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On the most routine of evenings, in the midst of the most ordinary of dutiful activities, Arthur uttered a novel command to Merlin. Only it didn’t strike him as novel at first, for the natural manner in which it flowed from Arthur’s lips was as if he’d murmured it every day for years. It very nearly passed undetected, but the one word contained within the command stood out like a rare gleaming jewel--one that dropped itself unbidden and cherish-able into Merlin’s lap.
“Pass me that quill on the night table, would you, darling?”
Just like that, the otherwise repetitive evening evolved into something quite new.
Merlin hummed an absent, obedient noise and picked up the quill. He went no further, freezing mid-movement.
Darling.
Darling.
“Sorry, what?” he asked, tossing a sharp glance Arthur’s way.
Arthur didn’t even look up.
“Here you are, deaf again; I said hand me the--”
But sitting at the table by the window, he then went very still. His fingers tightened around the piece of parchment he was holding, and his eyes went wide, fixed on nothing in particular.
Merlin waited breathlessly, eyebrows raised. What explanation would Arthur give him for the slip of the tongue? What joke would he make? What insult would he hurl? He was desperately curious to know. But Arthur carried on gaping without speaking, the very picture of a man who has either been shocked dumb or inundated with wild thought.
The longer Arthur went on gaping without speaking, the more Merlin’s tension mounted, until he finally broke by bursting into a fit of (foolish) giggles.
“You’ve got nothing, have you?” he teased.
Arthur, broken at once out of his ice mold by indignity, slapped the piece of parchment down onto the table.
“Shut up, it was--I was thinking about--”
“The softer passions?” Merlin offered. “Feeling affectionate? I’m stunned.” Merlin put a hand to his chest. “I’m flattered.”
He found that he really was. He looked at Arthur, and smiled at him.
To Merlin’s further amazement and delight, Arthur went very pink and glared down at the table.
“Just bring me the quill ,” he said through clenched teeth. “You idiot .”
Happily, Merlin did as he was told. He stopped fingering the long feather quill he held and brought it to Arthur.
Before planting it in Arthur’s hand, he grazed the airy tip along Arthur’s cheek, saying lightly as he did so:
“Anything for you, my love.”
Arthur cleared his throat, and refused to look at him, but Merlin watched his ears redden as he bent over the parchment.
Grinning to himself, Merlin left Arthur to it as he carried on tidying the bedchambers.
He swept the floors, straightened the wardrobe, fluffed the pillows--all the while sneaking glances over at the table, where Arthur was bent quite determinedly, scribbling.
Merlin crouched down to stoke the fire and chanced another glance. All movement had stopped. Arthur was gazing down at the parchment with perturbed, unfocused eyes, both hands in his hair. The quill lay forgotten.
“All right?” Merlin quietly asked.
Arthur looked up.
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“Right,” Merlin muttered to himself, turning back to the fire. “I was only asking.”
The next time he peeked at Arthur (as he inspected the laundry for...holes) he was writing again, but seemed distracted. He kept pausing for long periods, eyes glazing over, and then he’d begin again with an unusual listlessness. He crossed out several words.
“Merlin,” Arthur sighed at length, finally, setting aside quill and parchment.
Merlin, standing behind his chair, needlessly beating the curtains for dust, stopped and turned eagerly.
“Sire?”
“You’re just inventing things to do now, aren’t you?”
“Of course not, why would you think that?”
“You’re lingering.”
Arthur turned in his seat to glare at him.
Merlin blinked benignly, his hands clasped behind his back, and said nothing (he really wasn’t sure what to say to that, when he had, in fact, been lingering). Arthur’s glare intensified. A staring match ensued, in which neither of them budged an inch.
“Just doing my job,” Merlin eventually said, his tone mild and pleasant.
Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Well get on with it and get out. You’re being annoying.”
“You know,” Merlin said, seized suddenly, having derailed into his own thoughts. “You could call me ‘darling’ if you wanted to.”
As soon as the suggestion left Merlin’s mouth, he blanched, realizing at once how Arthur would take it: as a jab, a merciless tease. Merlin’s hand jumped to his hair and he scratched ferociously, staring at a spot on the floor near Arthur’s chair. But he didn’t take it back; it broached too closely on a topic that Merlin feared they would never, ever discuss otherwise, and which he felt they ought to do.
Arthur stared at him.
