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"Pack our bags,” Arthur says as soon as Merlin enters the room from where he’s propped against the table pouring over some scrolls. “We’re going on a trip.”
"Doing what?" Merlin sets down the basket of clothes he brought up from the laundry. He doesn't really care all that much – any reason to get out of the castle and away from his daily chores is good enough for him.
Arthur looks up and sends him a crooked grin. "Diplomacy."
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "Well, let's hope it ends better than the last diplomacy trip we went on," he says, thinking of how they nearly caused a war while they were visiting a neighbouring kingdom because some of their accompanying knights got too drunk at the feast and started making eyes at a woman who turned out to be the king's niece. Gwaine later insisted that the woman was making eyes back at him, but Arthur had him do an extra hour of drills for a month, nonetheless, much to his chagrin and everyone else’s amusement.
Arthur winces at the memory. "That's why we're not taking any of the knights, this time. It'll be just the two of us, that way we can keep a low profile."
"Uh-huh," Merlin responds, already going of the checklist of things he has to pack for their journey. If it's just the two of them it'll be easier for him - less people to cook for, and Arthur is always less of a prat when there aren't any knights around that he wants to impress. An apple hits his head, disproving his last thought for him.
"Well, get packing!"
Merlin glares at Arthur. Arthur glares back. Just as he is about to leave the room, Arthur calls out, "Oh, and Merlin? Pack something warm. It's supposedly freezing in Rheged."
"Your wish is my command, your royal pratness" Merlin mutters. He ducks out of the room before a second apple can hit his head.
Their bags, including some spare warm blankets, are quickly assembled and before he knows it, they’re on their horses and off to the mysterious kingdom of Rheged. They ride north for a good week and the weather gets increasingly worse the closer they get to their destination, colder than it should be at this time of the year and raining almost continuously. Still, they try to pass their time with mindless chatter at times and discussions of the future of Camelot at others – switching back and forth between topics like only the two of them can, really.
“I don’t want to mess up this first trip I’m doing on my own,” Arthur lets slip one night while they’re huddled into a small cave, a fire between them.
Merlin looks up to find him staring into the flames, an inscrutable expression on his face. It makes him answer more gently than he normally would. “You’ve been doing great so far. You’re a good king, Arthur, you shouldn’t worry too much about it.”
“I’m still worrying. All the time, about every decision I make.”
Merlin hums. “I think maybe that’s what makes you such a good king.”
Arthur finally looks up at him, and Merlin smiles as encouragingly as he can. Arthur almost smiles back, then grimaces.
“It’s weird when you’re being sincere. I don’t like it. You should stop doing that.”
Merlin huffs a “Clotpole,” under his breath, and Arthur smirks at him, and it almost makes the damp clothes and seemingly never-ending shivering worth it.
The royal castle that greets them in Rheged is impressive, to say the least. It stands on the edge of a cliff, and though Merlin is freezing and drenched to the bone, he can appreciate its architecture, the way it looks like it is one with the rock it stands on, just a natural extension of what has been there for thousands of years. The battlements reach up high into the grey clouds and the waves crash against the bedrock in steady intervals and it looks like a bridge between the ground under their feet and the sky up above. Merlin wonders if it looks this imposing in bright sunlight - but then again, this country seems to never have any ray of sunlight, if the past few days he spent trekking through mud and rain are anything to go by.
Their horses make their way up a winding road until they reach the front gate, which, thankfully, immediately opens for them, creaking loudly.
"Behave now," Arthur says in a low voice as they ride into the courtyard.
"You know I always do," Merlin mutters back, and hears Arthur scoff under his breath in response.
They dismount their horses, which are quickly led away by stablehands as soon as Merlin takes their bags off the saddles. A man in a dark coat approaches them.
"Your Highness," he says, and takes a deep bow. "It is an honour to have you here. If you follow me, I will bring you to your chambers before you meet Her Majesty."
"Thank you." Despite the wet hair stuck to his forehead, Arthur looks every bit the king he is as he tilts his head and follows the servant – who doesn’t introduce himself - into the stone hallways of the castle, Merlin close behind. They take a few turns, move up some stairs and down some torchlit corridors. Then, the servant opens a door and bids them enter with another bow.
