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Merlin hates it when there are visiting nobles in Camelot.
He hates the frantic scrubbing that starts days before their arrival—servants on hands and knees polishing stones no one will think to look at, tapestries beaten free of dust that will settle again by morning, silverware counted and recounted as though a missing spoon might spark a war.
He hates the way the castle stops feeling like home.
And he especially hates Arthur during these visits.
In public, Arthur becomes every inch the golden prince—beautiful, poised, effortless. His smile is sharp and charming, his laughter easy, his posture flawless. But behind closed doors, when the crown slips from sight, he turns tense and irritable. He snaps at small things. He broods. He second-guesses every word he spoke over dinner.
It’s a lot of pressure, hosting the sons of powerful lords. One mistimed joke, one perceived slight, and suddenly treaties fray.
This time, Merlin tries to stay optimistic.
These guests aren’t strangers—they’re old friends of Arthur’s. Boys he grew up with, who visited Camelot when their fathers met with the king. Arthur had spoken of them over breakfast with fond nostalgia, recounting how they’d raced through the forest and practiced swordplay with wooden sticks while politics unfolded elsewhere.
As Merlin helped him dress, Arthur had actually been smiling.
Smiling.
Despite the bitter winter air that seeped through the shutters and set Merlin’s teeth on edge.
Fine. Perhaps it wasn’t only the cold souring his mood.
Merlin would never admit it aloud, but something sharp and uncomfortable had lodged in his chest that morning.
Jealousy.
Until now, Merlin had quietly believed he was Arthur’s closest companion. The one who saw him at his worst and best. The only one Arthur truly trusted.
And here Arthur was, practically alight at the thought of their arrival.
It was ridiculous.
Merlin knew that.
Didn’t stop it from stinging.
He keeps himself busy when the nobles arrive—bowing just low enough, speaking just little enough. He hauls their absurdly heavy trunks up the winding stairs, arms burning, breath tight in his lungs. He barely has time to straighten before they’re demanding horses for a hunt.
So Merlin runs.
He readies the mounts, checks the tack, packs provisions, endures the stablemaster’s complaints about last-minute requests. By the time he leads the horses up to the castle steps, the nobles are already mounted in their finery, impatience plain on their faces.
“Ah, finally, Merlin!” one calls.
Arthur grins down at him, that easy, careless grin.
“I thought you’d gotten lost on your way to the stables again. Good thing the horses are smarter than my manservant.”
The nobles laugh.
Merlin feels the heat crawl up his neck.
Arthur always speaks to him like this—light, teasing, familiar. Usually Merlin fires back without hesitation.
But here, in front of them, it lands differently.
Sharper.
He lowers his gaze and tightens the girth strap without comment.
The hunt itself is slow and uneventful. The forest is quiet, winter-bare and brittle. They flush no deer, no boar—only startled birds taking flight. It feels less like a hunt and more like an excuse to escape the suffocating formality of court.
They make camp early, the sun still hovering above the treetops.
Ale appears almost immediately.
Laughter follows.
Merlin stays on the edge of it all, tending to the fire, preparing what little supper they have. He watches Arthur out of the corner of his eye.
Arthur is flushed now, hair slightly mussed, smile too loose around the edges. His glassy gaze and overly loud laughter make it clear he’s had more than enough to drink.
One of the nobles claps him on the shoulder. “River’s not far from here. Cold as sin, I bet. Come on, Arthur—let’s see if you’ve still got any courage.”
Arthur laughs. “I’ve more courage than all of you combined.”
When the nobles start shedding their cloaks and Arthur is unfastening his laces, Merlin steps forward, voice low enough not to be heard.
“Sire, it’s freezing. You’ve already had too much to drink, and the current will be stronger after the snowmelt. Perhaps it would be wiser to—”
Arthur turns, already flushed and grinning, and throws an arm around one of his friends’ shoulders.
“Listen to him,” Arthur says loudly, making sure they all hear. “If I let Merlin have his way, we’d all be tucked into bed at sunset with warm milk and a cautionary lecture.”
The nobles snort.
Merlin stiffens. “I’m only saying—”
Arthur cuts him off with a careless wave of his hand. “Gods, Merlin, must you suck the joy out of everything? Not all of us aspire to live as miserably as you do.”
There’s a sharper edge to it than usual—alcohol loosening his tongue, an audience encouraging it.
One of the nobles laughs.
Merlin’s mouth snaps shut.
“I’ll tidy up here,” he says finally. “Someone has to.”
They jeer and disappear through the trees, boots crunching over frost, voices fading into the distance.
The forest grows quiet again.
Merlin exhales slowly.
And for the first time all day, he is alone.
Merlin scrubs at a stubborn cooking pot with numb fingers, listening to the distant shouts and splashes from the river. Laughter echoes through the trees—Arthur’s bright, unguarded bark among them—and Merlin presses his lips together, telling himself he doesn’t care.
He very much cares.
A twig snaps behind him.
“Well now,” comes a familiar, drawling voice. “Looks like the servant decided not to join us.”
