Chapter Text
Today, Arthur decides when he hears the door to his bedchambers open, is going to be an amazing day. Not even Merlin’s attempts of annoying him that morning will cause his good mood to falter, and the servant seems to pick up on that: he shoots him an intrigued look when he sees that Arthur needs less effort to abandon his bed (unlike most days, when Merlin must literally drag him from his mattress), and hums absent-mindedly while he pads on his way behind the changing screen.
The difference is that this morning he’s woken up ready to carry out the plan he's come up with the night before. Every time he thinks about it, he can’t help the rush of encouragement that assures him everything is going to work out the way he’s intended. First, he’s going to the kitchens, and order… His mind stops at the sensation that he’s missed something said outside of his head. Merlin must have been talking for a while now, for his previously tuned out voice stops, in exchange for an expectant stare with arched eyebrows.
“What?” Arthur asks, focusing on him for the first time in the day.
“I asked, what has gotten you so chipper today?” he repeats in an inquiring tone. There is nothing about it that implies Merlin isn’t glad for this animated spirit.
“I’ve been thinking—”
“A dangerous thing for you, I must say,” Merlin interrupts, which manages to make the prince roll his eyes in feigned irritation. However, he chooses to continue as though no one had said anything.
“... about what you said last night, and I’ve decided to give it a try,” Arthur declares, puffing his chest, his voice filled with determination.
At first, he doesn’t hear any responses from Merlin, something that is always a pleasant, albeit unusual, occurrence. But then, he’s also stopped trying to put Arthur’s red tunic over his head, so he protests to bring back the focus to the task at hand. He’s about to ask him if it’s because of his shoulder injury when he hears a brief apology from him in result, and he promptly resumes his actions.
“Is it—are you… are you serious?” as he stammers, a smile grows on his lips, bright, beautiful, genuine. Arthur can’t fight the urge to return the gesture, delightful to have someone that supports this—someone that might share his ecstasy.
“I am,” he confirms.
“What are you going to do, then?” Merlin’s question is laced with eagerness.
“It’s a surprise,” Arthur responds with an attitude the servant would describe as bumptious; however, he himself prefers to call it dignified. He’s a prince, after all. “Take the day off after you’re done here, don’t strain your shoulder. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“If I’d known you’d act on it so quickly, I would’ve prompted that conversation ages ago,” he muses with a chuckle, finishing dressing Arthur. The pair sits at Arthur’s table and enjoys a peaceful, comfortable, breakfast. Until Merlin starts to meddle, and he threatens to kick him out of the room.
…
“Why are you in such a good mood today?” Contrary to Merlin’s tone previously, the way Morgana asks does add some bitterness to it. Considering she tends to be an infuriating harpy most of the time, Arthur lets it go. Instead, he finds the convenience in having bumped into her.
“Have you seen Guinevere?” he asks, forcing some nonchalance into his words, and telling himself he’s quite convincing. Despite that, the king’s ward disagrees. With eyes slightly narrowed, she cocks her head to a side, as though she could see through him.
“She’s mending one of my dresses,” she responds as she crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you need her for? Don’t you have your own servant to mend your clothing?”
Arthur sighs. Why does she know him so well?
“Fine,” he concedes. “I want to take her on a picnic this afternoon, are you happy?”
Like it’s her cue, Morgana lets a grin of superiority climb to her lips, before stating, “You’re going to need my help if you really want to have a chance with her. Come with me.”
…
As much as it bothers him to admit it, Morgana has been quite helpful with the whole picnic preparations. She’s had someone gather Guinevere’s favorite flowers—columbines, not primroses like he’d thought—and her favorite sweets—strawberry tarts instead of honey cakes. He tries to avoid thinking about how he should know her better if he really wants to, though privately until he’s crowned king, court her. Shaking those negative thoughts out of his mind, he manages to honestly thank Morgana once she lets him know the horses are ready for them, and that Gwen will be there shortly.
He grabs the heavy basket while at the same time he’s walking towards the courtyard. Just when he’s making sure, for the tenth time, that nothing’s missing in there, he catches a glimpse of Gwen’s lavender dress coming closer. A smile tugs on his lips when they are in front of each other.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks, accepting his help when she goes to mount her horse.
“Someone helped me realize some things,” he answers before he gets on his horse, and then they start to ride.
