives for your own benefit. This isn’t justice. You’re simply being a selfish hypocrite. If this is the example you want to leave me, then I’d rather fail than become a King like you.”

The chamber fell quiet, emptied of sound. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. The weight of his defiance filled every corner of the stifling throne room.

Arthur’s heart pounded against his ribs, ready to burst out. He half expected Uther to erupt instantly, to call for guards, to get him locked up. But instead, the King only stared at him, disbelief hardening into something far darker. Arthur forced himself to hold the gaze, refusing to falter. He had already gone too far to retreat now, and some part of him — stubborn, proud, unyielding — didn’t want to.

The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, until—

“You ungrateful boy.”

Uther surged to his feet. His boots struck the stone, each step vibrating through Arthur’s bones. The walls seemed to close in with each furious step until the King stopped just short of him, his presence towering, consuming.

The young prince had to stop himself from backing away. His demeanor crumbled as a shiver overcame him in an instant, knees threatening to give out. His shoulders twitched, almost instinctively shielding himself, but he stood firm and kept his arms straight.

A buried part of him screamed to run. To hide somewhere Father couldn’t reach him. An unoccupied guest chamber. A cabin in the kitchen. A tree in the forest. Anywhere but here. Instead, he inhaled shakily through his nose and dug his nails into his palms, the pain tethering him to the present, then exhaled through his mouth, slow and measured. He wasn’t a child anymore. There was nothing to fear. He held his head high, jaw tight, refusing to give Uther the satisfaction of seeing him bend over.

“I forged this kingdom through hardships,” the King spat, his voice shaking with rage, but he wasn’t yelling. “I conquered Camelot and brought order to the chaos it used to be. I fought and made sacrifices you can’t begin to fathom. I bled so you could be heir to a throne that stands unshaken. And this is how you repay me? With insolence. With audacity. I won’t allow you to undo all my work with your bleeding heart and childish sentiment.”

Arthur’s blood boiled, feeling both overwhelmed and irritated. He endured hardships too; he received wounds Uther would never know about. He was strong; he led his knights into battle and fought side by side with his men. He was ready to lay down his life for Camelot; he loved his kingdom and her people. Everyone knew that. His father knew that.

He couldn’t understand why Uther was twisting a prolonged chase into proof that he was unworthy. He had many accomplishments. He had done so much. Yet none of it seemed to be enough. Nothing ever would be. Not for Uther. Not for The King.

A sharp sound echoed through the throne room. 

Knitting his eyebrows in confusion, Arthur blinked once, twice. He wasn’t sure what had happened when a stinging feeling bloomed. His cheek burned. 

He stood frozen — breath caught in his throat, body rigid, eyes wide. Saying he was shocked would have been an understatement. He couldn’t believe it. There was a ringing in his left ear and the taste of blood where his teeth had split his lip. 

Heat rushed to his face; whether from pain, humiliation, or anger, he couldn’t tell. Or maybe it was because he couldn’t breathe properly, his lungs refusing to fill. There was no time to figure that out, he had to get away. Quickly. Now.

The King loomed above him, his hand trembling faintly before curling into a fist as he lowered it. His voice came low and final, “Get out of my sight. Go to your chamber. Or I will have you thrown in the dungeon for treason.”

Arthur bowed, not in remorse but because the fight had left him. All he wanted to do now was to throw himself onto his bed and disappear under his blanket. He straightened without meeting Uther’s eyes. He didn’t speak again. He simply turned and walked out of the throne room, his heart hammering wildly. 

Each step was measured until he turned a corner and no one could see him anymore, then his pace quickened.

He had made his point and had paid for it.

The memory, still fresh and new, left a bitter taste in Arthur’s mouth. He scowled and willed the thoughts away, not wanting to dwell on them again. 

He looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing he could do about his face, but his hair, at least, he could tame. Running his fingers through the knots, he smoothed and pressed until the wild tufts sat as flat as he could manage. 

Until he felt some semblance of control return. That was what he needed. And it was all he had. So long as he was on top of everything, he would be fine. He had to be.

When his reflection looked more composed, Arthur rolled his shoulders back and stepped out from behind the screen, every bit The Prince again. He halted in his steps, however, when he spotted Merlin sprawled on top of his bed, eyes closed, looking tired but content. 

Typical Merlin; bold enough to collapse on his master’s bed as though it were his own. It was utterly improper and yet oddly endearing. 

Arthur’s mouth twitched into a small smile before he could stop it. 

Maybe he should have told Merlin to stay the night before he fell down the stairs in his drowsy state — only concerned for his safety, obviously. Who would scrub his boots or carry his armor if Merlin was too injured to do so? Moreover, if he slept here, he might finally be on time in the morning. His bed was large enough for two men to lie in comfortably with an invisible wall of space between them to spare. They would stay on their respective sides, an unspoken agreement to not cross the border. Yet despite that, Arthur would wake up in the middle of the night, feeling hotter than usual. As his senses returned, he would also notice a weight on top of him. Opening his eyes and adjusting to the darkness, he would find Merlin curled against him, his cheek pressing against his chest—

Before the thought could finish, Arthur shut it down. It wasn’t the first time his mind conjured up scenarios involving his clumsy manservant, but they had never been shameful like this. As if he would let Merlin sleep with him in his bed. The force of his father’s hand must have rattled his brain, and it confused the servants closest to him. It should have been Guinevere in his arms (though he would never imagine her like this).

He forced his expression back into neutrality and approached Merlin with his arms crossed. He spoke in a monotone voice, “What are you doing?”

Merlin sat up slightly at the voice of his, leaning on his forearms, his movements sluggish. He looked up at him; his eyes flicked over Arthur’s figure. His expression was hard to read. But then Merlin grinned, mischief in his brilliant blues, and Arthur knew immediately what his next words would be, already regretting having groomed himself.

“Preening before bed, Arthur, really?” He teased amicably. “You’re only going to mess it up again. Why bother?” Before Arthur had the time to retort, Merlin sat up straight, eyes wide, hand over his mouth. “Don’t tell me… you’re meeting someone. A midnight tryst? How scandalous of you, Your Highness.”

The ludicrous image Merlin painted should have been laughable, but instead it jabbed at Arthur; he had imagined something far more dangerous mere seconds ago. His heartbeat picked up, half suspecting that Merlin somehow read his mind or he spoke out loud. To cover his nervousness, he rolled his eyes and said in a practiced calm tone, “Why on earth would I meet someone in my sleepwear?” 

Merlin shrugged nonchalantly. “Could be a ploy. Once I leave, you’ll change into something more dashing and—“ He cut himself off, smirk deepening. “Ah, I see my fault now. Of course you aren’t meeting anyone, you can’t dress yourself.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped in bafflement, his eyebrows raising. Merlin never failed to amaze him. He tried to look more offended but was betrayed by the corners of his mouth curling up, smiling back at his friend still on his bed. There was a gleam in his eyes as he answered lightheartedly, “I can send you to the stocks.”

It was an empty threat. It had been for quite some time, and they both knew that. It was like a joke between them. Just them. 

Thus it came as no surprise when Merlin chuckled unconcerned and rose to his feet, standing an arm’s length from Arthur. His natural earthy-smokey smell surged towards him due to his movement and their proximity. The smell reminded him of making camp in the forest after rain, lifting his mood instantly.

Yet the calm that washed over him was short-lived as Merlin spoke, tone formal and gentle, “Will that be all, Arthur?”

Merlin was leaving.

Something in Arthur shifted at the words. The smugness was gone in a beat. Instead, there was hesitation crawling up his chest, and the cold shock of unease rushed through him. His mouth opened, then closed uselessly more than once. His mind tried to come up with a sufficient excuse to get Merlin to stay longer. He chewed on his lip absentmindedly. Telling him to sleep over was out of the question after his strange thoughts. Ordering him to tidy up his room seemed too cruel; he could do that tomorrow after a good night’s rest. He had already changed. What other excuse could he possibly give?

Merlin tilted his head in silent question, and Arthur finally drew in a steadying breath, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind.

“Do you want to have wine with me?”

That… actually wasn’t a half-bad idea! They could sit by the fire — which wasn’t lit… They could move his rug and sit in front of an open window, enjoying the night air, yes. They could do that and drink like equals. Like friends. Not master and servant. Just Arthur and Merlin. That sounded like a good plan. 

“Do you have wine here?” 

He didn’t think that far. 

“Ah, um—” the Prince said smartly and looked around his dim chamber. Squinting his eyes, he checked his desk. No jug. Then his dining table. No jug. Looking back at his desk, maybe he missed the jug that a servant must have brought up after his arrival. Except, that would have been Merlin… He would have brought wine with his dinner. But since he hadn’t had dinner, there also was no wine. Arthur looked back and forth between his desk and table a few more times, hoping the drink would materialize out of thin air. Still, no jug. 

Suppressing a sigh, he admitted defeat.

He looked back at Merlin, feeling sheepish. He shouldn’t have said anything; he should’ve just dismissed him for the night. Clearing his throat, Arthur opened his mouth to do so but was interrupted by a rumble that echoed much louder in the quiet chamber than he would have liked. Evidence that he hadn’t eaten since their midday break.

For a second, he stood frozen, mortified, ears reddening. He tried to recover quickly, lips parting to firmly deny the noise, but a low snort cut him short. Then another. He frowned at Merlin, who doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach as though Arthur’s humiliation was the funniest thing in all of Camelot.

“Stop cackling like a hyena, Merlin.” He grumbled, trying to sound firm, but his voice lacked all bite.

“Sorry,” Merlin wheezed between breaths as he straightened his back, wiping away tears that formed at the corner of his eyes from laughing too much. “Would you like me to fetch you something to eat?”

Arthur’s first instinct was to agree. This was the perfect excuse to have Merlin stay longer. Now that he was feeling better and more himself, he didn’t want him to leave — unwanted thoughts might return when left alone. Yet the selfishness of it gnawed at him. His eyes ran over Merlin as he wrestled with himself. He looked worn out, eyes shadowed even as he smiled warmly. He had done enough today.

At last, he shook his head. “No, it’s fine. It’s been a long day. You can go rest, Merlin.”

Merlin arched a brow, and Arthur couldn’t fault him; he felt the strangeness of his own words as he was saying them. He hurried to cover the slip. “Besides, I’ll be going to bed now too. I can wait until breakfast.” His stomach betrayed him again, growling at the worst possible time. He cringed, backpedaling. “Maybe… maybe something small to not keep me awake from hunger.”

“You got it!” His manservant replied, unexpectedly chipper. He headed toward the doors, then paused with his hand on the handle. Turning back, he added with his famous lopsided grin, “I’ll also bring the wine.” 

Arthur’s chest tightened, though he kept his face carefully blank. Merlin slipped out, closing the door behind him, and he exhaled into the silence — his heart was definitely not racing. This was just Merlin, for heaven’s sake. He should go visit Gaius tomorrow and see what sickness he caught.

——————

There was nothing else to do but wait. 

Arthur settled at his desk and lit the candle he kept there, its flame casting enough light to clearly see the area around him. Over the days that he had been gone, a small stack of reports from the lower town had piled up: complaints and pleas that demanded his attention. These should have occupied him (his mind) long enough.

He picked up the first parchment, recognizing Sir Geraint’s neat handwriting. He had noted that a cluster of villagers complained about a new farmer who had claimed more land than was his right and was rude and unyielding whenever confronted. 

The name, Henry, seemed familiar. He had to think for a moment, before remembering that Merlin had mentioned him last week. Gaius had sent Merlin to distribute medicine, as always, and one of the regulars had ranted to him about a newcomer. Merlin had repeated it offhandedly later while polishing Arthur’s armor. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but seeing it resurface in an official complaint meant the matter had escalated. Arthur categorized the matter as urgent, and scribbled down some notes.

He grabbed the next parchment: trivial. Then another: urgent. Intermediate, trivial, trivial. He yawned from tiredness, words blurring for a second. The next parchment was written unevenly and blotchy. It caught his attention, feeling more awake. The letters wobbled across the page and reminded him of when he started learning how to write. It wasn’t the handwriting of any of his men, but no one in the lower town knew how to write either.

