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"No," Merlin says.
He looks down at the thing in his hand like it's a spider, or a snake, or a leech scraped off the inside of Gaius' filthy tank, like he can't believe he even has to hold it in his fingers at all, and he's bright red all the way up to the tips of his ridiculous, overlarge ears, and his blue eyes are absolutely enormous in his face, and all in all, he looks like he might, actually, crawl under the bed, and barricade himself in there, or toss himself out the high tower window, open wide, ten feet away.
Arthur wonders if he can get his Once-Per-Day Merlin Headache more than once per day. Could Merlin maybe act like this is not the literal end of the world as he knows it? For two seconds? Maybe? No? That's fine. Completely fine. Forget he even asked. "This is a time-honored tradition of the court, Merlin." He clasps his hands behind his back. "It's been this way for centuries. It's not going to change just because you happen to dislike it, so you might as well get used to it."
"This is not a tradition!" Merlin hurls It down on the end of the rumpled, unmade bed like he can't stand to touch It at all. He even wipes his hands clean on the thighs of his trousers. "You just made it up!"
So it looks like Arthur can, indeed, get his Once-Per-Day Merlin Headache more than once per day. Good to know. "No, Merlin," he says, much more patiently than the idiot deserves, because he is a damned saint, "I did not make this up. Every Court Sorcerer in the history of Camelot has—"
"How would you know?"
Arthur frowns. "What?"
"How would you know," Merlin folds his arms over his chest, "the traditions for all of this, anyway? Camelot hasn't held this ceremony since before you were born, Arthur."
Arthur blinks. Is it not obvious? "Gaius."
"Gaius?" Merlin screeches right back, at the precise octave of a tea kettle left over the cookfire too long.
"Gaius."
"You did not," Merlin says, "get this," he jabs a finger at It, like It personally invaded his home and slaughtered his entire family before his eyes, "from Gaius!" Like he thinks It is some sort of unforgivable betrayal Gaius would never commit against him.
Arthur huffs. "For God's sake, Merlin! It's a hat!"
"It's pointy!"
"It's tradition!"
"Look! Look at this!" Merlin rips It up off the bed again and shakes It at Arthur. "It's pointy! Look? See?! It has a—" he waves his empty hand around, like he can't find a word bad enough, "—a spire at the top! I'm going to look like a castle!"
"It's majestic!" Arthur insists.
"No! Not a castle!" Merlin shakes his head, because he is clearly not even listening to Arthur now. "I'm not going to look like a castle! I take it back! I'm going to look like a damn unicorn!" He puts a hand up to his forehead like he can already feel the sharp horn there.
Arthur's Once-Per-Day Merlin Headache is quickly turning into an All-Day Merlin Headache. "Look, just try it! Go on! Try it on! Put it on!"
"Absolutely not!"
"Maybe you'll like it!"
"I'm going to look like an idiot! I'm going to look like a—" Merlin sucks in a breath, "—like a unicorn castle idiot!"
"Put it on!"
"No!"
The Hat goes on Merlin's head.
Now, Arthur doesn't really see the point in getting all hot and bothered over who did what, or who grabbed who up in a chokehold or who pinned who to the floor or who maybe possibly got hit full in the face with a stray spell, and ended up with a very long, very furry pair of donkey ears for ten straight minutes.
The important thing is, The Hat goes on Merlin's head.
It stands up straight. On its own. Like a castle spire. Like a unicorn horn.
It looks completely and utterly ridiculous.
But Arthur has come much too far to admit that to Merlin's face.
"See?" he huffs, a little bit breathless, and he eases his iron grip enough to let Merlin out of the chokehold. "Majestic."