"Should you need anything do not hesitate to ask. I will collect you for the feast in one hour." He closes the door behind him.
As soon as they're alone, Arthur drops the front, letting his shoulders slump forward. "God, I feel like I've just drowned." He shakes his hair in a very un-kingly manner and splashes water everywhere as he does so.
Merlin tuts at the sight and drops the bags he's been carrying on the floor, heading to the fireplace where, luckily, flames are already crackling away. "I think I'm never going to be warm again," he says, holding his hands over the fire.
Arthur joins him and jostles their shoulders together amicably as he stretches his hands out next to Merlin's.
"Come on, you've got an hour to make me look presentable and not like some wet, dead corpse."
"You do know that corpses are always dead, right? That's like saying 'a knobheaded Arthur'."
"Or like saying 'an idiot Merlin'," Arthur replies, and Merlin barely manages to evade his swat, ducking out of the way at the last moment and heading towards their bags to see if any of their clothes are still dry. Fortunately, Arthur's nice breeches are only a little damp, so he puts those out on the table.
Then, he begins unbuckling Arthur's soaking wet cloak and helps him out of his coat of mail. The tunic underneath is drenched in water, too, so Merlin leaves Arthur to strip the rest of his clothes off while he busies himself with finding a dry one - once again, fortune is on his side and he pulls a red tunic from the depths of the bag that isn't been drenched. He turns around with a proud grin and stops in his tracks. Swallows hard. Arthur is standing in the warm glow of the fire in only his fresh breeches, torso naked, hair tousled and almost looking like a crown in the golden light of the fire that engulfs him. He looks like a king, incandescent, and so, so very beautiful -
"Merlin?" His name brings him back to reality, and he tosses the tunic at Arthur's chest.
"We need to fix your hair, it looks like a bird’s nest." It's a good save, he thinks to himself.
Arthur just scoffs as he pulls the shirt over his head, impossibly tousling his hair even more than before. "And who's to blame for that, huh? Which one of us is responsible for making me look decent?"
Merlin just grins. "That was a lost cause the minute you were born."
"Hey, I'll have you know I was a very cute baby!"
"Emphasis clearly being on the was. Must've lost the cuteness somewhere along the way, sire."
Arthur, the prat, smacks him over the head.
“Alright you, get changed so we can least pretend you’re presentable in front of Queen Rhiainfellt.”
He heads over to the mirror in the corner and begins fixing his hair and Merlin uses the opportunity to change into somewhat dry clothes himself, doing so as quickly and efficiently as possible. By the time he’s done and looking over at Arthur, he’s pleased to see that the king has at least managed to fix his own hair.
“Is my cape dry, at least?”
Merlin checks their bags and winces at the sight of a sopping wet crimson piece of cloth. This certainly won’t look very majestic. “Hang on, I’m looking for it,” he calls out. Then, when a quick look over his shoulder ensures him that Arthur is still staring at himself in the mirror - narcistic prat that he is, Merlin thinks fondly -, he whispers a quick spell under his breath and watches as the moisture evaporates in an instant.
“Got it!” He pulls the cape out of the bag just in time for a knock against the door.
“We are ready for you now, my lord,” the voice of the servant comes through the door.
Arthur calls out, “We’ll be out in a minute!” Turning to Merlin, he murmurs, “hurry up, Merlin, we don’t want to be late.”
“We wouldn’t be rushing if you hadn’t spent ages fixing your hair,” Merlin whispers back, but he fixes the cape around Arthur’s neck with practiced movements. “Hang on, bend down,” he adds, and grabs the thin gold headband they had decided to bring in lieu of the crown, which was too dangerous to transport for such a long time on their own. Arthur ducks his head as advised and Merlin gingerly places the crown on his mop of blonde hair, making sure the cool metal is perfectly centred.
“There,” he says, inspecting Arthur where he stood up straight again, once again lit up in the warm glow of the fire. “You almost look like a real king.”
“Idiot,” Arthur retorts, clearly suppressing a grin. “Come on, let’s go. And don’t forget your cape, or you’ll freeze to death.”
Queen Rhiainfellt receives them in a tall, imposing hall with walls lit up by torches and a big, roaring fire on one side of the room that actually manage to make the temperature almost bearable. Along the hall are tables filled with nobility much like Merlin is used to from Camelot and all of them sit still and stare as the servant, whose name Merlin still doesn’t know, announces, “King Arthur of Camelot” with a booming voice.