Curious, Arthur read the letter. The spelling mistakes and scratchy writing made it difficult, but he managed. For starters, it wasn’t even addressed to him; it was a letter to his manservant. A young girl (Arthur assumed) named Lora thanked Merlin for getting two kittens down a tree and wrote that Rose and Daisy (the cats) were well and loved milk. She then asked when Merlin would visit again.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, still holding the letter. He could clearly picture Merlin holding two kittens, wearing a similarly distressed expression as them while trying to climb down the tree — too bad he wasn’t there to witness it personally. That must have been the day Merlin had returned later than usual, wearing a different tunic. When Arthur had asked, Merlin told him it had gotten dirty and hadn’t gone further into detail, and he hadn’t questioned further. Though he had noticed how cheerful Merlin seemed for the rest of the day. 

Must have been because he played with the kittens. Merlin loved animals after all. He always whined about the cruelty of killing wildlife for sports, interfering whenever he could. He talked to the horses when he mucked out the stables or when he fed them on breaks. He even somehow managed to befriend his mare Llamrei which was known to hate everyone except Arthur. He also sometimes played with the hunting dogs, insisting that they needed love and attention too, regardless of their roles. The Prince had given up on stopping him, trying to explain they were hunting dogs, not lap dogs.

He smiled fondly at the memory: Merlin laughing on the ground, surrounded by dogs with wagging tails. They were trained killers yet inexplicably turned into sweet puppies around him. 

Maybe he should give him less work tomorrow to go visit Lora and play with the cats. 

Arthur set the letter aside to give it to Merlin later, who would surely smile and be all bashful, waving it off like it was nothing, just something he did while running errands for Gaius. Ever the humble one.

He reached for the next parchment, slowly losing himself in the rhythm of work again. His stomach clutched once or twice, but he hardly noticed, too engrossed in the reports.

The candle flickered softly as time passed. The room had grown darker with the absence of the moon, hidden behind a cloud, but it didn’t affect Arthur’s desk area. 

Almost at the end of the stack, Arthur’s stomach growled loudly, penetrating through his focus, reminding him why he was still awake. His gaze drifted from a noise complaint to the wooden door, straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of the night. Arthur set the parchment atop the pile for trivial matters (there was little he could do about a rooster’s morning call except roast it).

He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming restlessly against the armrest. Merlin had been gone far too long for a simple errand; fetching bread or fruits from the kitchen shouldn’t have taken this long. Perhaps Merlin had succumbed to his exhaustion and collapsed against a wall or in the kitchen in the middle of gathering food. He had looked tired enough — no, this was Merlin. He wouldn’t leave Arthur hanging after promising something. If he had offered, he would deliver. That stubborn streak of his wouldn’t allow otherwise.

Maybe Merlin had stopped to chat with Guinevere, who should be on her way home by now if she hadn’t left already. Or maybe he had been roped into helping another servant put away cleaning supplies, the sort of thing he never seemed able to refuse. Or Gaius needed his assistance. Whatever he was doing, he best hurry, Arthur decided. If he didn’t, he might just have to seek him out and have him for dinner. 

For the time being, Arthur focused on the reports once more, giving Merlin until he finished. 

Or he tried at least. 

The Prince skimmed the words in front of him, yawning once, but nothing seemed to stick; the sentences blurred together into meaningless ink. He read the same line twice, then a third time, before finally setting the parchment aside with a frustrated exhale and leaning back in the chair again, his head leaned against the backrest. 

It seemed he had reached his limit for the night. His mind refused to work any longer. He was too tired and too hungry. And as if on cue, a low growl filled the silence again. Arthur groaned softly into the emptiness of his chamber.

Seriously, where was his useless servant?

To pass the time, he let his imagination wander, playing out what he would do when Merlin finally returned.

Once he heard the familiar footsteps, he would snatch a report and act like he had been busy. When Merlin entered, a plate with fruits in hand, Arthur would approach with practiced swagger and scold him for taking so long. Huffing in disbelief, Merlin would inevitably snap and jump into the lion’s den as always and roar back. Biting back a smirk, Arthur would call him insolent for raising his voice against his master, knowing full well how the title ruffled him. Merlin would scrunch his nose and proclaim he could be far more insolent if he chose. And then prove it by striding past Arthur and hurling himself dramatically onto the bed, purposefully leaving his boots on. He would keep squawking, not letting Arthur have a word, until the softness of the mattress and the faint scent of sunlit linen lulled him—

Arthur’s hand shot up to his face, dragging across it as if he could wipe the thought away. Not again. What was wrong with him lately, especially tonight? He worried his lip, not enough to hurt. Obviously, he had entertained harmless fantasies before, but they were usually about Guinevere or Morgana. But not like this. Not with this persistence. 

The restlessness itching under his skin was new, confusing, and a little… frightening.

Contrary to his fantasies that night, he actually didn’t like sharing his bed; it was the only place in the castle that was fully his space. Yet ever since seeing Merlin half-asleep on top of it earlier, he couldn’t shake the wish that he would stay. Strangely, it hadn’t unsettled him the way it should have. If anything, the opposite was the case.

Why was he so damned eager for Merlin to sleep over?

Arthur stared into the candle flame as if the answer might flicker there. 

Sure, he enjoyed Merlin’s company, and the idiot’s chatter filled the silence in a way that grounded him — not that he would ever admit it out loud — but enjoying someone’s company was one thing. Wanting them in his bed was something else entirely. 

The thought had never once crossed his mind with Morgana. Not even Guinevere, though they had spent nights alone together at her home. And he loved her. Still did. Maybe. He wasn’t so sure. It was... complicated. Regardless, with Guinevere, his thoughts had always been proper: admiring her kindness, her courage, her smile, and her beauty. He wanted to hold her hand, talk about nothing in particular, and exchange sweet kisses. Nothing more, nothing inappropriate. Yet here he was, imagining over and over again Merlin, his friend and manservant, sprawled across his mattress as though he belonged there, imagining their arms wound around each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world — he didn’t even like hugs, let alone cuddling!

What was different about Merlin?

Merlin, who was careless, infuriating, and utterly without tact. Merlin, who scared away preys. Merlin, who seemed determined to test the limits of Arthur’s patience every waking hour. Merlin, who never knew when to hold his tongue. Merlin, who bravely stood by his side, facing dangers without any armor. Merlin, who was kind to everyone (and rescuing cats apparently). Merlin, who was the only one bold enough to speak to him as simply a man and not The Prince. Merlin, who didn’t give him special treatment either. Merlin, who was his first true friend. Merlin, who was Merlin.

Around Merlin, he could forget the crown and just be Arthur.

Thinking about it, that had never quite been the case with Guinevere. Yes, she was easy to be with, but he was always aware of himself around her, still performing a role, desperate not to look foolish. With her, he still felt the need to impress. And though they had grown close, she never stopped seeing The Prince first and a man second. He could tell from her hesitance and careful words (though if angered she could be vocal too. Then bow her head in submission).

Perhaps that was the root of it all. With one he was himself, with the other he acted as himself.

Still, why now? He had known Merlin for a year, and not once had thoughts like this plagued him. Then again, he had known Guinevere for much longer, practically since childhood, and hadn’t thought much about her until recently. Until circumstances revealed hidden feelings.

A sudden sharp taste pulled him out of his spiraling. He stilled, brows furrowed, then hissed in pain. His lip was raw again. The cut had reopened from biting at it too long, warm blood coating his tongue.

Wonderful. He muttered a curse under his breath and pressed the pad of his thumb against the wound, which only made him wince again.

As if summoned by the pained sound, the door creaked open. Arthur glanced up to find his manservant slipping inside. Empty-handed. No plate, no fruit, not even the promised wine. He bent over his knees, chest rising and falling as though he had run up the stairs.

Immediately, alarm shot through Arthur, forgetting his busted lip. Before he could think, he stood up from his chair so quickly it scraped against the floor. “What happened?” He demanded, sharp and urgent. His mind leaped to the worst scenarios as he looked Merlin over. Thankfully, he found nothing, but not all wounds were visible.

“Nothing,” Merlin wheezed, shaking his head.

Arthur’s shoulders eased a fraction, though his frown lingered. If all was well… “Then where the hell have you been? You’ve been gone nearly three candle marks.”

“I prepared your dinner, like I said,” Merlin replied, more composed now. He let out a small yawn and strut to Arthur’s closet, rummaging through it like it was his own.

Crossing his arms, Arthur leaned against the desk and watched Merlin in irritation and confusion. “Unless you ate my food on your way back, I fail to see it.”

Merlin ignored him, muttering to himself until he made a triumphant noise. He turned, holding a neatly folded blue cloak. Merlin’s blue cloak. The one he had lent him months ago when the Prince needed to disguise himself. The one that had never found its way back to its original owner. Merlin approached him with a grin. “Trust me, you’ll like—“

He stopped short.

Arthur barely had time to question him before Merlin’s free hand darted out, fingers catching his chin. The touch was firm, unexpected. Arthur froze, breath hitching as Merlin tilted his face toward the candlelight, inspecting the cut on the right corner of his mouth with focused eyes.

His pulse rose— no. His pulse did not quicken from the closeness. His heart did not clench at the look in Merlin’s eyes. His stomach did not twist from being handled like that. None of that was happening. 

Needing to escape the situation, Arthur pulled his face away, scowling to hide his true emotions. “And who do you think you are grabbing my face like that?” The words came out more breathy than sharp, and he cringed inwardly. However, his expression didn’t falter — still glaring.

As Crown Prince of Camelot, no servant should dare jerk him around so freely. Not even Merlin. Especially not Merlin, he decided as the feeling of his fingers lingered, burning his skin hotter than his father’s hand had.

His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, trying to ignore the reaction of his traitorous body.

Merlin blinked, seeming to realize what he had done. Color rose to his cheeks as he dropped his hand and stepped back. Arthur’s chest warmed despite himself when he saw the faint freckles across his nose, more prominent against rosy skin. They had darkened under the summer sun but were still unnoticeable from afar, which was unfortunate. They were endearing and Merlin’s second-best feature, making him look rather adorable.

“I think I’m the physician’s apprentice, and you’re injured.” Despite his bashfulness, his eyes were hard, determined. He thrust the cloak at him. “Now put this on.”

“Ordering me around… Seriously, Merlin, do you want to spend the night in the stocks?” In spite of his words, he took the cloak, clutching the garment more to ground himself than out of intent to wear it. Yet.

“I don’t mind,” Merlin shot back with a lopsided grin, “but you’d have to hunger.”

Arthur bristled. “I’m already bloody famished because of you. What difference would it make?”

“See? If you weren’t being so difficult, you’d be eating by now. Instead, we’re standing here like statues, and you’re being a prat.”

“Merlin.”

“Just… Just trust me, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice softened, catching Arthur off guard. He expected more pushback, more back and forth. “You can get angry later if you don’t like my idea.”

And damn it, Arthur hated the way Merlin looked at him. 

Those blue eyes, wide, expectant, almost pleading. Similar to a skittish stray asking for scraps. Except it wasn’t pitiful at all. It was infuriating because it was impossible to argue against. Unfair, really. That ridiculous face with all its cutting angles and big ears shouldn’t have held such power over the Crown Prince of Camelot.

Yet Arthur felt his resolution crumbling. 

With a resigned sigh, he unfolded the cloak, swung it around his shoulders, and fastened it at the neck. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Someone has to be, otherwise you’d grow bored with all these bootlickers around.” Merlin smirked, self-assured, and Arthur snorted; he wasn’t wrong. He automatically adjusted the fabric and pulled up the hood when his eyes grew as if remembering something. “Speaking of boots.”

He turned and crossed the short distance to the heap of clothes still on the floor and picked up Arthur’s shoes. He walked back and crouched before the Prince, who unprompted lifted one leg and tugged the first boot on, resting it against his thigh to lace it up. Then the other. Deft hands working quickly.

When he straightened again, he dusted off his breeches and nodded toward the servant’s door. “Come on, it’s time to eat.” 

He blew out the candle before moving toward the door. For all his bewilderment, Arthur followed without any protest or question. He wasn’t sure why he did. But he did. 

They slipped out together. 

Arthur had never used the servants’ hallway before. It was narrower than he expected, barely enough space to walk side by side, but that didn’t stop him from walking beside Merlin — as if he would walk behind a servant. It was also dark; no torches lit the way, thus their only light source was the moon filtering through the few small windows. The air was dry and stale, as though the windows had never been opened (passing the first one, Arthur realized that was the case; the windows didn’t have a handle). On the other side of the wall, he could hear the patrol doing their round, armor clinking noisily in the otherwise silent main hall.

