Work Text:
The morning sun streamed through the gaps in the window, painting golden stripes on the stone floor of the prince's chambers. Merlin was on his knees, picking up dirty socks from under the bed — because, apparently, Arthur Pendragon had the grace of a wild boar when it came to putting his own things away.
"You're taking too long," Arthur commented from across the room, already dressed, adjusting his sword belt with a care he dedicated to absolutely nothing else.
"I'm looking for the sock you kicked under the bed last night."
"I didn't kick any sock."
"You always kick socks."
"Prove it."
Merlin held up the grimy sock like a trophy. Arthur wrinkled his nose.
"...That's not mine."
"Yes it is, it has your initials embroidered on it."
Arthur approached, took the sock, and examined it with the same seriousness he gave to battle maps. "AP. Arthur Pendragon." He sighed. "You can keep it as a souvenir."
"How generous."
"I am a magnanimous prince."
Merlin rolled his eyes but tucked the sock into his pocket — not as a souvenir, but because he'd eventually need to wash it. Or ask someone to wash it. Or throw it in the fire and pretend it never existed.
Arthur didn't leave. He stood there, in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching Merlin pick up the rest of the mess with an expression Merlin couldn't decipher.
"What?" Merlin asked, without getting up.
"Nothing."
"You're staring at me."
"I'm inspecting your work."
"My work is excellent, and you know it."
"'Excellent' is a strong word."
"You have no heart."
"Yes I do. It's just not with you."
Merlin looked up, one eyebrow raised. Arthur held his gaze for two seconds — and then looked away, his ears slightly pink.
Merlin smiled. This was one of those things he'd learned to notice: the blush that appeared on Arthur's ears when he said something he didn't mean to say but couldn't help himself.
Arthur Pendragon, crown prince of Camelot, was terrible at social interactions and often gave answers without thinking properly about what he wanted to say.
It was a good thing Merlin adored that little quirk of his prince's.
"Hey, Arthur."
"What?"
Merlin stood up, dusting off his knees. He looked at the prince with an expression he hoped looked casual, even though his heart was beating a little faster than usual.
"Have you ever heard that... that phrase people say?"
"What phrase?"
"Like... a question. A pickup line, you know?"
Arthur frowned. "No."
Merlin shrugged. "It's super cheesy."
"Then why are you going to say it?"
"Because I think you'll like it."
Arthur sighed, as if Merlin were a burden he carried out of sheer stubbornness. "Fine. Say it."
Merlin took a deep breath.
"So, sire. Did it hurt when..."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. A smile began to form at the corner of his mouth — that smug smile Merlin knew so well.
"Let me guess," Arthur interrupted, his voice full of self-assurance. "When I fell from heaven?"
Merlin blinked, feigning indignation.
"...No."
Arthur's smile froze.
"What?"
"I was going to say something else."
"What something else?"
Merlin took a step forward. Just one. Arthur didn't step back.
"Did it hurt when you fell in the fire?"
"Huh... in the fire?"
"Because you're hot."
The silence was absolute. Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His ears, which had been slightly pink, were now as red as the embers in the fireplace.
"Damn it, Merlin."
"Yes?"
"That was terrible."
"You're blushing."
"I'm embarrassed."
"You're shy?"
"I'm embarrassed for you!"
Merlin grinned mischievously, and Arthur grabbed the first object he found — a leather glove forgotten on top of the dresser — and threw it at Merlin. Merlin dodged, laughing, his hands raised in defense.
"Admit it, it was good!"
"It was not!"
"It was, you're blushing!"
"I'm embarrassed for you!"
"You love me!"
"Shut up or I'll send you to the stables!"
"You wouldn't do that!"
"Yes I would!"
Merlin laughed — that free, genuine laugh that Arthur secretly loved to provoke. He sat on the edge of the bed, still laughing, while Arthur tried to regain his dignity.
He wasn't succeeding. Dignity had left the moment the words "you're hot" came out of Merlin's mouth.
"Your compliments are ridiculous. Don't do that again," Arthur murmured, adjusting his collar as if that could hide the blush.
"Of course not, sire."
"I'm serious."
"So am I, sire."
"No you're not."
"No, I'm not."
Arthur stared at him for a long moment. And then, despite himself, he laughed. It was low, almost a grumble — but it was a laugh.
"You're an idiot," Arthur said.
"And you adore me for it."
Arthur didn't deny it. He just looked away, with that silly smile he would never admit to having.
