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1.
There are many reasons that Merlin is a horrible manservant. Most of the time, Arthur is the one who suffers from Merlin’s unscrupulous behaviour, and it’s this fact only that has saved Merlin’s job. Because, as much as Merlin lacks the qualities for being a properly attentive manservant, his unique view on the nobility’s importance—namely, non-existent—means that he is probably the closest thing Arthur’s ever had as a friend.
Not that he’d tell Merlin, obviously.
Merlin is a poor farmer’s boy, uneducated in etiquette and unfamiliar with the thralls of courtly convention, and with no coin to spare on anything that isn’t a necessity. Arthur has been surreptitiously upping his pay until the quartermaster started eyeing him darkly, and so he knows exactly what Merlin earns. It’s enough for some comforts, like money for a bit of extra meat, every now and then, or a spare blanket for the colder nights.
The point of this all is that Merlin is—if not anywhere near Arthur’s background, then at least going up in the world, which is really the only thing a man can hope to do, anyway. Merlin has been in his service for five years, and has stood by him for a great many years and through a great many dangers. In Camelot, it is the worst-kept secret that Merlin has Arthur’s ear—Arthur knows it is, and sometimes hears the memory of his father sighing in his ear to take care of the threat to his own wellbeing.
He never does. Arthur just wishes Merlin himself were aware of what position he is in, and the way it reflects on Arthur as a new, inexperienced ruler. Merlin has everything he needs to serve Arthur well, and occasionally he seems to pull it together and pretend to be that subservient man that he ought to have been, and that Arthur has never wanted him to be.
But, really. There’s letting Merlin slack off in the name of friendship, and then there’s a dozen ways for Merlin to crash through all boundaries of propriety.
“You’re just nervous,” Merlin says, his face cheerful, as if Arthur didn’t just shout at him. “You don’t have to be. I know you haven’t seen Bayard in years, but it’s been peaceful for ages. He’s not going to—”
“I know,” Arthur says, seething, and gestures up and down Merlin. “That is my concern, Merlin. If anything, Bayard will start a war simply upon seeing you dressed so poorly as my personal servant, taking it as a slight—”
“I nearly started a war last time Bayard was here,” Merlin says, unperturbed. Arthur supposes he has started quite a large number of incidents, over the years. “I doubt he’ll care if I’m not dressed in the court’s latest fashion. By the way, I had to throw out half a dozen of your tunics the other day, half-eaten by the moths as they were, full of holes and—”
“Merlin,” Arthur says, very calmly. Merlin wisely shuts up. “One. If my tunics are riddled with holes, then it only means that you have failed your duty in taking care of my wardrobe—”
“—It’s not my fault you own so many tunics, I can hardly keep track—”
“—and two, Merlin, you will be the king’s manservant this time, not a prince’s, and there are certain ideals you have to uphold as the most prominent member of my personal servants, and you keep showing up in the same shabby outfit for work every day!”
He is breathing hard by the time he is done, annoyed with Merlin’s exuberant absence of courtly manners, only to find that Merlin’s face has fallen into a frown. Immediately, Arthur’s chest collapses into a tight, concerned ball, and he presses his lips closed.
“Sorry,” Merlin says, and plays with the hem of his own tunic. It’s not really shabby, because it’s the purple one that Arthur knows is the most expensive one he owns, and Merlin has been trying, because it’s the one he wears anytime any formal event comes up. This will be the first time they’re visited by a king since Arthur has taken the throne, though, so it’s not enough.
“You earn more than enough money to go out and buy yourself a better tunic, Merlin,” he says, and tries to hold onto the annoyance he felt earlier. It slips away, though, and he snakes an arm over Merlin’s shoulder to jostle his friend against him as a sign of comradery.
Oh, how the mighty kings fall.
“I suppose,” Merlin hedges, but he seems a little calmer, less like he’s been violently rebuked and more like he’s accidentally fallen asleep polishing Arthur’s boots again.
“For now,” Arthur says, because really, Bayard will be here soon, and he has better things to be concerned about than the state of his servant’s wardrobe, “You’ll wear something of mine. Take whatever fits, and make sure it’s appropriate for serving dinner. Something red, or with dark hues, presumably. Or else I’m sure there’s still an official uniform lying around somewhere—”
“That,” Merlin says hastily, “won’t be necessary.”
