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“What the hell,” said Arthur, when he had reached the privacy of his rooms. “What the bleeding, sodding hell—”
This was despicable. This was unheard of. Two entire weeks since Merlin had cracked that stupid joke, and Arthur’s torment had yet to subside. It hadn’t even been funny! And yet Arthur had found himself compelled to laugh, had found his heart leaping in the aftermath, cheered by the simple pleasure of sharing a smile with Merlin. It was intolerable! And for Merlin to have the nerve not to be in love with him! Unthinkable! He ought to be in love with him, Arthur was a catch! And instead he’d reduced Arthur to this, to pacing around his bedroom in fits and bursts of activity, of heartache.
“This is ridiculous,” said Arthur, to his bed-hangings. “I’m the prince! I’m meant to have— suitors, and princesses, and things! Why isn’t he in love with me? The least he could do is be in love with me!”
For Merlin was not in love with him, and if he was, then he was unfairly good at not showing it. Arthur had detected not a hint, not a sideways glance or anything, and what was Arthur supposed to do about it, anyway? Arthur couldn’t do anything. If Arthur tried and failed, if Merlin said no, then that would be— it would be—
“This is disgraceful,” he said, and fell onto the bed. He thought of Merlin’s smile and clutched desperately at a pillow, smothering his face in it. Oh, to be a maiden. Oh, to be assured of returned affection! And to be in such torment over Merlin, of all people!
Despondent beyond words, Arthur rolled over and closed his eyes, thinking wretchedly of Merlin dropping swords and maces all over the training field. Everything was becoming worse and worse by the moment; instead of outrage at such an appalling display, Arthur felt fond. He felt endeared, affectionate, even indulgent! This was mortifying. He’d even stopped thinking of Merlin as ugly, for god’s sake!
Not, admitted Arthur, within the confines of his own mind, that he had ever had many persuasive arguments in that regard. He could acknowledge that, of course, Merlin’s haircut was terrible, and that he did not cut quite as fine a figure as Sir Reginald, but he was not all bad. There was something pleasing about him, to be sure, a sort of friendliness and openness of manner that made him generally likeable. His smile no one could find fault with, and his eyes did tend to sparkle, but he was not handsome. Arthur was sure he wasn’t handsome. And yet when Arthur looked at him, or thought of him, it somehow seemed like he was.
He groaned. Two weeks, and the affliction showed no sign of stopping. He had imagined it at first to be a trick, an awkward faltering of the heart, and instead he had found himself thinking of Merlin constantly— in the morning, at night, when hunting and training and even in the bath. Had they been visions of a private nature, Arthur might have stomached it, but they were not. They were recollections of Merlin’s laughter, of his silly stories, of the deep voice he sometimes put on to cheer children. Arthur liked him so much.
It was not love, but it could very well become love, and Arthur loathed to consider such a notion, from an instant understanding that it would improve his quality of life very much. But it wasn’t like he could just ask Merlin about it. He could not, he would not. If Merlin would say something— give some hint, or a sign, or something— then Arthur might be persuaded, but without that, the risk of embarrassing himself was too high to be contemplated.
Still, at times he was convinced anything would be better than this torment, no matter if it constituted Merlin’s decisive rejection. Even now he was half risen from the bed, resolved to find Merlin and put an end to it, and then he would consider Merlin, and the awkwardness that must be felt on his part if Arthur was incorrect in his assumptions, and decide he couldn’t subject Merlin to such a fate. Not Merlin, whom he esteemed and valued, and whose friendship was treasured more than anyone’s—
“Urgh,” said Arthur, and threw himself off the bed to pace. The problem, he mused, was that he didn’t much want to conquer the feeling at all. What he wanted was far worse: he wanted Merlin to marry him. He wanted Merlin to get down on one stupid, sodding knee, and give Arthur a soppy speech and a white veil to boot. He wanted Merlin to serenade him from a balcony, to whisk Arthur up on his horse and run away with him to far-off lands. If airports had been invented, he would’ve wanted Merlin to run through one of them, too.
And there were other thoughts, as well. He had gone into the business with a sort of grim determination, in an effort to uncover if his torment was really just the effect of a bad flu or indigestion. He had used all his skills as a strategist to set the scene inside his mind, to decide how Merlin might be. He had thought of Merlin above him, below him, beside him. He had considered him with both wanton debauchery and otherworldly chasteness, had catalogued and compared his own responses to each, and been dismayed to find that his affections were not seriously altered either way. He would, he was now sure, be just as happy to have Merlin in his bed as at his table, to sing and laugh and talk with him as do everything else that might be done by two people in love. It was dreadful.
“Right,” said Arthur, seized by a sudden burst of determination. “Right.”
He marched out of his bedroom, door swinging wildly in his wake, and marched up the stairs to Gaius’s rooms. Halfway up he remembered the way Merlin had greeted him two mornings ago, arms thrown wide and cheerful, and near doubled over on the stairs. He leant his elbow on the wall and pressed his face into the crook of it, overcome. Nobody else felt like this, surely. Surely nobody could, or else how was anything ever meant to get done? He was half-convinced that everybody had spent the entirety of human history lying about it, and half-convinced that he had, himself, just invented what everyone else called love. That seemed about right.
Gaius’s door was heavy and brown and Arthur hovered in front of it with a feeling of extreme queasiness. Perhaps it was better not to attempt it. He could see it now, the conversation unfolding in front of his eyes, the understanding that would dawn over Merlin’s features, the imagined delight. Arthur’s face hurt and he realised that he was, unfortunately, grinning at the door so widely he must appear deranged. All from his imagination. Good grief. Forget about whether Merlin would say no, what was Arthur to do if he said yes? He couldn’t possibly fight in such a condition.
“Stop being a fool,” muttered Arthur, and pushed open the door, for nobody had ever accused him of being a coward. But the workshop was entirely empty.
“Fuck,” said Arthur, with feeling. “God— dammit.”
The workshop said nothing. This was, all things considered, perfectly fitting, and Arthur mused most despairingly over his fate, which was clearly to languish in torment for a few weeks or months more. Appalling. Disgraceful. Should’ve been outlawed years ago. He folded his arms and wondered whether he could fob Merlin off somewhere or other for a few weeks. Was he due for a visit home? Surely it had been long enough. Arthur could send him off to Ealdor for a bit, and then when he came back, Arthur would—
Well. He would do something, probably. Hopefully.
“He could’ve at least been in love with me,” grumbled Arthur, and went back to his room to stew.