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1.
Merlin, as always, is late to bring Arthur’s breakfast.
“I’ve to be on the training field in a couple of minutes, Merlin,” Arthur snaps at him, and wolfs down some of the bread on the plate. He’s already fully-dressed, but it’s no good sense to practise sword-fighting on an empty stomach.
“Well, now you’ve got to run there,” Merlin says merrily. “That’s only more practice, surely?”
Arthur looks down at the remaining bread he’s holding, compares how hungry he is to how much Merlin is annoying him, and hurls it at Merlin. It hits Merlin’s head with a satisfying little thud, and his manservant scowls at him.
“Now that’s practice,” Arthur says, grinning satisfactorily as Merlin runs a hand through his hair. Some of the black strands are out of place, and he wants to smooth them down. He can’t, of course, because that would be highly improper, and it’s not really a feeling Arthur ever experiences when someone else’s hair looks ridiculous.
Somehow, it’s always Merlin who brings out these sensations, and Arthur almost wants to hurl another piece of bread at him for the nagging feeling in his stomach.
“Prat,” Merlin tells him. “Didn’t you say you had training?”
“Wait a minute,” Arthur says, because Merlin has bread crumbles in his hair, and Arthur can’t let him run around looking like even more of an idiot than usual, can he? So it wouldn’t be odd if he acts on his impulse—it’s not just a strand of hair, it’s food. Surely that’s a good enough excuse. Arthur acts before he can rethink it, and gently combs his fingers through Merlin’s hair until the bread crumbs are gone, and then finds Merlin looking oddly at him. “What?”
“I didn’t know you could be so gentle,” Merlin says, his lips tilting into a private smile. “Usually you just punch me on the arm.”
Arthur crosses his arms defensively, wondering if Merlin will make fun of him for the unusual touch, and if he’ll know Arthur has given into his weakness in order to do it. Merlin’s hair had been strangely soft, and he sort of wants to run his hands through the dark strands again. But he can’t—it had only been to get rid of the bread crumbs. There is no good reason to even be so close to him. It’s not proper, and he shouldn’t want it at all.
“I’m not gentle, Merlin,” he scolds him. “Your hair’s a mess, and I can’t have my manservant running around while he looks like a fool. It’ll reflect poorly on me.”
“You’re the one throwing bread at me,” Merlin complains, “If it should reflect poorly on anyone, it is you!”
“That’s no way to talk to your prince!”
Merlin ignores him, though, and starts making Arthur’s bed. Arthur stares at him for a moment, wondering if he should prod at him again, or if he can get away with pretending there’s more bread crumbs in his hair still. His fingers itch at the thought, but he feels nauseous at the idea of even taking another step towards Merlin.
He sneaks out the door to leave for the training field and tries to feel as if he isn’t running away.
~*~
2.
It’s two days after that Arthur touches Merlin again—although it really isn’t his fault this time, and can’t be blamed on him in any sense of the word.
He’s injured his shoulder, but it really isn’t too bad. It just aches when he moves too suddenly, and there’s a bit of bruising. Nothing that won’t heal on its own, and Arthur has grown used to more serious injuries.
Merlin sees it, though, when Arthur is taking his bath, and inhales sharply.
“When did this happen?” he demands, and then he’s suddenly there, invading Arthur’s space. Merlin usually doesn’t linger around for Arthur’s baths—he pours them and then busies himself with other things, before he leaves to give Arthur his clothes. It’s all very proper and unlike Merlin, but Arthur has learnt to accept his manservant’s many inconsistencies.
“Merlin!” Arthur squeaks, because the touch is so unexpected, and he’s naked, too.
“Yeah, sorry,” Merlin mutters, and withdraws his fingers. Arthur feels a combination of relief and instant regret and doesn’t know which is stronger. “Still. I didn’t know you were hurt; you should’ve said something. Did you go to Gaius?”
“It’s just a bruise,” Arthur says. “I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah, but the point is that you don’t need to,” Merlin tells him. “I think—wait, hang on a moment. I think I’ve got one of these in my bag, actually.”
Arthur watches wordlessly as Merlin rummages in his bag by Arthur’s door. He hears the clinking of several potions—Merlin probably still needs to do his run for Gaius after he’s left Arthur for the night. Maybe he should give him a day off.
Or not. Merlin beams, his entire face lighting up as he holds a cream-coloured salve.