At the other end of the room stands the queen at her table and cuts no less a striking figure than the rest of the scene. As Merlin gets nearer to her, following at a pace behind Arthur, he sees that she is a woman only a few years older than them, clad in leather and a big collar of fur, her long dark hair taken up in a complicated updo of braids and golden hair pins. When Arthur and Merlin finally reach her and bow, she quirks her lip, almost looking amused.
“Be welcomed into our castle and kingdom, King Arthur. I am glad to finally make your acquaintance.” Her voice sounds loud and booming through the hall.
“The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for your generous invitation, my lady,” Arthur replies, and it is only because Merlin knows him so well that he can make out the slight nervous quiver in his words.
Everything is still for a moment. Then, a more genuine smile spreads across the queen’s face. “Well, enough of the pleasantries. Let’s feast!”
As the noise in the room rises to a booming level within an instant, she gestures at the empty seat next to her throne. Arthur sits down, and Merlin joins the other servants in serving drinks and foods – this, he has found out over the years, is something that is the same at every castle, and he finds it easy to fall into a familiar rhythm of pouring wine and handing Arthur food when asked for it, all the while keeping an eye out for anything suspicious happening in the room. Thankfully, everyone seems to be focusing on the food and company and the warmth of the fire and Arthur is in a good mood, which means that Merlin can mostly stand behind his chair and watch the proceedings.
“So, Arthur,” he overhears the queen saying, “I hear you arrived only with one servant, do you always travel so lightly?” Again, there is amusement playing in her tone, and Arthur mirrors her playfulness with a smile of his own.
“I find it a good opportunity to collect my thoughts. I can hardly get a quiet moment at the castle, nor would I if I travelled with a big group of knights.”
“I suppose you are also more inconspicuous,” the queen observes, sipping from her goblet. “And your servant, he is able to take care of all your needs alone?”
Her eyes briefly flicker to Merlin, and when he turns his glance away in the pretend modesty of a perfect servant, he notes Arthur’s eyes on him, lingering.
“Merlin has been with me for a long time, he’s come along on many missions even back when I was prince. And besides, he doesn’t have to work that much, I’m not a man of many needs.”
Merlin’s jaw drops. Arthur just winks and turns back to the queen. “Tell me, my lady, is it always this rainy in your country?”
“Not a man of many needs?” Merlin hisses as soon as they enter their chambers again. “I don’t have to work that much?”
Arthur throws a grin over his shoulder. “Relax, Merlin, don’t get all riled up.”
“Prat,” Merlin snarls.
“Yeah, yeah. Now help me out of this cape, it’s incredibly uncomfortable.”
They fall into companionable silence as Merlin first helps Arthur with his cape and headband, then goes to put another log on the fire and draws the curtains, effectively blocking out the dreary, rainy night.
Arthur sags into one of the two chairs near the fire, letting his shoulders slump down for the first time all evening. “That went quite well, I think.”
It’s not a question, but Merlin responds anyway. “It did. You were great, sire. I think the queen will take you seriously during negotiations this week.”
Arthur hums and Merlin bustles around him some more, gathering their clothes and stowing them away into the armoire. He has just finished when someone knocks at the door. When Merlin opens it, he finds a young maid carrying a plate of food. “For his highness, as requested,” she says, and rushes away again after a small curtsy.
Merlin closes the door, looking at the plate of meats, fruit, and bread bemusedly. “How are you still hungry?”
Arthur barely looks up from where he is staring into the fire. “Oh, I thought you’d be hungry, so I got them to put together a plate of leftovers. Come on, join me.”
Merlin frowns, looks down at the plate, then up again at Arthur. Shrugging to himself, he pulls the second chair closer to Arthur’s and sits down. He’s not going to say no to food, no matter how weird the circumstances are, so he digs in. Arthur leans over to grab an apple, which he slices with the knife from his belt and eats in thin slices, still staring into the fire.
“Will you join me at the meeting tomorrow?” he asks when Merlin is almost finished with the plate.
“Huh?” Merlin says through a mouthful of roasted meat.
Arthur squints at him and pulls a face as if he’s regretting asking in the first place.
