Work Text:
Arthur was having a normal morning. He was served breakfast, and then dressed by George, and fitted into his armor for training.
The sun was shining, the dragon outside of his window was snoring happily, and all was well. Arthur was practically whistling on his way to his council meeting, when of course everything went to shit.
“YOU GIANT FUCKING ARSE!”
Arthur turned. His useless excuse for a free-loader-slash-Court Warlock was marching towards him. Merlin was a rather skinny looking thing, all bones. A murderous expression on his face did not inspire fear in the hearts of men.
Merlin continued, as he stopped in front of Arthur. Servants and knights alike froze in place. Merlin lifted his hand and made a point with his finger, which he pushed Arthur with. In the middle of his chest, where Arthur’s sigil fell around his neck. “I’M SOAKING WET!”
Arthur gave him a distinct once-over. “You seem perfectly dry to me.”
“BECAUSE I USED MAGIC,” Merlin bellowed. “HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GET ME INTO THE MIDDLE OF A LAKE!?”
The answer was Morgana, but Arthur was the King of Camelot, and did not need to answer the demands of anyone. Not even his Court Sorcerer – sorry. Court Warlock. Merlin was touchy about using the Court Sorcerer title. When Arthur asked why it mattered so much, Merlin merely ranted at him until his candle burned down to the wick and Arthur still didn’t have a concrete answer.
Playing such tricks on Merlin took little convincing from Morgana. She eagerly accepted any court approved aggravation on Merlin’s behalf.
“Perhaps your magic thought you needed freshening up,” Arthur suggested calmly. “You do have a stench about you these days. Not enough time outdoors.”
Was Arthur bitterly holding a grudge that Merlin spent more time in his tower reading through scrolls instead of spending quality time with Arthur in the middle of a forest, hunting small defenseless animals? No. (Yes.)
Merlin’s face did a truly comical thing as his irritation reached apoplectic proportions. “You,” Merlin growled.
It was rare when Merlin was truly beyond words and resorted to animalistic growling. Usually that was Arthur’s reaction.
Arthur dreaded to remind himself, except for Morgana’s comment earlier in the season: “It’s like you two are really rubbing off on one another. You’re even starting to finish each other’s sentences. It’s frightening.”
He believed her to be exaggerating, except that he began noticing it himself. Clearly the only way to fix it was to nudge Merlin ever so slightly off that cliff where their relationship dangled between friendly antagonism and mutually assured tolerance.
Was it wise to make the most powerful warlock – Emrys, magic incarnate – his enemy? Probably not. But it was sure to be a lot of fun.
He and Merlin hadn’t always been this way. But some part of their relationship, after King Uther’s death, after Morgana slunk back to Camelot and gave up trying to pry the crown off Arthur’s head, and Merlin came clean about his magic – well, something happened. Arthur wasn’t sure how to describe it.
Morgana called it a regression. The “horseplay” as Arthur called it from their younger years took on a sharper edge, one that Arthur repeatedly tried to smooth over, but his efforts seemed to aggravate Merlin even more.
Arthur had too many feelings regarding Merlin to know what to do with them anymore, and Merlin seemed content to bury himself in ancient tomes and his study of magic.
Merlin threw his hands up. Small sparks skittered off his skin. “You – you are unbelievable!” Merlin cried, glowering. Arthur merely raised a brow.
“Will you be attending the council meeting this afternoon?” Arthur asked.
Merlin ignored him. He pressed his palm against Arthur’s chest, where he’d stabbed Arthur with the tip of his finger. Then he said, grinning, “This means war.”
Arthur stared at him. Merlin grinned back, slightly manic. He hadn’t smiled genuinely at Arthur in so long, and this smile was all too sharp, and slightly terrifying to witness.
“...What?” asked Arthur. But his Court Warlock was already marching away, cackling maniacally, ignoring Arthur’s following demands, and even the call of his own name. Then he disappeared for the afternoon, and Arthur pouted as Merlin failed to appear at the council meeting.
Lady Guinevere inquired where Merlin wandered off to. When Arthur explained, she cast her eyes heavenward. Her brother, Sir Elyan, snickered beside her. Sir Lancelot stared at the center of the table, beside his wife, and grew quite pale as Arthur repeated Merlin’s warning.
“That was unwise,” Lancelot chided. Arthur scrunched up his nose and ignored him. Sir Leon sighed, long-suffering, but thankfully made no comment.
It would be too much to ask his sister to do the same. He felt her attention on the side of his face as she glared at his profile. When he could ignore the weight of her stare no longer, he turned. “Yes, Morgana?”
“Fool,” Morgana rolled her eyes. “There are much simpler ways to ask a man into your bed.” she said. “This hair pulling got old about, oh, probably five years ago.”
Arthur let out a rather unmanly indignant squawk. “What – what’s that – what are you implying?”
Morgana picked at her nails. “Don’t worry, brother dear. I know on good authority that your little marital spat will be over soon.” She smirked knowingly.