“Isn’t that for someone else?” Arthur asks dryly. “Or are you now in the business of stealing other people’s salves for me?”
“It’s fine, I can run back to Gaius and get a new one before I do my round,” Merlin dismisses, and throws a towel at Arthur’s face. “Dry yourself up, and I can rub it in your back. You shouldn’t let that go stiff—you won’t be able to use your arm at all tomorrow.”
Arthur quietly obeys, and if Merlin notices that Arthur doesn’t talk back like he normally would, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he takes the cap off the bottle and pours some of the lotion on his hands, and rubs them together. Warming up the salve, Arthur realises, and takes a deep breath before he spreads out on his bed, completely nude but for his breeches.
“It won’t be too cold, hopefully,” Merlin reassures him and spreads his hands on Arthur’s shoulder. The touch is gentle, and the salve prickles on his skin. It makes his injury feel warm and looser, and Arthur sighs in relief as some of the pain drains away. Mostly, though, he focuses on Merlin’s soft fingers rubbing into his skin and presses his eyes closed as Merlin’s touch lingers.
He doesn’t need this, he tells himself, even as he wants to beg Merlin not to draw away. This is a weakness, the fact he wants this so badly—wants this touch, wants Merlin’s, specifically. This isn’t for him to have, and Merlin can’t know that it’s both so much harder to breathe as well as so much more worthwhile when he’s touching Arthur.
It ends far too soon, and Arthur holds his breath as Merlin’s fingers leave his back.
~*~
INTERLUDE.
It’s not as if it’s something Arthur thinks about.
As a child, he’d had a nursemaid. Actually, he’s had several nursemaids—he vaguely remembers crying as they were sent away, and his father patting his head and explaining, It’s for your own good, and They weren’t up to the task, my boy. He remembers that.
His last nursemaid had left after Arthur turned seven, and he’d cried bitterly for hours until his father smacked him. A king doesn’t need a woman, he’d said, but that hadn’t been what it was about.
The thing is—Arthur doesn’t think about it, because it's a weakness. The knights pat each other on the back, and sometimes they roughhouse for a bit. Arthur is above that, and he only does it when he really wants to cheer up one of his men. That’s initially what he wants to do to Merlin, too, when his idiot of a manservant’s face droops and he can’t quite make his smile meet his eyes. But he doesn’t, because the thought of touching Merlin—his lungs constrict, and there’s no reason for him to be touching Merlin, no excuse that would make it proper.
Touching Merlin would be because Arthur wants to, and he shouldn’t.
So no, Arthur doesn’t think about the easy hugs Merlin gives Gwen and doesn’t think about the way Merlin embraces Gaius after being out for the day. That easy affection isn’t for a prince to enjoy, who needs to stand above his people.
He doesn’t think about it at all.
~*~
3.
“And,” Arthur holds his breath for a while, watching as his knights line up their swords, “Hit!”
They move in accordance, and Arthur plays close attention to their movements. Some of them swing a little slowly, and another hacks more than swings. These are the knights that require more practice, and he vows to talk to them after the training session has ended.
Merlin appears at the edge of the field. “Repeat,” Arthur orders, and brusquely walks over to Merlin. He doesn’t want to appear too eager, after all. Merlin shouldn’t think his very presence causes Arthur’s chest to glow, even if it does, really.
“Is this really all they do, all day?” Merlin asks, leaning over the fence. Arthur comes to lean against it, just far enough away that his shoulder doesn’t brush Merlin’s. Would he allow Arthur to, he wonders distantly. If he just shuffled a tiny bit, and he wouldn’t even look at Merlin, would he say anything about it? Would he even notice?
He’d think Arthur was odd, probably, and he’d be all concerned, and his voice would go low as he’d ask Arthur what he’s doing. Arthur can already hear him talking, and sighs, leaning to the other side. Merlin doesn’t notice, just keeps staring at the knights.
“You’ve no idea what it takes to be a knight, Merlin,” he says, and if he sounds a little wearier than usual, well, his shoulder injury is making it hard to lie on his side at night, so he sleeps a bit worse for it.
Merlin snorts. “I bet I do twice as much in a day,” he says. “I’ve got to clean your rooms, after all. And most of them are just hacking in the air—are these real ways to practise sword training? Don’t you need, I don’t know, a partner?”
