Work Text:
The rain lashed wildly at the windows of the palace kitchens, loud and unrelenting. It had been a long and bitter Winter in Camelot and tonight was no exception. Despite the chill, the past few days in the palace had been vibrant and bustling, alive with excitement for the end of year festivities. Tomorrow, Camelot would be hosting a Yuletide ball and banquet for the surrounding kingdoms, and servants had been frantically preparing for weeks.
Merlin stood in the warm light of the palace kitchens, nursing a cup of mulled wine. The air was thick with the smell of honey roasted ham, spiced wine and steaming fruit pies. It was late evening and most of the kitchen workers had either retired to their quarters for the night or were huddled in the corner by the crackling fire, starting a game of cards.
“Merlin, come and join us!” The young woman who was dealing the cards called from the corner, and a number of heads popped up to look over at him.
Merlin drained the last of his wine. “Can’t,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I still need to prepare the prince’s rooms for the evening.” A few people groaned in commiseration, but they waved him off good-naturedly, focus already shifting back to their game.
He sighed as he turned and left the kitchen. It would have been nice to stay for a game or two; the mood was high, he felt light from the wine, and it wasn’t often he got a chance to relax and mingle socially with the other servants, busy as they all were.
As Merlin reached Arthur’s chambers, he paused, his hand on the door handle. From inside he heard a thump, a clatter, and Arthur curse. He opened the door and then stared.
For all the joviality and mirth pervading the castle in recent days, it was clear the same could not be said for Arthur’s chambers. It was freezing inside, the fire long burned down, and Arthur stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his elbow and scowling darkly.
“What were you doing?” Merlin asked, shutting the door behind him and staring quizzically at Arthur.
"Nothing,” Arthur answered too quickly.
“Didn’t look like nothing. I heard a clatter and you’re just… standing in the middle of the room.”
“Clearly you’re imagining things, Merlin. Wouldn’t be the first time,” Arthur huffed.
Merlin stared a second longer before shaking his head and striding over to the fireplace, rubbing his hands against his arms for warmth. “Gods, it’s freezing in here,” he muttered. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to start a fire?”
“Funnily enough, no,” Arthur retorted, turning his body to watch Merlin kneel down beside the fire. “I believe that job is reserved for, hm… servants. Which leads me to ask where the hell have you been all day? Shirking off with your friends at the tavern again?”
Merlin snorted as he prodded the fire’s now sparking embers. “No. I do have other duties, you know. The castle has been madness preparing for the banquet. I’ve been setting tables, shining cutlery, laundering tablecloths, tending to your royal undergarments...”
Arthur scoffed. “Right. Well, next time you leave me to freeze to death, I’m using one of your neckerchiefs as kindling, whether or not it’s tied around your scrawny little neck.”
Merlin rolled his eyes at Arthur’s dramatics. “So,” he said, standing and brushing his hands on his knees, the fire now crackling merrily behind him. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing when I walked in?” He walked over to an upturned candlestick and picked it up, clearly the source of the clatter he had heard. “And why you’re knocking over the décor?”
Arthur eyed the candlestick petulantly, seeming to realise he could no longer deny that he was, indeed, up to something. “Fine,” he said on an exhale, throwing his hands up. “But if you tell anyone—” he raised his finger threateningly. “—you’ll be mucking out my horses for a month.”
“Like I don’t already,” Merlin grumbled.
Arthur sighed and began pacing. “I was… I was dancing. Well, trying to anyway.” He looked skyward, as if wishing the storm outside would suddenly cave in the ceiling of his chambers and drown him.
A second passed, then two, with Merlin schooling his face into as neutral an expression as he could manage. “Dancing,” he repeated, lips twitching.
“Yes, Merlin. Dancing.” Arthur scowled, still pacing. “It’s this—this ball tomorrow night. It is custom for the crown prince to dance with the attending ladies and form… alliances.”
“Right, right,” Merlin said, nodding seriously. “So you were just… practising,” he said, the barest hint of a smile visible.