Merlin swallows, and says, “I always join you at meetings.”
“Yeah, I just mean, keep an eye out for me on the other people present. Give me a sign if I’m about to make a critically stupid decision. That kind of thing.”
“You always make critically stupid decisions. That’s part of being a clotpole.”
Arthur, not for the first time today, smacks him over the head.
“Okay, okay, I’ll be your secret advisor. It’ll be like being a secret spy infiltrating a foreign nation.”
“Don’t spy on the queen.”
“I promise I won’t.”
Again, Arthur squints at him suspiciously and Merlin does his best to look as innocent as possible, going so far as to bat his eyelashes at him. Arthur just sighs.
“Alright. Come on, I’m tired.”
He gets up from his seat, stretches, and for the first time today, Merlin wonders where he’s supposed to sleep tonight – there’s only one bed in this chamber, and he’s not sure he wants to sleep in the servant quarters of a foreign nation he doesn’t know. When he voices his thought to Arthur, the man just shrugs.
“Get a blanket from the spare ones in the wardrobe, sleep by the fire. I don’t care.” With that, he drops into the big, comfortable bed. Merlin sighs as his eyes drop to the furs spread out by the fireplace. At least he’ll be warm. He shrugs to himself, gets a blanket just like Arthur told him to and curls up on the bigger of the two seats, pulling his feet up underneath him to keep them warm.
The room is dark now, the light of the fire low, all other candles blown out. It’s quiet, too, now that he’s no one is talking or moving around, and the quietness only serves to make the wind and the rain falling against the castle walls even louder, the waves crashing against the rock below them even more imposing.
Merlin shifts in his chair.
Shifts again.
On the other side of the room, he can hear Arthur shifting, too, and he notes the distinct lack of the usual deep breathing that follows him dropping into sleep.
Merlin pulls the blanket closer around himself, tries to ward off the cold that feels like it is still sticking to his bones, like it has been for the past week of their travels. He shifts, and hears the rustle of blankets behind him, and then Arthur’s voice in a low grumble.
“Alright, come here.”
He looks up, finds Arthur sitting up in the bed, hair tousled, a frown across his face.
“What?”
“It’s cold, and that’s clearly not comfortable. The bed’s big enough for both of us, that way you won’t get sick. I still need you at your best for the rest of the week.” Arthur pats the blankets at his side and Merlin follows his orders in a daze. He doesn’t know what’s going on right now.
He gets under the blankets where Arthur is making space for him, scooting more to one side of the bed. He does have to admit that it is both a lot warmer and more comfortable lying under a mountain of blankets, especially if they’ve already been warmed up by someone else lying there. (He tries not to think too much about how he’s now indirectly sharing body heat with Arthur. His mind betrays him, nonetheless.)
“Thanks,” he whispers, staring up at the ceiling in the twilight.
Arthur huffs. “Just, stay on your side of the bed. And don’t snore, or I’m kicking you out again.”
They both lie there for a bit, their shoulders barely touching. Merlin can feel the heat radiating off Arthur, and he’s secretly glad that he doesn’t have to spend the night with the fire as his only source of warmth – even if he is going to be thinking about this sleeping arrangement for a long time. Before he knows what is happening, the warmth and the rhythmical sounds of the rain and the waves crashing against the rocks and the deepening breaths of Arthur next to him have him drowsing off into sleep.
(He wakes up the next morning with Arthur’s arms wrapped around him, Arthur’s face pressed into the back of his neck. He puts it down to the room being freezing outside of their mountain of blankets without the roaring fire, which must’ve gone out somewhen during the night. He extracts himself carefully and gets ready for the day as quietly as he can. By the time he pulls Arthur from the bed, the residual warmth has almost left him, but a part of it lingers on in his chest.)
The meetings are uneventful. Merlin is bored to death, but he stays behind Arthur’s chair opposite of Rhiainfellt and her table of advisors. Arthur cuts a lonely figure all on his own, but Merlin is probably only slightly biased in thinking that he also looks powerful and in control, not requiring any counsel to help him with his decision-making.