“You think you’d do so well, don’t you, Merlin?” Arthur asks, and offers his own sword to Merlin. It’s only one of the ones they use to practise, so it’s blunt. Merlin takes it, eyeing Arthur widely. “Well then, come here. Don’t stand there around like a blustering idiot.”
“I’m not—” Merlin starts, and then presses his lips together. He gets a defiant look in his eyes, and climbs under the fence so he’s on Arthur’s side. “Well, then, my lord. If you insist.”
“Oh, I do insist,” Arthur says, gleefully. “Come on, Merlin, let’s see how good of a knight you would make. I want you to step, and swing, just like my men. Let’s see that footwork of yours.”
Merlin stares at him for a moment, and then turns his head towards the knights. They all dutifully continue, but Arthur can sense their eyes on them. With a deep breath, Merlin does as Arthur asks—steps forward, right foot first, and swings. It’s clumsy, and he clearly underestimated the weight of the sword, because he stumbles.
“I can do it,” Merlin insists.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Arthur says and raises his eyebrows. “Again, then.”
Merlin does. It’s a little better this time, because at least he doesn’t fall over, but it’s nowhere near graceful. Merlin grins, though, eyeing Arthur right after as if to make sure he does it correctly. It’s the look a new knight will usually give him, waiting for some form of praise.
Arthur keeps his face blank on purpose. “Again,” he repeats.
And so he does. Merlin swings again, and again, and the movement of his sword is smoother and smoother. His grip on the sword is tight, though, Merlin’s hands already going white with effort, and he steps forward a tiny bit too much. He could easily lose control like that—not something he’d notice while practising, but definitely something that would get him killed in a fight.
Which is why it’s a good thing Merlin doesn’t fight, Arthur tells himself.
“And?” Merlin asks, triumphantly.
“Not quite,” Arthur tells him and feels a spike of regret as Merlin’s face falls. He steps forward quickly, before he can think about it, and moves Merlin’s hand on the sword handle. “Keep it lower, so it swings with your weight, more than anything else. No, lower—yes, more like that.”
“That feels unnatural,” Merlin says, staring at their entangled hands.
Arthur steps back as if burnt. “Well, that’s how you do it,” he says. “And take smaller steps. Try it again.”
“Fine,” Merlin bites, and his next swing is already better. Merlin seems less at ease, though, and his hand keeps climbing up. He seems to notice that, too, because his head swings back up to stare at Arthur. His eyes have gone all big and pleading, and dear God, he doesn’t even know he does it, does he?
“What is it?” he asks.
Merlin bites his lower lip. “I’m not sure how to hold it anymore,” he says. “Can you—show me again? Maybe hold the sword with me, so I’m doing it right? I think I just need to get used to it.”
Arthur isn’t entirely sure how this turned into an actual lesson, but he obeys. He steps in line with Merlin, and Merlin presses himself closer. Arthur takes a deep breath, and puts his arms around Merlin so he can adjust his hands. He steps with him, making sure Merlin follows his moves. The sword swings precisely as it should, and Merlin’s breath is loud in Arthur’s ears now that they are flush against each other.
“Like that,” Arthur says, and clears his throat. He tries to step away, but Merlin’s empty hand grabs Arthur.
“One more time,” he says, and from so close, he can count Merlin’s eyelashes. Arthur nods wordlessly, and once again, they move together.
They step together five times, each swing perfect. Then Arthur lets go of Merlin, and watches him do it again, another five times. They’re acceptable swings, but not good, his sword going wider now that Arthur has let go of it. Merlin turns back, though, and beams widely at Arthur.
“See?” he says, exuberant. “I told you I can do it. I’m a regular knight!”
Arthur doesn’t have the heart to tell him. “You have some potential, I’ll admit,” he says, and takes the sword back from Merlin when it’s offered. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to make knight’s training. You still have a stable to muck out, after all.”
Merlin snorts, but the prospect of cleaning the stables doesn’t seem to deter his good mood. “Of course, my lord,” he says, and ducks out under the fence again. He whistles as he walks away, and Arthur watches him go, his body burning with the phantom memory of Merlin pressed against him.
~*~
4.
“Gaius!” Arthur says, bursting into the physician’s chambers. “Where’s Merlin? He’s late, and I specifically told him I needed to be on time—”
He’s stopped in his tracks at the sight of Merlin in Gaius’ bed. Gaius sits by his bedside, casting a dark look towards Arthur and shaking his head.