Merlin stored the scene in his heart. He knew it wouldn't be the last time he made Arthur blush. And he knew that, one day, perhaps — if the gods were kind — he might be able to do it without having to laugh and pretend it was all a joke afterward.
But for now, the cheesy pickup line worked.
And it was enough.
The banquet hall was packed. Nobles from every corner of Albion had come to pay homage to King Arthur Pendragon — the unifier, the conqueror, the man who had brought magic back to the lands of Camelot.
And also the man who, in recent months, had made official what everyone had known for years.
Merlin was by his side.
Not as a servant, but as consort and official guardian, the king's Dragon.
Queen Guinevere was on Arthur's right, stunning in a dark yellow dress that matched her husband's royal robes. And Merlin was on the left, slightly further back, in a simple tunic — because, according to him, "I don't need expensive clothes to look important."
Arthur disagreed. But Arthur disagreed about many things.
"King Arthur, what an honor to receive you!" An old man approached, smiling.
"The pleasure is mine, Lord Hendrix."
"And Queen Gwen! Radiant as always!"
"Thank you, Lord Hendrix."
"And... and..." The noble hesitated, looking at Merlin. There was a slight discomfort in his eyes — the same discomfort many still had when addressing the powerful sorcerer who shared the king's heart.
"Merlin," Arthur completed, his voice firm. "You may call him Merlin."
"Yes, yes, of course. Merlin." The noble made a hasty bow. "An honor."
Merlin just nodded, a small smile on his lips. He was used to it. It would take time for the nobles to accept that a former servant, former peasant, former persecuted sorcerer, now had as much right to be there as any of them.
Arthur, on the other hand, was not used to it. Every sideways glance, every hesitation, every "and... and..." was a small wound he registered in silence.
But it wasn't a night to hold grudges. It was a night for celebration.
The banquet proceeded as usual. Food, wine, music — the meat was especially good, and Gwaine was already on his fourth mug.
And then, when Arthur stood up to greet yet another noble, the man — a short, pot-bellied lord with a waxed mustache — smiled in a way Merlin didn't like.
"Well, my king," the lord began, his voice unctuous. "I couldn't help but notice your stunning beauty, and so I must ask..."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. Merlin, beside him, sat up a little straighter.
"Did it hurt," the lord continued, his smile widening, "when you fell from heaven?"
The silence that followed was glacial.
Arthur didn't laugh. He didn't roll his eyes. He just stared at the lord with an expression that, in any other circumstance, would have made the man run back to his lands and never show his face again.
The lord, however, seemed immune. Or too drunk to notice the danger.
"I heard you enjoy this kind of more jovial courtship," the lord continued, taking a step forward. "And since we're all in a festive mood, I thought I might..."
"Actually." Merlin's voice cut through the air like a blade.
The lord turned. Arthur did too. Queen Gwen, who had been talking to a duchess in the corner, looked up.
Merlin walked over to Arthur with the calm of someone in no hurry — but also with the determination of someone who wasn't going to let the opportunity pass.
"Actually," Merlin repeated, stopping beside the king. "It didn't hurt."
The lord blinked.
"What?"
"Yes, it didn't hurt when he fell from heaven." Merlin raised his hand and, in a movement that made the entire hall hold its breath, took Arthur's hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed the king's knuckles gently — a slow, deliberate gesture that left no doubt about whom Arthur belonged to.
"Because I was there to catch him," Merlin continued, his eyes fixed on Arthur's. "Only a madman would let someone like Arthur fall."
The silence stretched.
The lord opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked like a fish out of water.
Arthur, for his part, had flushed cheeks — but not from embarrassment. From pure, absolute, unmistakable delight.
"Hm," Arthur grumbled, looking away. "Idiot."
The "idiot" came out with a silly smile. A smile he tried to hide behind his mead mug, but couldn't.
Merlin just smiled back, still holding Arthur's hand.
The lord withdrew. Quickly, bewildered, and ashamed.
Gwaine, from his table in the corner, raised his mug in a silent toast.
Leon shook his head, but he was smiling.
And Gwen — the queen, the partner, the friend — just watched the scene with a warm glint in her eyes.
"Now that was good," Arthur whispered, low enough for only Merlin to hear.
"I know."
"You don't have to sound so smug."
"You never compliment me. I think I have a right to feel smug."
"What a lie." Arthur rolled his eyes — but didn't let go of Merlin's hand.
And so, in front of all the nobles of Albion, the king and his sorcerer remained hand in hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps it was.
Perhaps it always had been. After all, only a madman would let go of someone like Arthur Pendragon.