Not that Merlin was...holding out much hope for a discussion. He stood his ground, though, prepared for Arthur’s explosion and all manner of violence.
Instead, the glare melted from Arthur’s face, and hurt flickered over his features. His lips twitched, his gaze darting quickly about, before he hitched up a carefully blank expression.
“Well, thank you for that delightful privilege, Merlin,” he said, full of mockery and scorn. “But I--”
Merlin scrambled to salvage the moment.
“No, don’t, I mean--” he interrupted firmly, and dared to take a step forward. “It’s just that you don’t have to…” Merlin gestured, “hate me all the time.”
Arthur, his fiery eye half-wary now, narrowed. “I don’t hate you,” he objected. “When did I ever say I hate you?”
“You don’t have to say it,” Merlin told him, and there was a bit of a teasing edge to his voice now. “It’s clear every time you hit me, insult me, throw things at me, dismiss me without a thought...I could go on.”
Arthur scoffed in disbelief, staring wide-eyed at Merlin. The subtle tease had bypassed him.
“Merlin, that’s--that’s not me hating you!”
“Isn’t it?” Merlin adopted a hurt look, which he trained on Arthur, who huffed and fell silent.
He was silent for a long while, just staring at Merlin, perhaps playing back his own behavior and Merlin’s responses to it. He was perhaps wondering if he’d really been hateful, and if Merlin had really been hurt. It was wishful thinking, of course; Merlin knew that Arthur was more likely to be reeling at his servant’s thin skin, and wondering how best to go about belittling him.
So he was surprised when, as he drew nearer to Arthur’s chair, Arthur lifted his gaze to him with resigned and remorseful eyes.
“It’s been upsetting you?” he asked.
It was more of a realization than a question.
Merlin blinked.
Something tender then joined Arthur’s resignation and remorse, and Merlin’s heart abruptly ached and became tender in response.
“I don’t hate you, Merlin.”
“I know you don’t, Arthur.”
It was on precisely this knowledge that Merlin based his scheme. Deeply encouraged by Arthur’s lack of violence and startling willingness for discussion, he carried on.
“I know you’re quite fond of me, really.”
Arthur blinked up at him several times in quick succession. He then cleared his throat and ducked his head, avoiding Merlin’s eye.
Thrilled, Merlin bit his lip against a smile, and said:
“Well, that’s all right! I’m happy to know you’re fond of me. Overjoyed!”
A ghost of a smile played across Arthur’s face.
“That’s because you’re a sensitive, friendless git, now get out of my sight.”
“See!” Merlin pointed, highly amused. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
Snorting, Arthur turned a real smile on him.
“It’s my way of saying that I find you loyal and invaluable, Merlin, obviously.”
“No.” Merlin’s voice was low and playfully disapproving. He shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “No, I think you can do better.”
“You think so, do you?” Arthur raised his eyebrows, indulgent.
Merlin nodded, grave.
“I do.” He then took a step backwards and opened up his arms. “Come on. Let’s have a hug.”
Arthur cast his gaze about as if in consideration, humming. He then said, “No,” in a tone brimming with sarcasm, and bent once more over his parchment, pretending to engage with it.
Merlin, sensing an opportunity, approached him, arms still held out, taunted, “C’mere. I know you’re dying to hug me.”
Having clearly expected Merlin’s persistence, Arthur was quick to abandon the parchment in favor of jumping to his feet. As Merlin continued to advance, he dashed around to the other side of the table, putting it between them. He eyed Merlin suspiciously, tensed for further escape (though Merlin could see the humor and enjoyment playing around his eyes and mouth). It was decided in a split second. Arthur saw it coming, for his eyes brightened, and he hastily turned--but Merlin was too quick. He clamored up and over the table, nearly slipping on parchment in the process, and launched himself clumsily onto Arthur. He hitched himself at once to his back with his arms around his neck and his legs wrapped firmly around his hips.
Arthur shouted and almost toppled over, with a laughing Merlin on his back, but he caught himself against the bedpost. Breathlessly, he straightened and tried to turn his head.
“Are you mental ?” he cried. “Get off me!”
But Merlin had the advantage of being out of Arthur’s reach, and merely secured himself further by shifting himself into a better position and tightening his limbs.
“Hug me and I will,” he said into Arthur’s ear.
“No!” Arthur huffed, paused, and shouted, “I can’t even reach you!”
“Well! Good luck getting me off your back, then!”