“If you could please calm yourself, sire,” Gaius says, and lays a wet cloth on Merlin’s forehead. “Before you wake him again.”
Arthur takes one of the remaining chairs by Gaius’ table and sets it down next to Merlin’s bed. His manservant is shivering under the blankets, his face pale. His dark hair is plastered to his face, and he mumbles something unintelligible.
“What happened?” Arthur asks.
Gaius sighs. “Just a case of the red fever going around in the lower town, sire,” he says tiredly. “Merlin has been helping out this week, and I’m afraid he caught the illness himself. He’s been up all night—I only got him to sleep this morning.”
“Is it dangerous?”
Fortunately, Gaius shakes his head. “It’s a nasty illness, to be sure, but nothing that will have any lingering effects,” he explains. “He’ll need to drink enough, and we can only wait until the fever breaks. I’m afraid he won’t be strong enough to serve you for several days, my lord.”
“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, and for a second, Arthur thinks he’s awake. Merlin’s eyes are still pressed close, however, and his breath hitches. He weakly moans, and Arthur’s heart twists at the sight.
“I need to make a couple of potions for the coming hours,” Gaius says. “I’m afraid I’ve run out of them, and there’s several others suffering from the same illness who will need them. Can you keep this cloth pushed against his forehead? It keeps falling off.”
Arthur doesn’t even have the time to respond before Gaius has already disappeared to the other side of the room. Merlin shudders again, and Arthur quickly moves his hand over the cloth before Merlin can shake it off again.
“Moron,” Arthur says, and it doesn’t matter if the affection bleeds into his voice—Merlin isn’t awake to hear it, after all. “You can’t even listen to instructions when you’re ill, can you?”
Merlin twists his nose, and sighs loudly. Arthur turns the cloth, because the other side has heated up already. Carefully, he runs his finger along Merlin’s cheeks, only to feel it burning. He has plenty of faith in Gaius’ wise words, of course, but he’s glad he already knows that the fever isn’t too dangerous. He’d be very concerned for Merlin’s wellbeing, otherwise.
“Just a few minutes, sire,” Gaius calls, apparently already having forgotten his own complaint about Arthur’s noisiness, and Arthur can hear the glass vials clattering on the other side of the room. He stays by Merlin’s side, pressing that wet cloth against his face.
Merlin twists and turns several times, shivering. Arthur presses his lips together in a thin line, and turns the cloth again. Both sides are hot already, and the cloth is causing tiny beads of water to mix in with Merlin’s sweat. Arthur wonders if it’s still doing much good, and after a moment’s consideration, removes the cloth.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, and Merlin groans loudly. Arthur lays his own hands on Merlin’s cheek—cooler than the cloth, by now, and hopefully having a similar effect. Merlin moves into his touch, exhaling lightly. At least the thrashing dies down a bit, and Arthur sighs in relief.
“Arthur,” Merlin mutters again.
“Yes, you moron,” Arthur says. “You just had to go and be sick, didn’t you? I swear, Merlin, if you pass this to me, I’ll have you get me a wet cloth, and I’ll make you sit by my bed all day and press it to my face.”
Actually, that idea is tempting. He can see it in his mind’s eye; Merlin’s frantic, mothering concern, the way he’d slide into Arthur’s bed and act as a personal pillow. He’d have several cloths at the ready, probably—would order someone else around to get them for him, simply because he’d refuse to leave Arthur’s side.
And he wouldn’t even do it because of an order, or a command. He’d do it because he’s Merlin, and he’s always been Arthur’s staunchest supporter.
Arthur turns his hands, feeling his fingers get a bit hot already. Merlin’s skin is clammy, but it’s as soft as ever.
“I hope you’ll be better soon,” Arthur murmurs. “I can make it an order, if that’s what’s necessary, Merlin. Then again, you never really listen, do you?”
Merlin doesn’t respond to that, anymore. He’s gone slack, but his breathing is even. It looks more restful than anything else, and Arthur slowly runs his hands over the bridge of Merlin’s nose, down to his lips. He will never touch Merlin like this—could never dream of it, of course, will never have this sort of casual touch—and he wants to know all of Merlin; the shape of his nostrils, the gentle curve of his jaw.
