Chapter Text
Merlin dislikes hunting trips for numerous reasons
One, being the obvious, is that he does not enjoy killing animals for sport. In the village they were killed only out of necessity— an indulgence of the senses for anyone who had the time to spare not tending to the gardens or the chickens or the hardened bread loaves in the oven.
The second, also evident, is that Merlin almost always has to do the entirety of the hard work. The knights and prince cannot choose the correct fire kindling to save their lives, which was not an overstatement on some occasions, entrusted cooking to Merlin, and, as always, were attacked by bandits which by some miracle always became knocked out by a loose branch. Really, it was a little worrying how easily Merlin got away with that sort of thing; he often consulted Gaius privately, worrying over the possibility of brain damage in Camelot's finest.
But the third and final reason was one he kept close to his heart, hidden away from all others. You see, in Camelot, Arthur was relatively predictable. He would wake up cranky in the mornings to his manservant's face, but took enough care to only throw insults he half believed to be true when assaulted by the sun's rays. Though he would often jest with Merlin about sticking so close to him besides his chores, the manservant knew that they were close confidants and that the Prince only truly desired solitude when his voice softened and his thinking became particularly loud. He would show affection Merlin the same way the knights did one another: tussling, banter, insults and an onslaught of hard-handed physical touch. Merlin had quite a few bruises from them, even from the smallest tugs on the ear.
But on the hunting trips, the puzzle that was Arthur shifted its pieces. For one, his voice was often quieter when speaking of personal topics, as if paying mind to the forest's quiet hum of secrecy. His touch also seemed to soften with it. Home were the days of roughly joustling Merlin by the shoulder- instead the prince disregarded them in favor of simply clapping the boy on the shoulder with a more open smile, or even pulling him close when muttering their plans, as if they were close kept secrets.
Merlin's brain always had to pause and process that action for a bit before trusting himself to respond accordingly. He felt his wit was often numbed by these trips along with Arthur, constantly adjusting and repetitively caught off guard by the slowly thawing ice the young man's father surely encouraged the formation of in his youth. If the sun had ever shone as brightly as the smile the prince's braying laugh brought out, the sorcerer feared for the world's demise when consumed by such a great light.
So yes, that was why the manservant of the crown despised every moment of the hunting trips. He believed every step to be riddled with landmines, taking a physical an emotional toll on him. Whether it were that the Prince or the course of action the day would take would decide to be unpredictable was anyone but Merlin's guess, so he would prefer to avoid the trips at all costs.
Anyone could have imagined the sheer enthusiasm that Merlin has felt when he had spontaneously been jolted awake by vigorous arms on his shoulders, familiar, strong arms which Merlin's skin bad long ago learned to burn at the familiar touch of, which ended up joisting him to his feet and to an already-packed horse for a one-on-one outing with the golden boy of Camelot's— and Merlin's— lives. Oh, joy.
...
It was fascinating how Arthur could always do that: make his insults sound so closely to something borderlining fond, but have the mind to snatch his own smile away before it became too open. In the woods on the hunting trips, it was as if he almost forgot to do that. his gaze turn watchful, unguarded, and Merlin would shiver in spite of what hot sun that had escaped past the shade of the leaves could beat down upon them. On occasion he would slip up, say one of the most profoundly earnest and sensitive without regard to his general character, and then his eyes would become so blue just for an instant, widened and abashed with his own sudden surge of impropriety.
It was in those moments that Merlin felt his magic curling so tight— or possibly that was his heart— for they were so close together in his chest he often found them difficult to differentiate at times.
All he knew is that the prince's actions made that *spot* act up, and the boy cared far too much for his safety and well-being to give it further inspection. He almost had half the mind to ask Gaius, but the old man would often become very quiet and simply nod his head in response for anything similar to the like.
...
And so here Merlin lay, as close to the prince as he could justify for learning Camelot's names for the constellations woven from the same star-spattered sky he witnessed every mischief-fraught night growing up. The man had long since drifted off into sleep- that being much more peaceful than whatever in the goddess's name caused to believe having hidden at least six different forms of blade near his bed to be a sensible course of nighttime routine for a Prince. Here, not even his eyelashes fluttered, as the manservant had noticed during his few moments he had allowed himself the indulgence of noticing. As the golden future king's stomach rises and falls, slow and methodical as his breath creates shapes in the chill night air, Merlin gaze is steady. Memorizing what he can, for secrecy is what all he knows in regards to his prince.
Whenever he feels it to be justifiable, perhaps a hard-earned congratulations for slaying a particularly ferocious monster, Merlin can find himself man-handling the prince right back. He is rarely so bold as to initiate a soft-handed touch to the prince during the hours the sun is up, as he does not believe himself to be privy for the same nuances and timing for such a brash action that Arthur seems to have learned to be second nature. Or perhaps he is a coward. But out of all of the things Merlin is, he certainly has long accepted the right to allowing himself a fear to cower away from.