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“Talk about a bad use of time,” Arthur grumbled, tugging at the laces of his jacket. “There's a potential traitor in our midst and I have to prepare for a knighting ceremony. Maybe it's one of the knights who wants to kill me.” He turned toward Merlin, standing at the wardrobe but with no clothes at the ready. “Maybe it’s you!”
It was only a joke—one of the funniest to ever pass Arthur’s lips, honestly—but Merlin went stiff. Arthur frowned; usually, Merlin would roll his eyes and throw back some quip about how all his assassination attempts had failed so far but there was always tomorrow. Merlin’s experience in the forest must have been an ordeal, truly, for him to be this on edge.
“Don’t look so worried, Merlin. I don’t really think you want to kill me.”
Perhaps, despite his insistence on getting back to work, Merlin did need a few days off to recover. Arthur could put up with George for a while if he truly needed to, though it would pain him greatly for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which was that… Well, Arthur had never realized exactly how much he appreciated having Merlin at his side. The hollowness that had taken up residence in his chest in Merlin’s absence was filled with warmth now, but the chill of it was something he would never forget.
Merlin seemed alright, though. At Arthur’s reassurance, he nodded and turned back to the wardrobe. Arthur left him to his duties—strange as it was to see him actually doing them—and slipped behind the dressing screen.
“What do you think about Percival?” Arthur asked.
“Very big.”
Arthur fought the inappropriate urge to laugh; Merlin brought that out in him a lot, honestly. “Yes, but does that make him a traitor?”
“Are you going to get dressed?”
Arthur’s frown made a comeback. He leaned out around the screen, shirt half on and half off, to say, “Have you got somewhere to be?”
Instead of answering the question, Merlin said, “Percival's family were killed by Cenred's army. He hates everything to do with Morgana.”
The reminder of his erstwhile sister’s cruelty always stung, but it was a truth that couldn’t go unacknowledged. Percival was far from the only knight with a tale to tell about losses at her hand, but his might’ve been the worst. Arthur hung his head, ashamed that, in his paranoia, it had slipped his mind. But he could always rely on Merlin to keep him grounded, to not let him lose sight of the things that mattered.
“You’re right,” he said, coming to linger at the wardrobe. “And he has pledged his allegiance. I’m wrong to doubt him. I need to put it from my mind.”
“You must get dressed.”
Odd as Merlin’s new obsession with timeliness was, he wasn’t wrong. There was a ceremony to attend, after all.
Arthur opened the wardrobe, snagged the nearest appropriate tunic, and closed it again. As he slipped back behind the screen, he said, “Elyan didn’t ride out with us. Maybe he's concerned about the way my relationship with Guinevere ended, or that I might hold some sort of grudge against her.”
Which was patently ridiculous, of course—his and Guinevere’s relationship had ended with understanding words and one last, gentle kiss—but a brother’s protectiveness was never to be underestimated. Arthur had soundly thrashed many a suitor for Morgana’s hand over the years, even before he’d known she was his sister by blood. If Elyan believed Arthur to be a threat to Gwen because of their failed courtship, Arthur could hardly blame him for it. And that was far from the only possible motivation.
“Elyan,” Arthur said again, at Merlin’s lack of response. “Could he be the traitor? My father killed his father.” Then, “Could you get me my ceremonial sword?”
He did up the last tie on his tunic and paused. His head was spinning, a familiar sick feeling in his gut. It had always been there, from the first time his father warned him that people would always have reason to act against him, and it had only grown stronger over the years. With every betrayal, every falsehood uncovered, every supposed friend revealed to be an enemy in disguise.
“I find it hard to believe that Elyan would think ill of me, but…I can't trust anyone.”
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were a few people in Arthur’s life who were above reproach, who had proven themselves time and time again. Guinevere, of course, kind and true-hearted, always ready to set him straight when he got off course. Gaius, a rock of wisdom to lean his back upon. And—
“In fact,” Arthur said, a smile on his lips that he wouldn’t have fought even if he thought he could win against it, “I think you, Merlin, are the only person I can trust.”
The fuzzy warmth in his chest might have been a contributing factor to the end of his relationship with Guinevere. A significant one. Alright, possibly the main one, if he were honest with himself. He had spent many years trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a little bit in love with his manservant, but there was no denying it now. Especially not after having almost lost him. The thought alone made him want to pull Merlin close and never let him go. Merlin, of all the people in his life, was the best and the truest. Even knowing that someone somewhere was out for his head yet again, Arthur couldn’t help but feel safe and secure when Merlin was by his side.
But even Merlin couldn’t protect him if he missed this ceremony. Arthur hurriedly shrugged on his jacket and rounded the screen. His bejewelled sword was laid out on the table. Arthur snatched it up. When he turned, it was to find Merlin very close behind him, all wide eyes and plush, pink, inviting lips.
It was a simple, instinctive thing to lean forward, just a smidge, and kiss those lips.