Gaius stumbles back, and Arthur draws back his hands as if on fire. He feels himself go red, and he quickly stands up.
“I don’t have any time for this, Gaius,” he says, and turns back to Merlin one last time. “Take care of him, will you?”
Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Yes, sire, of course. He’s in good hands.”
“I should hope so,” Arthur snaps, and stomps out of the physician’s room. He tries to recall the arch of Merlin’s upper lip, later, but can’t recall the precise way his fingers had run over it, and can’t explain to himself why he’s so frustrated.
~*~
ANOTHER INTERLUDE.
It really shouldn’t be a problem for Merlin to serve during a feast. He has been in Arthur’s service for two years, and even though he started out without any experience at all, Arthur has tried his best to make Merlin into a proper servant.
Well, to a certain degree. He can’t really say he’s tried his best to train Merlin out of those irreverent responses, nor out of the meaningful twists of his expressions whenever Arthur says something Merlin doesn’t agree with. It’s useful, of course, for a prince to know what servants are thinking, if only because a prince should listen to his people, and a servant is one of those people.
It’s what he tells himself, anyway.
Serving dinner is something that Merlin should be able to do easily, however, after the years he’s brought Arthur his plate or filled up his goblet. Most nights, he does it surprisingly well—Merlin used to stumble more, at the start, but he’s grown into his lanky frame, and his lean form dances around the room, most nights, smooth and nimble and the perfect combination between a good servant and something that’s more wild and unrestrained and Merlin.
Arthur doesn’t really know how he does it, either. The thing is that Merlin’s good at dinner, and he really shouldn’t be spilling wine all over their guests.
“I’m so sorry,” Merlin keeps repeating, dabbing at the stains with a handkerchief. “I don’t know what happened, I really didn’t mean to—”
“Arthur, get your servant in control,” Uther groans, and Arthur stands up right as Merlin decides that his saturated handkerchief won’t do the trick, and rips his neckerchief off his pale throat, and starts dabbing at the knight’s trousers with that, instead.
Arthur’s mouth goes dry, both at the expanse of Merlin’s nape and the careful touches near another man’s thigh—and it’s jealousy that shoots through him, and he wants to laugh at how stupid that is, to be jealous at these meaningless touches, to desire something so baseless and useless. He is a prince, and he is above this, and Merlin—Merlin is so far below him, no matter how tempting the ivory of his skin is, and how loudly the fire in his eyes beckons Arthur.
Arthur walks past him, and bites out a curt, “With me, Merlin,” and Merlin follows easily, naturally, as if he’s never done anything else in life. Arthur stops in the empty hallway, and eyes Merlin. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I stumbled,” Merlin protests. “I didn’t do it on purpose, you know!”
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur says, “and you were just—fondling a knight! Do you realise how that looks, Merlin?”
Merlin stares at him. “Fondling?” he repeats. “I was—it was a wine stain!”
“Don’t you ever even think about it,” Arthur snarls, and his chest is on fire, and he still thinks about how he traced Merlin’s face when he sat by his bedside, and he hasn’t managed to touch Merlin since—has shied away from his smiles and his gentle words, because Arthur is a coward, and wants things he can’t have.
Things Merlin gives so freely, but so rarely to him.
“About what?” Merlin asks in exasperation, his hands raised up in the air.
Arthur sputters, “About how inappropriate it is! The way you just—touch these people, these noblemen, and you don’t even think about it! You just do, Merlin, don’t you? You just put your hands all over them, regardless of what they might think of it!”
Merlin is silent, and he just stares at him, utterly perplexed. The sounds from the dining hall are coming through, people talking and laughing and utensils clattering. But Merlin’s eyes do not leave Arthur’s face, his lips slightly parted in his surprise, and then he swallows heavily.
“I didn’t,” Merlin says, finally. “But I see now that I should.”
“Yes, you should,” Arthur says heatedly.
“Then I will,” Merlin returns, just as fiery, and turns on his heels and walks away. Arthur can’t even call his name to remind him that he still is supposed to serve, that there’s still a knight with a wine stain on his clothes. He lets Merlin walk away, and breathes in deeply as he stands in the hallway by himself.