Merlin turns to find three of Arthur’s noble friends sauntering back into camp, hair damp from the river, shirts half-laced and grins sharp as blades. They smell of ale and cold water.
“I thought someone ought to stay and ensure the fire didn’t wander off,” Merlin says dryly, returning to his scrubbing.
They circle him like bored hounds.
“Arthur always did prefer interesting company,” one of them muses. “Strange that he keeps you about.”
Merlin keeps his eyes on the pot. “Yes, well. He’d be quite lost without me.”
That earns him a bark of laughter.
“Oh? Is that so?”
Before Merlin can react, hands clamp onto his shoulders and shove him backward. The pot clatters away. He struggles, startled more than frightened, but they are bigger than him, heavier. One pins his wrists to the ground while another straddles his legs.
“Let’s see if you’re as amusing as Arthur seems to think,” one says.
Merlin’s jaw tightens, blood and magic rushing under his skin. “Get off—”
A flask appears above him, the sharp scent of strong liquor burning his nose.
“Open up.”
“I don’t—”
They pinch his nose.
It’s stupid, really. Childish. But when Merlin gasps for breath, the mouth of the flask is forced between his lips. Liquor floods his mouth—harsh, biting, far stronger than the watered-down ale served at supper.
He tries to swallow so he doesn’t choke, but that only makes it worse. The liquid keeps coming. It spills down his chin, soaks his collar, seeps beneath his shirt and turns the winter air against him.
He coughs violently, but they keep pouring.
“There,” one laughs. “Can’t have Camelot’s manservant refusing hospitality.”
“Stop,” he tries to say.
It comes out garbled. Thick.
They finally pull the flask away, but only to replace it with another.
“Can’t have him sobering up too soon.”
Merlin’s stomach lurches at the sight of it. He shakes his head weakly, but his limbs feel distant, sluggish, like they don’t quite belong to him.
“No— stop it—” he slurs, the words tripping over each other.
This time they don’t bother with tricks. One clamps a hand over Merlin’s nose while another forces his mouth open, fingers digging painfully into his cheeks. The liquor pours in fast and merciless, flooding his tongue before he can steel himself against it.
When the flask is empty, they let him go abruptly, and Merlin curls onto his side, coughing violently.
The world tilts unpleasantly. The liquor hits him fast—too fast—his empty stomach no match for whatever they’d forced down his throat.
His vision swims.
The nobles’ laughter grows distant, distorted.
“Don’t let him drown in his own vomit,” one says carelessly. “Arthur might actually miss him!”
Their footsteps retreat.
Merlin tries to push himself upright.
His arms fold beneath him.
The ground is moving. No—he is. Or the trees are. They bend strangely inward, like they’re whispering secrets just out of reach.
He blinks slowly.
His thoughts slip through his fingers like water.
Cold.
He’s cold.
But also… warm? Too warm. His skin prickles. His heart pounds in his ears so loudly he thinks someone must hear it.
“Sire?” he murmurs to no one, the word stretching oddly.
He tries again to sit up.
The world flips sideways.
He ends up on his back, staring up at the sky, smiling faintly at nothing. The stars look close enough to touch.
Something isn’t right.
He knows that in a distant, fading way.
Why is he shaking?
He doesn’t remember starting to tremble, but his body is wracked with it now—violent shivers that rattle his teeth together. His soaked shirt clings to him, icy against overheated skin. His stomach twists dangerously.
Footsteps crash through the trees.
“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice—closer now. “You’ll never believe—”
It cuts off.
Merlin squints up through bleary eyes. Arthur stands at the edge of the firelight, shirt half-buttoned, hair still dripping from the river. His easy grin vanishes.
Merlin tries to speak.
It comes out slurred. “Sire.”
Arthur is at his side in an instant.
“Gods,” Arthur breathes, dropping to his knees. “Merlin. What did you drink?”
Merlin blinks up at him, eyes unfocused. Arthur’s hand presses against his cheek, and Merlin leans into it automatically.
“Cold,” Merlin mumbles, though sweat beads at his temples.
“You’re freezing,” Arthur snaps, already shrugging off his cloak and wrapping it around Merlin’s trembling frame. Hes smells pure alcohol on the other man’s breath. “Who gave you this?”
Merlin blinks up at him, eyes unfocused. “They said…’s hospitality.”
Arthur goes very still.
Across the clearing, his friends are returning, laughing loudly at some private joke.
Merlin has seen Arthur angry before. He has seen him shout, sulk, posture.
He has never seen this.
There is nothing loud about it. Nothing wild.
Just a deadly, simmering rage.
Arthur rises slowly. “You,” he calls, voice carrying like a drawn blade.
The laughter falters.
“What did you do to him?”
They glance at one another. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. We gave him a drink. He seemed a bit tense.”
Arthur steps forward, placing himself squarely between them and Merlin’s curled form. There’s something in his tone that makes even his oldest friend hesitate.
“It was just a jest—”
“He’s shaking.”
The words land heavy.
Arthur’s jaw clenches. “You pinned him down and forced liquor down his throat?”
Silence answers him.
Arthur’s voice drops lower. “If he’s ill because of you, I swear by the crown—”
“Arthur, just let—” he hiccups sickly, “let ‘t go. ‘M ‘kay”.
