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Merlin enters the room bearing a tray. Arthur is still asleep, his mouth slightly open, his head pressed firmly back against the pillow. Because of the hot weather, he's lying on the sheets without any covers. As Arthur sleeps in the buff, he's bare to the sight, his body lax, but the musculature of his arms and thighs visible.
Merlin is used to this. As Arthur's manservant he walks in on similar situations all the time. It still shakes him, moves him, but he makes himself not think of it, not consider it in the slightest, more or less. Above all he doesn't let his gaze linger. Because it would cut him deep and that's not something he needs. He needs a clear head to be always able to save Arthur. And because Arthur doesn't know he's watching, so he doesn't think he's allowed to do any gazing.
Clapping down on his thoughts, he puts the tray down and goes to open the glazed window. He tries to breathe in the fresh air, but there's no wind or currents to speak of, the sun drenching the cobbles in the courtyard, warming the castle walls, making the room hot.
He looks into the distance, to the far left, leaning out of the window to be able to catch a glimpse of the hill declining at the base of the castle. It's still impossibly green but there are brown patches in the grass, from where the sun drenched the soil, drying it past redemption. Fruit hang low on the trees, over ripe, not having been culled when the weather was less hot.
Merlin turns around and walks over to the bed. Though he's not at his peak himself, too sweaty and hot to properly function, he wakes Arthur up by the sound of, “Rise and shine, you lazy kingly oaf.”
Arthur grunts and turns around, stuffing his face against the pillow.
“It's high time for you to be up.” It's after all almost nine and the blistering sun has been up a while. Merlin has long been about himself. Gaius wakes him at dawn to feed his leeches. “Chop, chop.”
This time Arthur reacts. He opens an eye, managing to squint and glare at the same time. It's quite a feat. “Uh, it's too hot to be out and about.”
Merlin agrees. And he's quite happy Arthur's cancelled knight practice in view of the heat. He doesn't really feel like washing Arthur's sweat-dampened surcoat, or handling all that weighty armour. Even so Arthur's being lazy. He understands he likes to take his rest when he can, when Camelot is not in danger, as it usually is. But Merlin's mother imparted the importance of being an early bird on him, stressing the need to remain active whenever the day began. There was time for inaction during cold winter nights, when you were barred from outside pursuits by atmospheric conditions. As Merlin wants only the best for Arthur, he does his best to lure him out of bed. “Come on, Arthur. I've got breakfast ready for you.”
Arthur's other eye opens. “Breakfast, you said?”
“A succulent one.” Merlin knows Arthur has a penchant for good food.
Arthur grunts, but rises nonetheless, showing his backside as he trudges to the basin. He washes briefly, then puts on a pair of soft loose breeches before sitting at the breakfast table. He takes in the spread. There are chicken leg quarters and soft boiled eggs, pickles and roasted ham. A pile of soft bread slices is there to soak up the juices.
Usually Arthur tucks in with gusto, but this time he just toys with his food. “You know, Merlin,” he says, “it's so hot today I can't put up with this greasy food.” He pulls the fruit bowl over to him and picks an apple; another he lobs at Merlin. “There. You need some fattening.”
“I'm perfectly fine.” Merlin feigns outrage he doesn't authentically feel. “You on the other hand.”
Arthur throws apple peals at him.
Merlin is showered in them but he doesn't much care. He will have to pick up the waste, true, but still he doesn't mind. He puts up a fight and retaliates, sprinkling Arthur in curling apple skins, but it doesn't last long because it's way too scorching to be doing much.
When Arthur's dressed and ready, he proposes to go on a reconnaissance tour of the castle. Merlin is not exactly keen to go outside, but he's the one who roused Arthur, so now he has to get along.
They climb to the towers and to ensure the guards are doing their duty. They're steaming under piles of chain mail but they do keep to their work with dedication. They check on the guardhouse and inspect the perimeter walls, the long crenellated stretch of them, Camelot splayed at their feet, the sunlight unwavering, as if, this far up they're closer to the source of heat. Though his shirt is drenched with perspiration, Arthur's very thorough when it comes to this task. That's what Merlin loves about Arthur so. He might grumble and complain, make a fuss and be spoilt, but with him Camelot always came first.