It is better this way, he tells himself. Merlin will learn to keep his hands to himself, and he’ll know better than to press himself against Arthur, or to offer him any salve to softly rub into a bruise. He will no longer comment on any unexpected gentleness in Arthur’s touch, and Arthur won’t learn to know him by the touch of his fingers, the way he shouldn’t want to.
Arthur is a prince, and he has destroyed his own weakness. He should feel happier about it.
~*~
5.
The cave is dark, and they don’t have any torches. They didn’t think they’d need any is the thing, and Arthur feels stupid for it now. Not that he’d be very successful at creating a light if he can’t even see what he’s doing, he reflects mournfully.
The knights are on the other side. There’d been a cave-in, and Arthur and Merlin, the only ones who’d wandered far enough, are trapped. It’s been an hour or so, but they’ve only heard shuffling and mumbled words from the other side. If they’re moving stones, it’s taking them a long while—and Arthur isn’t so sure they can remove the wall without having another collapse.
“We should go round the other way,” he says out loud. Merlin is quiet, sitting against the wall—or at least, that’s what Arthur presumes, because he’d heard Merlin slide down and then put down his bag. He can’t actually see him. “See if there’s another way out. These caves are mostly connected, and there might be another exit.”
“Yes, my lord,” Merlin says.
Arthur doesn’t know how to make him behave his normal way, the Merlin way. Ever since their fight at that feast, Merlin has been distant. He’s been disappearing far more easily, choosing not to linger, and Arthur hadn’t even realised Merlin was lingering at all until he stops doing it. He is less snarky, even though his remarks still haven’t lost all of their usual cheek; he’s quieter, more respectful, and most of all, he keeps a good distance from Arthur at any given time.
It should make it easier. It doesn’t.
“I can’t tell which way we should go,” Arthur says, and peers into the darkness. “There’s a dozen branching tunnels, Merlin, we might very easily get lost.”
“Then we don’t,” Merlin says easily.
Arthur turns to the sound of his voice. “Can you stop—doing this,” he says, in pain. “It’s not safe to stay here, Merlin. Who knows what lives in these caves, and I can’t even see my own hands in front of me. If I lose you, there is no way I will be able to find you again.”
“You can hear me, can’t you?” Merlin says. “Even though you don’t seem to want to—”
“Oh, stop it,” Arthur snaps. “You were pawning at his thighs, Merlin, and a lesser man would’ve taken it for an invitation you did not extend. A nobleman shouldn’t have to push you away, and it’s not proper to—to touch a servant, or to enjoy their touches, or—or to think about such mundane things at all.” He comes to a halt, suddenly aware he’s breathing hard.
Merlin’s silence is very tense. It takes a moment for him to speak. “You think it’s not proper for people to touch?”
“Oh, for you it’s alright,” Arthur says, very glad of the way Merlin can’t possibly see the heat that has risen to Arthur’s cheeks. “But there isn’t—such things are beyond nobility. It’s a nobleman’s duty to be a good lord, and you can’t simply give into such—weaknesses, as it is, and expect to be respected! It’s simply not done. That’s all there is to it, and if you’re so upset about me getting that through your thick skull, then I’ll gladly suffer your silence!”
“Arthur,” Merlin says very quietly, in a tone Arthur has only heard from him very rarely. “You know it’s not weak to want some companionship, don’t you? It’s not—of course, there’s boundaries, but—if it’s just a hug, or a touch, that’s not—you realise that, right?”
“Of course it is,” Arthur says, prickly, and feels uncomfortable in his own skin. Just because Merlin doesn’t understand these things doesn’t make them untrue. It is a reality Arthur has had to live with for years. “Now, what way do you suppose we should go? We can’t keep waiting in this cave forever.”
“Utmost left, I think,” Merlin says, and Arthur can feel him shuffling as he stands up. “Arthur? Where are you?”
“Here,” Arthur says, and shivers as Merlin grabs hold of his arm.
“There you are,” Merlin says. “Look, I’m sorry if—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and it wasn’t my intention to—I just thought you didn’t want it. I didn’t think you thought you couldn’t have it, Arthur, but that’s—sorry, not the point I was trying to make. Do you want to walk in front, or should I?”
“What are you doing, Merlin?” Arthur asks, halfheartedly trying to shake himself loose from Merlin's grasp when his manservant slides his fingers down to grab his hand. Merlin’s hand is warm and soft, and his thumb is pressed against Arthur’s palm. It’s oddly intimate, and he has to control his breathing and try not to pull at Merlin.
