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Merlin pulls the makeshift bedroll from under his bed, spreading out the threadbare blanket and bundling his jacket up into something vaguely approximating his pillow. It's harder than it was last night, his hands clumsy with drink and desire, head full of the memory of he and Lancelot leaning on each other as they staggered back from the great hall.
He's distracting himself – or trying to, anyway – from the fact that Lancelot is perched on the edge of his bed as he unlaces his boots, all dishevelled and gorgeous and Merlin got a good whiff of him when he stumbled earlier and wound up with his face buried in Lancelot's neck and he smells amazing, honestly, the better than anyone he's ever met, and-
"Merlin," Lancelot says, the bed creaking as he stands up, only a little less wobbly than Merlin feels. "What are you doing?"
Merlin swallows, his mouth dry; Lancelot is now fumbling at his belt buckle, and Merlin very much wants to offer his help. He's not going to, not when he's not got any reason besides wishful thinking to believe Lancelot might be receptive to such an offer, but he'd like to. He'd really, really like to.
He tears his gaze away just as Lancelot succeeds in removing his belt and curls his fingers into the hem of his shirt, focusing again on his insufficiently distracting bedroll. "I'm making my bed," Merlin says, not looking up, though he'd really, really like to do that too.
"You can't sleep there!" Lancelot says, his protest emphatic but very sincere. "I'm not going to take your bed from you."
"And I'm not going to make you sleep on the floor, Sir Lancelot," Merlin argues, not that he thinks the emphasis is going to change anything; Lancelot might have a title now, but that doesn't mean he's suddenly going to act entitled. "Besides, I already slept there last night."
"Only because I was injured," Lancelot mutters, his tone suggesting he feels guilty for that, as unreasonable as that is. He places his neatly folded shirt on the table beside Merlin's bed then straightens up, and that right there is why Merlin was trying to keep himself distracted because he is definitely staring.
After spending so much time in proximity to Arthur and his on-again-off-again relationship with clothing (pun entirely unintended, Merlin swears), it doesn't seem fair that he finds himself so stunned by Lancelot's beauty. Surely there should be a point where he becomes immune to handsome men without their clothes on, even if the handsome man in question is in his bedroom, about to climb into his bed, and- and talking to him, shit, Lancelot is talking to him, and Merlin's just standing there practically drooling at him.
Merlin shakes his head, clenches his hands into fists and draws them in close at his side's to keep from reaching out, and forces his eyes from Lancelot's abs to his face. "Sorry, did you say something?"
"You've had more to drink than I thought, haven't you?" Lancelot says, and Merlin hasn't, he's really only slightly past tipsy, but he'd much rather Lancelot think he was intoxicated than ogling him like a creep.
He smiles, more than a little awkwardly, and waits for Lancelot to continue.
"If neither of us is willing to make the other sleep on the floor, there is an obvious solution. We can share."
Merlin blinks, almost certain he's imagining things, but Lancelot is smiling back at him, so earnest and kind and lovely that Merlin has to look away, look past Lancelot's shoulder at the bed that is only big enough for two people if they're willing to be in very close proximity to one another. And Merlin is willing, extremely so, but he didn’t realise Lancelot reciprocated his interest.
"It's not exactly roomy," he says, just in case Lancelot has somehow missed that fact.
"There's room enough," Lancelot tells him, pulling back the blanket and lying on his side, patting the mattress encouragingly when Merlin hesitates. "I promise, I have no designs on your virtue, Merlin."
Merlin's hopes, so newly risen, are very much knocked back down again. "Right," he mumbles, just about managing to force out a laugh. "Of course you don't."
Lancelot, unsurprisingly, is not at all convinced, though the remorse on his face is a surprise. Not that it’s there, because Lancelot is tied with Gwen for the position of kindest person Merlin's ever met, and, just like Gwen, he makes kindness look effortless, like it costs him nothing. There's no question at all that he'd feel bad for hurting Merlin's feelings, but the degree to which he looks like he regrets it seems greater than it should.
He sits up, reaching for Merlin, and the room is small enough that he succeeds in catching his hand, tugging gently until Merlin has to choose between resisting and allowing himself to be reeled in.
He allows it. Of course he allows it.
"That did not sound how I meant it to," Lancelot says once Merlin is standing next to him, his voice soft and apologetic, and now he's holding Merlin's hand in both of his, thumbs stroking gently at the back of his hand. "Merlin, you are worth so much more than an unsatisfying, drunken fumble, and I fear that is all I would be able to manage tonight."
He raises Merlin's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, earnest and respectful and so, so sweet that Merlin's knees feel a little wobbly, and then even more wobbly when Lancelot smiles up at him and continues. "Should you wish to revisit the matter tomorrow, I would be more than happy to do so."
"Oh," Merlin says, his knees going all the way from wobbly to straight up weak, and he has to sit down next to Lancelot before he falls down. "Oh. Really?"
"Really," Lancelot says, promises. He lies back down again, his arm resting along the top of the pillow in invitation, and Merlin is helpless to resist.
His hands are still clumsy as he plucks at the laces of his boots and leaves them at the foot of his bed next to Lancelot's, fingers still fumbling as he unties his scarf and places it atop Lancelot's folded shirt, heart still racing as he lies down with his head resting on Lancelot's outstretched arm.
Lancelot nestles in close, breath soft on the back of Merlin's neck, gently ruffling his hair. He pulls the blanket up to cover both of them then leaves his arm there, warm and heavy around Merlin's waist.
"Goodnight, Merlin," he says quietly. "Sleep well."
"You too, Lancelot," Merlin says, smiling, and, Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow, he's definitely going to kiss Lancelot.