“I’m not married to Merlin,” Arthur reminded her.
“Thank all the gods for that,” Morgana said. “You’d both be even more insufferable than you are now. No, not to worry. You’ll be crawling on your knees begging for a truce by in a fortnight. Merlin told me all about your new feud.” Her grin was excited and slightly wild.
Arthur’s blood drained from his face.
War, as it turned out, turned out to be quite the promise. Arthur woke up to frogs in his bed for a week straight. Then all of his hair disappeared, but only when there was another person in the room. His favorite tunic left him covered in giant purple spots, mostly harmless, but Camelot’s King couldn’t walk around looking like one of Gaius’ failed potion experiments.
The birds were the last straw. Arthur couldn’t walk outside without being pelted by dozens of little bird shits, and then they would land on his head and shoulders and deposit more little gifts before flying off again. He finally succumbed to the painful realization he would indeed have to swallow his pride and apologize.
Merlin was in his tower, his chosen area for self-imposed social exile, merrily mixing tonics. He was on the ceiling, of course, because Merlin lived to be contrary. Arthur asked him once why he spent so much time being difficult, or why he felt the need to float on the ceiling, but Merlin rolled his eyes as though Arthur was the daft one. “I’m rebelling against gravity,” Merlin corrected. “Not floating.”
“What?” Arthur asked. Merlin flapped his hands and blew a raspberry. And then refused to talk to Arthur for the rest of the day.
It figured that of all powerful magic users, Arthur had to be stuck with two most insane ones. When Arthur tucked his tail between his legs and begged Morgana to keep the frogs from spawning in his bedsheets, she just laughed until she was breathless, and then kicked him out of her chambers.
So Arthur was swallowing his ego and going to Merlin.
Merlin looked down at him as he entered. “Ah. I thought you’d be here sooner.”
Arthur glared up at him. “I’ve come to apologize. Are you going to stop with the frogs?” Then he added, swallowing, “Please?”
Merlin made a considering face. “Hm. No. I shan’t. I rather like those frogs, and they are very happy to live in your bed.”
Arthur was going to wring his damn skinny neck. On second thought, Merlin would probably turn his hands into pillows. Hm. “Please?” Arthur repeated, practically groveling.
Merlin’s eyes flashed. He floated down from the ceiling, slowly, with his table and alchemy set. The bubbling potion dribbled out, leaving a trail of floating green droplets in its wake. While Arthur glared up at him and tried not to show his awe.
Merlin’s magic was always impressive. He didn’t need words – he hardly needed them before, but a fully realized Emrys…well. There was a reason Morgana abandoned her quest for vengeance and crawled back for forgiveness.
With the sun at Merlin’s back, casting him in a halo of golden light, Arthur swallowed. Remembered how to speak. “I don’t want to be like this.” Arthur said quietly.
Merlin eyed him for a long moment. “You started it.”
“I’m sorry.” Arthur said, as meaningfully and honest as he’d ever meant it. “I just want things to be like they were.”
It was miraculous, how all of Merlin’s stress-earned wrinkles faded. How gentle his face was when he wasn’t scowling, or glaring at Arthur. He held out his hand. “I don’t know if I remember how to do that. How to talk to you.”
“I don’t either,” Arthur confessed.
Merlin smiled, his lips twitching as he fought back a smirk. But it wasn’t a cold smirk, like the one Arthur was accustomed to seeing, the one that ached more than being stabbed repeatedly in the gut. This was like old Merlin, who would tease him, and laugh.
Merlin said, “You could start with your feelings.” Arthur balked at him for a moment. “Here, I’ll go first. That’s easy.” He squeezed Arthur’s hand where their fingers were tied together. He swallowed. Arthur watched his throat bob.
Merlin whispered, “You drive me insane. See? Very easy. Now your turn.”
“That’s not what you were going to say,” Arthur murmured.
“...No,” Merlin agreed. He smiled.
They couldn’t say things like “I love you” as normal people could. And Arthur had no desire to describe their relationship through tired metaphors, or grand declarations. They were just Merlin and Arthur.
Merlin smiled as he kissed him.
Arthur went to bed, warm and content. There were no frogs. But he had a very clingy Court Warlock in his bed, to steal all of his blankets and make grumpy faces as Arthur rolled over onto his side to take his weight off his bum shoulder.
Merlin pressed a cool hand against his skin. He didn’t whisper any magic words, but a slow balmy warmth spread down Arthur’s shoulder down to his fingers, tingling as the magic relaxed his aching muscles.
“Thank you,” Arthur murmured quietly.
Merlin’s eyes were gleaming in the dark, bright gold, and faded back to deep blue. He pressed a warm kiss to Arthur’s forehead.
It was the best night of sleep Arthur had in a while. And then he woke up in the middle of a lake, mattress and all. But Merlin was beside him, grinning, almost bashfully. And Arthur – his stomach was lighter, aching with relief, and those shadows of misery and bitterness melted away like snow in the summer.
He threw his head back and laughed.