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“I’m probably making the worst mistake of my life,” Merlin says, peering at the horizon, dubious. The edge of the forest seems too far from the window of Arthur’s room — the broken line of trees seems like a speck at this distance, and the acres of rough grassland between the walls of the citadel and those trees is too monstrous a gap for him to close on his legs alone… and, well, the extra burst of power Arthur requested (nagged) him into using.
“So am I, but I won’t if you won’t,” replies Arthur. He twists around twice and rolls his shoulders and hops in place, warming up the way he does every morning. Merlin has watched him enough times that he can do the routine himself, even in his sleep while Arthur shouts at him like the (obnoxiously loud) drill instructor he turns into sometimes. Prince Arthur Slave Driver Pendragon. Merlin’s been meaning to carve that into a wood-hewn crown and present it to the man.
“You’re the one who challenged me!”
“You’re the one who accepted!” Arthur parrots, mimicking Merlin’s outrage. It’s ridiculous enough that Merlin’s face breaks into a smile, even as he exclaims,
“You threatened me with the stocks —”
“Aren’t you used to it by now? It’s practically your second home.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re stalling, sire. Are you scared you’ll lose?” Merlin asks, smug; he is entirely unsurprised when Arthur draws himself up, chest puffing out with an impressive amount of indignation, and then bursts out in laughter, bolting from the room, the utter cheat. Merlin gives him a head start of three seconds and dashes after him, thundering down the stairs, taking every shortcut and secret passageway he’s discovered in the two years he’s been here. Oh, Arthur, that bastard. Prince Arthur Bastard Cheater Slave Driver Pendragon is probably too long a title to engrave on a wooden crown that Arthur will never wear, but it isn’t as if anyone but Arthur needs to know what’s on it, right?
Merlin won’t use his magic just yet; they’ve decided he’ll draw on it when he reaches the edge of the lower town. However, Merlin’s legs are already casting that eventuality into doubt. He’s never had to run like this before. Yes, Ealdor wasn’t without its dangers (Will always kept an eye out for Merlin’s apples and Baujot, the apple farmer, always kept an eye out for Merlin), but this was a matter of honour to Arthur, this stupid competition, and Arthur picking a fight with abstract concepts of nobility and grace has to date never boded well for Merlin.
Three floors down, Merlin tears past Gaius and the King, not pausing to bow — on any other day it would be high treason but not today, no, today Uther’s probably seen his son howling with wild cheer as he dashes all over the castle, and it is a sight so unfairly, preciously rare that Uther merely mutters, “Don’t break your neck, boy,” as Merlin passes by — and bursts out onto the castle steps, out of breath already, while Arthur’s prolly already halfway through the lower town. Bloody hell.
He dares not stop for breath (one huge wheeze near the knights’ barracks doesn’t count, especially as it was only so that some of the knights could tell him the path that Arthur’s most likely to take through the higgledy-piggledy streets) and drops his pace to a quick jog. His neckerchief is conscripted into sweat-wiping service, and his smile is wide enough that he thinks his jaw might break.
All the passersby have apparently suffered Arthur by now, because they part like a thick tome in old Geoffrey’s hands, so Merlin doesn’t even have to leap over wares or elbow anyone out of the way. With huffs and pants of relief he crosses the final portcullis and then, then there’s nothing but open land all the way.
He can’t help the whoop of sheer joy that erupts from him, welcoming the wind that brushes against his clothes, whipping his hair into a greater mess than usual. Gold, green, blue, pink welcome him: grass and dandelions, sorrels and nutsedge sway in what seems to Merlin a most merry manner.
Arthur is a distance away (Merlin could never fail to spot his golden head anywhere), jogging towards the forest, not running; he’d probably expected Merlin would take longer. Merlin looks forward to flattening his prince, to having him grudgingly concede defeat and throw a tantrum all the way back to the castle, which’d be when Merlin would succeed in jostling and mocking him out of his mood. Arthur’s never ungenerous about the important things, really. It’s just stupidities that get at him, like Morgana besting him at chess when he’s the one who taught her, or a race he challenges Merlin to one fine morning, because Merlin looks upset constipated and that just isn’t done.