Arthur tried to pry him off, but gave up moments later, apparently realizing that Merlin had the upper hand.
“You are,” he said, more breathless than before, “far heavier than you look. Honestly, where are you hiding all this weight?”
“It’s in my legs,” Merlin pointed out. “Because I’m taller.”
“You are not taller!”
“I am a little bit taller.”
“Prove it,” Arthur demanded. “ Show me you’re taller.”
“Oh no,” Merlin laughed, pressing his cheek to the side of Arthur’s head. “You won’t get away that easily.”
Arthur’s hands pried at Merlin’s crossed legs. “You’re holding the king hostage, Merlin,” he pointed out. “This is treason.”
“I’m holding my stubborn arse of a friend hostage, Arthur.” He paused. “I have--”
Arthur turned his head to glare at him. Merlin reared his head back to see him better, eyes gleaming, and pressed his lips together to stop himself rhyming. Arthur rolled his eyes, but something in his expression cracked--and he was laughing, one hand coming up to hang on Merlin’s arm around his neck. The sound and the resulting vibrational movement that rippled under him (along with the sheer ridiculousness of the situation) had Merlin breaking down; he dissolved into breathless laughter, burying his head in Arthur’s neck.
Arthur backed up until his bum met with the resistance of the table. Merlin, letting go of him, dropped onto it.
He was still laughing, when Arthur turned in his arms and snatched him into a hard-won and well-earned hug.
Merlin hugged him back with enthusiasm, hooking his chin over his shoulder and tightening his knees around him.
“Never known anyone so ridiculous ,” came Arthur’s amused, admonishing voice in his ear. “You can’t just attack me like that, like a--flying monkey.”
Merlin dissolved into laughter all over again and couldn’t speak. Arthur extracted himself from Merlin’s arms, smiling and flushed.
“The nerve of you,” he scolded. “I should have you in the stocks for a week, at least!”
Merlin didn’t answer that, but wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, sighing. “Wasn’t that hug nice?” he asked. “I think our bond is even stronger now. I feel so close to you, Arthur.”
It seemed that every one of Arthur’s features twitched as he struggled not to laugh.
“Really?” he said. “Because I’ve never felt closer to killing you.”
“Oh please. You’d have no one to annoy when you’re bored--no one to entertain you!”
“You’re about as entertaining as rotting fish,” Arthur said, deadpan now. “And twice as ugly.”
“I am very handsome,” Merlin returned, pressing an offended hand to his own chest. “Better-looking than you anyway--”
“Your ears are the size of dinner plates,” said Arthur, tugging one.
Merlin, in spite of himself, made to cover his ears, mouth open to retort, but Arthur wouldn’t let him do either. He pulled and flicked at Merlin’s ears, while Merlin struggled to fight him off.
“Honestly, look at them!” said Arthur, laughing. “They look like they could fly away with you!”
“Stop!” Merlin batted at his hands. “Stop it--! Arthur, stop --”
Arthur tugged at his earlobes and then covered his ears with both hands and used them to shake Merlin’s head from side to side. Merlin really had no escape; he figured he could lift his legs and kick Arthur, or do a backflip over the table--but as he was deciding, Arthur let go of his ears and grabbed his face. His palms pressed firmly into Merlin’s cheeks, squishing them in and making his lips protrude.
“What are you--?” he started with immense difficulty, looking at him like he’d gone mad.
The next thing Merlin knew, Arthur’s hands had gentled, and he’d pulled Merlin in for a brief and impassioned kiss.
Merlin swayed when it was over, hands braced on the edge of the table. His eyes flew open--as soon as they did, he hastily leaned back away from Arthur, fingers flying to his lips. A stunned half-smile spread under them.
“Oh,” he managed at length.
Arthur had paled a bit, but he didn’t move; in fact, he stood regal and proud with a mischievous, triumphant grin. His hands had fallen to Merlin’s thighs.
Merlin raked an eye over him, sat back at an obtuse angle. Oh, he was smug. Like he’d just pulled off the most spectacular move. Arthur was the smuggest, most insufferable prat who ever lived. Standing right in between his legs with that stupid grin with his stupid warm hands and stupid hair.
“Ugh,” Merlin said in disgust, defeated, falling flat onto the table with his arms splayed wide.
Laughing, Arthur curled his hands behind Merlin’s knees, pulled him forward, and leaned over him.
“How was that?” he teased.
