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When Arthur reaches for Merlin’s hand, Merlin is a little surprised.
For the past several minutes, he’s been hovering over the prince, preoccupied by a particularly stubborn fastening on Arthur’s chainmail. The urge to magic the blasted buckle into place is strong. A spell is poised at the edge of his lip when the leather slips from his hand again. With a grunt, Merlin leans closer.
Arthur stiffens. Merlin braces himself for the inevitable accusations of useless prat or hopeless idiot. Arthur remains frozen.
Merlin pulls back, a quip at the ready. The words crumble on his tongue as he notes the tense planes of Arthur’s face. The trace of uncertainty in his eyes.
The sight is as rare as it is puzzling. It’s just a jousting tournament, after all. The knights practically throw themselves off their horses when facing the prince.
“Are you all right?” Merlin asks. His hands settle on Arthur’s shoulders.
Arthur’s eyes meet his own. Merlin nearly flinches at the intensity of his gaze. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, his eyes are crystalline, glimmering like miniature lakes. Merlin grows still. A forceful thought runs rampant in his head. How beautiful.
It catches him off guard. He steps back with a nervous chuckle.
Something stops him from tearing away. Arthur’s hand is on his wrist. Slowly, painstakingly, his palm slides down to meet Merlin’s. Their fingers intertwine.
All at once, Merlin is acutely aware of how rough his hands are. But Arthur has his own callouses. No doubt the result of hours of training.
Merlin’s thoughts scatter as Arthur’s thumb grazes his skin, gentle with hesitation. He gets the feeling that Arthur is asking him something. As strange as it feels, he places his other hand atop the prince’s and gives it a squeeze that says everything will be all right.
Relief floods Arthur’s features. A radiant smile breaks across his face.
Merlin blinks. The sudden shift is disconcerting. He turns away, mumbling something about boots.
Arthur must be really nervous about the joust. And, judging by his racing heartbeat, Merlin must be, too.
___
When Arthur brings Merlin flowers, he can’t help but wonder who they’re for.
Things fall back into their usual rhythm after the joust. Arthur seems in high spirits, no doubt due to his success in the tournament. Soon enough, Merlin finds them trading jokes and jibes like always.
News arrives of a delegation on their way from Mercia. The castle comes alive with fervent preparations, and Arthur becomes preoccupied by daily meetings with his father and the royal advisers. Merlin tries to stay out of the way, if only to avoid the King’s ire.
Once in a while, though, he notices little oddities. Arthur’s gaze follows him each time he leaves the room, seems to linger on him while he’s working. He also grows particularly quiet whenever Merlin happens to get close.
Merlin chalks it up to the head injuries Arthur no doubt gets during sword practice.
One morning, he walks into Arthur’s chambers to find the room empty. He pauses. He was anticipating dragging Arthur from bed, even relishing the thought of it. Arthur being gone without him knowing feels… odd.
As he hovers, feeling rudderless in the prince’s absence, the door creaks open.
Arthur steps inside and immediately comes to a halt. “Merlin.”
“Where’ve you been?” Merlin asks, eyes narrowing.
Arthur’s face is flushed, and his hands are clasped behind his back. He looks off to the side. “Nowhere.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Merlin steps closer. Arthur shuffles back until he’s pressed against the door. “Have you been meeting someone…?” Merlin trails off, the question leaving a strangely bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
Arthur chuckles. “Yes, Merlin, I was having a secret rendezvous.” He keeps his gaze tucked away as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers. “I was getting these.”
Merlin peers down at them.
“Do you like them?” Arthur asks, gesturing for Merlin to take them.
Merlin obliges. “Er… yeah?”
Arthur grins. “Good.”
The reddish tinge to his face is deepening. Merlin takes another step closer. “Is everything all right?”
“Ah…” Arthur seems suddenly gripped by another thought. He hauls the door open. “The floor looks dirty. Stop slacking and get on with it.”
Merlin watches him stride off. “You didn’t tell me who these are for,” he mutters to himself.
Turning the flowers over in his hands, he marvels at their pink-purple hue. He’s wondering if he should stick them in some water—or maybe the horses need a snack—when a voice calls behind him.
“Giving you trouble again?”
He turns to see Gwen approaching.
“When is he not?” Merlin sighs. As Gwen nears, he realizes how careworn she looks. Dark shadows mar the skin beneath her eyes. “Is Morgana still not…?”
Gwen shakes her head. “Didn’t sleep a wink.” She notices the flowers. A small smile tugs at her lips. “Those are beautiful. They must’ve brightened your day.”