Eventually, Merlin stopped in front of the third door they had passed. He slowly pushed the door open, glancing around with unnecessary caution, before signaling Arthur to follow. Merlin moved surprisingly stealthily for someone who usually tripped over air. Arthur walked casually, wondering if he had gone mad to indulge him. This was his castle, his home, and yet somehow his manservant was the one leading him through hidden paths as if he were an intruder.

They rounded a corner when Merlin suddenly stopped, throwing an arm out to halt him. Lost in thought, Arthur walked straight into it with a confused huff, looking down to see what hindered his way. Merlin turned and pressed a finger to his lips, urging him to be quiet. Arthur glared but obliged, biting back the retort that wanted to come out.

Footsteps and the faint clink of armor echoed from up ahead.

Without warning, Merlin grabbed his arm and dragged him into a nearby alcove. He pushed Arthur against the cool stone wall and stepped into his personal space as he hid them in the shadow, just as Sir Leon turned the corner. Merlin stood close — too close —, the faint scent of a damp camp filling his senses once more.

His heartbeat quickened, threatening to burst out of his ribcage, and for a horrifying moment he feared Merlin could feel or hear it. But before he could worry about it, Leon strolled past, and they both held their breaths (for different reasons). He told himself he stayed quiet because it would be a compromising position to be found in, though Leon wouldn’t have misunderstood. 

When the footsteps faded, Merlin exhaled, his hot breath tickling Arthur’s neck. Arthur balled his fists to steady himself, resisting the urge to shiver as lightning coursed through his body.

Finally, the idiot pulled back, grinning like an imp who had successfully gotten away with mischief. “All clear,” he whispered — his breath smelled of strawberries — and stepped out of the alcove just as Arthur leaned in.

Arthur froze. What was he about to do? His father must have somehow hit a nerve… He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the ordeal, and stepped out, his pulse still racing. Straightening his cloak, he glared at Merlin to move on from… this. 

“Merlin,” he hissed, keeping his voice low, “am I being fed tonight or am I the meal? Because I’m starting to suspect you might secretly be some kind of flesh-eating creature luring me to my doom. Are you perhaps related to Wilddeoren?”

Merlin snorted, the sound far too loud for the situation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. Even as part-Wilddeoren, you’d be far too tough to chew.” His eyes ran up and down Arthur’s body, a glint in them that promised insolence. “Though there would be plenty to feast on. Shame.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Arthur asked incredulously, his brows shooting up.

His manservant fake gasped as he started walking again. “I would never, sire!” 

Arthur rolled his eyes and fell into step beside him. “What’s with all the secrecy then? I can walk around my own castle without sneaking like a criminal.”

Peeking around the next corner, Merlin looked both ways before waving Arthur forward again. His tone turned teasing, almost smug, when he replied, “Because it wouldn’t look good for the Prince of Camelot to be caught with his manservant in the middle of the night, now would it?”

“Everyone knows you, Merlin. No one would question us.”

Merlin hummed thoughtfully. “You’re right. Everyone knows I could do better.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur spluttered, offended. “There is no one better than me!”

“I can name five people off the top of my head.”

“Five?!“ Arthur’s voice pitched higher than he would like to admit. 

Merlin lifted a finger. “For starters, Gwen. She’s lovely and makes delicious biscuits. Not that I’d ever court her, of course. I’m not an arse.”

Alright, that made sense. He had been infatuated with Guinevere when he first came to Camelot, going as far as sacrificing himself and posing as a sorcerer. Whether his judgment was clouded by his former attraction or not, Arthur couldn’t disagree. Guinevere was a better person than him — and too good for him. A beautiful maiden like her deserved the best. Someone who could love her freely and treat her well. Someone who wouldn’t make her wait for an uncertain future. Someone kind and noble like—

“Lancelot, of course.” Merlin raised a second finger. “He saved my life like a true knight when we first met.” 

So had he! Not when they first met, but Arthur encountered a sorceress and fought gigantic spiders to gather a flower when he was at death’s gate. He drank poison to save Camelot and Merlin. He helped Merlin escape when he was falsely accused a fortnight ago. That was three whole times he saved his life, not counting all the times he had to rescue his clumsy behind during bandit ambushes. And he was an actual knight. That had to count for something.

“…and his hair is surprisingly soft.” Merlin’s yapping reached his ears again, and Arthur was unreasonably glad he hadn’t caught any of his praising for Lancelot. “But that wouldn’t have worked out either. He’s gone. And loves another anyway.” 

A burning feeling grew in his chest. “And is a liar.” 

The words slipped out before Arthur could stop them. He winced. He liked Lancelot — truly he did. The man was chivalrous, brave, and skilled; he would have made a fine knight. But why did everyone Arthur cared for— why did everyone like him so much? He lied and forged documents; how trustworthy could he possibly be? 

Merlin stopped abruptly at the foot of a staircase, which Arthur recognized as one that led up to the battlements. Torchlight spilled across his face when he turned, catching on the sharp lines of his cheekbones, making them stand out more. The teasing glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier. Sadness, maybe regret.

The sight tugged at Arthur’s heart. He didn’t like seeing Merlin upset. It felt wrong, jarring. Merlin should be cheekily smiling, making everything lighter. A somber expression didn’t suit him.

“He lied because of your stupid code,” Merlin exclaimed, his voice low but firm. It was clear he meant every word. Leave it to Merlin to insult the King’s orders in front of his heir. “And it was only about his parentage. Everything else was the truth.”

Arthur watched Merlin’s back as he turned and climbed up the stairs, his steps quick and clipped. He almost called out and apologized. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten that Lancelot was Merlin’s friend, and he just went and insulted him. He hadn’t meant it quite like that. But his pride won, as it usually did, and instead, he followed a few paces behind, worrying his lip and hissing quietly when his teeth caught the still-healing cut there.

It wasn’t that he felt guilty or anything. He was the future King; he didn’t need to justify himself or ask for forgiveness. Least of all from his own servant. He just didn’t like Merlin being upset with him because… because he had done nothing wrong, and it was practically treason to treat the Prince coldly. That was all. Not because he cared for Merlin’s opinion of him. Absolutely not.

“He was a great man,” he said finally, caving, and meant it. If he hadn’t thought so, the whole situation with Guinevere and him wouldn’t have been this difficult. “It’s a shame he wasn’t a nobleman. If it were up to me, I’d knight him.”

Merlin glanced over his shoulder, and a small smile softened his features, enough to ease something in Arthur’s chest, and he smiled back. He slowed down, light on his feet again.

Encouraged, Arthur caught up and nudged Merlin with his shoulder. “So, that’s two people. Care to share the other three who are supposedly better than me?”

The third person must be Morgana. She was a capable woman, and he fancied her, which was inevitable — she was a beauty — but Merlin would never have a chance with her. Not to mention, Uther would have his head. 

Merlin’s smile grew, which reached his eyes, soft and bright. Much better. “Oh, absolutely,” he said as they climbed. “Number three is Cathy.”

That was a surprise.

“Cathrine, the new cooking assistant?” 

Arthur remembered her because she was very clearly smitten with his manservant. Whenever they passed her, she blushed and giggled over everything he said as if Merlin was Camelot’s greatest jester. Sure, he was a fool, but he wasn’t that funny. Poor girl, trying to impress a boy who didn’t pick up on her true intentions and who liked someone else. Honestly, she should find someone less oblivious before her feelings get hurt. 

“Yes. She always leaves me a strawberry tart when Cook makes them— ah! Forget I said that.”

“Please, it’s hardly news that you steal from the kitchen. Nothing will happen to your accomplice either.”

Merlin sighed, relieved. “Good. Next… oh, Annie! She—“ 

“Let me guess: she gives you sweets whenever you bring her medicine.”

Pausing mid-step, Merlin stared at him with knitted brows. “Yes… but how’d you know I bring her medicine?”

“You talk a lot.” Was all the explanation Arthur offered. He was neither admitting nor denying that he listened to Merlin’s endless ramblings and retained the information despite acting like he wasn’t paying attention. 

The woman reacted poorly to spring, and Merlin would bring the remedy to her once the winter snow had melted and plants started growing. She was, however, married which disqualified her from being ‘better than Arthur’.

Instead of asking another question, Merlin pushed open the wooden door leading outside. They stepped into the open, a refreshing breeze greeting them. 

The sky stretched wide and endless, stars scattered across the sky like fireflies. A few were covered by clouds, their light dimming and returning as the wind shifted them along. Behind them, the door fell shut with a dull thud, cutting off the orange glow of the torch below. With the moon currently hidden, it was hard to see far; they were only able to see the faint outline of their surroundings.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.

Arthur breathed slowly, the weight of the day easing off his shoulders as the wind carried away his tiredness. Whatever reason Merlin had dragged him up here for, it didn’t matter anymore. After hours inside the stifling stone walls, he felt alive again for the first time all evening. Rejuvenated. 

And then, of course, Merlin opened his mouth and ruined it.

“And lastly, Sir Bertrand.”

With a raised eyebrow, Arthur lowered his head and looked at Merlin. “Now you’re just pulling my leg. Sir Bertrand, really?”

Merlin hummed unconcerned. “Why not? Sir Bertrand is a distinguished man. Noble, charming, wise, strong. And have you seen his hair? So luscious and wavy. I bet they’re soft like Lancelot’s too.”

Arthur blinked, completely scandalized. He was half-disgusted, half-concerned for Merlin’s sanity. But before he could respond, Merlin continued.

“And his eyes. Such kind eyes. The sort you can get lost in. So deep. As is his voice, such a rich, deep—“

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice cracked, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. “He’s nearly fifty!”

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Merlin considered his words. “Seasoned,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. “Like fine wine.”

Arthur’s mouth opened as if to speak, then shut again. He was at a loss for words. It took him a moment to recollect himself, but he eventually demanded, “Tell me you’re not serious.”

Those brilliant blues, darkened by the lack of light, flicked to him, convincingly innocent. “What? You don’t think he’s handsome?”

Arthur’s face fell further, caught somewhere between disbelief and appall. He stared, as if waiting for Merlin to reveal the punchline that never came. He was serious. Merlin was serious — or was he? Arthur wasn’t sure anymore. Sir Bertrand? The knight was his father’s age! He had fought beside Uther, for the Gods' sake. Merlin liking him— the thought alone made Arthur nauseous.

Laughter filled the quiet.

Pulled from his horrifying thoughts, Arthur furrowed his brows as Merlin doubled over once again, one hand braced against the door for balance. “The look— the look on your face!” He wheezed between bursts of laughter. “Priceless!”

Arthur gawked for a beat before he processed the situation. “You were joking.”

“Of course I was!” Merlin replied, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, his laughter still bubbling. “He’s much too old for my liking.”

Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Relief flooded him, light and absurd. “You’re impossible,” he said, shaking his head. His own chuckles mixed with Merlin’s.

Soon, the sound of their laughter faded into the quiet night, leaving only the whisper of wind and the hum of distant crickets. At that moment, the clouds shifted and light shone down on them. Arthur looked up. The moon hung full and high above them, bathing Camelot in pale silver, the distant rooftops glimmering like in a dream.

When he looked back at Merlin, his breath caught.

The Prince wasn’t one for poetry; that was for lovestruck girls, bards, and minstrels — people who spent their days writing about sunsets or singing about something from the heart. He much preferred swords and strategy to that flowery nonsense. But right now, as he took in Merlin, even Arthur’s mind filled with words he would never say.

The moonlight caught in Merlin’s dark hair, forming a faint blue halo around the crown of his head. His eyes were now the color of winkles, more grey than blue. His pale skin reflected the light, like a polished sword. The contrast between the brightness of him and the night around them was striking, as if the darkness itself had dimmed just to frame him.

Ridiculous. Arthur must have been very exhausted, making him see things. Or maybe it was the hunger. Whatever the cause, Merlin wasn’t shining. He never had, and he never would.

This was still the same old Merlin dressed in the same worn red tunic hanging loose on his wiry frame; the same hideous blue tunic-turned-neckerchief he insisted on wearing regardless of the weather (a waste, really, to cover up that slender neck); the same brown breeches Arthur had made him buy because his last pair was in tatters, tied clumsily at his too-thin waist; and the same scuffed boots he had owned since long before he moved to Camelot. He had the same stupid face, with those absurd ears half-hidden beneath outgrown curls and lips far too plump for a man.