Arthur sighed dramatically again, eyes still searching the heavens for answers. “I can’t seem to get it! They say sword fighting is much like dancing but I’ll take that over this any day. My feet don’t seem to know which way to turn, I keep tripping over myself—I have never felt this clumsy in my life. God forbid, Merlin, I feel like you. How on earth do you live like this?”
“Thanks,” Merlin said dryly.
“If I can’t even get it right on my own, how am I going to get it when there are two sets of feet involved?” Arthur said, an edge of panic in his voice. “I need to get this. I am not going to make a fool of myself.”
With how desperate he looked, Merlin almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
He wasn’t sure what made him say it. Whether it was the look in Arthur’s eye, the mulled wine flowing through his system, or something else, but he soon heard himself saying, “Well, I could help you.”
Arthur looked at him blankly. “You? What are you going to do, Merlin?”
Merlin raised his eyebrows. “Help you. You need a partner to practice with, right? To help you get the footwork down, so…” He shrugged. “Why not me?”
Arthur stuttered. “I’m not dancing with—you can’t even—Merlin, that’s—” He paused, frowning. “Are you serious?”
“Look, I don’t care if you make a fool of yourself tomorrow, actually it might even be quite fun to watch—you know what, never mind, actually.” He turned to leave, but Arthur’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Wait! Wait, Merlin— don’t go.”
“Are you sure? I can go get Gwaine or Leon to help you instead…”
Arthur huffed and pulled Merlin back to where he was standing. “Come here, you idiot.”
Merlin was still grinning when they faced each other. Arthur frowned uncertainly, then after a moment seemed to decide something and squared his shoulders, like he was preparing to face an army.
“So, I guess—” Arthur started.
“I would— um—do I—” Merlin reached out, shuffling forward, his right hand finding Arthur’s shoulder while his left hovered an inch from his waist.
Arthur’s jaw was set, his shoulders tense. “I think, actually, you need to—” Merlin saw the shift in Arthur’s throat as he swallowed, then took Merlin’s hand from his shoulder and held it lightly in his own. “We have our hands like this,” he said gruffly. His voice was quieter now, Merlin noticed. A vast difference from the way Arthur usually yelled at him. “And you put your other hand on my shoulder.”
Merlin did so, then felt the light touch of Arthur’s other hand on his waist. It was warm, and Merlin tried not to notice how the warmth seeped into his skin despite the layer of fabric between them. He suddenly realised he wasn’t breathing, and let out a long exhale.
Arthur’s head was bowed, staring down at their feet, and Merlin did the same. “So it’s eight steps,” he said, shuffling his feet. He stepped forwards, and Merlin, not realising what was happening, did not move. Arthur’s foot came down on his and they stumbled. Arthur’s head snapped up to glare at him.
“I—uh, let’s try that again, shall we?” Merlin said.
“When I go forwards, you go back,” Arthur said, tone mocking.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Merlin sighed, regretting his life choices.
They started again, and this time got three steps in before they both stepped forwards at the same time and knocked their heads together.
“Argh!” Merlin groaned, pulling away from Arthur and rubbing his forehead.
“This is ridiculous!” Arthur cried. “There is no way I’m going to be able to get this down by tomorrow! Not with your clumsy feet tripping all over mine.”
Merlin huffed in exasperation. “Let’s just—just try again, we were better that time.”
Arthur glared at him. Then with a sigh of resignation, moved back into position, taking up Merlin’s hand again and gripping his waist. The movement forced them closer together than they’d been before, and Merlin found that he couldn’t quite meet Arthur’s gaze, and instead chose to look determinedly at a spot on the wall behind him.