“I know,” he said, “I’m late.”
He slid his sword into place through his belt, adjusted his jacket, and swept out of the chamber.
It wasn’t until halfway through the knighting ceremony that Arthur realized that it hadn’t just been another idle fantasy.
He had actually kissed Merlin.
Shite.
Merlin hadn’t said anything. Or done anything. Or reacted at all.
To be fair, Arthur hadn’t really given him time to. He had just kissed Merlin out of nowhere, like that was a normal thing for him to do with no warning, and then promptly taken his leave. Merlin had probably been surprised, at least. Stunned. Confused.
Upset?
God, Arthur hoped he wasn’t upset. He’d had… suspicions that Merlin might share his feelings, at least a little bit, but not enough that he would’ve thrown caution to the wind like this if he’d been thinking clearly. Not to mention the plethora of things standing in the way of them having a relationship—the vast political concerns, even worse than with Guinevere; Merlin being a servant in Arthur’s employ and everything that carried with it; Merlin being a man, which presented some challenges.
What had Arthur been thinking?
He bit back a sigh, fighting the urge to fidget as the last of the new knights filed away, desperate for it to be over.
He hadn’t been thinking. Or, more accurately, he’d been thinking about how much Merlin meant to him. How blue his eyes were. How nicely Merlin would fit in his arms. They weren’t new thoughts, familiar enough by now to be comfortable in their own way, and he had just—
He needed to talk to Merlin.
As soon as this damnable ceremony was over.
Merlin wasn’t in Arthur’s chambers. There was a bath prepared, the hot water giving off plumes of steam, but the room was otherwise empty. Normally, Arthur would’ve been happy to indulge, but finding Merlin was far more important under the circumstances.
Arthur took off towards the physician’s chambers instead. He found himself peering out windows and down side passages as he passed them, looking for any glimpse of dark hair and neckerchief. He was out of luck. Distracted as he was, he nearly ran straight into Sir Leon as he rounded the last bend before his goal.
“In a hurry,” Leon noted genially. “Not late for anything else, I hope?”
Arthur gave him a dry look but shook his head. “Just looking for my wayward servant.”
Leon laughed heartily. He clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he passed him by. “Well, when you find him, watch out.”
Frowning, Arthur turned to keep him in sight. “Watch out? Why?”
“I ran into Merlin earlier, in the armoury,” Leon told him. “Seemed a tad miffed with you, is all.”
Knowing Leon’s penchant for understatement, Arthur’s heart sank into his stomach, then kept on falling until it felt like it might splatter all over the stone floor. He bit back a curse and dragged a hand through his hair, no doubt leaving it hopelessly mussed. Merlin was upset. Arthur had to find him, and fast.
He waved Leon off, turned on his heel, and made for the armoury in the hopes that Merlin would still be there. He sometimes took to polishing when he was angry—and only when he was angry, no matter that Arthur’s armour needed tending regardless of his mood—for the outlet it gave him. Arthur had caught himself staring on more than one occasion, marveling at the strength in Merlin’s hands as he worked his frustration out on a pauldron or a breast plate. He didn’t think he would be able to appreciate it this time.
But the armoury was as empty as his chambers had been. Arthur cursed aloud this time and collapsed onto the nearest bench to drop his head into his hands. Luckily, there was no one around to witness the unkingly display.
God, but Arthur could still feel the soft press of Merlin’s lips on his. For the briefest moment, everything had been perfect, and he hadn’t even appreciated it. Now, he may never have the chance to.
Arthur allowed himself one more moment to wallow and then forced himself to his feet. He could fix this. He just needed to talk to Merlin, and that required finding him. He would search the whole castle if he had to.
He didn’t search the entire castle, but he covered a good bit of it. He checked his own chambers again to find the bathtub gone, a dented pitcher on the floor, and no servant in sight. There was no one in the physician’s chambers, only a workbench full of herbs and bottles and a half-eaten bowl of berries (Merlin’s favorite, he couldn’t help but notice). The kitchen staff hadn’t seen him for hours, nor had the women in the laundry. Arthur brushed off a meeting with his uncle in favor of checking the armoury again, to no avail.
He even visited the bloody tavern! Merlin was nowhere to be found.
Perhaps, Arthur thought wearily, he had fled the kingdom. He had been so off-put by Arthur’s obviously unwanted advances that he had simply hopped on a horse and sped off toward Ealdor without looking back. He would be there by nightfall, ready to regale his mother with the whole sorry tale. Arthur hoped Hunith wouldn’t hate him for it like Merlin probably did.
Arthur plodded back to his chambers feeling empty and tired, full of a chill not unlike the one that had plagued him when he’d believed Merlin dead. He could console himself, at least, with Merlin’s continued existence this time. It was a hollow comfort. He wanted nothing more than to drown himself in wine and pretend for one night, if he could, that he hadn’t fucked up so spectacularly as to destroy the best thing in his life. He would confront the reality of it in the morning, head held high.