And yet…

Something was different.

Here, under the moonlight, the bumpkin looked — well, Arthur didn’t really have the right word for it. Ethereal, perhaps. Otherworldly, definitely. Angelic, if he was being especially reckless with his vocabulary. Stranger still, for all of Merlin’s warmth and chatter and his way of lighting up every room he entered, he fit the stillness of the night far more.

It was as if the moon had crafted him: pale and gleaming, soft where the shadows deepened. And like a creature of the night, Merlin’s presence didn’t chase the darkness away, but it eased it, made it bearable. A steady glow meant to guide those who found themselves lost. Like the North Star. Always there when needed. 

Not that Arthur needed him. He wasn’t lost, nor in need of comfort. He was just… suddenly aware of how nights didn’t feel quite so empty with Merlin in them. That was all.

Arthur blinked once, twice. The moon must have cast a spell on him tonight, and he had been gullible enough to fall for it, if only for a heartbeat. Or several. (Or maybe his father really had smacked the sense out of him.)

Before he could worry more about his own sanity, a loud growl broke through the quiet. A sharp, embarrassing reminder of why the two of them were standing outside in the middle of the night.

The Prince flushed, still embarrassed by the sound his empty stomach made. He saw how the corner of Merlin’s lips twitched, his whole face straining with the effort of holding back laughter.

“Don’t,” Arthur warned pointedly.

Merlin pressed his lips together, curling them inward. After a beat, he managed to say, with a strangled and barely contained amused voice, “I’m— I’m not.”

“I said don’t.”

“I’m not laughing!” Merlin protested, but his efforts were useless as a snort escaped anyway, quiet and breathless, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, turning quickly before Arthur could glare daggers at him. Then, clearing his throat, he gestured forward. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

Arthur scowled half-heartedly but followed, secretly wishing Merlin would trip so he had something to laugh at. He didn’t. Instead, Arthur’s stomach rumbled again just to spite him, making Merlin snort, which he quickly covered with a lousy cough, but his trembling shoulders gave him away.

Closing the short distance between them, Arthur gave Merlin a playful shove to the shoulder — not enough to hurt, just enough to make his point. “That’s for laughing at your Prince,” he claimed smugly and crossed his arms.

Merlin stumbled a step but caught himself. He looked at him intensely. “Is that so?” He muttered and gave Arthur a push in return. 

Arthur scoffed, already reaching out to return the favor, but before he could, Merlin stuck out his tongue and darted away, sprinting down the battlement. Without delay, he broke into a run, going after Merlin.

The chase began.

The grass muffled their footsteps as they ran along the wall, which stretched ahead into shadows. Arthur’s heart pounded — not with frustration, but exhilaration. Merlin glanced back once, grinning wildly and unguarded, mirroring Arthur’s expression. That was all the encouragement Arthur needed. He lengthened his stride, closing the distance easily. For all his nimbleness, Merlin could never outrun the best knight in Camelot.

For a few fleeting moments, there was no crown, no duty, no weight of expectation pressing on Arthur’s shoulders. Only the sound of their laughter spilling into the night, the rhythm of their steps, and the sheer, childish thrill of pursuit.

Rounding a corner, Arthur lunged. His fingers caught the edge of Merlin’s tunic, and he tugged hard enough to throw him off balance. Merlin yelped, arms flailing wildly before he went down, his bony bottom cushioned by the grass.

Arthur slowed to a stop beside him, breathless but triumphant. He looked down at Merlin sprawled gracelessly on the ground, catching his own breath. His hair was a bit messy from the wind carding its fingers through it, and his tunic had ridden up, exposing a strip of a white lower stomach. Arthur lost it; laughter burst from him, loud, unrestrained, and genuine.

“Well done, Merlin,” he said afterwards, crouching down to be at eye level. “Truly, the picture of elegance.”

Sitting up, cheeks flushed from running and eyes glowing in the moonlight, Merlin huffed, attempting to sound indignant but failing miserably. “You pulled me!” 

“You tripped over your own feet.” Arthur shrugged, smirking at his friend.

“I would’ve stayed upright if you hadn’t grabbed me!”

“You would’ve fallen ten paces later on your own,” he countered smoothly. “I merely sped up the inevitable. You’re welcome.” He then stood up and extended a hand. “Enough of this, now. Stand up. I fear I’ll start looking like you in another minute.”

Merlin snorted, likely having picked up on the underlying insult, yet he replied, “Charming and good-looking, you mean?”

Arthur rolled his eyes but didn’t bother replying. Merlin finally took his hand, his palm warm and calloused against his own rough skin. Scrawny as he was, he had no trouble hauling him up. They stood close once more, faces mere inches apart, ragged breaths mingling. 

Neither of them moved.

The world stilled; no sounds filled the silence, even the crickets paused to watch in anticipation. The moonlight caught in Merlin’s eyes, making them sparkle, and his lashes cast shadows under them, which Arthur didn’t know was possible. His freckles stood out more due to his flushed face, and his lips were parted slightly. When he exhaled, Arthur inhaled — strawberry-flavored air filling his lungs. 

Goosebumps covered his arms.

If Arthur had been in his right mind, he would have realized how intimate that act was. And how inappropriate. Sharing a breath with a servant was certainly not becoming of a prince.

Instead, he lost himself in those gray-blue eyes, which he could recognize anywhere, and felt his pulse thrumming when Merlin’s gaze flickered to his mouth. Or did it? It was so fast he wasn’t sure if he had imagined it. Or maybe it was a trick of the light.

His body didn’t seem to care. It leaned in — just a fraction — until awareness crashed into Arthur and he took over again.

Arthur dropped Merlin’s hand as if burned, stepping back so fast the air itself snapped between them. The strange spell that had caught them broke like glass, leaving only the shards of what might have been. This time, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t done anything, blood pumping quickly.

He cleared his throat and looked away, ears burning, forcing his heart to slow. That was when something caught his eye.

A blanket was spread neatly across the grass a few meters ahead, its corners weighed down by stones to keep it from fluttering in the wind, and a woven wicker hamper was placed on top.

Thrown off by the sight, Arthur squinted his eyes as if trying to see clearer. 

The picnic looked wildly out of place amid the towers and parapets. It was the sort of thing lovers might arrange on a spring morning in the woods, not something to stumble upon in the middle of the night surrounded by stone walls.

He turned to make a remark about whoever in their right mind would plan a picnic up here, easily falling back to their usual rhythm — but the words died on his tongue.

Merlin stood stiffly, picking at the skin around his nail. His shoulders were tense, his usual easy grin nowhere to be found. There was a nervous energy about him — not fear, exactly, but something closer to self-consciousness. When their eyes met for a brief second, they shone with uncertainty before his gaze dropped to the ground, his face turning a deeper pink.

Arthur frowned, more confused than before. He glanced back at the picnic, then at Merlin, trying to understand. Slowly, the wheels in his head began to turn, and the realization settled in. This wasn’t some secret rendezvous set up by a guard for his lady. This was his dinner. Arranged by Merlin. 

How surprising. It was far more effort than he had expected Merlin to go through when he had asked for a simple meal. Apparently, when he wanted to, he could be a competent servant after all.

Arthur’s mouth curved into a smirk as he turned to him. “A picnic?” He jabbed Merlin lightly in the side with his elbow, trying to ease his worry. “You’re such a girl, Merlin.”

Merlin’s laugh came out awkward and thin, a poor attempt to mask his nerves. “Well… you like the outdoors,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, the words stumbling a little as though he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground. “But I couldn’t very well sneak you into the woods at this hour, so…” He gestured toward the blanket, his mouth twisting into a small, sheepish smile. “This was the next best thing.”

He didn’t need to say more for Arthur to understand. This wasn’t about duty or obligation — when was it ever with Merlin? This wasn’t a servant trying to please his master. This was a friend cheering up another friend. He had noticed his frustration and his exhaustion, and wanted to offer a moment of quiet after a long, miserable day. 

The Crown Prince of Camelot shouldn’t have been moved by something so simple. Yet warmth crept through him all the same. The gesture was small, but it was thoughtful, personal. It was the kind of gesture no one else would have thought to make or have done correctly. But Merlin did. Because Merlin knew Arthur in ways no one else did. He knew when to speak, when to stay quiet, when he needed laughter, when he needed silence. And Arthur found himself understanding Merlin the same way without meaning to. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, when they had learned to read each other so easily, so wordlessly, but it felt right, somehow. 

They fit together in ways he couldn’t explain, like two halves of one truth. 

There were no formalities, no pretenses, and no expectations between them. Just understanding. Merlin saw him, and he saw Merlin. It was something Arthur hadn’t realized he craved until he had it.

“It’s not much,” Merlin’s voice rang out, pulling him out of his thoughts. Not much? Arthur’s heart broke at his words. This was far more than he could have asked for — more than he deserved, honestly. “But I thought you might like some air and… you know, food that wasn’t eaten alone in a dim chamber.”

For a moment, the silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable, full of things Arthur didn’t know how to voice. Merlin could have simply brought the meal and gone to bed, tired as he was, but instead, he had gone out of his way to set up this little picnic and keep him company for a while longer. Exactly what Arthur secretly wanted.

How could Arthur convey all his appreciation without sounding like a sap?

Looking at his friend, who was still staring holes into the ground, he decided it didn’t matter what he said as long as he said something, and took the edge off him. Gratitude didn’t came easy to him, but he had been working on it since Guinevere told him off for his spoiled behavior — twice. He wanted to be better for the people who mattered, and show he wasn’t just a rude brat. 

He took a steadying breath and placed a hand on a bony shoulder. “Merlin,” he murmured, waiting patiently. When he hesitantly looked up, Arthur met his gaze with a gentle but serious expression. “Thank you.”

The words came out softer than he meant them to, softer than he had ever heard himself speak, but he hoped they carried the weight of everything unsaid. Merlin’s eyes grew as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He stared unmoving, making Arthur second-guess himself. 

But it must have been the right words. Merlin relaxed under his palm. The corners of his eyes crinkled, a wide smile spreading across his face, one that carved that small dimple into his cheek (third on the list of Merlin’s best features). A rare smile. It was so genuine, Arthur couldn’t stop his own smile. He liked seeing Merlin like this. Pleased, content, happy. Especially when he caused it. It satisfied something deep inside him and made him feel good about himself. 

“You’re welcome, Arthur,” Merlin replied, his voice warm and easy, looking at Arthur in a way that made his heart give a small, traitorous flutter, which he easily ignored.

“Well, come on then.” Arthur dropped onto the wool blanket, tugging his cloak loose and setting it beside him, striving for nonchalance. He patted the spot next to him. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s see what you’ve brought.”

Merlin dipped into an exaggerated bow, one hand pressed to his chest. When he straightened, his expression was solemn — a perfect imitation of a proper servant. He knelt on the blanket beside Arthur and pulled the hamper closer.

“May I present,” he said with mock decorum, “your dinner, my lord.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow but decided to play along. Sitting straighter, he adopted his most imperious court tone. “Very well.”

Delighted, Merlin began his performance in earnest. He reached into the hamper and took out a wrapped silver plate. “First,” he announced, pulling off the cloth and presenting a chunk of cheese, “the finest cheese the kitchen of Camelot had to offer.” He set it neatly on the blanket.

Next came half a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, its crust golden and uneven. “Baked freshly this morning by the royal cook herself — or possibly an assistant.” His brows furrowed as if it made a difference. In the end, he shrugged and placed the bread down.

“Moving on. A rare delicacy,” he continued, retrieving another cloth-wrapped bundle and revealing three richly colored plums. “For your sweet tooth, sire.” 

Merlin reached into the basket again, eyes twinkling. “And blackberries, your favorite.” He deliberately placed the bowl closer to him for easier reach. Arthur immediately grabbed one, fighting back the smile threatening to spread, as Merlin pulled out the next bundle. “And these are for me because I wanted some.” His grin turned cheeky as he set the strawberries beside himself. That explained the breath. 

Next he presented a wooden bowl with far too much flourish for what it was. “And lastly, Gaius’s leftover porridge.”

The Prince stared down at the… concoction. ‘Porridge’ was a generous term. He knew commoners made do with simple meals like this; Hunith had offered them something similar looking when they were in Ealdor, though her cooking looked better. But Gaius was the court physician. Surely the man had access to the best ingredients in Camelot. Perhaps he simply didn’t know what to do with them.