The light of the noon sun can’t compete with the radiant beam Arthur throws Merlin’s way when he turns at Merlin’s shout. Merlin hollers back at his beloved prince, “Oi, clotpole, you ready to lose?”, and nearly feels the gold in his eyes as he surges forth, refreshed and full of energy again, in breathless pursuit of the prince who’s now sprinting to the finish line of those trees.
To aid his speed this morning, Arthur’s not wearing his armour or carrying his sword. He’s fully aware that Merlin wouldn’t let even the breeze touch a hair on his head if he so wished, because Merlin’s just that much of an overprotective sop. Merlin still searches for human presence in the woods with his mind. Satisfied at not finding any, he catches up to Arthur with a single breath.
All right, two. Three. Merlin was rooting for Arthur to win — petty pride and Arthur are best never disunited — but Arthur’s shit-eating grin just spurred his legs on and now he’s got an arm outstretched, ready to grab at Arthur’s tunic and drag him backwards —
But Arthur, who clearly heard Merlin’s footfalls, dodges, turns, and seizes Merlin’s neckerchief with a whoop, laughing joyously even as the scuffle devolves into an utter disaster wherein Merlin’s feet lose purchase on the grass and Arthur trips over his crossed ankles and they topple over onto the ground before Merlin can use his magic to spare them this ignominious fate. Arthur only laughs harder when Merlin lands on top of him with a yelp.
Merlin hasn’t seen him this happy in a while. God, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the broadness of his mouth, the cherry-red cheeks. Such beauty may never yet have — no, Merlin is not a poet nor does he wish to become one.
“Clumsy dolt,” Arthur sighs. He makes no move to unload Merlin, who fights the burst of shy love that explodes from his heart.
“The leader of the knights tripping over his own feet like an overeager child — clumsy dolt indeed.” Merlin stares at the parts of Arthur’s face he can see. His jaw, the fans of his eyelashes, the pout of his lips, up both his (regal) nostrils. “I daresay I was about to win before you sabotaged me.”
Arthur snorts. “You were about to do the same to me because it was I who was winning.”
“It’s only the successful sabotage attempt that merits acknowledgement.” Merlin realises that he’s lazily patting Arthur’s belly while Arthur strokes his hair. It’s comfortable to rest his head on Arthur’s chest, to be fair, and Arthur’s hand is pleasantly, addictively warm on his head, despite the sun. It feels like a blessing from his future king.
“Give me a shorter head start next time, this was dreadfully easy,” Arthur muses, still very much a prince for now.
“If you win again, there’s a crown I have for you as prize,” Merlin promises, mentally amending the title to be engraved to Prince Arthur Bastard Saboteur Cheater Slave Driver Pendragon.
“I’d much rather have my fair maiden’s kiss.”
“Oh, that you can have right now,” says Merlin, and crawls up Arthur’s body to clumsily press his lips against Arthur’s. Arthur’s hands come up to frame Merlin’s cheeks as he returns the kiss, slow and tender and passionate.
Arthur kisses with unparalleled devotion; Merlin loses himself in the touch and taste of Arthur’s lips and tongue and teeth until Arthur pulls away and rolls them over on the hard ground, pinning Merlin under him, to ask,
“Why were you unhappy this morning?” in a whisper that tingles Merlin’s wet mouth and makes him wrap his arms around his prince.
“Nothing,” Merlin responds. He’s so embarrassed about it; hopefully Arthur won’t pry.
And pigs will fly on the day Arthur doesn’t meddle in Merlin’s personal matters. Arthur returns to Merlin’s mouth, resuming his thorough snogging. Merlin, to his eternal shame, mewls against Arthur’s lips. When Arthur pulls away again, he can only hold eye contact for a second with Arthur before swallowing and looking away. Arthur snogging him as an interrogative technique has proven to be extremely, unfortunately effective.
“You were already out of bed and dressed. Those are things I’m s’posed to do,” he murmurs, and that’s all he’s willing to say on the matter.
To his credit, Arthur does try not to laugh. And he doesn’t — laugh, that is, because Merlin kisses him again and that’s a far better alternative than anything else, really.
“We’ve a fair amount of time before we’re needed back, yeah?” Arthur mumbles, eyes closed, temple brushing Merlin’s cheekbone. Merlin hums his reply into the kiss, and after that no more words are said, no more thinking is performed for a fair amount of time, indeed.