Either way, he does as he was told – and as he would’ve done anyway – and watches the queen and her people carefully, uses his position in the back row as a vantage point to observe their glances, their subtle nods, catches a glimpse or two from their private notes when he pours them some wine. Sometimes, he whispers something into Arthur’s ear, and sometimes he just taps his shoulder to make him pay attention. After a long day of negotiations, they withdraw to their chamber, where they share the meal brought there for Arthur and discuss further strategies of how to get the best conditions for Camelot on a possible future trade agreement in the following days.
That evening, it's easier to fall into bed together – literally, not in any other sense of the expression, Merlin reminds himself as he stares at the ceiling. It’s still raining outside and the fire is already getting low and taking its heat with it, which makes him especially grateful that Arthur is basically a human torch. Their shoulders are brushing against each other where they lie side by side, and Merlin almost wishes that he was in the habit of sleeping without a tunic like Arthur is so their skin could touch without any fabric between them. He ignores the thought, turns on his side and stares at the tapestry hung to the wall until he falls asleep.
(Once again, he is the first one to wake, and once again, Arthur has his arms wrapped around his waist like some particularly clingy vine. If Merlin lies there for a few moments longer than strictly necessary, it is nobody’s business but his own.)
“There is one last thing I would like to discuss with you in private,” Rhiainfellt says at the end of their negotiations on the third night after she has dismissed her advisors and the two regents are sharing one last cup of wine before retiring for the night.
“What is it?”
Merlin watches as the queen hesitates for a moment, purses her lips, then continues, “what are your views on your kingdom’s ban on magic?”
Merlin frowns. He wonders where Rhiainfellt is going with this, and he is not the only one because Arthur asks, “why are you inquiring about it?”
“My late father was of the same opinion as yours. Magic could only ever be a source of evil for him.” The queen pauses for a moment, and Merlin is reminded of the fact that she has only been queen for a few years longer than Arthur, inheriting the throne from her father when she was barely more than a girl. The queen proceeds, “however, I do not agree with him on this matter, and I have recently been playing with the idea of abolishing our ban on magic. I wonder how that would influence the trade agreement of our countries.”
Arthur’s expression is inscrutable. “Interesting,” he says, taking a sip of his wine, and judging by Rhiainfellt’s huff she is as unsatisfied with this response as Merlin is.
“You can tell me what you think of the idea. There are no advisors present, this is not official and nothing you say will be binding for you in our negotiations.”
Arthur rubs a hand over his face, then looks back up at his counterpart with a small smile playing on his lips. “I called it interesting because there is currently a draft for a new law on my desk back in Camelot. Once it is finalised and signed, our ban on magic will be repealed.”
Merlin’s head whips around to stare at Arthur, who is still wearing that small smile. The rest of his and Rhiainfellt’s conversation is vague noise in the background, the words he just heard playing over and over in his head. He only notices that Rhiainfellt has left the room when Arthur snaps his fingers in front of his face.
“Earth to Merlin, are you there?”
“Sorry, it’s just,” Merlin begins, but finds that the words are dying in his throat. He doesn’t know how to describe what he’s feeling right now.
Arthur’s brow furrows. “Don’t tell me you’re against the repeal? You don’t honestly believe that all magic is evil, right?”
“No!” Merlin exclaims, then forces his voice to calm for his next words. “I, just, what brought this change on?”
Arthur shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. We’ve encountered enough magic over the years that was not simply evil in nature, so I figured it was about time”
“Huh.” Merlin stares at him.
Arthur throws a smirk in his direction. “That doesn’t mean you get to hand all your chores to some warlock just because you don’t want to do them, don’t get too excited.”
He walks out of the room, and Merlin has to scramble to catch up with him, muttering a, “wouldn’t dream of it, Sire,” under his breath.
Merlin spends the remaining days in Rheged in a daze. He goes to meetings with Arthur and follows their usual routine, which he could probably do in his sleep at this point, and wakes up every morning with Arthur’s arm draped over his waist. The latter issue would probably be at the forefront of his mind were it not for that little revelation Arthur dropped on him about his plans to legalise magic.
Now, though, it’s the only thing Merlin can think off, when he’s lying in bed at night listening to the rain outside and Arthur’s deep breaths next to him, when he’s watching Arthur joke around with Queen Rhiainfellt, when he’s stealing food from Arthur’s plate in the evenings. Arthur must notice he’s more distracted than usual, but the negotiations are going well and he’s in a good mood, so he thankfully doesn’t say anything, even if Merlin hands him the wrong clothes or stumbles over a chair one too many times.