Nevertheless, not to sound pretentious, but there was no way he was eating that.

Arthur jolted when he got smacked on his shoulder. “Merlin!” 

“Don’t look so disgusted, you prick.” Merlin scolded, dropping his meek servant act. “You need to eat something proper before the wine, because I’m not dealing with your drunk arse again.” He shoved the bowl in Arthur’s chest, harder than necessary.

With a grumble, Arthur accepted the wooden bowl. A second later, Merlin also handed him a spoon and, to his horror, added some blackberries on top of the mushy porridge. Arthur made an indignant sound, watching his precious berries get sacrificed.

“Arthur,” Merlin warned seriously, voice firm and demanding. One might even call it dangerous. Not Arthur, of course. He was the Prince, he wasn’t scared of his manservant. The shiver going down his back was clearly from the cool night air, not Merlin’s tone.

“You can’t threaten the Prince, Merlin.” Arthur reminded him, careful to keep his voice even and the blush from his face. “That’s treason.”

As if that would stop Merlin. Or make Arthur throw him into the dungeons. 

“I’m not threatening a prince,” Merlin said dryly, looking unimpressed. “I’m trying to feed an ungrateful, starving toad.”

“Ungrateful— I’m not ungrateful!”

“Then eat the porridge. At least half the bowl.” 

Half the bowl?! Merlin must secretly hate him. Why else would he torture Arthur like this? He stared down at the bowl, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. The porridge was lumpy, and the blackberries bled into the surface, staining the pale mush a reddish purple. It looked anything but appetizing. 

He glanced up at Merlin, who now sat cross-legged with his arms folded in front of his chest, waiting patiently. Arthur sighed through his nose. For the wine, he reminded himself grimly.

How bad could it actually be if everyone ate it? 

With Merlin’s expectant stare burning into him, Arthur scooped a cautious spoonful and forced it into his mouth. His face twisted immediately, but he kept chewing, setting the bowl down — the wine be damned. 

It was worse than the rat stew Merlin served him.

The consistency was odd, to say the least. Too soft, too grainy, and somehow both thick and watery. The blackberries Merlin had so kindly added didn’t help either — their sweetness clashed horribly with the porridge’s dull, earthy flavor.

Arthur’s jaw tensed as he continued to chew, fighting the urge to gag. “Delightful,” he lied once he had managed to swallow. “Truly exquisite.”

Merlin’s lips twitched, struggling — and failing — to hide a grin. “See? Not so bad,” he claimed with false innocence, looking far too pleased with himself. 

Before Arthur could glower, Merlin handed him a cup of wine — which he hadn’t even noticed he had poured. Arthur didn’t hesitate; he downed it in one go, the wine washing away the vile taste. When he held the cup out again, wordlessly demanding more, Merlin rolled his eyes but obliged, refilling it only halfway and ignoring Arthur’s protest.

Then, Merlin reached into the basket once more. “Here,” he said, holding out another bowl toward him. “Something a little more… palatable for your royal stomach.”

Arthur peered inside suspiciously, half-expecting pickled eggs. (One of these days, he really ought to admit he hated those.) Fortunately, it was only salted almonds. He huffed in relief and took the bowl at the same time Merlin picked up the abandoned porridge and scooped a generous spoonful for himself.

Arthur stilled, horrified. “You’re eating that?”

“Of course I am,” Merlin replied with a shrug. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and added, “It’d be a waste to throw it away.”

That was true, he supposed. It wasn’t something Arthur ever thought about before. He hummed and turned his attention to the rest of their humble feast. He popped an almond into his mouth. The salt hit his tongue first, followed by the satisfying crunch. He reached for another, then tore into the bread and cheese, washing them down with wine.

A low, satisfied sound escaped Arthur. It wasn’t smoked rabbit or Merlin’s fish soup, but it filled his stomach, and with this beautiful moonlit view of Camelot and the admittedly decent company, everything felt just right. A relaxed smile tugged at his lips before he realized it, content with how the night had turned out.

“Glad I could please Your Highness,” Merlin quipped, watching him. His tone was teasing, but his eyes were warm and genuine, so Arthur held back on rolling his eyes, instead flicking an almond at him and chuckling when Merlin gasped.

Arthur could have left it at that. But a thought crossed his mind, and really, what kind of Prince would he be if he passed up the chance to annoy his manservant?

“Yes,” he started with his regal voice, raising his chin to seem more pompous, “you have done well, Merlin.”

His manservant gave him a wary look but stayed quiet, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Such devotion and thoughtfulness must not go unrewarded.” He paused dramatically, letting the anticipation build. “You shall have the day off tomorrow.”

Instantly, Merlin’s face lit up, eyes wide. “Really?” He asked, practically buzzing. He looked so happy that Arthur almost felt bad. Almost. But then Merlin’s expression fell as realization seemed to dawn on him, and he sighed exasperatedly. “You were joking, weren’t you?”

“Your intelligence knows no bounds, Merlin.” Arthur finally smirked, leisurely chewing on a blackberry before adding, “But you may sleep in—“

“You just want to sleep longer yourself,” Merlin interrupted with a huff.

Arthur ignored him. “—and after preparing me for training, you can spend the rest of the morning doing whatever it is you do. Get a haircut, visit Lora, pick herbs for Gaius. I don’t care. But I expect you back with my lunch. On time.”

“Are you serious— wait,” Merlin knitted his brows as the words caught up to him. “How do you know Lora?”

“I don’t. A letter of hers found its way between my reports.” Arthur nudged him teasingly. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a hero? Saving kittens from a tree. So brave.”

Merlin ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. “I’m no hero,” he said quickly, embarrassed. “It was nothing, really.”

“Maybe to you,” Arthur countered, “but I’d assume Lora was delighted — enough to write you a thank-you letter.”

He didn’t receive an answer. Merlin’s gaze stayed fixed on the blanket, but Arthur caught the subtle curve of his lips, a quiet, reluctant smile forming. His heart fluttered. He tore his gaze away, drank the rest of his drink, and focused on the sky instead. 

A light breeze blew, the clouds shifted, and they sat in the dimness. 

Eventually, Merlin cleared his throat, and Arthur looked at him again.

“So,” he muttered, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, practically black in the absence of light. “About that morning off.”

——————

The night had deepened; the moon hung higher now, pale against the black sky. Most of the food was now gone, and the wine had reduced to the last drops in the bottle — enough for two more cups, if poured generously. The air was cool against their skin.

Arthur leaned back on one arm, his goblet in the other. He felt pleasantly light, loose-limbed, and warm from the wine. Merlin, on the other hand, seemed tipsy. His face was a constant pink color, his grin lazy and unguarded, his movements clumsier.

The two of them were laughing at a memory from earlier that day: a tired Sir Geraint who had slipped when they stopped to cool off in a river. 

As their laughter quieted into chuckles, Merlin reached for the last plum, his hand wobbling slightly as he grabbed it. The movement caught Arthur’s eye. He turned the fruit in his hand as if assessing where best to bite first. Once decided, he brought the plum to his mouth and bit in. The fruit gave a crunchy, wet sound, which was rather loud in the stillness. He hummed happily and sucked at the flesh to stop the juice from spilling. It didn’t work. Droplets slid down his fingers, between his knuckles, and the curve of his wrist. When he pulled back to chew, his mouth glistened faintly with the sweetness.

Helplessly, Arthur followed the purplish juice tracing a path over pale skin before vanishing into his sleeve, staining his tunic. It wasn’t anything unusual, mundane even, yet he couldn’t look away. Transfixed. His eyes darted back up when Merlin took another bite.

Merlin finished the plum quickly with two more bites. More juice spilled in the process. He frowned and tugged his sleeve down, lifting his arm to inspect the damage. And then, gods help Arthur, he leaned forward and licked the sticky trail clean. 

Arthur forgot how to breathe. 

He told himself to look away, to do something, but his eyes stayed locked, body rigid. His world narrowed to the movement of that wine-stained tongue. He should feel grossed out, repulsed, disgusted by the brutish display, but he didn’t. He swallowed hard, something unnamed curling tight in his stomach.

And then Merlin looked up, catching him staring. 

Apprehension sparked through the haze, and Arthur’s heart jumped before it stopped for a beat. He forced down the heat rushing to his cheeks, only his ears burning, and sat straighter, keeping his face calm and neutral.

“What?” Merlin absentmindedly swiped his tongue over his plush lips, oblivious to the turmoil he was causing inside Arthur. “You had the other two. Don’t be greedy.” His words were slightly slurred but still as witty.

The well-educated Crown Prince of Camelot opened his mouth to reply, to tell him to shut up. But nothing came out. He didn’t know any words. Frowning, he closed it again and tried to remember the language.

Merlin tilted his head. “Arthur?” He called, concern quickly building up. 

That wasn’t acceptable.

Arthur forced his jaw to move and managed to say hoarsely, “I don’t care about the plum. I was just… thinking.” And looked away, to the houses in the far distance, the clouds, the stars — anywhere that wasn’t Merlin’s hand or mouth or eyes. But the image was branded into his mind. He downed the rest of his wine.

“Don’t hurt yourself. Gaius hasn’t found a cure for brain damage yet.” He could hear the smirk in his voice.

“I can tell,” Arthur shot back amiably, smirking, and got smacked again. “Merlin!”

“I can’t hit the royal prat?”

“You guessed it.” 

He shoved Merlin in retaliation, who let himself fall on his back with a giggle. Meanwhile, Arthur ate the last of his blackberries. A comfortable quiet settled over them; for the next few minutes, there was only the soft sound of crickets and the faint rush of wind over the battlements. 

Arthur tried not to think about anything. And failed miserably. So, he searched for constellations in the sky. Still, his mind kept going back to Merlin’s purplish-red tongue, the plum juice dripping down his thin arm, the sound he made—

Suddenly, Merlin perked up, and Arthur startled slightly, involuntarily dropping his gaze to look at him. “I nearly forgot,” he blurted, pulling the hamper closer. He rummaged for a moment before holding up a small glass vial, its content faintly shimmering in the moonlight. “It’s a salve for your cut.” Arthur’s hand went instinctively to his mouth, brushing over the wound he had forgotten about. “I added some chamomile to make it taste less disgusting since you don’t like garlic. Here.” 

He held out the vial, and Arthur took it, inspecting the translucent green ointment when Merlin spoke again.

“By the way, what’s a hyena?”

It seemed a drunk Merlin was even more scatterbrained than his sober self. 

“What?”

“A hyena,” he repeated. “You called me one earlier, remember? Said to ‘stop cackling like a hyena.’” He looked genuinely puzzled. “What is that?”

Right. He had called him one.

“It’s a small beast from the far south,” Arthur explained, lowering his hand holding the vial. “Sort of looks like a dog. Its fur is short, coarse, and brown with black spots. A rather ugly thing, really.”

“Oh.” Merlin nodded, looking vaguely offended and curious at once. “And it laughs?”

“Yes, it presumably makes an awful, screeching sound that resembles a laugh or a cackle.”

“Presumably?”

“I’ve never seen the beast myself. Alive, that is,” Arthur admitted with a shrug. “When I was younger, a trader from overseas came to Camelot. He offered us furs and other goods from his land. The hyena’s patchy fur stood out, and I asked about it.”

Merlin hummed thoughtfully. “A cackling animal that you’ve only heard about… sounds like a magical creature to me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Not everything strange is magic, Merlin.”

“Guess you’re right,” Merlin said innocently, but Arthur caught the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “I heard the Prince of Camelot is rather strange. And he’s just a normal man.” 

Just a normal man.

Arthur shook his head, laughing. He raised his arms again and uncorked the vial with a soft pop. The smell of garlic assaulted his senses. Merlin better not have been lying. He dipped his index finger into the cool salve and traced his lower lip with his middle finger in search of the small cut. It had nearly healed and didn’t sting anymore, but he still used the salve. He could actually faintly taste chamomile, just as Merlin had said. He let out a quiet hum of surprise. 

“Told you it wouldn’t taste awful,” Merlin said cheerfully.

He threw another almond at him, which Merlin caught with his mouth this time, grinning smugly. He rolled his eyes, chuckling at the antics.

——————

“Do you think I’m stupid? Don’t answer that. I know you, Merlin. That wasn’t the actual reason. Tell me.”