When they are done with those spots, they visit the armoury and then go back outside for an inspection of the outer defensive works. By the time this is seen too, Merlin is about to faint. With the passing hours the heat has increased. The sun is relentless, bathing everything in its glare. He suggests a round of the orchard, not because it's got anything to do with military outposts, but because the place ought to be cool, cooler at least than the paved courtyard, whose flagstones bake with released warmth.
When they're there, Arthur picks some peaches, the ones that are still edible so far into the season, and offers them to Merlin, who gorges on them with pleasure. It's exactly what he wanted, something fresh and cool that would sate his thirst too.
“Thank you,” Merlin tells Arthur, because he has been thoughtful. Unlike a certain King, Merlin knows how to be grateful, how to show it.
Arthur shrugs it off like it's nothing. “What for, Merlin? I'm just keeping you from being your useless self and fainting like a damsel in distress.”
“Idiot,” Merlin says, his lips wrapped around the peach.
It's afternoon by the time they make it back to the citadel proper. But the path inclines upwards and the going is tough, with the air so sultry it's almost unbreathable, a hot furnace they're moving against, thick and sultry. By now Merlin's shirt is sticking to his back like second skin and Arthur's doing the same. Even their hair adheres to their skulls in dampened strands. It's so ridiculously hot, Merlin feels heavy, nearly unable to move, to take a next step. Arthur's rooms seem incredibly far away.
“Okay, enough.” Merlin stops in his track, shading his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I'm not moving anymore.”
“What!” Arthur turns around because he has overtaken Merlin on the path upwards. “Already done for?” He shakes his head. “You have no stamina.”
“Not really, it's ridiculously hot and not weather fit for humans.” Merlin makes his voice go high-pitched because his complaint is valid, and he will be heard. Besides, Arthur looks as undone as he does, with his cheeks reddened and his expression cowed. His skin shines with perspiration. He's only pulling Merlin's leg because he loves to, but Merlin can tell Arthur is as about to keel over as Merlin is. “I'm not moving an inch.”
“Well, then.” Arthur sighs deeply as though he's very put upon. “Let's sit in the shade. That'll allow your fragile flower self to cool off.”
Though he doesn't say it loud, Merlin doesn't bite off the rude retort. But he's got what he wanted because Arthur's actually stopped too. They're under a masonry archway, which stands in view of one of the towers and a section of perimeter wall. Trees grow to the side of the bridging passage, green and ochre, nearly russet, in the pulsing heat. From their position they can spot the light bright clouds, scattered so far around they don't even minimally threaten rain. The sun doesn't shine under here and it's almost cool. Well, not as cool as Merlin would like it to be, but it's way better than standing in the open.
They sprawl down against the walls, in mirror positions, one opposite the other on different sides of the construction, their legs languidly stretched out in front of them, their arms lying lax by their sides, leaning their heads against the stone.
Arthur smiles, closing his eyes, a low burring almost like purring coming out of his chest. He might have complained about stopping, but Merlin can tell he was all bluster. He's as happy with the arrangement as Merlin is.
“It's nice here.” Merlin speaks sleepily as he can't summon the energy for more.
“It's not as bad as it could be.” Arthur plays it down, but he sounds as though he's enjoying the respite. His voice has even perked up.
“So my plans work.” Merlin arches an eyebrow and even that feels like a chore today.
“I wouldn't go as far as to say that, Merlin,” Arthur says, singsonging his name. “But I do find the shade agreeable.”
“Agreeable my arse.” Merlin makes a scoffing noise. “It's the best.”
“Well, you prize such trivial things too highly.”
“It's the small things that make life.” Merlin believes this firmly. With the existence they lead, with all it's chaos and mayhem, with all their enemies, and the dangers that surround them, a moment like this is golden. And it's not so just because nothing's alarming is happening –as is usually the case –, but because he can share this moment with Arthur, two men at their ease doing something simple. He values his time with Arthur more than he would a fortune.