Merlin follows her gaze. They were certainly meant to brighten someone’s day, not that Arthur bothered to let him in on the secret.
Feeling faintly petulant, he holds them out. “Here. You take them.”
She raises her eyebrows. “But didn’t Arthur—?”
“He’ll find some more,” Merlin cuts in. “With my luck, he’ll make me pick them.”
__
When Arthur envelopes Merlin in his arms, Merlin is startled to say the least.
That evening, Merlin finds himself mired in another one of Arthur’s recent silences. It’s coupled with a particularly piercing stare that Merlin is sure will put a hole in his back. He scrubs the table harder. Maybe Arthur can still see traces of his near-untouched supper on it.
“What are you doing?” Arthur says suddenly.
Merlin pauses. “Irritating you?”
“So you’re aware,” Arthur mutters. He shifts in his chair so his back is turned to Merlin. “Why did you give the flowers to Guinevere?”
“Oh.” So that’s what this is about. A missed chance for a tryst. Where does Arthur even find the time, especially with the King’s keen attention upon him as of late? “I’ll pick you some more tomorrow morning.”
Arthur scoffs.
Merlin scratches the back of his neck. “You want me to do it tonight?”
“I don’t want you to pick new flowers, Merlin,” Arthur says. “Do you think that matters right now?”
Merlin blinks in confusion. The conversation is rapidly slipping from his grasp. At his silence, Arthur peeks over his shoulder. His eyes rove Merlin’s face.
Finally, he turns in his seat. “I want to know why you got rid of the old ones. You said you liked them.”
“I did,” Merlin agrees.
“So, why did I see Guinevere with them earlier today?”
Merlin gulps. He can’t quite explain what made him do it. “She seemed glum,” he says carefully. “I thought they might cheer her up.”
Arthur’s sharp gaze is fixed on him, he can feel it. Heat creeps up Merlin’s neck. He risks a glance at Arthur to see his expression has softened.
“Oh,” the prince says. “That’s why.”
“That’s why,” Merlin echoes, working to keep an insistent sour edge from his tone. He turns away to resume scrubbing.
Arthur’s chair scrapes back. Seconds later, Merlin is enveloped in an embrace that knocks the breath from him.
He stumbles. Arthur’s arms tighten around his waist, steadying him, pulling him close. He buries his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck. A dull heat spreads along Merlin’s face. He can’t help but notice that Arthur smells vaguely metallic, like chainmail and sweat, but with something faintly floral buried underneath.
“I’ll get more,” Arthur murmurs in his ear. His breath fans across Merlin’s skin.
Merlin stifles a shiver. Every word he knows—the lies and excuses he uses to hide his powers, the spells he’s learning to bend nature to his will, even the easy quips he keeps reserved for Arthur—all of it has deserted him. He simply nods, heart slamming against his chest.
Next time, he must remember to ask who the flowers are actually for.
___
When Arthur’s eyes drift to Merlin’s lips and stay there, Merlin begins to suspect something might be amiss.
Arthur starts bringing increasingly elaborate bouquets to Merlin every morning. Without fail, Merlin means to ask who they’re for, but can’t bring himself to utter the question. He settles for putting them in a glass of water and leaving them on the dining table so they’re ready for Arthur to take whenever he likes.
For some reason, Arthur never does.
Little trinkets accompany the flowers at times. A pendant embedded with aquamarine that reminds Merlin of Arthur’s eyes. A box of sweetmeats. A little pouch of dried lavender, which Arthur explains induces sleep.
Merlin stays awake all night, staring at the growing collection shoved to one corner of his room. What does Arthur mean by torturing him like this? Is he supposed to read the prince’s mind to identify the intended recipient of these ostentatious gifts?
The day the delegation is slated to arrive, Merlin pulls himself from bed before dawn. Arthur has been fretting about the event—no matter how much he tries to hide it—and will want to get ready early.
The moon has barely given way to the light of day when Merlin shuffles into Arthur’s chambers. Arthur is still in bed, though he’s sitting up.
“Did you get any sleep?” Merlin asks, concerned.
Arthur’s eyes search his face. “About as much as you did, I’d wager.”
Merlin turns away to hide his surprise. Arthur can be unexpectedly observant. Merlin still isn’t used to the prince observing him, of all people.
He sets about preparing fresh clothes and breakfast as Arthur washes up.
The corridors are hushed as they leave the bedchamber. This part of the castle is empty, save for the guards who let them into the throne room.
The doors slam closed behind them. Gentle daylight and faint birdsong filter through the windows. Their footsteps echo, far too loud, as they approach Arthur’s seat. Arthur hesitates.