Picking at his skin, Merlin mulled over his options. Several moments later, he sighed, drank the last of his wine, and met Arthur’s gaze. 

“As a kid, whenever my mother was really upset with me, I’d sneak out after she went to bed.” He explained, a small smile tugging at his lips, fond despite the memory of an angry Hunith. “I’d go into the woods and… stay there until I felt better. And sometimes, Will and I would sneak out together to catch fireflies for fun.” 

At the mention of his old friend, Merlin’s smile faltered. A shadow crossed his face, making him look older than he was. And Arthur was struck by the reminder that for all he did, and for all the knowledge he possessed that was beyond a bumpkin’s, Merlin was still a boy compared to him — not that Arthur was particularly old. A boy wanting to goof around with a friend… 

Arthur felt an absurd, overwhelming urge to wrap him in a blanket and keep him there. He opened his mouth to say something comforting, but got beaten to it. 

Merlin drew in a slow breath and shook the emotion off with frightening ease, the light returning to his eyes. Arthur had expected someone as sensitive as Merlin to be terrible at regulating emotions. But somehow he was better at it than him tonight.

“That’s why I snuck us around. For that childlike excitement.”

He looked at him in wonder. Merlin had put far more thought into all this than he had expected. Sneaking around like children to cheer him up — who would think of that? Merlin, evidently. He couldn’t name another person who had ever been so mindful of him. 

Only Merlin.

After his talk with the King, Arthur was frustrated, angry, and ashamed. He wanted to be alone, to think. Yet when Merlin entered, a calm instantly washed over him, but it didn’t drown out the anxiety of being seen while vulnerable. And so he, like his father, lashed out at someone beneath him. Worse even, at a friend. At Merlin. And still, he stayed. Because he never listened. He had seen The Crown Prince of Camelot humiliated, disheveled, and stripped of the armor he wore well, and instead of pitying him, he had gone about his duties without judgment. Then, when he had every excuse to leave, he had offered to attend to him a bit longer. While rummaging the kitchen for food, he apparently thought of multiple ways to cheer him up: sneaking around, taking him outdoors, packing blackberries and other foods he liked. Despite having been as exhausted as him, he had done all that. Offering laughter and a good time, and comforting him with his actions and thoughtfulness in lieu of empty words.

Like the creature of the night he was, Merlin’s presence reminded him that the world wasn’t always cold and cruel — at least not while Merlin was around. 

Arthur worried his lip, barely aware of the chamomile taste. Merlin was always there to pull him back when he slipped too far into pride or temper. Merlin was always willing to bear his bad moods and his sharp words. Merlin was always by his side no matter what. Arthur couldn’t tell if he was a bigger idiot than he thought or a masochist. Every other servant had lasted no more than a season with him. Granted, he had been much worse to them than Merlin, but at the beginning of his servitude, he didn’t make it easy for him either. 

And still, he stayed.

It should have made him feel good, but instead he felt… guilty. He took a shallow breath. He didn’t deserve him, he thought once more. He didn’t deserve Merlin’s kindness, his thoughtfulness, his blind loyalty. He did so much and more for him while Arthur was struggling to appreciate him properly and threw things at him like an arse.

‘Ungrateful boy,’ echoed through his buzzing head. Maybe Uther had been right; maybe that was exactly what he was. He took everything for granted. His right to the throne: the King could easily revoke it if he wished so (as he had done before, when under an enchantment). Guinevere’s affection: she could go after Lancelot anytime. And Merlin: he could decide he had enough and leave like everyone else.

Why Merlin cared so much for him, he didn’t know. Why he insisted on sacrificing himself for his sake made even less sense to him; he was a servant, not a knight. Why he believed him worthy, when all Arthur ever did was inflict curses and danger, regardless of how hard he tried to do the right and just things. Because of his foolishness, his father could have died at the duel against the Black Knight. Because of his carelessness, Merlin almost died — twice. Because of his arrogance, Camelot almost fell from starvation and thirst. 

Arthur’s breath hitched as realization dawned on him. Not danger — but deaths. He caused so much death and harm. He must have been damned to bring the end of Camelot… The thought rooted itself, heavy and cold. Not for the first time. 

A murmur wavered at the edge of his hearing, low and distant, too soft to reach him.

Maybe it would be for the better if Uther actually disinherited him. Arthur always imagined Morgana taking his place, despite her defiance and the fact that she was a woman. She would make a better ruler: she had never endangered Camelot or her people. Unlike him. 

He drew his knees up to his chest, arms wrapping around them.

He was tired. So tired. Tired in a way that no amount of sleep could fix. It went deeper than body and bone.

Tired of holding everything in, of pretending he was fine.

Tired of being the strong one, the unshakable one.

Tired of pretending to be the man his father demanded.

Tired of trying — and still coming up short.

The ache in his chest deepened. The heaviness behind his ribs grew with every thought, every memory, until he could hardly breathe. It felt like he was drowning on dry land. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, too loud, too fast. It got cold. Not the night air — that didn’t reach him — but inside him. A shiver ran down his spine. Reflexively, the young prince bite his nails into his upper arms. Nothing. He couldn’t feel the pain, couldn’t tether himself to the world. Focus. He couldn’t slip. Not now, not ever. Father would get furious. 

He tried to remember what he was supposed to do. He had done it countless times. He could do it now… Breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting. One, barely any air filled his lungs. Two, too quick. Three, he choked on air. He coughed, a hoarse, broken sound. He tasted salt.

His throat burned. He pressed his forearms tighter around himself, fingers digging hard enough to leave deep crescent marks. His shoulders shook despite how tightly he held himself. He hated it. Hated the weakness, the loss of control, the proof that Father had been right all along. 

The sound that tore from him next was ugly and devastating, and the shame of it twisted his stomach. He curled in tighter, trying to make himself smaller, to disappear entirely. He bit his lip harder. Salt and iron. He tried to keep quiet, wanting to crawl under his blanket. If the guards heard him, they would enter and see him, then they would inform Father — no, no, no. That couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t make another sound.

Then something shifted.

A warmth brushed against him. So faint he almost didn’t notice at first, but it was there, gentle and steady. Slowly, his mind calmed as it latched onto the new sensation. The warmth was neither fire nor sunlight, that much he could tell despite the haze. It was something softer. Something alive, somehow. Unfamiliar, but soothing. 

Safe.

As he thought it, the warmth moved. It seeped through the cracks, threading through the cold that had settled in his bones, humming softly under his skin. Another shiver overcame him, but not from the cold. He wasn’t prepared for the sensation that ran through his veins. The warm feeling from earlier was nothing compared to this heat. It didn’t burn, but it set his skin ablaze in a comforting way. He couldn’t quite explain the feeling, but it was pleasant.

The pounding in his chest began to ease, as if the heat was quietly guiding his heartbeat back into rhythm, enough to breathe without fighting for it and his throat no longer hurting. He wanted to feel more of this phenomenal sensation. It was unlike anything he knew. He focused on it, trying to reach it within him. There was a pull, and he followed it. Gradually, he noticed this heat wasn’t as foreign as he had first thought. He knew it from somewhere.

As they neared a bright place, the tremors stopped, and the numbness disappeared. Dimly, he became aware of his wet cheeks and the sting from his raw bottom lip. However, he wasn’t paying attention to that. He drew in a deeper breath, and a faint scent reached him. Moss and burned wood. Another shudder. Then he was at the clearing. He didn’t hesitate. He closed his eyes and stepped into the light.

When Arthur opened them again, a brilliant blue glow surrounded him, shimmering beautifully. But then he blinked, and it was gone, leaving only the dark night. He must have imagined it, still woozy. 

His pulse was uneven but no longer frantic. He stretched out his legs, hands beside his thighs. Slowly, control returned to him, and he felt more like himself.

The world around him came back into focus. The wool blanket beneath his palms. The scattered remnants of food. The crickets in the distance. The stone walls of the battlements. The moon and stars above. 

Merlin.

“Yes. I’m here, Arthur.”

He turned his head to his right. Merlin sat closer than before, but not invading his space. For a fleeting moment, Arthur thought there was a faint blue sheen to him as well but wrote it off as another trick of his mind.

Concern and relief warred on Merlin’s face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, careful. “Welcome back. You… You had me worried. What happened?”

Realization hit like a punch to the gut. Merlin had seen him break down out of nowhere. Heat rushed to his cheeks, unable to fight it. Arthur ducked his head, mortified. Gods, he must have looked pathetic. What was wrong with him tonight? He was the Prince of Camelot; he had long since learned how to master his emotions, how to stay composed no matter what. Yet he had cried twice tonight — twice.

Merlin didn’t let him sit in his embarrassment for long. “It’s alright,” he reassured, and he glanced at him. “You don’t have to answer.” A small smile curved his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Arthur completely forgot about the question. What had happened? He wasn’t quite sure himself. One moment he was fine, and the next he was falling apart. It must have been the wine; it lowered his inhibitions. And, maybe, possibly, Merlin’s presence lowered his walls. And everything else that had happened today. Dangerous mix. But he couldn’t say that.

“It’s—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing.”

Merlin regarded him quietly, studying his face. It was obvious he didn’t believe the lie and was simply assessing whether to press the matter or not. Arthur hoped he would for once heed his station and let it go.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it made Arthur feel exposed under that knowing look. He bit his lip out of habit and hissed in pain, having forgotten the reopened wound. He reached for the vial and uncorked it. The moment the salve touched his skin, the garlic in it burned like hot stones. He cursed and fanned his hand against his lip to ease the pain. Merlin watched slightly amused but wisely said nothing. Then the thoughtful look returned. Arthur diverted his gaze, still fanning.

Minutes passed. 

Finally, Merlin broke the silence, voice low but firm. “Arthur,” he called and waited until he was looked at. “I don’t mean to pry, but whatever that was…” He made a vague motion with his hand, then sighed and put his hands on Arthur’s shoulder, gripping lightly. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… don’t tell me it’s nothing. Don’t lie to me. Please.”

Arthur’s jaw was tense. His first instinct was to deny and deflect, something that was drilled into him since boyhood. As the Crown Prince of Camelot, he had to carry his personal burdens alone. It was too dangerous for anyone to know. Weakness could be used against him. Words could be twisted and weaponized. Better to say nothing and feel nothing. Not even Gaius knew about his issue; Arthur couldn’t risk him telling Uther. 

He didn’t need anyone worrying; he wasn’t weak nor helpless. 

He covered Merlin’s shaky hands with his own, squeezing them, before gently prying them off him. Merlin didn’t protest, simply lowering his arms to his side again when Arthur let go.

“It’s not something you need to worry about,” he declared, tone deprived of any emotions as a mask.

“I already am,” Merlin said, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to face it alone. You can trust me, Arthur.”

Trying to hold on to his composure, Arthur sighed through his nose, nostrils flaring. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he confessed honestly. “I just… it’s not something I can speak about easily. I’m used to handling this by myself.”

Merlin’s reply came instantly, steady and sure. “You don’t have to anymore.”

His expression was open and earnest and painfully sincere. But it didn’t change anything.

“I can’t. A Prince cannot have his weakness known; someone will use it against him.”

As soon as the words left him, he regretted them.

There was a flicker in Merlin’s eyes, something like wounded disbelief. “Do you really think I’d ever use anything against you?”

Arthur froze. 

The question hung between them. It wasn’t an accusation. Merlin’s voice didn’t hold anger, only hurt. And that made it worse. Arthur felt a thousand maces striking his heart. The ache that had newly faded returned, sharper this time — not panic, but remorse.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility of Merlin betraying him. Merlin was the last person he would suspect, and even then he wouldn’t believe him to be guilty. No amount of shillings or torture could pry information out of him either; Arthur was sure of that. Maybe if his mother was in danger, he would talk, but he wouldn’t fault him for that; she was the only family he had. 

So, “No, I know you wouldn’t.” Merlin’s expression softened immediately, and a stone fell from Arthur’s chest. “It’s just… it’s complicated.”

“Let’s start small then,” Merlin suggested, picking up the glass vial. “Want to tell me how that happened?”

Arthur’s hand instinctively went up to his lip but stopped short of touching it, remembering in time it was healing. That was easy to answer — without giving the full truth. “I bit my lip too hard.”

Merlin hummed. He set the vial down and propped his chin on his fist instead, tapping his cheek with his index finger as he thought. After a moment, he shrugged and asked without any pretense, “And it has nothing to do with the bruise the size of a hand on your cheek?”