And it’s so easy with him, isn’t it? Arthur grins, patting Merlin’s back so roughly that he nearly sends his servant flying, and turns back to the speech he’s supposed to give. In the corner of his eye, he can see Merlin leafing through Arthur’s wardrobe and quietly sneaking behind the folding screen to change.
He’s so focused on memorising the speech—he keeps forgetting to thank Bayard for the long-standing peace, and it’s something he wants to point towards in case Bayard has forgotten the treaty he once put in place—that he barely notices his servant’s return until Merlin puts a pitcher of water in front of him.
“You don’t want to have to clear your throat when you’re talking,” Merlin says, and Arthur is turning upwards to say something to him, only to have his words die on his lips. Merlin is wearing black, and Arthur hasn’t seen him in that colour before. It’s an old tunic of Arthur’s, snug on him but perfect on Merlin.
It’s uncomfortably quiet for a second, or maybe that’s just Arthur.
“Right,” he says, startling to awareness when Merlin arches a singular eyebrow at him—he must’ve been learnt by mimicking Gaius. “That is—I didn’t remember I had that tunic, that’s all.”
Merlin hums. “I doubt it’ll fit you anymore,” he says good-humouredly, “and anyway, it’s one of your older ones, so I thought you didn’t mind. Unless you want me to pick something else…”
He lets the half-question trail off, picking at a loose, silvery thread on the sleeve, and Arthur has to force himself to turn around and not stare at where the soft, fine material meets Merlin’s neck, or the way it stretches a bit too tautly around Merlin’s shoulders. He’d never noticed before, is all, that Merlin has filled out so much in recent years, so that he is still lean and wiry in his hips but now has broader shoulders, less like a boy and more like a man.
“It’s just a tunic,” Arthur says brusquely, and taps his finger against the speech in front of him as if to lure himself away. It’s a largely ineffective method.
“Ye-es,” Merlin hedges, lilting the word into two syllables, as if he notices that Arthur’s shaken, but hasn’t guessed why. And why should he, Arthur thinks sourly to himself, since Merlin has proven himself so incapable of anticipating Arthur’s needs so direly before?
This isn’t a need, though. This is—nothing, really, and Arthur tries to swallow as surreptitiously as he can and turns back to his speech. The words swim in front of his eyes, and he is curiously aware of Merlin leaning over his shoulder, reading along with him. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a dozen times before, and Arthur can nearly hear him whisper along, his lips rounding with the vowels and flattening with the consonants, and if he looked up he’d see him, with the darkness of his tunic contrasting the pale of his marble skin—
“Don’t you have better things to do?” he snaps, more unkindly than he usually would, but it seems that in this, Merlin is at least willing to let Arthur’s fierceness go. The benefit of their odd relationship, presumably, even if Arthur himself can’t admit why it can be so hard to be around Merlin, at times, even when it’s so easy.
As it is, Merlin slips back, and the warmth of him by Arthur’s side disappears. “Try not to be so grumpy when Bayard arrives,” is the last bit of cheerful advice he passes onto Arthur before the door closes behind him, and Arthur is left imagining Merlin in all sort of dark hues that don’t fit his personality at all, but clashes with his rosy, winter-kissed skin beautifully.
It takes him a while to focus on his speech again.
2.
For some reason, Arthur had foolishly believed Merlin to be able to behave for all of Bayard’s stay in Camelot. And indeed, Merlin had been the perfect manservant—in public, that is, which is the only place Merlin has ever deigned to keep up the pretence—for a whole three days, and Arthur had let him have the evening off for the third day as a sign of quiet gratitude.
He hadn’t said it like that, but surely Merlin must have known, because he’d tilted his lips rather knowingly and had brought Arthur his breakfast with an extra egg and his bread still warm to the touch, the next morning.
