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The first days of service at Camelot Castle had been, at the very least, a rollercoaster for Merlin. Between learning the twists and turns of the corridors, avoiding King Uther's wrath, and dealing with a prince who seemed born with an endless list of demands, he barely had time to breathe.
Still, something was shifting between him and Arthur.
It wasn't exactly friendship—at least not in the traditional sense. It was more like a silent truce, a mutual acknowledgment that, despite the teasing and the shouting, they cared about each other.
But that afternoon, Merlin saw something he never expected to see: Arthur Pendragon, the Crown Prince of Camelot, the most feared warrior in Albion, was crying.
It wasn't dramatic or exaggerated crying. It was silent, resigned—tears streaming down his face as he lay in bed, his eyes red and swollen from an allergy that had kept him confined to the royal chambers for two days.
Merlin entered with a tea tray and found the scene. Arthur was lying face down, his face buried in the pillow, his shoulders trembling slightly. There were no audible sobs, just the muffled movement of someone trying to hide their vulnerability.
Merlin's heart clenched.
He had never seen Arthur like this. Fragile and small.
"Come on, my prince," said Merlin, trying for a light tone as he set the tray on the table. "Stop that. You're already chubby—if you keep releasing that much water, you'll end up looking like a whale."
He expected a laugh. Or a curse. Or anything Arthur would normally do when Merlin provoked him.
But Arthur lifted his face.
His eyes were red, swollen, his eyelids irritated, and his lips trembling. Tears still streamed down his cheeks, and there was something so vulnerable in that expression that Merlin felt the air leave his lungs.
Arthur's eyes widened, surprised to see Merlin standing there, awkward. And then, the prince's lips trembled even more.
"Are you calling me fat?"
Arthur's voice came out fragile, broken, almost childish. And then the tears came for real—no longer silent crying, but deep sobs that shook his body.
Merlin panicked.
"No, no, no!" He dropped the tray and ran to the bedside. "My prince, don't cry! You're beautiful! Perfect! Everything about you is perfect! Just please, stop crying!"
He gestured desperately, the words coming out in an incoherent stream. Arthur kept sobbing, but Merlin noticed something strange: the prince's shoulders were no longer trembling with sadness. They were trembling with something else.
Then Arthur fell back onto the bed, with a laugh that seemed to have been held back for a long time.
"My God," Arthur managed to say, breathless between laughs. "You should have seen your face! You were desperate!"
Merlin froze. His brain took a moment to process what was happening.
Arthur was laughing.
He wasn't sad. He had been faking—all to provoke Merlin.
"You... you..." Merlin felt the blood rush to his face. "DAMN YOU!"
He lunged at Arthur, poking his sides with his fingers. Arthur let out a sharp yelp and tried to defend himself, but Merlin was relentless.
"Stop! Stop!" Arthur laughed, trying to escape Merlin's hands. "It was just a joke!"
"A joke?!" Merlin kept poking, relentless. "I was genuinely worried! You saw how I got?"
"I saw!" Arthur was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "And it was hilarious!"
"You idiot! You bastard!"
Arthur finally managed to push Merlin aside, both of them breathless, Arthur's eyes still wet—but now from laughing.
"Look," said Arthur, his voice still trembling. "It's all your fault. Who's the idiot who calls someone a whale when that person is crying?"
Merlin stared at him for a long moment. And then, despite everything, he started laughing too—a laugh that came from deep in his chest.
"You're horrible," said Merlin.
"You're insensitive."
"You're insufferable."
"You're my servant, you can't talk to me like that."
"You just manipulated me into feeling sorry for you, you idiot—I'll talk to you however I want."
Arthur smiled—that genuine smile Merlin had already learned to treasure.
"Thank you," said Arthur, his voice softer.
"For what?"
"For caring."
Merlin didn't answer. He just picked up the tea tray and set it on the prince's lap.
"Drink your tea, you fat bastard."
Arthur laughed again. "Fat bastard? I thought I was perfect, that I had a perfect and beautiful body..."
"Oh, go to hell," Merlin rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
The rest of the morning Merlin spent stealing from Arthur's plate and provoking his prince. Being a servant was tough work, but Merlin knew he wouldn't trade this life for anything in the world—he adored his spoiled prince.