“I’ll lead the way,” Merlin says. “You said we shouldn’t lose each other, and this is the easiest way to do it. Just hold onto me, won’t you? It’s only us, and I won’t tell anyone else about how improper you’re being.”
Arthur’s breath feels so, so loud in the cave. “Make sure you don’t,” he says.
“Of course, my lord,” Merlin says, and pulls. Arthur goes, and holds his hand for two hours, until they finally find an exit out of the cave.
When they do, the sunlight catches Merlin’s hair, and Arthur has to blink so as not to be blinded after the dark. He holds onto Merlin’s hand still, though, until they finally reach Camelot, and Arthur finally pulls away.
But when the dark comes again, in the night, he traces the lines of his palm, and remembers where Merlin’s thumb pressed against them.
~*~
+1.
Arthur stares forlornly at the courtyard from his window. Night has already arrived, and there’s no people out on the streets, but he sees the occasional bird fly by. It would be quite a different life, to be so free, he thinks to himself—to go where he wants, to not have to think about so many things. To just be, without all these rules that make a nobleman.
There’s a quick knock on the door, and then it creaks open. Arthur doesn’t have to turn his head to know it’s Merlin; anyone else would wait for an answer.
“Are you alright?” Merlin asks, quietly.
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Would it change anything?”
“I don’t suppose it would,” Merlin admits, and comes to stand next to him. “Arthur, I’m just—I’m sorry your father said that to you. Everyone knows you’re trying your best, and it’s not your fault if… if things go wrong, sometimes.”
Arthur had led a mission, earlier that day, to hunt a creature that's given them trouble. He had killed it, but not before it killed three of his knights. Uther, angry at the useless waste of life, had taken out his anger at Arthur, shouting at him in a room full of people. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but it’s the first time he had shouted back.
Had shouted at him that if Uther had listened to him, had allowed him to stake out the beast, maybe his knights would still be alive.
It’s not really a surprise Uther had slapped him for his trouble. It doesn’t even hurt—hours later, Arthur can’t feel the sting in his cheek he had felt so keenly then. He still feels the stab of hurt, though, and the quick surprise, the embarrassment pooling low in his stomach.
The fleeting thought of when he’d last felt his father’s touch.
“Losing a knight isn’t something that goes wrong, Merlin,” Arthur says.
“But you were right,” Merlin interjects. “You wanted to do it one way, he ordered you to do it this way. You’re not to blame—”
“Please,” Arthur says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Merlin falls silent. “I could’ve found a way to make it work and not lose any lives. If I’d been quicker, or if I’d positioned my men any differently—but I wasn’t to know, and they paid for it.”
Merlin hesitates for a moment. “Your cheek. Does it hurt?”
“I can’t feel it at all,” Arthur says.
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Merlin says wryly. “Can I—would you turn your head for me? Is it alright—can I touch it? Just to make sure it’s not bruised?”
Arthur slowly obeys. Merlin stares at him, and slowly lifts his fingers. He waits a moment, giving Arthur enough time to move away, and then he gently runs his finger over Arthur’s cheek, his touch light as a feather. Arthur’s heart beats very loudly in his chest.
“And?” he asks, eventually.
Merlin’s fingers slowly go down, trailing past Arthur’s chin, and over his neck. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, and Arthur doesn’t. So Merlin continues his slow exploration, his touch as gentle as ever, until he reaches Arthur’s chest. Over his heart, Merlin stops, and smiles quietly. “Your heart is going very fast.”
“I’m not—” Arthur says, and takes a breath. “I’m not used to this.”
“I know you’re not,” Merlin says. “But do you want it? Don’t—I don’t want to hear if you think you should want it, or if it’s proper. I want to hear if you want it.”
“Yes,” Arthur admits in a whisper, and feels a rush of relief as Merlin presses his palm against Arthur’s heart.
“You’re such a prat,” Merlin says softly. “All this time, I thought you thought I was too lowly-born to touch you like this, but you don’t let anyone, do you? You think you can’t. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.”
“I shouldn’t want it,” Arthur says.
Merlin shakes his head. “No, Arthur,” he insists. “It’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s not weak, and it’s not improper, and it’s not—whatever you think it is, it’s not. It’s beautiful.”
