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When the tournament is over, every inch of Arthur's body hurts. He remains the champion, of course, and the look of approval from the king made his heart beat a little faster, until the pain and aches reminded him of the fact that he ought to get his weary body to his room while he can still move.
He can't quite hide the slight limp from where he stepped wrong and twisted his ankle, but he keeps his back straight no matter how much it hurts to breathe. Camelot demands it from him. The crown prince is not allowed to show any weakness. Arthur smiles at the congratulations, nods at the people he passes, accepts their admiration while wishing for a hot bath to unravel his knotted muscles, and his bed. It's like some kind of conspiration. Everyone wants to talk to him. They flock around him like flies around rotted meat, blocking his path to the castle. At this rate, he'll never reach the quiet haven of his private chambers.
Just when he thinks he's going to fall over where he stands, Merlin is by his side, lending him support with an almost unnoticable hand under Arthur's elbow. He's not entirely sure how it happens, but suddenly the crowd disperses. As if Merlin, clumsy, hopeless Merlin, somehow made them leave. The thought draws a sound from Arthur's throat that's absolutely not a giggle. The crown prince of Camelot does not giggle, no matter how exhausted he is.
Merlin gives him a sideways glance and asks, "Did you hit your head again? You're weirder that usual."
Artur is pretty sure he ought to answer with some clever comeback, but he can't seem to think of one. Instead he leans into Merlin's touch. Not much, not here where everyone can see. Just enough that he can feel the warmth of Merlin's skinny body, the reliable strenght of his grip on Arthur's arm.
How they reach Arthur's chambers, he doesn't know. Maybe Merlin got them there by magic, and right now, Arthur couldn't care less. He just wants to be asleep. The bed is calling to him and he shakes himself free from Merlin's hold and stumbles towards it, longing for the fluffy pillows and the soft sheets.
Suddenly, Merlin is standing in front of him, stopping him with a hand against his chest. "Don't even think about it," Merlin says. "I changed the sheets this morning, you're not getting into bed like that."
Maybe Merlin has a point, Arthur thinks. He's covered in mud and dust and the occasional blood spatter. The sweat is cooling on his face, the undershirt still damp and uncomfortable with it. And he smells.
"Come here," Merlin says, a patient tone in his voice. He gently guides Arthur to a chair, where his legs finally give out, unable to keep him upright any longer. Arthur wants to just lean forward, rest his head on the table and fall asleep there and then.
Merlin has other ideas. He begins to remove Arthur's armour, the armguards and the gorget. He kneels to take off Arthur's boots. He unbuckles the belt and makes Arthur lift leaden arms to get the hauberk off. Sitting there in only a sweat-damp shirt and trousers, Arthur begins to shiver, suddenly very cold.
"Take off the shirt, I'll be back in a moment." Then Merlin is gone. Arthur is tempted to call him back, because Merlin is pretty much the only thing that makes sense right now, but he... he can't. There are... some kind of rules that says he can't. Instead, Arthur struggles out of the foul-smelling shirt, wincing as the movement aggravates his bruises. He lets the shirt drop to the floor and wraps his arms around his chest to try to stave off the cold.
Just as Arthur really is about to shout for his servant, Merlin returns with a washbasin and a cloth. "You look terrible," he says at the sight of Arthur's bruises. His shoulders and back are black and blue, and is ribs doesn't look much better. He hopes they're only bruised and not cracked. "I don't see why grown men find it so funny to pound each other silly with swords," Merlin mutters as he dips the cloth in the basin and wrings it out.
"You were cheering me on, I saw you," Arthur mumbles, remembering Merlin, Gwen and Morgana among the spectators, applauding wildly every time he won a fight.
"I could hardly root for the other man, could I?" says Merlin and begins stroking Arthur's back with the soft cloth, washing away the sweat and the dust from the arena. Merlin's hands are gentle, and for a moment, Arthur almost forgets how cold he is. He just sits still, eyes closed, and lets Merlin touch him, manhandle him around to reach every part of his body with the washcloth. It's nice, like he's floating on a wave of contentment, letting Merlin take the lead and do what must be done for once.
"Hey," Merlin says suddenly, and Arthur starts, realising that he hasn't felt the washcloth against his skin for a while now. "Don't fall asleep on me, I am not carrying you to bed."
"You couldn't," Arthur protests, words slurring a little from weariness. Then he rethinks his statement. "Maybe you could," he says then.
Merlin shakes his head. "You make even less sense than usual. Come on then, let's get you into bed." He takes Arthur by the shoulders, steadies him when his legs are about to give out again, and leads him to the bed, pulling the covers aside while Arthur gets in between soft, cool sheets.
He closes his eyes, but immediately opens them again when Merlin's touch disappears. "Mer...Merlin?" he mumbles. "Where did you..."
"You're really out of it, aren't you?" Merlin says, amusement in his voice. Then his hands are back on Arthur's shoulder, helping him rise a little bit and pressing a vial to his mouth. "It's from Gaius, for the pain. Drink it."
Arthur complies, swallows every drop of the vile potion, and the sags against the pillows again. He's completely exhausted, but he's still shivering and he can't seem to fall asleep no matter how much he wants to.
Merlin stands up as if to leave again, and this time Arthur doesn't care about the rules. "Stay," he says, making it sound like an order instead of begging.
"I have duties, Sire," Merlin answers, still with that amusement in his voice.
Arthur gives him a pleading look, not even bothering to be princely anymore. He just wants Merlin to stay with him, to lay down next to him in the bed and keep him warm. Maybe then he'll be able to sleep. "I'm cold," he says.
Merlin sighs, but there's a smile behind the sigh. He climbs into the bed and lies down, molding his body against Arthur, that way they fit perfectly together. "Still cold?" Merlin asks.
"A little." Arthur isn't, not really, but he's prepared to admit to anything if it can make Merlin touch him.
Merling leans over his chest and presses a kiss against Arthur's bruised ribs. The moments his lips touches the skin, a wonderful warmth spread through Arthur's body, making him feel completely relaxed. He emits a deep groan, not able to stop it. Merlin looks up, a smile playing over his lips. "Better?"
"Maybe..." Arthur gasps for breath. "Maybe a little more?"
So Merlin does it again, and again, and again, covers Arthur's skin with kisses, each and every one spreading warmth, chasing the chill and the tremors and the ache away. Arthur melts into the mattress and lets Merlin do whatever he wants, content with just lying there while Merlin works his magic.
He's not sure when he falls asleep, but when Arthur wakes up again, it's dark outside. Merlin's tousled head is resting in his armpit and the rest of Merlin is sprawled on the bed beside Arthur. Arthur turns on his side and then does the same to Merlin, who mumbles something in his sleep but doesn't wake up. It's the perfect position to sleep in, Merlin pressed up against Arthur's chest, and Arthur's arms wrapped around him so he can feel Merlin's heartbeat. Arthur presses a kiss against Merlin's neck and falls asleep again.
-fin-