They leave Rheged after five nights, just as planned. It’s still raining perpetually, but that is not the only thing that makes Merlin dread their departure. This time away from Camelot, however brief, has led to a quiet routine between him and Arthur and there’s something between them that wasn’t there, yet, when they left home. He doesn’t want to return back to their old routine, but then again, he doesn’t really have much choice, which is why he is once again sitting on his horse in the pouring rain, looking up at the Queen where she is waving them off from a window, wrapped in her fur coat as she stares down to the courtyard.
“Come on,” Arthur says gruffly, and it doesn’t take much deducting skills to know that he’s not looking forward to spending a week soaked through to the bone.
And he is right to dread it, because dreadful it is. Rain pours down on them continually, and it might just be the effect of a week of warm fires and shared body heat, but Merlin is sure the nights have gotten colder since they have left Rheged. It leaves them both sulky and easily irritated.
Finally, on the fourth - and hopefully, final, if their travels go to plan tomorrow - evening of soaking wet clothes and coldness clinging to their limbs, Merlin tries to light a fire with wet wood, and utterly fails, and Arthur makes a snarky comment, and Merlin is tired, and wet, and freezing, and all he has been able to think about for the past few days is the law that is apparently lying on Arthur’s desk back home in Camelot, waiting to be signed, and with all that in mind, he kind of loses it, for a moment.
“Oh, if you’re going to be like that, I might as well just get it over with.” He snaps, and turns, and raises his hand, and lights a fire roaring enough to warm a great hall in a sprawling castle with just a golden flicker of his eyes.
Arthur stares.
Merlin stares, at the fire, then at Arthur, who is now staring at him, and at the fire again, his mouth closing and opening like a fish. He looks pretty stupid, Merlin thinks, over the sound of the fear of Arthur’s reaction that is thrumming through his veins.
“Don’t look at me like that, it’s gonna be legal in a few months, anyway. Something you did not tell me about, by the way, which I really would’ve appreciated.”
Arthur gapes some more, and then he says, voice all raw in shock, “all these years?”
Merlin shrugs, nods.
Blinking, Arthur asks, “and you never told me?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Merlin scoffs, then softens at the sight of Arthur’s blatant surprise. “I was born with it. It’s part of me. I only ever used it to serve you, never to harm.” Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, because Merlin has definitely used his magic for a lot of stupid things over the years – but at the heart of the matter, it’s the truth.
Arthur’s eyes fix on his, true and trusting. “I believe that,” he says, making a shiver of something run down Merlin’s spine, and then exhales a disbelieving laugh. “And to think that I worried about what you might think of me repealing the ban.”
Merlin joins his chuckle. “Of course I’m in favour of it. Prat.” The last part is hung on belatedly, and Merlin is proud of himself for not letting things get too out of hand. Can’t let Arthur’s head get even bigger than it already is.
Arthur moves closer to the fire that is cheerily crackling on with seemingly no wood, warming the air around it. A gust of wind blows some sparks up in the air, and with the motion of a finger, Merlin redirects it to blow warm enough in Arthur’s direction so that his hair dries almost perfectly, his clothes drying with him.
Turning back to Merlin, Arthur exclaims, “you could’ve been doing this all along? We were miserable for no reason? Merlin, you truly are an idiot.”
There’s a small smile playing on his lips and Merlin can’t help the grin that spreads over his face in response, his heartbeat racing, but for a different reason entirely, now. “Wouldn’t want you to have life too easy, now, would we.”
Arthur reaches out, pretending to pull him into a headlock, and Merlin pretends to try to get out of it, and they push and pull against each other for a moment until Merlin ends up with Arthur’s arm slung around his shoulder. Despite the roar of the fire, it’s Arthur’s vicinity that warms Merlin to his core, makes his cheeks feel hot all of a sudden. When he glances over, Arthur is staring into the fire, pensive all of a sudden.
“I wish you would have felt save enough to tell me,” he says, voice barely over a whisper, only audible because they’re so close to each other.
“It’s not your fault, sire,” Merlin whispers back, and adds, “it’s just the circumstances.”