“Can I?” Arthur says, and runs his hand up Merlin’s jaw before Merlin can stop him. It’s a stolen touch, and he half-expects Merlin to tell him off for the blatant disrespect, but instead, he smiles up at him.
“You,” Merlin says, “can do anything, and I’d welcome it.”
“Don’t say something you don’t mean, Merlin,” Arthur says, glad to have some of his authority return to his voice. He steps forward, brazenly, putting his own leg in between Merlin’s thigh. It brings their faces closer together, and Merlin’s hand slips from Arthur’s chest to his back.
“When have I ever,” Merlin breathes, “let you get away with doing something I didn’t want you to do?”
“One can always hope that this is the day you start being a proper servant,” Arthur tells him, and cups Merlin’s face. His thumb runs over Merlin’s lip, over the arch he hadn’t had time to memorise the last time he’d stolen this touch. The sense of euphoria in his chest doesn’t dissipate, and Arthur feels as if he is drunk on this.
Merlin can pull away at any time, and he doesn’t. This isn’t stolen, this is freely given, to Arthur. It’s improper, and it’s right, and Arthur’s head swims.
“I really, really want to kiss you,” Merlin says, “But I also really, really want to make sure you’re not just doing this because no one else touches you, and make sure you understand that this isn’t—I’m doing this because I’ve wanted to, for a long time. And I need you to want it, too.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Arthur says, and stares at Merlin’s lips. He may be forming an addiction, right here at this moment, and he hasn’t even tasted them yet. But just the full softness of them, the rosy colour—they are perfectly shaped. He has felt this so strongly, because he wants Merlin, has always wanted Merlin, in a way. “I could’ve kept doing this, if you hadn’t—if you didn’t go around hugging people, all the time, and stroking them—”
“When do I ever stroke people?” Merlin exclaims. “I can’t believe you were jealous, and all for things I would’ve given you in a heartbeat—”
Arthur doesn’t wait for another heartbeat. He presses Merlin close to him and kisses him, and Merlin clicks into place in his arms within a second. They are fitted together perfectly, and Arthur’s mind is screaming incomprehensibly, because this is perfect—the touch, and it’s Merlin, and it’s more than he ever thought he could have.
Merlin pants, when Arthur finally releases his lips. He’ll know them by touch now, he thinks, and raises his fingers to touch them again. Merlin stares at him, his pupils wide, and his hands still on Arthur. They may not be kissing, but they’re still pressed flush against each other.
“You’re really rather good at that,” Arthur says, and adds, “for a manservant, that is.”
“What would you know about that,” Merlin shoots back, but he’s flustered, and Arthur brushes his thumb over the red spots on Merlin’s cheekbones.
“Will you stay?” Arthur asks, and Merlin blinks at him, so Arthur amends, “Not for—I mean, I’d rather you not go. If you… I don’t think I can.” It’s more honesty than he usually allows himself, but Merlin deserves it, probably. In fact, Merlin deserves a great many things, and Arthur’s not so sure he can deliver on any of them, but he’s surely going to try.
Merlin’s smile is sincere and soft, and he presses another kiss to Arthur’s lips. He sneaks his arms around Arthur’s neck as he does, and Arthur doesn’t know what it is like to be so close to another person, to have all this affection—doesn’t know quite what to do with it, now the realisation has settled in. So he just hugs back, and Merlin seems content with that, the way his smile curls against Arthur’s lips.
And Arthur’s content with it, too, he realises, and learns just how good Merlin is at kissing when Arthur runs his finger along his thigh and gets a shudder out of him.
“I’m going to show you,” Merlin says, when they do finally move beyond kissing up against Arthur’s wall, “how much love you deserve. Even if you don’t think you do—even if you think it’s weak. It will make you strong, Arthur, to know that you’re loved. If affection was as freely given as it should be, this world would be a better place. But mine’s mostly reserved for you.”
“As it should be,” Arthur says, and presses a kiss against Merlin’s fingers. “I think I’ve some years to make up for, after all.”
“I think you’ll find,” Merlin says, smiling, “that it won’t take you that long to get used to it.”
Arthur kisses him—kisses him because he can, because he’s allowed to, because Merlin wants him to, because it’s something that makes him weak in the knees but strong in spirit. He was so wrong, he thinks deliriously, so wrong, and Merlin so right, and it usually ends up that way.
“No,” he agrees. “I think I already am.”