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“Will we really have to dance?”
“It’s our wedding, Merlin,” Arthur replies, popping a grape into his mouth (Merlin flushes, as he is prone to doing every time Arthur brings up their forthcoming nuptials). “We can hardly not dance at our own wedding.”
Merlin’s face and neck colour a shade deeper.
He is unable to speak for the way it dawns on him all at once -- every time -- that he is to marry Arthur. All that stuff about destiny and fate and uniting Albion aside, he loves this man and he is loved in return and surely, prophecy could not have predicted this.
Or perhaps, it did. They were told to be two sides of the same coin, after all. (Did the universe make it such that they would fit together at and from every edge and angle, or did they mould this themselves with bare hands, grasping for each other through everything that everyone demanded of them?)
“If I had known that the prospect of marriage would be enough to shut you up, Merlin, I would have proposed a long time ago.”
“Don’t push your luck, Arthur,” Merlin looks up from where he had been staring rather dazedly at the dining table. “We all know it is from the goodness of my heart alone that I said yes. I simply could not stand by and let you inflict yourself on some poor, unsuspecting soul. Alas, it is a burden I must bear for the-- mmph!”
Arthur leans across his chair, one hand on Merlin’s chin angling his face up to meet his lips, the other tracing a leisurely path up his thigh.
They kiss slowly. Arthur’s hand curls around the back of Merlin’s neck in a proprietary manner. He bites down on Merlin’s lower lip as he pulls away, smirking at the little whimper he knew it would elicit.
“Arthur…”
And he is crawling onto Arthur’s lap, knees enclosing thighs; Arthur runs a palm over the curve of his ass to steady at his hip. He pulls Merlin down again by the neck; Merlin cups his face in his hands.
The kiss grows more passionate. Heat pools and blood rushes south, as Merlin thoroughly explores his mouth with tongue. Arthur’s hands are trailing downwards now, Merlin moaning softly against his lips, their hips beginning to slide together--
“Must we really dance, though?” Merlin breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on Arthur’s.
Arthur groans. “Must we really debate on this right now?”
“It’s just that--” He pulls back a bit. Arthur slumps backs in his seat, stroking Merlin’s back comfortingly. “Well, everyone will be watching, and I’ve never exactly been to a ball before: or maybe I have, but only ever as a servant, so there’s a difference, you see--”
“Merlin.” He interrupts. “Are you saying you don’t know how to dance?”
“Anyone can do a waltz, Arthur,” Merlin glances away. “But pretending to be a snotty noble with Gwen and dancing around the kitchen is very different from actually doing it in front of all of them.”
Arthur stares for a moment. Then laughs.
Merlin slips from his lap petulantly, shrugging off Arthur’s lingering hands.
“You’ll make a shit husband, I hope you realise.” He sniffs.
“Really? Would a shit husband do this?”
Arthur stands. Bows, offering a hand to Merlin.
“Merlin Hunithson of the House of Ambrosius, soon-to-be Pendragon--” Merlin blushes here, again, though he’d rather be run through than admit to that, “--Emrys of the Druids, the last Dragonlord, the greatest sorcerer and most incompetent manservant to ever walk the earth, bravest man I know, and the love of my life…”
His eyes are so very blue and so very soft in the candlelight. “Would you do me the honour of this dance?”
“Whatever are you doing?” Merlin laughs a little breathlessly, still taking his hand.
Arthur pulls him in by the waist, and they begin to move -- falling into an easy rhythm of one-two-three, one-two-three.
“We are practicing, Merlin, so you don’t trip over your own feet during our wedding.” The emphasis he puts on ‘wedding’ is intentional, Merlin can tell by the all too self-satisfied smirk on his face.
He can feel even the very tips of his ears burning anyway.
“All a part of my service to Albion and its people, putting up with the massive prat who calls himself their High King so no one else has to.”
“Your benevolence and generosity know no bounds, my Merlin.”
And if he had been barely holding himself together before, he melts now, burying his face in Arthur’s shoulder.
“Yours,” He agrees eventually, in what is barely a murmur. “Always yours, my Arthur.”
They sway together for a long time.