It was harder without music, Merlin thought. If they’d had the steady rhythm of a drum to keep them in time, or the deep, resonant flow of a cello, maybe it would have been easier to keep time and avoid stepping on each other. All they had was the unbroken pounding of the rain outside, and the crackle of the fire, which had now grown to its full height, flickering and shuddering in the hearth behind them. The room had warmed considerably since Merlin had lit the fire, however he had a nagging suspicion that the warmth in his cheeks, the heat that simmered both in his chest and low in his belly, had more to do with the way Arthur’s fingers gripped his waist, pressing into the soft flesh there, branding him with the memory of Arthur’s touch.
They continued moving, eventually finding a steady rhythm that Merlin repeated in his head: one-two-three, one-two-three. Arthur huffed out a laugh somewhere near Merlin’s ear and he jerked his head back to look at him.
“What?” Merlin asked.
Arthur shrugged. “I’m just—surprised. I expected you to be far worse at this, actually.”
Merlin rolled his eyes and bit back his smile. “You just fail to notice my many talents, that’s all.”
“Ah,” Arthur sighed. “So apart from the juggling, dancing, and making a complete prat of yourself, what else is there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Merlin quipped. A smile tugged at Arthur’s lips and Merlin looked away. He felt Arthur’s gaze lingering on his face.
They fell into comfortable silence, working their way around the dimly-lit room, their steps growing ever surer. This close, Arthur’s scent was heady, soap and worn leather; if it weren’t for the wine he’d drunk earlier, Merlin almost could have believed he was tipsy off that alone.
He hoped his hand wasn’t too sweaty in Arthur’s, whose grip was firm and warm. Merlin realised, as they danced, that Arthur held him like he commanded his army: with quiet confidence and unshakeable strength. It made Merlin’s skin prickle pleasantly, the hairs on his arms standing upright.
“So,” Merlin said, voice light. “Is this the part where I spin you?”
Arthur scoffed. “If anyone’s getting spun, Merlin, it’ll be—”
They stumbled. Merlin’s back hit Arthur’s table and Arthur fell into him, their chests and hips colliding. Merlin felt bracketed in place; Arthur’s right hand still holding his waist, his left having reached out to catch himself on the tabletop. There was a moment, a beat, where neither of them moved. Then Arthur’s gaze slowly lifted, faltering for a moment on Merlin’s lips. They were so close now, breaths shared, noses close to touching, that if Merlin tilted his head just so, pressed forwards that slightest bit, they would be kissing. Merlin’s eyes dropped to Arthur’s lips; his breath caught in his chest.
“Merlin—” Arthur breathed.
Simultaneously a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder cracked violently outside, so loud the candelabra shook overhead. Arthur jumped backwards as if he’d been struck himself. He ran a hand hastily through his hair, while Merlin blew out the breath he’d been holding.
“I—I think you’re probably ready. For the ball,” Merlin said shakily.
Arthur nodded quickly, looking back at him. His eyes were dark and wild. “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “Very—ready.”
Merlin pushed himself off from the table, quickly moving over to the window to close the curtains. He needed to do something—anything—with his hands. Merlin was sure if not for the storm outside, Arthur would be able to hear his thundering heartbeat. He felt dizzy, lightheaded from how close they had been and from the sudden loss. He was also floundering with the realisation that Arthur had wanted to kiss him, too.
“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice rang out, pulling him from his thoughts.
He turned slowly, finding it difficult, once again, to meet Arthur’s gaze.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” he said formally. “I’ll be able to take it from here now. Why don’t you—you go on to bed, your assistance is no longer required.” The quaver in his voice gave him away, as did the pink high on his cheeks.
Merlin nodded. “Yes, sire,” he said, heading to the door.
As he passed, Arthur patted him brusquely on the arm. Merlin smiled faintly at the gesture. Same old Arthur.
Before he left, he lingered in the doorway for a heartbeat longer, watching as Arthur retreated into the warmth and quiet of his chambers. The rain continued its downpour outside, but Merlin knew that once night had faded into morning, the feeble rays of a pale Winter sun would shine on the castle once more. And when the lords and ladies of neighbouring kingdoms flooded into the banquet hall tomorrow, and Arthur took the arm of some elegant princess, they both would be remembering dancing in time to the rain.