“Go on,” Merlin urges. “Your royal pratness.”
Arthur smiles. Settled on the throne, gilded in sunlight and finery, he truly does befit the image of a prince and future king. Merlin’s heart squeezes at the sight. The distance between them has never felt greater.
Arthur reaches up to adjust his crown.
“Here.” Merlin kneels before him and extends a hand. “Let me.”
Arthur shifts close and bows his head as though in reverence. Merlin feels endeared at the sight. To the kingdom, Arthur is the golden prince—heroic, majestic, sacrosanct. But in this moment, all Merlin sees is the softness to him. The undeniable goodness of him, in the way he appears so ill at ease with his power. Merlin knows a little something about that.
The metal sits cool against his fingertips as he straightens the crown. Though simple in design, it’s surprisingly weighty.
“There,” he says, sitting back.
Slowly, Arthur raises his head. Merlin finds his gaze locked in Arthur’s unwavering one. He regards Merlin with an aching tenderness—a wondrous awe—as though he’s witnessing something sacred. It almost makes Merlin forget his place.
Arthur’s eyes meander, very deliberately, down Merlin’s face, stopping to linger somewhere around his mouth.
Merlin stills. All rational thoughts desert his mind, replaced by incredulous ideas. He can’t shake the feeling that Arthur is asking him something yet again. And he finds himself desperately wanting to give him an answer.
Arthur’s hand rises to cradle Merlin’s face. His heart races in response. Arthur edges closer.
Their lips brush in the lightest of touches.
Sparks fizzle in Merlin’s chest. He melts into the touch, savoring its sweetness, until they break apart. Arthur’s hazy eyes catch his. He leans in again—until Merlin presses a hand to his chest. Arthur freezes.
Merlin takes a breath. “By chance…”
“Yes?”
“…are we courting?”
Mild surprise seeps into Arthur’s features. “What?” The word drips with disbelief.
Heat pricks the tips of Merlin’s ears. He scrambles to stand up. “Well, the flowers,” he rushes to explain, “and the gifts, I thought—”
“You thought?” Arthur repeats. “What did you think?”
Merlin gulps. “You found somebody.”
It’s as he ekes the words out that it hits him, how much he dislikes the prospect. All those trinkets taking over his room—he recoils at the thought of them displayed for someone else. At the thought of Arthur being gone without him knowing.
“But now… I’m not quite sure,” he adds, unable to stifle the hope in his voice.
“I can’t believe this,” Arthur says with a faint laugh.
Hurt blooms in Merlin’s chest. He turns a glower on Arthur. “If there was someone you wanted all along, you could’ve just said so. Or did you take pleasure in confusing your dimwit servant?”
“Merlin.” Arthur stands, stepping closer until they’re face-to-face. “Please. All this time, I thought you knew…” He shakes his head, as though in disbelief. “I thought it couldn’t be more obvious that the one I want… is you.”
His voice is hushed, imploring. That’s when Merlin notices it. The hurt in the set of Arthur's mouth, like the night he lamented Merlin giving away his bouquet. And the doubt in his eyes—like the day he first reached for Merlin’s hand.
Realization dawns upon him in quiet waves.
“The day of the joust,” he says slowly. “We weren’t holding hands because you were nervous.”
“What?” Arthur’s eyes widen in horror. “No.”
“And when you hugged me…”
“I was worried,” Arthur says with a hint of exasperation. “You gave away the flowers I got you.”
“So those gifts…?” Merlin says.
A smile plays on the prince’s lips. Disgruntled. Fond. “They were always yours.”
Merlin holds still, as though an errant move will shatter the moment. “Mine?”
Arthur gently takes Merlin’s face in his hands. “Yours,” he says softly.
Relief hits Merlin all at once. He chuckles weakly. “Oh. That's good.”
“That's good?” Arthur echoes. His hands trail down the sides of Merlin’s neck, along his shoulders, raising goosebumps in their wake. “That's all you have to say for yourself?”
He tugs Merlin close. His floral scent is stronger today, and Merlin recognizes it as—
“Lavender?”
Arthur pulls back with a sheepish smile. “I wanted you to think of me.”
Merlin grins. “Unfortunately, it’s Gaius who’s been thinking of you.”
Arthur stares at him, mouth agape. “You—”
“I wouldn’t have given it away if I’d known!”
Arthur shakes his head, looking pained. “You idiot.”
“Your idiot,” Merlin reminds him. He throws his arms around Arthur’s neck, unable to quite believe the prince is returning his embrace. “Yours.”