…
The clearing that’s waiting for them is a place one could only dream of. The grass reflects the sunrays on its intense green leaves, giving the illusion that it’s glowing. The many trees that surround the space are incredibly healthy, their branches are home to the many birds that now sing all around them. It’s as though nature is welcoming them there, offering them everything it’s got. Coming here is Morgana’s idea too, and he could not find any reason for his pride to be bruised, because Gwen gives the impression of enjoying the view. He’s relieved that he hasn’t promised the ward anything for her help—although, she might just try to get something out of him later anyway, wait until he’s with his guard down…
“This is nice, Arthur.” Gwen’s voice brings him out of his thoughts. She’s offering him a strawberry tart.
“I’m glad you like it,” he responds, accepting the piece. He hums at the sweet taste—too sweet for his liking, yet he can remember Merlin’s ecstatic face whenever he’d let him have his almost untouched dessert, maybe it’s a commoner’s thing to enjoy incredibly sweet foods?
“After our conversation, I thought we’d remain just friends,” she mentions with a tinct of sadness in her tone. “After Lancelot…” Even though she trails off, Arthur can both understand and remember.
A few days following her rescue when she was kidnapped—when he and Merlin crossed paths with Lancelot once again—the maid confessed to Arthur that she has lingering feelings for the (potential) knight, despite him choosing not to come back to Camelot with them. The prince had given her some time to clear her mind and think, for he had been sensing something off ever since, which put an end to their secret courtship. However, today might be the day they can give themselves another opportunity.
“I want to try again, give us a second chance,” he confesses. His gaze, involuntarily, goes down to her mouth. Gwen licks her lips, finding herself closing her hazel eyes and leaning towards Arthur’s face. Without hurrying, they eliminate the distance between them until they finally kiss. Feeling encouraged, the prince’s right hand makes its way to her waist, whilst he deepens the kiss by holding her cheek with his left.
“Arthur, what are you doing?” a third voice calls out, startling the couple, making them turn around to see Uther’s perplexed features. Gwen yelps as he recognizes the king, and crawls backwards to get as far away from Arthur as she possibly can.
“Father, why are you here?” Arthur is proud to create a coherent question even when the whole interruption has him severely confounded. Uther is mounting his horse, he notices, and sees that he’s not alone. Morgana’s stallion is just a few steps behind him, and Merlin is walking next to her.
“Arthur?” Unlike Morgana’s surprise and Uther’s puzzlement, Merlin’s expression is unreadable at first. His sight travels from the purple flowers to the tarts, and finally stops at the couple, before a flash of hurt appears in his gaze. They’ve all turned his attention to him, to hear what he is to say next, only that it never happens. The manservant instead decides to return to where he’s come from, at a rapid pace.
“Back to the castle, now,” Uther orders Guinevere, his visible impatience lets her know that he won’t even allow her to gather the picnic stuff, so she gets up on her feet and brushes off her dress. As she starts to walk over her horse, the king dismisses her with a warning—or rather a threat—of what would happen should she decide to tell anyone about what’s happened today. She courtesies briefly, spilling both promises that she won’t and apologies for the recent events, and rides away with Morgana at her side.
The king waits in silence until he can be sure they won't be heard. He's barely moving at all. Only the occasional blinking, and the way they stop at the picnic blanket and then at Arthur himself are the only indicators that he's in front of another human being, instead of a realistic stone sculpture. The prince is noticeably tense because he has no idea what to expect. What has he done wrong this time? Another moment happens until Uther is ready to say something.
“Father, I don’t understand—” Arthur begins.
“Neither do I.” His father shakes his head. “How could you do this to him? Arthur, you’ve been raised to be more honorable than that.”
Arthur's thoughts about how to spare Gwen from any punishment come to a halt once he processes his father's words. He stares at him, with no intention to hide how dumbfounded he really feels.
“‘Him’?” he repeats. “Father, who are you referring to?”
At his question, Uther's frown deepens as he answers, “Your manservant.” He acts as though it were obvious. “I’m aware of the special bond you two share, how you're stupidly loyal to each other. I've even given him my blessing to court you, privately, until you marry a princess, of course.”
Arthur's breath is caught in his throat, making him cough slightly at the same time blood abandons his face. Is his father implying what he thinks he is implying? He doesn't even know how to begin to respond to him, although in the end there’s no need for him to do so. Uther perceives his panicked reaction, and instead of reprimanding him for showing his true emotions on his face so easily, he just… chuckles?
