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1. The Neckline
The Round Table meeting was scheduled for fifteen minutes from now.
Merlin was facing Arthur, his fingers busy with the laces of the ceremonial tunic's neckline — the fabric too thin, the cords too short, the exposed skin of Arthur's chest far too much. He frowned in concentration, pulling here, adjusting there, trying to make the neckline cover what needed covering without strangling the king.
"...and the visor won't open properly, Merlin. Did you hear what I said?" Arthur gestured with one hand while the other... the other was resting on Merlin's hip. His fingers pressed against the curve of bone through the thick fabric of his trousers, as if searching for support. "So if I need to see in a battle, tough luck for me, right? The blacksmith said it's 'the most advanced model,' but it looks like it was made by a blind, drunk old man."
Merlin tied a final knot, pulling tighter than necessary. "I believe you, my king."
The hand on Merlin's hip squeezed in response — a dry, automatic movement, as if Arthur were massaging a point of tension without even knowing he was doing it. His thumb traced a slow circle against Merlin's hipbone, and Merlin felt a shiver run down his spine.
"At least the tunic turned out well," Arthur murmured, looking down. "You're taking too long, but the result is decent."
"You're too generous, sire."
"I know."
Arthur took a step toward the door, and the hand on Merlin's hip slipped away — fingers dragging across the fabric, across his waist, his flank, until they disappeared. Merlin held his breath. Where Arthur's hand had touched, his skin burned.
He followed the king, ignoring the heat burning on his hip.
2. The Leaves in His Hair
The dinner in the great hall was in its third hour. Merlin had just arrived after spending half an hour trying to stop an ogre from invading the castle; now he had served wine to every noble present at least twice, and his back ached from all the bowing. He was sure there were dry leaves stuck in his hair — but he hadn't had time to look in a mirror, and now he was there, bent over Arthur's goblet, pouring the dark red wine with a trembling hand.
"Merlin." Arthur's voice came out low, almost a murmur.
Merlin looked up — and found the king staring at him. Not with impatience. With something different. Something Merlin couldn't name.
"Yes, sire?"
Arthur reached out.
His fingers touched Merlin's hair — first hesitantly, as if testing the texture, then more confidently. Arthur pinched something between the dark strands, pulled, and a dry leaf fell onto the table.
"Leaves," Arthur said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You have leaves in your hair, Merlin. You look like you've been rolling in the dirt. Where the hell have you been?"
Merlin blinked. The pitcher was still suspended in the air. "I... I was busy trying to gather some herbs for Gaius, because... because..."
"Be quiet. If you're not going to tell the truth, then stay silent."
Merlin fell silent. He knew Arthur had suspected something ever since Uther's death, even if he didn't seem to know about his magic. Merlin also knew how much his king was hurt by Merlin's lack of honesty, so he kept quiet so as not to hurt him further.
Arthur's fingers continued their work — removing leaf after leaf, with a patience Merlin never imagined he possessed. The entire hall could be watching. The nobles, the knights, the servants — all witnessing the absurd scene of the King of Camelot cleaning his servant's hair as if it were the most important task of the day.
Arthur's hands continued. His fingers slid through the strands, parting them, smoothing them, and each touch sent a wave of heat down the back of Merlin's neck.
"There," Arthur murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Now you're minimally presentable."
Merlin was still bent over. The pitcher was still suspended. His throat was dry.
"Thank you, my king," he managed to say, feeling a little shy.
Arthur nodded absently, already picking up the full goblet in front of him. "Finish serving the wine, Merlin, then you may retire to take a bath."
Merlin served. His hands trembled slightly.
3. The Training
The afternoon sun beat down on the training yard.
Merlin was standing behind Arthur — so close their boots almost touched. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the knights moving in organized formations, but his mind... his mind was elsewhere. The heat from Arthur's body radiated through their clothes, enveloping Merlin like an invisible cloak.
"Percival, protect your left flank more! Gwaine, stop making faces and pay attention! Leon, shield higher, they're going to attack in three, two..."
Arthur gave instructions aloud, arms crossed, posture erect. He didn't seem to notice that Merlin was there — or that Merlin had moved so close that his chest almost touched Arthur's back.
Merlin didn't know why he was so close. The sun was hot, the training was noisy, and he should have been in the kitchen getting fresh water. But his feet wouldn't move. His eyes wouldn't leave the back of Arthur's neck, his sweaty golden hair, the curve of his broad shoulders.
It's just tiredness, he thought, feeling his body lean forward. I'm exhausted. That's all.
He didn't notice when his arms uncrossed. Didn't notice when his hands found Arthur's waist. Didn't notice that he was, in fact, hugging the king from behind, his chin resting on his shoulder, his eyes half-closed with laziness.
