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It was in a rather shadowy corner of the Rising Sun that Merlin suddenly found himself unable to move. Well, perhaps that was an overstatement. He could move his body just fine; all four limbs seemed to be of their natural working order; he could even spin in a full circle, which he demonstrated twice for good measure. But when he tried to move away from that particular spot, he found he simply could not. His legs would not allow it. It was as if some invisible barrier held him in place.
Realisation came to him swiftly; one quick glance up and—
“Ah.”
He was not granted the chance to dwell further on the matter, however, as at that moment there came a shout from across the bar and a body collided forcefully with him.
“Ow!” he yelped, rubbing his arm where the man had bumped him. He lifted his head and—
“Oh, it’s you,” and then— “oh.”
Arthur had his back to Merlin and was still shouting across the bar. “—and watch where you’re going next time—” he finished by mumbling, “you great bloody git.”
“Sorry, mate!” Gwaine waved apologetically.
It was then that Arthur seemed to notice Merlin, who stood there looking very casual and not at all guilty. Arthur’s scowl deepened.
“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Arthur retorted, dry as mid-July. “Budge up, will you; I need to get past.”
“Yeah, I—er, don’t think that’s going to be possible.”
“Merlin, is this another one of your riddles? Because I really don’t have time for this, nor, truthfully, do I care—”
“It’s not! It’s just—I can’t move. And neither can you.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What utter rubbish,” he scoffed, and made to leave.
It was with a look of outrage—and on Merlin’s part, a sick sense of satisfaction—that Arthur found, quite quickly, that he could not. It was a matter of seconds before he turned that look on Merlin.
“What. Have. You. Done.”
“Me?! I didn’t—oh. Yeah. I guess it technically is my fault this time.” And with a regretful finger, he pointed to the mistletoe that hung above them.
Arthur’s eyes followed his finger’s direction until he found it: the perpetrator of his ruination. His eyes lingered there for one painstaking breath, then fell back to Merlin, where they stayed. Arthur, tight-lipped, awaited an explanation.
“I—uh, may have enchanted some mistletoe to—uh, trap people until they kiss.”
Arthur’s gaze sharpened; his lips thinned to the point they were colourless.
“It was just supposed to be fun! Stupid fun. Bit of a—Yuletide prank, you know—festive—ha ha…” he trailed off weakly.
Arthur suddenly smiled a smile Merlin knew better than to trust, and clapped Merlin heartily on the back. “Well, that’s okay! You can just undo it!”
“What?”
“Undo the spell.”
Merlin grimaced. “Yeah. About that…”
“Merlin.”
“I didn’t think learning the counter-curse was important?”
Arthur exhaled heavily. “Do you mean to tell me… that we—you and I—are stuck here until we—” He was either unable or unwilling to say the word kiss.
Merlin nodded desolately.
Arthur looked at him. His eyes had a kind of wildness about them, a desperation that Merlin had seen only in deer moments before the bolt hit them between the eyes.
“No. No,” Arthur said, emphatic. “There’s got to be a way. There’s got to…” he trailed off, into what Merlin could only assume was quiet contemplation before his head jerked up. “Percival!”
The oversized knight’s head came up in response, and he ambled over to them. His attempt to make it across the bar without barrelling into fellow patrons or upsetting drinks and tables was both valiant and unsuccessful. “Sire?” he said once he’d made it, and brought their friends along with him.
Arthur reached out his arm and nodded to Percival. “Pull my arm. As hard as you can.”
Percival looked at him quizzically, but complied. After years of serving under Arthur, the knights—the smart ones, at least—had learned not to ask questions. He grasped Arthur’s arm and tugged. His face took on a look of great concentration and his biceps rippled impressively, but it was no use. Percival pulled and pulled, but Arthur did not budge.
“Ah, got yourself stuck, mate? I hate it when that happens,” Gwaine remarked.
“I’m—not—stuck!” Arthur grunted, still straining desperately against Percival’s hold. He then slipped, falling backwards into Merlin, who pushed him away with a scowl.
Arthur seemed to deflate momentarily, and then perked up again, retrieving his dagger from his belt.
“If I can’t remove myself from the mistletoe—I will remove the mistletoe from myself,” he said through gritted teeth.
Merlin and Gwaine shared a bemused look.
Merlin watched as Arthur hacked, with a frenzied sort of violence, at the plant above them. The dagger, unsurprisingly, left no mark upon its skin.
“How’s that going for you?” Merlin asked drily.
“It’s—coming,” Arthur ground out, still working the blade to no effect against the plant’s stem.
Merlin pursed his lips. “Is the idea of kissing me so repulsive?” he asked, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice.
Arthur stopped hacking and stared at him. “I—would you want to kiss me?!” he demanded.
“If it means sleeping in my own damned bed tonight, then yes!”
Arthur went silent.
“Stop dicking around and just kiss him already.” Morgana’s voice came from behind Gwaine. Merlin looked up and saw her sipping a cup of wine.
“KISS HIM—KISS HIM—KISS HIM—”
Merlin didn’t know who had started the chanting, though the likely culprit had his arm slung around Percival’s shoulders and was shouting loudest of all. It was soon taken up by the rest of the tavern’s patronage. People stood, pumping their fists and delightedly revelling in the king and his manservant’s predicament.
“KISS HIM—KISS HIM—KISS HIM—”
Arthur looked at him and Merlin swallowed. Arthur’s eyes still had that wild look about them, but there was a softness there, too, Merlin realised. A blink-and-you’d-miss-it vulnerability that made his insides squeeze pleasantly.
Merlin leaned in, and Arthur stilled. His gaze dropped to Merlin’s lips and then away just as fast. He exhaled a shaky breath. And then he reached up and began pulling at the mistletoe with renewed urgency.
“Get—off!”