They hadn’t discussed Merlin’s wardrobe situation, but after the first day, Merlin had gone back to wearing his purple tunic with a slightly-too large threaded jacket, which Arthur thinks probably belongs to one of the knights—Leon, probably, if he knows his First Knight at all. It had served to make Merlin look representable, if not as appropriate as he’d been when he’d worn Arthur’s black tunic, and Arthur hadn’t wanted to bring it up again. Especially because Bayard did not seem to remember Merlin in the slightest, not even when Arthur hinted at the boy who’d drunk poison for him the last time Bayard was here, and Bayard laughed off the whole incident.
There had nearly been a war. Merlin had nearly died. Arthur gulps down one too many sips of wine, and Merlin jostles his elbow into Arthur’s side, and then Arthur gets back his sense and focuses on making sure there will not be war between them ever again.
So, yes: Merlin does well, those first three days. Arthur nearly started to hope that Merlin may yet have the semblance of being a proper manservant to the King of Camelot, even if Arthur thinks he may keel over of boredom during the alliance talks if not for Merlin making faces at him during the procedure. Maybe not too much of a proper manservant, then, at least when it comes to their friendship.
And then it’s the fourth day, the final day of Bayard’s visit, and Merlin does something so foolish and inane that it really could only be Merlin doing it: he trips.
It’s right at the end of dinner, and admittedly, Arthur knows everyone is exhausted. He has pushed everyone’s boundaries for this visit, and has made sure that everyone is on their best behaviour: it’s come to the point even Guinevere raises her eyebrows at him when he comes into a room, and he knows she’s not best pleased with the way he’s been commenting on Lancelot’s tendency to slump his shoulders when faced with royalty. It’s only one more evening, though, and the servants have come in to clean the plates and take away the remainder of the sumptuous dinner.
Merlin is right behind Arthur’s chair, as always. And right when one servant twists to hurry back to the kitchen, Arthur gestures for more wine, and Merlin, presumably in an attempt to be exactly how Arthur has been telling him he needs to be for three days and hurry to get his king’s wishes done, trips against the servant and falls right on his face.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, more alarmed than anything, and his chair creaks violently as he turns.
“‘Mfine,” Merlin mutters, raising his head a little dazedly as he peers up at him. Arthur makes a move to tug him up and then aborts it as he catches Bayard’s gaze from the side of his vision, and folds his arms instead. Merlin gets to his own feet, running a hand over his face. He’s uninjured, as far as Arthur can judge; Merlin has a habit of that, coming away from the most arduous of events with nary a wound to speak of.
It would have been an admirable quality in a knight, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure how it has come to be that Merlin is so hale and healthy but also manages to cut himself on a blade whenever he cleans one.
“What a waste of wine,” says Bayard, tutting his lips. And he’s right; it’s sitting all over Merlin’s finest tunic, the purple one, staining it dark and unevenly. Merlin peers down at himself, a little surprised.
“Sorry,” Merlin says, and eyes Arthur as if it’s more about his accident and less about the wine. Arthur nods curtly, and can’t help but frown; Merlin mirrors him, and Arthur isn’t sure why. “I can—I’ll get a new pitcher, it won’t take a minute—”
“Get yourself cleaned up first, Merlin,” Arthur suggests. “Perhaps a visit to Gaius…”
“No!” Merlin says, and as he realises he was nearly yelling, tones it down, ducking his head, “That won’t be necessary, my lord. I can serve you.”
“Boy, you’re a mess,” Bayard says, not unkindly, and turns to Arthur. “His loyalty to you is commendable, really, but he is hardly proper, is he? Talking back like that?”
Arthur grits his teeth, and finds that it’s more for Merlin’s sake than Bayard’s this time. Merlin is still staring at them, but Bayard seems to have lost most of the thread of the conversation already—a new girl comes up with wine for both of them, and Merlin is left dripping with wine in the corner.
“Just go and get cleaned, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, grabbing his wrist. If Bayard thinks it’s a rebuke, let him—Arthur and Merlin will know better. “I’m not—you’ve done well, don’t worry. If you’re up to it, you can come back and ready me for bed after dinner is over.”
“I will,” Merlin says, a little mellow, and shoots a disgruntled glance at Bayard that Arthur should not let slide, but does.
Merlin seems ready to prove that he’s not nearly so improper as Bayard implied, though. When he comes back, he is wearing the black tunic that belongs to Arthur, all spotless and tight against his shoulders. He quickly takes back his position right behind Arthur, his ears a bit red and his hands folded.
