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“Come on, Lancelot, don't be a sourpuss, it's tradition!”
Merlin pulls him along by his wrist, but more than that it might be the mischievous grin and the twinkle in his eyes that make him follow.
The knighting ceremony has been a gloomy thing, in an abandoned castle, cobwebs their garlands and in their hearts the fear for their friends instead of joy and pride. But they have defeated Morgana, reclaimed the citadel, and now it is time to follow ceremony with festivities.
Lancelot remembers with shame the deceit that led him to knighthood the first time. Merlin moves closer, touches a hand to the small of his back. “You deserve this,” he mumbles into his ear as if he read his thoughts.
Gwaine is already there, as are Percival and Elyan. There's raucous laughter in the air and wine and food on the tables and smiles on the faces. Across the room, Arthur catches his eye and nods, proud.
“Just enjoy it,” Merlin whispers, still so close to him. A shiver runs down Lancelot's body though he's not cold at all, not anymore, and he allows himself a smile, to bask in the warmth – the warmth of approval from his king, from his friends and comrades-in-arms, the warmth that spreads through him as he accepts a cup of spiced wine and empties it, the warmth of Merlin by his side, clinging to him through the entire evening.
“Come on, Lancelot,” Merlin later purrs, speech slightly slurred, and pulls him through the crowd again, this time in the other direction. Lancelot catches Arthur's gaze again, this time from beneath raised eyebrows and nearly giggles as he follows into the corridors, around a corner, tumbles into deep nightly shadows.
“Is this tradition too?” he teases once Merlin releases his mouth from his kiss. “Your stamp of approval for new knights?”
Merlin grins and lets his body droop against Lancelot's, pinning him to the wall, and drags his lips along his neck. “No, this one's new, made it up just for you.”
“I could get used to that,” Lancelot says and tilts Merlin's head up to kiss him again.