If he had any doubts before, Arthur was now very sure Merlin knew what had happened after he left his side. There was no point in lying. He swallowed, trying to find the right words.

“Uther… I upset the King. There was a small disagreement on my end and…” He pointed to his cheek, not able to finish the sentence. He sniffed, then added. “And that’s how I ended up hurting my lip.”

It felt wrong yet oddly freeing to talk about it, despite the vagueness. Maybe… maybe he could one day tell Merlin more. He was so very tired of holding everything in and being strong all the time. And if there was one person he could trust with his secrets and fears — it was Merlin. Merlin, who never left. Merlin, who looked at him and didn’t see a Prince or a failure, but him. 

He had never trusted anyone like he did Merlin. Never been allowed to, really. His father always told him to keep people who weren’t family at arm’s length because they could trick you and take everything from you. Trusting a servant of all people was distasteful, but they weren’t just manservant and master; they were close friends. They shared a bond, Uther could never understand.

And friends didn’t keep secrets. Probably. Arthur wasn’t really sure what friends were supposed to do and what not. Either way, he would talk to Merlin. Just not tonight. There was only so much he could endure in one day, and changing his whole personality was not on the list. As Merlin had said, he could start small though. 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur quietly admitted, “You’re right, Merlin. It wasn’t nothing.” He paused, searching for the right words, while Merlin waited, patient and attentive as always. “I guess a lot happened today, and I got… overwhelmed. I can’t say more yet. Just know…” He coughed awkwardly, ears turning red. “All you did today — thank you. Truly. You’re a good friend.”

Merlin blinked, clearly taken aback by Arthur’s words, so open and raw. Then a big, joyous smile spread across his face. He looked proud, eyes soft and bright. 

“I know that’s not easy for you, so thank you for trying, Arthur,” he said effusively and leaned forward slightly, arms lifting halfway before he stilled, realizing what he was about to do. Quickly, he let them drop, pretending nothing had happened. “Ehm… and I’ll wait however long you need. No pressure.”

“Were you going to hug me?” Arthur asked with a raised brow. 

“Sorry,” Merlin said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing. “I got a bit carried away.” He laughed sheepishly, lowering his hand. “It’s just you don’t usually… you know… say things like that,” he explained, fumbling for words. “It’s nice. Made me… happy.”

Over a few clumsy words of appreciation — Arthur didn’t understand it. He had done far greater things for people and received less than half this joy in return. Yet Merlin looked so genuinely moved, like Arthur had handed him the world. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, “but if it means that much to you, then… fine.” 

“Fine?”

Arthur hesitated. He was aware how unlike himself this was. But then again, was anything like him tonight? He remembered the warmth that had held him — steadied him — and wondered how a solid body might feel. How Merlin might feel.

Curiosity found a narrow path through the walls of pride and uncertainty, and he forced out, “You can— well, if you must… you may hug me.”

Merlin’s brows shot up. “What?”

“For five seconds,” Arthur clarified sharply. “And only tonight.”

The smile that broke across Merlin’s face was somehow bigger than the last and blinding, rivaling Sirius in its brilliance. Arthur shut his eyes to shield them against it. Merlin didn’t waste another second. 

Arms came around Arthur, tentative at first, like he was afraid Arthur would shove him away — which, truth be told, was almost what he wanted to do. His eyes snapped open, and his first instinct was to recoil, to retreat into himself, to hide behind the mask that had always kept him safe. His shoulders tensed, muscles locking. He wasn’t used to being hugged. His father had never been one for embraces. His nursemaid only held him out of duty and necessity to calm or burp him (not that he remembered her touch). He and his knights punched each other to show support. Servants wouldn’t dare touch him other than to bathe or dress him.

People didn’t hold him.

But Merlin did. 

And he was surprisingly warm for someone made of nothing but skin and bone. 

In the end, Arthur couldn't push him away.

Instead, his traitorous body relaxed bit by bit. The tension eased, and he found himself leaning forward, slowly at first, then fully, until his forehead rested on Merlin’s shoulder, eyes closed again. It was firm under his brow. Merlin’s tunic smelled faintly of soap, and the scent of him with faint traces of fruits and wine surrounded him, grounding and disorienting all at once. Hesitantly, Arthur lifted his arms and returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around Merlin, adjusting slightly to get more comfortable. Testing the waters.

Letting out a relieved, happy sigh that tickled Arthur's ear, Merlin pulled him closer. Arthur didn't resist. And his body, long deprived of such simple comfort, melted into the embrace. The warmth radiating from Merlin seeped into him through his clothes, fleetingly reminding him of the heat of the blue glow. Both whispered the same promise into his soul: you’re safe.

Which was ironic, considering Merlin was scrawny and lanky and couldn’t hold a sword properly. He tripped over nothing, and Arthur was fairly sure a strong wind could blow him away. Nonetheless, something about the way he held him made Arthur — capable, strong, knightly Prince Arthur — feel small and protected. Arthur had never imagined a hug could feel like a shield against a world that demanded so much of him.

And he… liked it. 

Guilt and shame surged like a tidal wave, sounding uncannily like his father, berating him. He was the Future King of Camelot; he should have more dignity and discipline, and not lie in his servant’s arms like a frightened boy. Arthur nearly listened, nearly pulled away, but then, as if sensing his distress, Merlin tightened his hold.

“Stop thinking, Arthur,” he mumbled into his ear, and the young prince relaxed almost instantly.

Arthur didn’t reply, but he let himself lean in further. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so at ease. No crown, no expectations, no walls between him and another person. His breath slowed. His thoughts quieted. For the first time in years, maybe ever, he simply was.

The world around them ceased to exist; everything faded into insignificance. There was only Merlin, Arthur, and the steady beat of their hearts against one another.

Time slipped.

Or maybe it stopped. Arthur couldn’t tell. His mind was blank, entirely consumed by the feeling of Merlin’s body pressed to his.

It felt so natural, so right to be held by him, he forgot everything else. 

As he got used to the touch, Arthur’s hands wandered, subconsciously seeking more contact. They moved up, feeling Merlin’s shoulder blades lightly sticking out. Without much thought, he lightly pressed the space between them, coaxing a low giggle out of Merlin. Interesting. He pressed the same spot again. Merlin giggled again, arching his back this time to get away from the ticklish touch. Neither of them took notice of how close their chests now were.

Arthur bit back a grin. He decided to go on a little exploration mission. Experimentally, he slowly stroked Merlin’s back; fingers brushed against his spine as his hand moved down, then back up. Merlin shuddered against him but didn’t complain or tell him to stop. So, Arthur did it again, curiosity getting the better of him. Another shudder. The arms around him tightened for a second before relaxing again. When he moved again, a hand caught his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip.

“Stop that,” Merlin breathed. 

“I’m the Prince, Merlin; you can’t tell me what to do.”

Despite his words, Arthur didn’t do anything. 

For five seconds.

He turned his head to rest his cheek on Merlin’s shoulder, his ratty neckerchief brushing against his nose. He pushed it away from his face and discovered something new about his friend. 

“Did you know you have a birthmark here?” Arthur asked randomly, pressing his index finger against Merlin’s nape where the mark was.

Merlin hummed; he could feel the vibration under his fingertip. “My mother told me, yes.”

“Makes sense.” Arthur was quiet for a moment before asking, “Do I have one?”

“No. I mean— no, not that I’ve noticed. No.” Heat rushed to Merlin’s cheeks for the nth time that evening.

Arthur also hummed in response. He didn’t comment on the way Merlin had tripped over his words or how suspiciously fast the “no” came out. He let his eyes fall shut, enjoying the quiet and the closeness.

None of the fantasies of holding Merlin in his arms held up to this real feeling. Being hugged felt much nicer than how he imagined hugging someone (Merlin) would be like. He exhaled against Merlin’s neck, wishing to stay like this forever. 

It was a stupid thought. He had responsibilities and duties that he couldn’t abandon, but in their little bubble, he let himself dream. Dream of a life where he wasn’t a Prince and Merlin wasn’t his servant. In this life, they were simple folk, maybe farmers, or Merlin a physician and he a blacksmith. They would be friends who lived side by side since childhood, and instead of Will, it would have been Arthur who snuck out with Merlin to catch fireflies. Then, as they got older, during colder nights, they would huddle together to keep each other warm. Until one night, when Arthur found the courage to close the distance between them and kiss Merlin’s pouty lips—

Woah. That was new.

Arthur almost jumped out of his sitting position, startled by the turn this fantasy took. No matter how plush Merlin’s lips looked, he wouldn’t kiss them, didn’t want to kiss them — pointedly ignoring how his body reacted to Merlin on multiple occasions tonight. Ignoring it and storing it somewhere he couldn’t access, as he always had done. Merlin was his friend, and he clearly liked Morgana, and maybe even secretly still Guinevere. He didn’t like Arthur in that way— that way? That sounded as if Arthur liked him in a way that wasn’t purely platonic. They were close friends, and liked each other as such. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eventually, Merlin shifted slightly, just enough to look down at him. His voice was a soft murmur. “Feeling better?”

Arthur blinked as if waking from a dream. His vision cleared, and his breath hitched. Merlin’s face was much closer than he expected, as close as he had imagined moments ago. His freckles were on full display. Someone’s heart was thrumming fast; whether it was his or Merlin’s, he honestly couldn’t say. They had blended together into one being with no way of knowing where one ended and the other began.

He almost lied out of instinct; a Prince was always alright, had to be. Except… it wouldn’t have been a lie, he realized. He actually was alright. More than alright. He had never been better.

“Much better,” he admitted truthfully, nodding, cheek rubbing against the rough fabric beneath it.

Merlin smiled softly. “Good. I’m glad.” He stroked Arthur’s back and shoulder, loosening his hold to pull away. 

However, Arthur reacted instinctively. His fingers curled into Merlin’s tunic, gripping as if it were the only lifeline he had. Merlin made a confused sound, halting. The situation immediately caught up to Arthur, and he turned his head, burying it back into Merlin’s shoulder before he could look at him. He didn’t let go, though.

“Arthur?”

“I said I was better, not… that you should let go.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. 

Arthur didn’t look up, didn’t dare. He was aware of how selfish and hypocritical he was being. It was him who said Merlin could hug him for only five seconds, and now he wanted to extend the time. A part of him feared he was overstepping, feared he was being too much. He got a taste of the sweetness that was a warm embrace and couldn’t stop eating, greedily asking for more.

Still, he didn’t let go. 

Then, a hearty laugh filled the overwhelming silence. The rumble vibrated through Arthur’s body. He chanced a look. 

Merlin’s head was thrown back. His long neck stretched, and his throat was exposed to the moonlight as he laughed. There was no mockery in it, only pure joy and mirth. His smile was wide and bright, lighting up his whole face and softening his sharp features. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and even his dimple showed. 

Beautiful. There was no other word to describe Merlin in that moment. He stared in awe when Merlin’s laughter finally ceased and he looked down at him with such fondness it made Arthur’s heart skip a beat.

Still grinning, Merlin wrapped his arms back around Arthur. “Can’t believe I live to see the day when Arthur Pendragon not only accepts a hug but actually enjoys it,” he sighed wistfully. “If this is a dream, don’t wake me.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur groaned, heat rushing to his ears. He almost regretted having spoken up. Almost.

“Now that’s the Arthur I know.”

Abruptly, Merlin leaned back, taking Arthur with him, who let out a surprised sound — something embarrassingly close to a yelp, which he would never admit to having made — as gravity pulled them both down. They toppled together; Merlin hit the blanket first, landing on his back with a soft thump, and Arthur followed, catching himself with his hands braced on either side of Merlin’s ribs. 

Merlin grinned up at Arthur, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. “Much better,” he parroted, adjusting slightly on the wool. “My back was killing me from the way we were sitting. This is far more comfortable.”

“Getting old, are we?” Arthur smirked down at him, getting comfortable on top of Merlin without a second thought, arms crossed over his sternum. Why did it feel so natural?

“If I’m old, I worry about you,” Merlin sniffled in a fake saddened way. “How will you fight enemies with your old, brittle bones?”

Arthur poked him in the side. “I’ll have you know, I’m still fighting fit. Unlike you.”

“Sure, whatever you say, old man.”

“Old man—!?”