Arthur glares over his shoulder at his friends. “Return to Camelot at first light.”
“What? Arthur, surely—”
“You will return,” Arthur repeats coldly. “And pray he wakes without lasting harm.”
They retreat without another word.
The camp is quiet after that.
Too quiet.
Arthur doesn’t bother relighting the larger torches. He keeps the fire low and steady, one hand braced at Merlin’s back, the other gripping the edge of his cloak around him as if the fabric alone might hold him together.
Merlin is still trembling.
His eyes drift in and out of focus, lashes heavy, breath uneven. Every so often he makes a small, confused sound in the back of his throat, like he’s trying to follow a thought that keeps slipping away.
Arthur brushes damp curls off his forehead.
“You absolute idiot,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it now. Only something tight and strained.
Merlin squints up at him.
“’M not,” he protests weakly.
Arthur huffs. “You most certainly are.”
Merlin frowns at that, as if the concept is deeply offensive.
The frown melts suddenly into something else.
His stomach lurches. “Oh no—” Merlin whispers.
Arthur reacts instantly, turning him onto his side just in time.
Merlin retches hard.
There’s nothing delicate about it. It’s violent and messy, his entire body convulsing as the liquor finally forces its way back up. Arthur keeps a steady hand on his shoulder, the other bracing him so he doesn’t pitch forward into the dirt.
“Easy,” Arthur murmurs, quieter now. “It’s all right.”
Merlin gags again, coughing weakly between heaves. When it’s finally over, he sags bonelessly against Arthur, breathing in shallow, shaky pulls.
Arthur wipes his mouth with the edge of his own sleeve without hesitation.
“Gods,” Merlin croaks miserably. “That’s awful.”
“Yes,” Arthur says flatly. “I imagine it is.”
Merlin’s head lolls against Arthur’s shoulder. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
“I think,” Merlin says very seriously, “the trees are moving.”
Arthur glances up at the perfectly still forest.
“They’re not.”
Merlin considers this.
“They are a little.”
Arthur almost smiles despite himself.
He reaches for the waterskin and presses it carefully to Merlin’s lips. “Small sips.”
Merlin tries to grab it with both hands and nearly misses entirely.
Arthur steadies it. “Slowly.”
Merlin obeys for approximately two swallows before sputtering.
“Why’re you so loud?” he mumbles.
“I’m not loud.”
“You are,” Merlin insists faintly. “Very shouty.”
Arthur exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re drunk.”
Merlin blinks at him.
“…I am?”
“Yes.”
Merlin processes this with visible effort. His expression shifts—confusion, indignation, then something softer.
“I didn’t want to be,” he says quietly.
Arthur’s jaw tightens.
“I know.”
Merlin’s fingers clutch clumsily at the front of Arthur’s tunic, bunching the fabric.
“They were laughing,” he murmurs, voice wobbling strangely. “I don’t— I don’t mind when you laugh. But they were—”
His words tangle.
Arthur stills.
Merlin’s face crumples without warning.
It happens so quickly Arthur barely has time to react before Merlin’s breath hitches sharply.
“I don’t like when you laugh with them,” Merlin blurts, and then, mortifyingly, his eyes fill.
Arthur freezes.
Merlin blinks as if startled by his own tears.
And then he’s crying.
Not loudly. Just quiet, drunk tears sliding down flushed cheeks, his shoulders shaking in uneven little tremors that have nothing to do with the cold now.
Arthur stares at him, completely at a loss.
“Merlin—”
“I know it’s stupid,” Merlin rushes on thickly. “I know. I just— I thought—” He swallows hard. “I thought I was—”
He can’t seem to finish.
Arthur’s anger, still simmering under his skin, shifts into something else entirely.
“You thought you were what?” Arthur asks quietly.
Merlin presses his forehead against Arthur’s chest, hiding his face.
“Your friend,” he mumbles.
Arthur goes very still.
“You are,” he says pathetically, feeling more than a little helpless.
Merlin shakes his head weakly. “They’re better. Noble. Clever. They don’t trip over things.”
“They pinned you to the ground and force-fed you liquor,” Arthur says sharply. “If that is your measure of better company, then your standards are appalling.”
Merlin lets out a wet, unsteady laugh that turns into another hiccup.
Arthur adjusts his grip, pulling him closer without thinking about it.
“You,” Arthur says firmly, “are my friend. My closest one.”
Merlin sniffles.
“Even when you’re awful?” he asks faintly.
“Especially then, yes.”
Merlin lifts his head just enough to peer up at him, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.
“You were awful today,” he accuses softly.
Arthur winces.
“I know.”
Merlin studies him for a long, wobbly second. Then he nods, as if accepting terms.
“Okay,” he whispers.
His grip on Arthur’s tunic loosens.
Arthur gives him another careful sip of water, then eases him down so he’s half-curled against Arthur’s side, wrapped securely in the cloak.
Merlin’s trembling has lessened.
His breathing evens gradually, though every so often he makes a small, sleepy sound.
Arthur stays exactly where he is.