Arthur cocks his head, looks at Merlin with a new light in his eyes. “There's some wisdom there.” He swallows, his Adam's apple, dappled with drops of perspiration, drops and rises. “I did have fun today, in the orchard, and even during our rounds.” He hesitates. “And you're not bad company.”
Merlin's heart swells. It's what he has always wanted to hear. He's always longed for Arthur's approval, his acknowledgement of their relationship, however you might call it. So it's something to dwell on. He still rolls his eyes though. It's part and parcel of their dynamic. “What a concession, my lord.” But he doesn't mean anything of it. He's not really into the teasing, because he's touched, moved, full of a low burning feeling which makes him float. “Really generous of you.”
Arthur snorts, but his gaze stays gentle, sweet. Arthur prides himself on his stiff upper lip, on his unshakable martial mien, but his eyes often tell the tale. All the posturing is no more than that. Merlin's learnt it by dint of rubbing shoulders with him, year in year out- His long service has taught him the ways of Arthur.
Arthur says, “I think that was lavish praise, considering you only managed to bumble helplessly after me today and were entirely useless.” He pauses; there's a charged hesitance to it, a raising of Arthur's hackles, before they come down and he relaxes again. “But I do wish my days were more like this.”
Merlin doesn't know whether Arthur means the calm, the peace and quiet that reign over this slow-trickling day, or if he's referring to Merlin's company. He doesn't ask; he doesn't dare to have his dream shattered in a thousand pieces. As long as Arthur's words are open to interpretation, Merlin would choose them to mean what he wanted. He can't quite believe it, true, not with any certainty that might buoy him, but it's surely a nice illusion. He bites back a little sob. “I do too.”
Arthur makes a concerted study of him. “Times like these, they're more real. And that's...” He looks into the distance, at the cobbled path inclining towards the citadel, its grey mass extending upwards. “Something I appreciate, Merlin.” He drops his gaze, looks at his balled hand. “The crown can be--” He wets his lips as though that might help him with the flow of his words. “Not a burden, no. It's a sacred duty. But it's one that's hard to bear. And days like today remind you, of the purpose, of the meaning, of...” He trails off and blushes. “Of what's most important.”
Merlin has no words. He has no idea how to tackle that, so he says nothing, tries to communicate his feelings with his eyes. They're brimming with unshed tears, he's aware, but he wants to be as open as he can now. There's so much he has to hide: he doesn't want to conceal this. His devotion, the loyalty that moves his every action, the fealty he owes to Arthur, which is embedded in his very being. It's not because of his destiny; the role that fate has cut out for him. It's about Arthur and the emotions he generates within Merlin, emotions he'll let out in the only way he can.
Arthur laughs, shakes his head. “Well, the heat has really addled my brain. I almost sounded as maudlin as you there.”
“That would be an improvement on your oafish manners.” Merlin bites back the tears and forces a smile, one that becomes more real and warmer as the seconds go by.
Arthur ups his shoulders. There's a glint in his eyes that's merry and full of joy. There's something weightier about it too, but what that quality is stays a mystery. He releases a breath, one that sounds loud in the stillness of the afternoon. “Shall we go back?”
Given they can't camp out here indefinitely, Merlin agrees, though he does regret shattering the moment, which had seemed at times so meaningful to him. Maybe that's why he stays put, doesn't move at all.
With a tired groan, Arthur heaves himself to his feet. He crosses over to Merlin, reaches a hand out to him. “Come on, Merlin.”
Merlin grasps Arthur's hand, their palms fitting together, wrapping around each other, hot as the life blood that pumps in them.
Clasping it till it almost hurts, Arthur tightens his hold on Merlin's hand. The touch lingers even when Merlin's on his feet. They're close, their chests grazing, and Merlin looks at the point of contact like it's a revelation, trying not to love it too much, not to want to want more of it, more of this closeness.
Not backing off, Arthur sidles from side to side, looks away, then back at their joined palms. That's when he goes all red, and drops the hold, brushing imaginary dust off Merlin's shoulder in heavy broad swipes that are clumsy and proprietorial both. “You're a mess, Merlin,”
Merlin keeps his head bowed.
“Well, let's go,” Arthur says, stopping touching him. “Shall we?”
They walk abreast back to the bowels of the castle.
The End