Merlin sighed. The chanting died away as people, grumbling, went back to their own business of drinking and tomfoolery. He thought he heard the words ‘cocktease’ and ‘chickenshit’ thrown around.
Merlin slunk down onto the floor, resting his back against the bar.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked.
“I expect we’re going to be here a while, so I’m sitting down.”
Arthur lingered for a moment and then dropped down beside him, their thighs and shoulders jammed together under the mistletoe.
Merlin awoke with a jolt, a thin string of drool connecting his chin and Arthur’s shoulder. He lifted his head to find the tavern deserted of all except the innkeeper, a heavyset and bearded man, who lumbered towards them.
“I’ve locked up for the night,” he said in his gruff, quiet way. “You boys—well, apologies, Your Majesty—” Arthur waved a dismissive hand. “You boys stay as long as you need.” His moustache twitched, then he continued up the stairs to his rooms.
“Thank you,” Merlin said in a monotone, while Arthur just smiled tightly.
Merlin looked at Arthur, who had taken to staring at his knees and drumming his fingers upon them.
“So,” Merlin began cautiously. “Do you think we might—make it to our beds this evening?”
“Merlin, need I remind you whose fault it is that we’re stuck here?” Arthur snapped.
Merlin pursed his lips. He rather would have liked to say that he had already suggested a simple solution to their problem and had been thoroughly—and publicly—rejected; however, he thought it in his best interest to stay quiet. Arthur, however, seemed to read his mind.
“I guess—it wouldn’t have to mean anything—necessarily,” Arthur said quickly, to his knees. “Just a—a quick peck and then we’d be done with it.”
“I know that,” Merlin said.
“Right. Okay, then.”
“Okay?”
Arthur looked at him, and then stood. Merlin followed suit. His knees protested after sitting so long squashed into the cramped little space, but his spine sighed its relief.
Merlin turned to face Arthur and bit his lip.
“Ready?” Merlin asked. His heart thundered suddenly behind his ribs, and his palms grew slick with sweat.
“Yes,” Arthur replied, looking faintly ill.
The moment drew out too long between them. The only sound was the pounding of blood in Merlin’s ears. And then it was Arthur who surged forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed his lips to Merlin’s.
The kiss lasted all of two seconds; one hard press of lips and the bumping of noses, and then Arthur jerked back as if he’d been burned.
Their eyes met, and Merlin offered an awkward grin. “Alright, then,” he said, in a voice that did not sound like his own, and stepped out of the mistletoe’s circle. He turned away, all too ready for his bed. The opportunity to sleep off this night and the irreparable damage it had done to what little control he kept over his foolish heart shone like a beacon in the distance.
“Wait! I can do it better.”
Merlin slowly turned back around. “What?”
“I mean—I can do it better than that.”
Arthur had not moved from under the mistletoe, but stood there looking at Merlin, his expression somewhat pained. Merlin’s brow wrinkled in confusion, and he let a little laugh fall from his lips.
“What does it matter?” he asked. “You’re free now.”
“It—” Arthur huffed. “If we’re going to—you know—”
“Kiss?”
“Yes, well, it’s important that my skills are—uh, appropriately represented.”
Merlin narrowed his eyes at him. In a colossal show of restraint, he did not make fun of Arthur, though the impulse was tempting. Instead, he simply said, “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Merlin moved back to him, back under the mistletoe, and felt the enchantment sweep over him again, singing in his veins. But it wasn’t the magic holding him in place this time.
Arthur reached up and cupped his jaw, one trembling thumb skirting the corner of Merlin’s lips. Something warm pooled low in Merlin’s stomach. There was no urgency this time, no rush or panic; just Arthur standing there, looking at his mouth like he was memorising the shape of it.
When Arthur leaned in, Merlin met him halfway. Arthur’s lips were warm and open against his, and Merlin found himself pressing closer, harder, until his chest was flush against Arthur’s. Arthur gave a little sigh and gripped his hip, and, taking that as encouragement, Merlin let his fingers tangle in Arthur’s hair and pull.
It was ironic that someone who could barely stand to utter the word ‘kiss’ could accomplish it so spectacularly. But Arthur kissed him now without restraint, like the dam of his want had burst open and Merlin too had been swept away in its flood. His fingers dug bruises into Merlin’s back and Merlin licked into his mouth as if kissing him wouldn’t be the unmaking of him.
It was only when Merlin was pressed against the bar, lips swollen and hair thoroughly mussed, that Arthur pulled away. That is to say, their mouths separated for the first time in many minutes, yet Arthur continued peppering Merlin’s mouth—chin—jaw—with little kisses.
When Merlin’s eyes slowly fluttered open, Arthur’s face was right there. He looked completely undone: his face a glorious red, his lips shiny and kiss-pink. It was all Merlin could do not to lean back in, capture his bottom lip between his teeth and pull.
“Well… that certainly seemed to break the enchantment,” Merlin said, a little breathlessly.
They now stood a little way from where they’d begun, their enthusiasm having relocated them to outside the mistletoe’s ring of entrapment.
Arthur huffed a laugh, his head dropping to the crook of Merlin’s neck. Merlin could feel the curve of Arthur’s smile against his skin. It warmed him down to his toes.
“Time for bed, I think, yeah?” Merlin suggested softly.
“It’s nearly dawn,” Arthur countered, with a quick glance to the lightening sky. “I have my duties. You have your chores.”
“Hmm. No chores if there’s no one to serve.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I heard my boss is taking the day off.”
And with that, Merlin pushed Arthur back underneath the mistletoe.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, low and dangerous. “Do not leave me here.”
“Goodnight, Arthur!” Merlin called and grinned, buoyed by the prospect of a few hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. He would deal with the consequences in the morning. Especially if said consequences involved kissing a scowling, pompous prat.