He pushed open his chamber door and stopped.
Merlin was there, humming to himself as he straightened out the bedclothes. He picked up a pillow, fluffed it, and laid it back in its place. There was a cheery fire going, painting him in warm light, and dinner on the table. When he noticed Arthur in the doorway, he smiled.
Arthur let out a shuddering breath, almost dizzy from relief. The strength of it must’ve shown on his face because Merlin’s lips pulled down into a frown instead.
“Arthur?” he said. “Are you—”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur cut him off. “God, Merlin, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that I— I didn’t mean to— I spent all day looking for you, and I can’t blame you for avoiding me after what I did. I know it’s ironic for me, of all people, to say this, but if we could just talk—”
Merlin’s face had flushed. “I wasn’t avoiding you,” he stammered, fingers gripping the bedpost. “I just, er…”
“No, Merlin, it’s alright,” Arthur insisted. “You’ve every right to be upset with me. I crossed a line. I wasn’t thinking, I let myself get carried away, and I—” Arthur ducked his head, succumbing to a blush of his own. He forced himself onward, though. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. That’s not exactly how I imagined doing it.”
Arthur paused and shook his head with a weak laugh.
“That’s a lie,” he admitted. “I’ve imagined doing it just like that a thousand times. And a million other ways, as well. But in every imagining, I at least knew that you wanted me to do it.”
He raised his head then. He searched Merlin’s face for some hint, an indication of how he was feeling. Usually, he found Merlin easy to read, but his expression was frustratingly opaque now. He didn’t move back when Arthur stepped forward, for what that was worth, though his grip on the bedpost tightened further.
Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat and said, “If I imposed myself upon you unwanted, then I am deeply sorry. I…I care for you, Merlin, more than anyone else in my life. So, while I would very much like to kiss you again, I will never do so if you don’t wish it.”
Merlin’s eyes widened. His indrawn breath was loud in the quiet of the room. It was several excruciatingly long moments before he spoke, during which Arthur dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from reaching out to touch. He’d already taken more than was given to him today, he would not make the same mistake again.
“You thought I was angry with you,” Merlin finally said, slow and careful, “because you kissed me?”
Arthur’s eyes found Merlin’s lips of their own accord. “Leon said you were miffed.”
That wrung a laugh out of Merlin, sudden and startled, and he looked away. He pried his fingers off the bedpost to run them through his hair instead, leaving behind a mess of dark spikes that Arthur wanted so badly to smooth down. He met Arthur’s eye again, looking up through the fan of his lashes.
“Well,” he said, “as far as first kisses go, it was a little…”
“Hasty?” Arthur supplied with a grimace.
Merlin’s eyebrows went up, but he nodded. “Right, yes, of course.”
He bit his lip. Arthur ached to touch it, to run the pad of his thumb along the soft pink flesh and soothe away the sting. He fisted his hands in his tunic instead. Merlin didn’t seem to be angry anymore—he almost looked coy, Arthur thought—but he didn’t dare to presume.
Merlin shifted. The motion brought him closer to Arthur, mere inches away. Arthur could feel the warmth of him.
“Perhaps,” Merlin said, “you could…do it over?”
Suddenly dry-mouthed, Arthur swallowed. “Do it over?”
Merlin shrugged. “Do it better. Forget the last. Call this one the real first kiss.”
Heart galloping, Arthur swayed forward. He could feel Merlin’s breath on his cheek, count every light freckle dusted across his nose. He said, hardly daring to hope, “You want that?”
Merlin’s hand found his where it was still twisted into the fabric of his shirt. Gently, Merlin pried his fingers loose and twined them with his own. Instead of answering, Merlin took it upon himself to close the distance between them.
Merlin’s lips moved sweetly against his like they had always been meant to do so. They were every bit as soft as Arthur had expected, and more inviting by far than they had been that morning in their one brief, startled moment of connection. Merlin didn’t let him pull away this time either. His free hand came up to rest at the nape of Arthur’s neck, holding him firmly in place as Merlin took it upon himself to ensure that this first kiss was up to his standards.
Arthur had never left a kiss breathless before. He’d always thought the notion fanciful and exaggerated, something for dramatized tales told by firelight for the titillation of an audience, not anything that actually happened in real life. A kiss was just a kiss, he’d thought.
But Merlin had always loved proving him wrong, hadn’t he?
They rested against each other, foreheads pressed together, fingers still intertwined and holding on tight. It was warm and intimate, their gentle breaths and the crackling of the fire the only sounds.
Arthur broke the silence with a helpless chuckle. “Was that better?”
As close as they were, he could feel Merlin’s smile against his cheek more than he could see it. He could picture it perfectly in his mind’s eye, though. Bright and brilliant. The sort of smile that made his heart kick in his chest like a wild horse. When Merlin spoke, it was in a gentle murmur, lips brushing against the shell of Arthur’s ear in a way that sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.
“Unforgettable.”