"Elyan, don't drop your sword! Mordred, I saw what you did, you little cheat — well done!"
Merlin yawned. His body was soft, heavy, glued to Arthur's back as if they were one person. He could feel the king's heart beating — fast, yes, but not from tension. From excitement. Arthur loved training, even though he was now forced to sit and rest.
Merlin loved being there.
It's the heat, he thought, his eyes closing. Just the heat.
Gwaine stopped mid-combat and pointed at them with his sword.
"Is anyone else seeing this, or did I drink too much at lunch?"
Leon sighed. "Keep training, Gwaine."
"But they're..."
"Keep training."
Gwaine kept training.
Arthur, unperturbed, lifted his chin. "Merlin, if you yawn loudly again, I'll make you run ten laps around the yard."
"Just five more minutes, my king..."
"Merlin."
"I'm going."
He didn't go. He stayed there, hugging Arthur, feeling the warmth of his body, his rhythmic breathing, the movement of his shoulders when he gestured. And Arthur didn't complain. He just kept giving orders, as if having his servant glued to his back was the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps it was. Merlin didn't know. All he knew was that he felt cold inside, and Arthur's warmth was almost a temptation to stay there hugging him forever.
4. The Fire
Winter in Camelot was cold, and the royal chambers, despite the thick walls and lit fires, never seemed warm enough for Merlin or Arthur.
Merlin was crouched before the fireplace, poking the embers with a poker. His back ached from being thrown against a wall during a battle with a forest beast. His knees hurt. He'd been there for at least half an hour, and the fire still refused to cooperate.
"Where's magic when you need it?" Arthur grumbled from his chair, a few steps behind.
"Used it all in the battle earlier today," Merlin replied, exhausted. "I'm recharging."
"Dragons don't recharge, Merlin."
"Oh, of course, because you're an expert on dragons now."
Merlin rolled his eyes, but kept poking. The fire finally began to catch — a timid flame, then another, until the whole fireplace crackled with comforting heat.
"Done," Merlin sighed, dropping the poker. He stood up, turned — and Arthur wasn't in the chair.
Not exactly.
The chair was still there, wide, padded, and Arthur was sitting in it — but something was different. He had shifted to one side, leaving space. Enough space for another person to sit.
Merlin didn't think. He simply sat down.
The chair was large, but not large enough for two grown men without their bodies pressing together. Merlin's thighs met Arthur's thighs, their shoulders touched, their arms brushed. Arthur's book — a collection of Greek poems — was open on his lap, and Merlin could read a few words thanks to the lessons he'd had with Arthur.
It's warmer this way, Merlin thought, feeling the heat of Arthur's body penetrate his clothes.
He settled in, and Arthur didn't even complain. He just raised his arm and let it fall over Merlin's shoulders, pulling him closer.
The fire crackled. Their legs were tangled — Merlin's over Arthur's, Arthur's over Merlin's, no longer possible to tell which belonged to whom. Merlin rested his head on Arthur's shoulder and closed his eyes. The rhythm of the king's breathing was slow, steady, almost hypnotic.
Just one more minute, he thought. Then I'll go back to my room.
He didn't go back.
He stayed there all night, curled against Arthur, bodies pressed together, sharing warmth. And Arthur didn't complain. He just turned the pages, time after time, as if having his servant nestled on his shoulder was the most natural thing in the world.
5. The Round Table
The meeting was at its most tedious point. Lord Hendrix had been complaining about wine taxes for at least half an hour. Leon was taking notes with an expression that suggested he was no longer in this world. Gwaine was openly sleeping in his chair, his head lolling to the side.
Merlin was standing beside Arthur's chair. Upright posture. Attentive appearance. His eyes were fixed on Lord Hendrix, but his mind was elsewhere — specifically, on his hands.
No, not on his hands. On Arthur's hand.
Beneath the table, where no one could see, the king's fingers had found Merlin's. Not a deliberate touch — just a chance meeting, a coincidence of positioning. Arthur's fingers had closed over Merlin's, and now they remained there, motionless, as if they'd forgotten to let go.
Merlin didn't move. He didn't want to draw attention. Didn't want Arthur to realize what he was doing.
Arthur's fingers moved. A distracted, automatic movement — his thumb traced a slow circle on the back of Merlin's hand, slid up his fingers, down, up again. Merlin held his breath.
Lord Hendrix kept complaining. Arthur kept listening — or at least pretending to. His thumb continued its movement, unconscious, gentle, almost too intimate.
He doesn't know what he's doing, Merlin thought, and it was true. Arthur didn't know. His eyes were fixed on Lord Hendrix, his expression one of absolute boredom. He had no idea his hand was caressing Merlin's hand beneath the table; it had become so natural for them to touch that it often went unnoticed.