“Disgusting,” said Merlin, strained as he realized how intimately Arthur was pressed against him.
“Yeah?”
Arthur grabbed a handful of Merlin’s tunic and hauled him upright again.
Merlin inhaled sharply, head spinning at Arthur’s flirtatious tone and the sudden mood that came over both of them. He became intensely aware of every warm, intimate point of contact between them.
“That bad?” Arthur asked, full of innocence.
“Awful,” Merlin breathed, forced into staring at Arthur’s lips. “Worst thing you’ve ever done.”
Arthur smiled like he’d been praised, pulling Merlin closer by his knees.
Merlin braced his hands on Arthur’s chest.
“Something tells me you’re not being truthful,” Arthur murmured, gazing at Merlin’s lips as well.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Merlin told him, his lips parting.
He slid his arms around Arthur’s waist and kissed Arthur’s beautiful, pale neck, and then promptly buried himself there with a sigh that was almost relief.
Arthur huffed in amusement and ran a hand over his back; Merlin burrowed into him further, encouraging his touch.
“You’ve lied to me before,” Arthur murmured, after a period of affectionate, electric silence.
“Never about this,” Merlin didn’t hesitate to murmur back, no longer teasing, giving himself over entirely to an intimate moment of which he’d hardly dared dream. It felt like half of one, but it was exactly, exactly right.
“No?”
Merlin pressed himself closer to Arthur.
“You know how I feel.”
“How do you feel, Merlin?”
Arthur’s lips were gentle against Merlin’s temple. Merlin had his answer ready, as if it had been planted deep within himself all this time, just waiting to be extracted by the question.
“Like I was born to be at your side. Like--even had I been born in another land, in another body, in another time, I still would have found my way to you.”
Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled back and leaned his forehead against Merlin’s. Their noses brushed and bumped, and Merlin, who could hardly help smiling, bumped Arthur’s purposefully, cheekily.
“That makes no sense at all,” uttered Arthur, sounding exasperated and wondering and unbearably fond. There was a pause. “But somehow I believe you.”
“Because you know it’s true.”
Arthur squeezed his thighs and kissed him, very, very gently.
“Who are you, Merlin?” he asked in the affectionate aftermath.
Merlin hummed, tilting his head at him with soft, earnest eyes, quite dazed with pleasure. This question surprised him, but once again, he found that he had his answer ready to give him.
“Yours?”
Arthur gave a little exasperated nod and a laugh that seemed to say, I might have known . And then his gaze went very soft and very open, and Merlin was reminded of the shining eyes of a doe. Feeling as though they were slipping into dangerously soppy waters, he said, feigning utter disdain:
“Oh, don’t look at me like that; I still think you’re a complete squash head.”
It startled a laugh out of Arthur, who playfully clipped Merlin around the ear.
“Ow!”
“Stay with me,” grinned Arthur once they’d resettled. “Here. Tonight.” He paused and swallowed. “Please.”
Please. Arthur hardly ever said please to him. He sounded so certain, almost excited; it made Merlin bite his lip against a huge, eager smile.
“Oh,” he said, playing with the loose flaps of Arthur’s tunic, “well I do love a man who says ‘please.’”
He’d never seen Arthur look the way he looked then: an invigorating composition of happiness, ease, excitement, and even (Merlin was charmed and delighted to see) a hint of bashfulness. He was bright-eyed and so damn beautiful that Merlin really could have punched him, but then he was doing the next best thing, which was kissing him.
The swiftness with which it became a storm of impatience and desperation was shocking. It was at once apparent that kissing and touching and caressing were things they really should have been doing since the day they met. They kissed like they teased one another, touched like they roughhoused, caressed with the deep adoration and devotion that underscored it all. In spontaneously sampling intimacy, they realized it was truly a physical manifestation of them , and discovered that they were absolutely starved for it.
As Arthur pressed Merlin back into his pillows, amongst sighs and wet kisses, the slide of fabric, then of skin, there was one breathless word whispered into Merlin’s ear, and imprinted on his shoulder, his hip, the back of his knee. Relishing, Merlin sensed. Once he’d said it, he wanted to say it over and over again, and he wanted Merlin to hear. He wanted Merlin to know.
Arthur crawled back up the length of him and Merlin smiled, melted, happy, understanding. Arthur buried his head in Merlin’s neck, kissed it, and breathed:
“Darling.”