Arthur should stop looking at him. He should. But it’s hard to peel away his eyes, even as he tries to hide it by making it look as if he’s eyeing Bayard instead. Merlin shifts in the corner of his vision, and pulls at his sleeve. Arthur shakes his head and turns away, and he can feel Merlin’s attentive eyes on his back, burning.
He really ought to ask for that tunic back, Arthur decides. Merlin makes it hard enough not to stare at him when he rolls up his sleeve or he eyes Arthur’s armour with a look of concentration, his tongue poking between two rosy pink lips. He makes it hard by the virtue of existing, brushing his arm against Arthur’s or smiling up with a joke apparent in his eyes before he’s even uttered it out loud.
Arthur tries not to think about it, but Merlin makes it hard, most of the time. And normally, Merlin’s clothes hang off him in near-tattered rags, because Merlin has never cared a whit what anyone thinks of him unlike the way Arthur has done, so it’s easy to not look at him. In essence, Merlin has changed very little, neither his clothes nor the irreverent way he smiles up at Arthur, and so Arthur has been able to look past him and imagine that easy past when Merlin had merely been a friend and not any object of longing at all.
Or imagine him to be, at least. Arthur is not sure when things changed, but there’s a part of him that thinks that Merlin may always have been elbowing his way into Arthur’s affections from the day they met.
And now, he’s fitted into something as simple as a dark tunic, unlike what he usually wears. Arthur’s tunic, tight around his shoulders and just right across his chest, and it’s not fair that Arthur should be so easily distracted from what’s important just because Merlin has deigned to wear something appropriate for once.
His own distraction still rings in his ears by the time Bayard bids him a goodnight, and he should be relieved that everything has gone well. His union with Bayard has been renewed for an indeterminate period, and their peace has been strengthened. Instead, all he can do is watch the focus on Merlin’s face as he undoes the buttons on Arthur’s tunic, his fingers quick, not lingering for a second more than they have to.
“That went well, didn’t it,” Merlin comments, sounding pleased, once Arthur’s undressed. Merlin doesn’t seem perturbed at all, instead having turned to the wardrobe to pick out Arthur’s clothes for the next day. Arthur doesn’t know why he suddenly wishes Merlin would feel as flustered as he does, just so he’d know.
But Merlin has never shown his hand like that. He never will, and Arthur should be grateful for his manservant’s odd tendencies towards secrecy when it comes to his heart. It makes it so that Arthur never has the freedom to act on his own impulses.
“It did,” Arthur says as neutrally as he can, and looks towards the window. It’s dark enough outside that there’s nothing to see, but it gives him an excuse not to stare at Merlin as he does his job. Sometimes he thinks he did this to himself, keeping Merlin close to him as he does, but he can’t imagine sending him away. “Even if you tripped, like a moron.”
Merlin huffs, and Arthur imagines he’s pulling a face, but he’s still unwaveringly looking away and can’t confirm. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Clumsy fool,” Arthur says, and if it comes out more affectionate than it should, they both seem to ignore it. “You should be glad that Bayard didn’t remember you. He might’ve been less forgiving if he’d remembered your earlier mishaps.”
“That’s so long ago now, I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember,” Merlin says lightly, and he’s sidestepping something, but Arthur can’t put his finger on what it is. Maybe how far they were willing to go for each other, even so many years ago, when Merlin had scarcely been the fixture by Arthur’s side that he is now. Even now, he recalls the utter dread, the sinking hollowness in his chest when he thought that Merlin had sacrificed his life for him.
So boldly. So unflinchingly. “I do,” Arthur says. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“That is the most surprising thing, considering all those blows to the head you’ve received over the years,” Merlin says, grinning. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the black tunic shifts against his skin, and Arthur swallows. He doesn’t recall when he looked back in his direction. In the gentle light of the candles, the shadows of Merlin’s face are softer, painting him in a nearly boyish light. His cheeks are flushed pink in the warmth of Arthur’s chambers, and the golden flames flicker in his eyes.