Arthur’s eyes flit over to him for a moment, then back to the fire. “And yet I can’t help feeling bad about it nonetheless.”
Merlin shrugs, not for the first time uncertain how to deal with Arthur’s earnestness. Still, a smile finds its way onto his lips, and when he glances at Arthur, he finds it mirrored.
They set up their bedrolls with their heads facing each other next to the fire. Merlin waves his hand to lower the flames so that their light is dim enough to sleep by, and only hesitates a moment before he does so. He catches Arthur staring at his hands several times but pretends not to notice – no matter what he says, it must still be a surprise to have your manservant turn out to be a warlock, after all these years. Merlin decides he’s allowed to stare a bit.
Finally, they’re lying on the ground, snug under the blankets that have been warming up by the fire. It’s comfortable, cosy, even, with the sound of rain surrounding them but their camp protected by the crowns of the tall trees around them, the fire casting everything in a warm glow. Still, Merlin twists and turns, tries to find a position that he can sleep in, trying to figure out why he can’t doze off.
Arthur seems to be having the same problem because he repositions the cloak he’s using as a pillow several times. Merlin can feel each time, his head just inches away from Arthur’s.
He sighs, turns to curl up on his side.
Tucks his arm under his head, tries to will himself to sleep.
Arthur huffs, exasperated.
“Get over here, will you?”
Merlin sits up with a start, confused. “Huh?” he manages to reply very eloquently.
Arthur follows him and sits up, too, his hair adorably tousled. He’s rolling his eyes, which destroys the adorableness somewhat, the prat.
Even in his head, Merlin doesn’t sound convincing.
“Well, come on,” Arthur says, holding up a corner of his blanket.
A grin spreads over Merlin’s face even as he gets up and moves his bedroll to lie next to Arthur’s. “Oh, you can’t sleep without me by your side, can you?”
“You’re right, I can’t.”
Arthur’s sincerity knocks Merlin’s breath out of his lungs. Arthur is looking up at him from where he’s still sitting by the fire, cast golden in its glow, luminous, his face open, his heart bared.
Merlin meets him on his level, like he always does, like he always will, and sits down on his bedroll, facing Arthur. “Neither can I,” he says, and watches as Arthur’s face lights up.
“Come on, then,” Arthur murmurs into what little space remains between them, and Merlin knows he’s probably talking about getting under the covers, but he makes a choice to misinterpret and leans forward, pressing his lips to Arthur’s for just a moment.
A moment that turns into more, as Arthur reacts almost immediately, his hand coming up to grasp the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and Merlin lets him, grasping onto Arthur’s shoulders, letting his hands linger in a way he never allows himself when he dresses him, kisses Arthur with everything that he’s got. He feels hot all over, feels like every moment Arthur is touching him fills him with more of his golden light, feels like all he consists of is radiant warmth.
Arthur pulls away, suddenly, turning around to look at the fire behind him, roaring bright in the night’s darkness. He chuckles under his breath and the deep sound makes Merlin’s skin tingle all over.
“It seems that your magic likes this,” he says, and Merlin grins.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” he replies. “It does that with all the royal prats I kiss.”
Arthur grins, presses a peck to Merlin’s lips, one to his nose.
“Sure, Merlin, keep telling yourself that. Now get in here.”
This time, Merlin follows Arthur’s command and lies down next to him, pulling their blankets over him, huddling in close to Arthur’s warm body.
Arthur slings an arm around his middle, pulling him closer, his nose pressing against the back of Merlin’s neck, and Merlin feels himself relax, feels the first tendrils of sleep already grasping at him.
“This is a lot better when I don’t have to pretend I’m asleep,” Arthur mumbles.
Merlin squawks. “You were doing this on purpose the whole time?”
Arthur laughs. “Worked out in the end, didn’t it?”
Merlin can’t deny that, but he grumbles on for a while longer, until Arthur says, “Merlin?”
The tone is familiar, and Merlin knows what comes next. “Shut up?” he asks, and feels Arthur’s smile against his skin.
“Go to sleep.”
(They wake up in the morning to birdsong in the trees above them and the first rays of sunlight falling on them through the leaves. Arthur grumbles something about how Camelot should be fine if their return is delayed by a few hours and pulls Merlin back under the covers. Merlin follows, willingly.)