With a huff, Arthur sat up and dug his fingers mercilessly into Merlin’s side before another word could escape him.

A startled high-pitched squeal burst out of Merlin and immediately dissolved into helpless laughter, echoing in the quiet night. He writhed like a fish out of water, trying to escape, but Arthur’s weight kept him firmly in place.

“Arthur—! Wait—!” Merlin gasped between giggles.

The Prince didn’t wait. He grinned wickedly and doubled down, tickling up along his sides. Merlin jerked beneath him, squirming so wildly Arthur had to tighten his legs to avoid being thrown off. 

He then paused long enough to ask, with an infuriating calm, “Do you surrender?”

“Never!” Merlin wheezed defiantly — before shrieking when Arthur discovered a particularly ticklish spot just beneath his ribs.

Arthur had expected him to not give up as easily, otherwise this wouldn’t have been Merlin. His grin widened, and he resumed his attack without mercy, until Merlin was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, eyes squeezed shut. He tried again and again to grab his wrists to stop him, but every time another wave of giggles hit him, weakening his grip. His hands slid uselessly down Arthur’s forearms, fingers weakly grasping elbows.

It went on far longer than either of them realized. Merlin, too stubborn to give in, and Arthur, too determined to break that stubbornness.

At some point, from all the thrashing and flailing, Merlin’s tunic bunched up around his waist, exposing his pale, flat stomach. Neither noticed until Arthur’s fingers brushed bare flesh. Merlin shuddered beneath him, and Arthur felt a jolt through him.

But he easily ignored the feeling and kept going, calloused fingers gliding across smooth skin. 

Apparently, a direct touch was all it took.

“I—I surrender!” Merlin choked out at last, prying his eyes open with effort. “I surrender, you clotpole! Stop—!”

Triumphant, Arthur relented and drew his tingling hands back, sitting up straight and smug. Merlin collapsed on the blanket with a dramatic groan, arms stretched out, eyes slipping shut as he heaved in sharp, shaky breaths. 

Arthur, still straddling his friend without noticing it, watched him openly.

Merlin’s hair was an absolute disaster, akin to a bird’s nest; his fringe clung damply to his forehead. His face was flushed a deep red from laughter and lack of air. His smile was lopsided and unguarded. His exposed skin gleamed under the moonlight. He looked radiant. And stupidly happy.

Something fluttered low in Arthur’s stomach as the tingle in his hands spread through his whole body. 

He recognized the feeling.

It wasn’t friendship or awe. 

It was something more. 

It was the same feeling he had that day in Guinevere’s small home. Sunlight painted her face gold when he had spontaneously leaned in and softly pressed their lips together for the first time. It was a new sensation, tender and sweet. His skin prickled, and his pulse picked up.

He felt the same now. 

Except… stronger. Deeper. 

Arthur swallowed, his heart thumping unevenly. He tried to lock it away quickly, before it surged out more. Before he couldn’t deny it anymore. 

He sighed. Everything was such a mess. 

He loved Guinevere. He had gone against his father’s words to rescue her, to bring her back safely. But then there was Lancelot. And despite what Merlin claimed, Arthur wasn’t oblivious to his surroundings — it was literally his job to be aware of everything around him. That night, he had seen how Guinevere and Lancelot looked at each other, saw how gently they touched, saw how devastated she was that Lancelot left without a word. 

He wasn’t stupid. They clearly liked each other. But Lancelot left because of him. Because Arthur was the Prince. Knowing that left a sour taste in his mouth. Yet a selfish part of him was happy, relieved. He tried to ignore all of it, pretend nothing was amiss, and hope Guinevere’s feelings would fade and she would choose him.

But that wouldn’t be fair to either Guinevere or Lancelot.

And if he was honest… it didn’t feel right. For a myriad of reasons. He should speak to her…

Then there was Merlin.

Clumsy, kind, courageous Merlin with his stupid big ears and lopsided smile. Merlin, who made him laugh even when he shouldn’t. Merlin, who infuriated him and grounded him in equal measure. 

He liked Merlin. He had gone against his father’s orders to retrieve a flower as an antidote for him, to keep him alive and safe. He wanted him always near — Arthur needed him around. When he didn’t know where Merlin was, he felt uneasy. The idiot could get hurt and die in a ditch if he was left alone too long.

For the past year, Arthur tried to look the other way, convinced himself this was normal, and believed this was how friends were: protective, devoted, sacrificial. After all, Merlin behaved the same way. 

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. That there was more. That from their very first encounter, there had been something about Merlin he couldn’t name — wouldn’t dare name.

At first, it had been easy to ignore. Merlin was infuriating and terrible at his job, but then he wormed his way in without him realizing it until it was too late. It scared him how quickly he began to care and worry about his manservant. 

So Arthur focused on his attraction towards Morgana instead. She was beautiful and challenging, but she irritated him in all the wrong ways, and something essential was missing. Then he got close to Guinevere and found his release. He was hopeful. Arthur projected all his affection onto her. She was kind and headstrong, but she treated him like the Prince. Which he could look past that, but even then, something was missing.

He loved her. He truly did.

But…

Guinevere wasn’t Merlin.

Morgana wasn’t Merlin.

Only Merlin was Merlin.

At that moment, Merlin opened his bright grayish-blue eyes, looking up at Arthur with startling tenderness. He shifted beneath him, hands casually settling on Arthur’s thighs as if they belonged there. Even through the fabric of his breeches, the touch burned, scorched. But Arthur didn’t push him away. He didn’t climb off either, though he was now very aware that he was straddling his manservant. Straddling Merlin. He fought down the rush of blood streaming to his face.

They stared at each other. Neither spoke. Their breaths synched without meaning to, without trying.

And in that quiet, the truth crawled up his chest — slow and undeniable:

He loved Merlin.

The admission struck him with brutal force, knocking the air from his lungs. Yet at the same time, the chains around him loosened, and he could breathe again. Arthur felt dizzy with emotion. His hands trembled with the urge to reach out, to touch, to confess. And they trembled just as violently from the fear of doing any of those things.

He felt sick. 

This was exactly what he had tried to avoid.

Merlin was his one constant. His anchor. His safe harbor. He was the only person who saw him and accepted him the way he was without conditions. This friendship, this strange, unexplainable thing between them, was the truest bond Arthur had ever known. And he was going to ruin it with these uncontainable feelings.

While loving Guinevere had been easy and gentle and felt like standing in the sun, loving Merlin was complicated and overwhelming and felt like standing on the sun. It burned and it scared him, but he didn’t know how to stay away because it also warmed and it comforted him. He wanted to step closer to the heat and get consumed by it.

He inhaled quietly, forcing his gaze away from Merlin’s gentle expression before his emotions could give him away completely. Merlin squeezed gently at his thighs in a wordless reassurance. A reminder that he wasn’t alone. Always the attentive one.

Arthur wanted to scream. To run. To hide. To pull closer. To feel.

He didn’t do any of those things. He didn’t even look at him.

He wasn’t sure what to do with this feeling — this impossible, overwhelming thing that filled him so completely it almost hurt. Now that he named it, now that he acknowledged it, it was hard to shove back into the shadows.

But he had to.

Merlin could never know the depth of it. 

Admitting the truth would risk everything, and he wouldn’t dare risk anything. Arthur could endure an unspoken, unrequited love. He could swallow it back down and chain it in heavy iron so it never surfaced again. But he couldn’t bear the thought of Merlin being uncomfortable with him. Or worse, leaving his service. Leaving him. 

A pang of fear and worry shot through him, sharp and sudden.

The possibility of Merlin leaving made his stomach twist violently. He hadn’t allowed himself to even imagine it — not really, not fully — because even the distant thought of it hollowed him out. No, he couldn’t lose Merlin over something as stupid as feelings.

Better that it tore him apart than that it tore them apart.

To prevent the worst from happening, however, he had to be alone and collect himself. To lock his feelings up again and act his usual self. Everything would be alright.

He just had to leave—

“You’re seriously going to hurt your head if you keep this up.”

Arthur turned his head, gaze dropping to Merlin, who grinned at him. “What?”

Stretching out an arm, Merlin tapped a finger against Arthur’s forehead and said, “Stop thinking. It’s not your strong suit.” 

Before Arthur could retort in kind, Merlin moved his hand from in front of his face to his neck and pulled him. It wasn’t forceful, but he went down anyway. His chest met Merlin’s again, head resting on his collarbone, the familiar scent of earth and smoke filling his senses. And then arms wrapped around him: one around his waist, holding him in place, the other across his back. Merlin held him as if he belonged in his arms. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur managed to choke out, voice muffled where his cheek pressed against fabric.

Merlin huffed, as if it were obvious. “Continuing the hug you interrupted by declaring war on me.” 

“That was barely a skirmish,” Arthur responded automatically, making Merlin chuckle, his heart skip a beat in the process.

His fingers uselessly gripped the sides of Merlin’s tunic. He should pull away. He should draw the line now, before anything slipped out of his mouth that he couldn’t take back. Feelings still raw and exposed. If Merlin held him a moment too long or if Arthur let himself fall deeper into this warmth, he would unravel. He would confess everything, and then everything would be ruined.

Arthur was torn between leaning closer and tearing himself away. He wanted to stay. Gods, he wanted nothing more. He wanted to be held and cared for in whichever way Merlin would offer. But wanting was dangerous. 

Stay.

Go.

Stay.

Hide.

Having made up his mind, he lifted his head, ready to get away before he did something stupid—

But then Merlin’s hand slid upward, fingers threading through his hair. “It’s alright,” he murmured, gentler now, and his nails scratched his scalp in a way that made Arthur shudder.

Stay.

Immediately, like a released bowstring, his body relaxed as he let out a sigh, which he wished he could shove back into his lungs when he saw the little smirk on Merlin’s lips.

Merlin knew he liked his hair played with (embarrassing story) and was clearly using it to his advantage — to calm Arthur’s loud mind. He didn’t demand explanations, didn’t ask questions. He simply held him, stroking his hair gently, like he was something precious. 

And wasn’t that just unfair?

Arthur was supposed to leave. He was supposed to run and hide and forget all these feelings. But now he couldn’t move. Not when Merlin treated him like he mattered, like he was wanted, like he wasn’t too much. His heart thundered, loud enough he was certain Merlin could feel it. But he didn’t say anything, just held him.

How was he supposed to run from this?

How was he supposed to deny himself this?

It wasn’t fair.

Merlin shouldn’t be allowed to hold him like this. To know exactly how to touch him. To make him feel relaxed and safe and something dangerously close to cherished. He could almost trick himself into thinking this meant as much to Merlin as it did to him. But Arthur wasn’t that naive. He knew Merlin was an affectionate boy who would do this for all his friends. This was nothing special to him; he hugged people constantly, and as the physician’s assistant he was used to caring for others. 

Unfortunately, it meant everything to Arthur.

It was painful, yet relieving. It was enough, more than he had secretly hoped for, yet he craved more. Starved for too long. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face in the hollow of Merlin’s shoulder, afraid his face would reflect his emotions. For a moment he warred with himself, but in the end he curled his fingers tighter in the fabric of Merlin’s tunic, surrendering.

Just for tonight, he told himself desperately. He would take whatever scraps of closeness he was given, even if only for a night. 

Arthur sagged, the tension draining from him, and shifted as he settled more comfortably against Merlin, who made a low sound, adjusting his arms around him, holding him more securely against himself. His fingers kept moving through Arthur’s hair, slow and steady. 

Each inhale lifted him slightly, each exhale lowering him again. A steady rhythm. A quiet intimacy they hadn’t meant to fall into. But was oddly soothing combined with the quiet, rhythmic beat of Merlin’s heart beneath his ear. The young Prince was gradually lulled to sleep.

Tomorrow he would rebuild the walls. Tomorrow he would pretend he didn’t ache for this, pretend he didn’t almost confess his biggest secret in a fit of emotional collapse. Tomorrow he would be the pompous prince, the confident knight, and the teasing friend again. 

But tonight… 

Tonight he allowed himself to enjoy this. Tonight he accepted comfort in a way his father would scorn him for. Tonight he let himself be held in the arms of the one person he wanted the most.

Just for tonight, he told himself again as his breath slowed.

The last coherent thought before sleep overcame him:

He loved Merlin.

And if Arthur were still awake, he would have felt the ghostly press of lips against his temple before the boy holding him fell asleep too — exhaustion long overdue and worry finally eased.