“Yes, I know you also fancy men. Quite evident, I must say, much like Merlin's feelings for you.” Then, remembering the root of their current conversation, Uther's amusement sobers again. “If they're not requited, you must be clear to him. I gather he was expecting you to have this picnic with him… It appears we were both mistaken.”
“I… I will talk to him,” Arthur promises, nodding to himself. His father seems to approve, and then points to his right.
“He went that way.” With that, Uther turns his horse and leaves.
As he tries to find Merlin, the words his father have said to him swirl in his mind and acknowledges just how much energy the whole interaction has stolen from him. For almost a decade—until now—he has been trying to hide the fact that he can develop romantic feelings for both women and men, being afraid of what the king's reaction would be. He's expected to sire an heir, and that's something Arthur knows Uther is never willing to discuss. Nevertheless, discovering that he's known that part of Arthur, for who knows how long, is something akin to being stripped of the heaviest armor that's ever existed. As much as he can finally breathe, the exhaustion of having carried that weight for so much time is difficult to bear. And that's just the first of the many realizations he's stumbling upon today.
The second is that he's been trying to court Gwen because deep down he was feeling lonely, and, despite not knowing her as much as he'd like, he suspects she's been trying to forget about the one man that does have her heart. For his part, he’s being doing it to know what it feels to be with someone that appreciates him for who he is, despite of his title. As it turns out, forging a relationship based on an attempt to avoid loneliness sounds like an awful idea. Trying to fill one's heart with the love of anyone but the person who owns it is a lamentable, painful thing.
The third is that he's probably broken Merlin's heart. No, scratch that. He's sure he’s broken Merlin's heart. That explains why he reacted the way he has, the hurt covering all his features. That causes their conversation from the day before to acquire a new meaning to Arthur.
The both of them are in Gaius chambers that previous night. Arthur gets there as soon as he wakes up from a hit to the head, remembering that Merlin—the idiot—has gotten hurt after another one of his successful attempts at saving the prince's life. He bumps into his father just walking out of said quarters, who acknowledges him with a nod and nothing else. He imitates the gesture before he enters and examines the room for his servant, who he finds sitting on a patient cot with some bandages covering his left shoulder. For nearly being burnt to death by a sorcerer, Arthur would say he appears quite spirited.
“Why was my father here?” he asks, avoiding the urge to ask how his shoulder is feeling. Merlin is unbothered by it. If anything, his smile grows wider.
“Oh, tonight’s events have led to a conversation concerning a certain prince courting a certain servant,” he explains in a feigned nonchalant way.
Arthur’s face falls. Even though he’s not even courting Gwen anymore, he fears what his father might do about this. And why did Merlin tell him about them in the first place? It had been a secret for a reason.
“Calm down, beast,” Merlin says after he picks up on his reaction. “He’s decided to allow it, as long as it remains private,” he clarifies. “You can finally talk about how you really feel with no terrible consequences for doing so. Your feelings will be corresponded, I promise,” he adds in a soft voice that matches the stare he’s now giving Arthur.
His mind jumps to Guinevere, and the motives they have had to stop trying to court. He remembers her and Lancelot saying goodbye to each other the day of her rescue, the weeks of sadness that followed and preceded the start of something new between the prince and the maid. Apart from the affection that grew between them those weeks, something had always felt off. Instead of trying to figure it out, the solution they had offered was to go back to being only friends.
“I’ll think about it,” the prince tells him, and, because the current one makes him feel uncomfortable, he changes the subject. He stares at Merlin’s bandages while he questions, “Will you stop risking your life for me?” Even though Arthur means to sound harsh, firm, he has the suspicion that he’s not achieved his goal, for he receives a grin from his servant in return.
“I’ll stop when you stop.”
Arthur snorts, giving him a soft clap on his good shoulder.
“Idiot.”
In retrospective, Arthur is the idiot. He should have known, really. Now that the thought has been planted in his mind, his memory begins to dust off some moments and throw them at him. Whenever he enters a room, he often receives, no matter the nature of the situation they’re in, a smile from Merlin that is not quite like the ones the servant offer other people. If the boy is worn out after a long day, he will tug his lips upwards at the sight of the prince; even if the gesture is small than the usual ones, it still has some devotion etched on it. And if he’s mad at Arthur, he won’t smile, yet his eyes will still give him away.
Despite Merlin’s endless protests and claims to not understand the point of jousts and tournaments in general, when Arthur finds himself as the winner of these competitions, he can bet his kingdom that Merlin’s proud cheering is the loudest. It is one of the few things he just never doubts, like his loyalty and his ineptitude at most of his chores, except when Merlin needs to really take care of a sick or wounded Arthur; that’s when his actions become flawless.