Merlin didn't let go. Didn't pull away. Didn't do anything that might alert Arthur to what was happening.
The meeting ended an hour later. Lord Hendrix finally fell silent, Leon adjourned, Gwaine woke up with a snort and fell off his chair. Arthur stood up, and his hand finally separated from Merlin's — as if they had never been together.
Merlin looked at his own hand. He could still feel the warmth.
He stored the sensation in his memory and followed his king, who was already grumbling loudly about having a headache.
+1. The Bath
The bath had been ready for ten minutes.
Merlin had already filled the tub, heated the water with magic, prepared the herbs and towels and soaps. Arthur had promised he would get in as soon as he finished reading a report — a report that, from the sound of the grumbling, was not being read but rather cursed.
"Merlin!"
"Yes?"
"This report is garbage. The northern patrol commander writes worse than you."
"You're too kind, sire."
Merlin sighed. The water was getting cold. He approached the chair where Arthur was sitting, wrapped in thick winter clothes, his brow furrowed over the crumpled parchment.
"My king," Merlin said, with the patience of a saint. "The bath."
"Later."
"You said 'later' ten minutes ago."
"Then I'm saying 'later' again."
Merlin looked at Arthur. Arthur looked at the parchment.
Merlin didn't think. He just acted.
He bent down, slipped one arm under Arthur's knees, the other behind his back, and lifted the king out of the chair as if he weighed nothing.
"WH—" Arthur dropped the parchment, his hands flying to Merlin's shoulders. "WHAT THE HELL, MERLIN?!"
"You're going to take a bath," Merlin replied, walking toward the tub. "Even if I have to carry you to do it."
"I'm the king here!"
"I know."
"I decide when I stop working!"
"Well, unfortunately, you're useless at taking care of yourself, so no — actually, I decide when you should or shouldn't stop working."
Merlin ignored the protests. He reached the edge of the tub and, in a movement that made Arthur hold his breath, began to undress the king. The tunic was the first to go — the laces Merlin himself had tied earlier came undone with a tug. The undershirt followed. The trousers, likewise.
Arthur was naked. Cold. Breathless.
"You're going to pay for this, Merlin," Arthur growled, but his hands were firm on Merlin's shoulders — and his eyes were fixed on his face.
"Merlin." Arthur's voice came out sulky. Lower. Rougher. "Put me down."
Merlin put him down. The water was at the perfect temperature — hot, but not scalding — and Arthur sank in with a moan that made Merlin tremble. It wasn't an ordinary moan. It was a moan of pleasure, of relief, and it brought warmth to Merlin as well.
I love him, Merlin thought suddenly, watching Arthur's eyes close, his shoulders relax, his head tilt back. I really love him.
"Stay," Arthur murmured, without opening his eyes.
"I..."
"Stay."
Merlin stayed. He removed his clothes and got into the water, wet a cloth. He began to run it over Arthur's shoulder, his chest, his arms — and with each touch, each contact, something changed. The air around them grew denser. The water in the tub seemed warmer. Merlin's heart beat faster.
"Merlin."
"Yes?"
"You're trembling."
"I'm... the water is cold."
"It's hot, Merlin."
Merlin didn't answer. His hands continued their work — washing, rinsing, touching — and each touch was a question, and each question went unanswered.
Until Arthur opened his eyes.
Arthur's eyes were dark, full of desire. Pure, raw, unrestrained desire.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered, and it wasn't a call. It was a plea.
Merlin didn't think.
He leaned over Arthur, his lips finding Arthur's lips in a movement that was neither gentle nor slow. It was urgent. It was necessary. It was the answer to all the other times — the hands on hips, the leaves in hair, the hug during training, the tangled legs, the intertwined fingers beneath the table.
It was the answer to ten years of touches that were never just touches.
Arthur moaned against his mouth. Wet hands found his nape, pulled him closer, and Merlin felt the whole world shrink to that moment — to the hot water in the tub, to Arthur's warm skin, to the taste of his lips.
When they parted, both were breathless.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered, his forehead resting against Merlin's.
"My king."
"The bath."
"It's cold."
"Now it is."
"Let's go to bed."
Arthur smiled — that smile Merlin kept in his heart.
"Yes."
Merlin didn't need to ask again. They stood up, and Merlin let Arthur pull him out of the tub, let him wrap him in towels, let him lead him to the bed. And when they lay down and Arthur let him touch and worship his body — as they had done many times since Uther was gone and all of Arthur's fear of allowing himself to be loved had left with him.
I love him, he thought, feeling Arthur's body on his, their hands intertwined, their lips meeting. I love him too much.
Without needing to be said, Merlin knew Arthur was thinking exactly the same thing.