Yes, Arthur is an idiot.
He tries to will away the guilt that pierces his chest when, on his way to find Merlin, he hears something that he wishes not to be sobs, but he knows better. He finds Merlin sitting with his back close to a tree—never actually touching it to avoid hurting his shoulder—leaning forwards, knees up to his chest, crossed arms resting on them, head bowed down. If, for some reason he still believes the boy is not crying, then his shaking shoulders take away any lingering doubts. Arthur can be punched in the gut a hundred times, and it will still hurt a lot less than the anguish he’s struck with at knowing he is responsible for the scene that unfolds in front of him.
“Merlin,” he calls, and his voice immediately causes him to lift his head and wipe his tears.
Arthur’s memory slaps him with the words he, repeating his father, said to Merlin once. “No man is worth your tears” is something a younger prince, a kid, would hear quite often battle after battle. And while right now Arthur doesn’t feel particularly worthy of anything from Merlin, he ponders the message he might have been sending him all this time, the one Uther engraved on his mind from an early age: crying is showing weakness.
“I’m sorry for what happened with Gwen, I really believed your father,” Merlin blurts out, averting his gaze, wanting to hide the fact he’s been crying. Arthur sighs before sitting next to him.
“I’m sorry, too. This was a mistake,” Arthur states. Before he can continue, Merlin shakes his head vehemently.
“No!” he exclaims. Then, aware of his outburst, lowers his voice as he says, “Opening your heart to someone is not a bad thing, Arthur, it’s—”
“I finally understand what you meant last night,” he interrupts, tapping Merlin’s chin in a wordless request to look at him. His eyes are puffy, red has tinted his cheeks beneath the slightly white tracks left by dry tears. “You wanted me to tell you how I felt about you, am I wrong?”
“I… I guess I just—misread things. That’s all.” Merlin sniffs after a defeated shrug. “It’s fine, I promise. We don’t have to talk about it. I’ll settle with your friendship, not your pity.” Behind the heartbreak in his words, there’s also pure acceptance, the kind one would see in a knight’s gaze after identifying a lost battle. Even now, with unshed tears, the last thing Merlin portrays is weakness. He’s willing to continue his only friend despite the true nature of his feelings. Arthur wishes he could be as selfless as he young man at his side is.
“The reason I wanted to try to court Guinevere again is because I believed my father would never accept me if he knew I also liked men,” he starts to explain, never turning his gaze away from Merlin’s. “I adore her, yes. Nevertheless, I fear our relationship only existed because it was the closest to the one I thought I could never have.”
By now, Merlin has completely turned to his side so he can face Arthur.
“What is that?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
“One with you. I’ve liked you since the beginning. No one dared to speak to me the way you did— the way you still do, like I’m a real person. But I couldn’t do much about it, I couldn’t ask you out like anyone else would. My fear was too great, and it made me hide my feelings as much as possible… I had to make do with you being my servant, I honestly didn’t know whether to thank my father or assume it was some sort of punishment for something I didn’t remember doing.”
“Arthur, I—”
“Please, let me say it,” he begs, smiling when Merlin gives him a little nod. “I didn’t want to see that you liked me too. It was less painful to pretend you constantly save my life because I’m your prince and ignore the other actions I could not find an excuse for. I’m sorry I didn’t see you, Merlin. I was so accustomed to having your attentions, and trying to avoid my own feelings, that I didn’t know they were that special.”
Once Arthur finishes, he feels the need to draw a breath. He’s sure he’s laid out more than he’s ever wanted to admit to anyone. Nonetheless, it’s for Merlin. He doesn’t notice that his heart has been trying to jump out of his chest until he falls silent and can feel it beating violently. Although, when Merlin’s eyes start to flood again, it almost freezes in there.
“I didn’t mean to offend—”
“You are such a prat,” he tells him, shaking his head in a false disappointment that fades as quick as it tries to settle on his face, just to mess with Arthur a bit. Eventually, his features soften as he says, “I guess falling in love with you is my fault, though.”
“Am I forgiven?” Arthur asks, and Merlin nods. “Do you still wish for me to court you?”
Merlin puts a finger to his chin to pretend he’s thinking for a moment. Even that harmless wait has Arthur at the verge of bursting of nervousness.
“Do you still have some strawberry tarts left?”