“Or the number of times you’ve tripped over your own feet and smacked your face into the floor,” Arthur returns mildly, because if Merlin wants to joke about it, Arthur will let him. Merlin’s relief bleeds over his expression, and Arthur turns away and does not imagine anything else he could’ve said to him to make sure Merlin knows how much Arthur owes to him.
They both know, regardless, and Arthur should ask for his tunic back before Merlin slips into the darkness, and doesn’t.
3.
“Oh, that is just disgusting,” Merlin says with feeling, holding up his arms awkwardly. He looks down at himself with a twisted expression on his face, watching the blood drip off while standing still, as if willing the gore to disappear by itself.
Arthur presses his lips together so as not to laugh out loud. “You insisted you could bait the creature,” he reminds Merlin.
“Because I thought you’d kill it before it ended up on me!” Merlin protests.
“I did!”
“You did not,” Merlin says vehemently, and fair enough, judging from the blood splattered across him, Arthur did cut it a bit close. They’d come across the monster—a hairy, ugly sort of giant who’d been killing several nearby farmers and terrorising small villages in the area. Arthur would have brought his knights, except that Camelot was two days’ ride away and Merlin refused to let it kill anyone else in the time it would’ve taken.
So naturally, it’d been the two of them—well, mostly Arthur, since Merlin is more prone to dropping a sword on his toes than slaying any fairy tale-like foes—who went off into the forests in search of this monster. They’d found him more easily than expected, and Merlin had—obviously, Arthur reminded him, since he couldn’t wield a sword, and “Stop reminding me, you prat!”—been the bait.
And now the corpse is sprawled out over the leaves of the muddy ground, with most of its contents on Merlin, who is none too happy with this development.
“Well, perhaps I could’ve been a tad faster,” admits Arthur, and twirls his sword. “Still, it worked, didn’t it?”
“Worked!” Merlin repeats. There’s a streak of dark blood right under his left eye, leading up to the nostril. “My tunic is ruined, and I didn’t bring any spares! I can’t ever wash this out, Arthur, and even if I try—”
“What do you mean, you didn’t bring spares?” Arthur says. “Who goes on a hunting trip for several days and doesn’t bring spare clothes?”
“I brought extra, just not fit for trampling in the woods!”
“On a hunting trip?”
“You didn’t say it was a hunting trip!”
“I did,” Arthur says, and when Merlin opens his mouth, he puts up his fingers, adding, “And don’t you dare say I didn’t, Merlin, I’m the king—”
“The king of clotpoles, maybe,” Merlin mutters darkly, and once again looks down at his ruined attire. “I have to change out of this, at any rate. Wasn’t there a stream in the other direction, before we found those tracks—”
“Yes, there should be,” Arthur says, and it takes them nearly half an hour to get back to the stream. Merlin starts smelling more foul with every passing minute, and Arthur takes the excuse of being a better tracker to walk ahead of Merlin. It’s still peaceful, even as Merlin is muttering treasonous insults under his breath that Arthur pretends not to hear.
When they do reach the stream, Merlin wastes no time in charging in with a gusto Arthur rarely sees from him, clothes and all. They stick to his body, but Merlin plunges in without a care in the world, running his hands over his face and hair and wrangling out of his bloody tunic. His breeches stick to his calves, giving Arthur a very good idea of the form of them, the muscle that Merlin hides, and he looks away on the bank of the stream.
Merlin’s only thought must be his clothes, though, because he doesn’t even look in Arthur’s direction. Dark red flows down the stream, and he scowls down at his ruined tunic.
“Just be glad it’s not the purple one,” Arthur suggests, vaguely mollified by the dark look Merlin sends him, because at least that gives him something else to focus on besides the trail of dark hair that covers Merlin’s chest and trails down.
“The purple one’s already ruined,” Merlin says, after a beat. “And now this one is, too. You never told me working for you would ruin all my clothes.”
“It doesn’t tend to,” Arthur says, and then Merlin’s words catch up with him, so he asks, “What do you mean, your purple tunic is ruined?”
Merlin twists his nose, and looks down mournfully at his tunic. It’s still dark with blood, even in the water, and Arthur doesn’t know much about laundry, but he doesn’t expect that Merlin will be able to clean it properly. “Well, I didn’t soak it right after the wine spilled on it, so it didn’t wash out. I had to throw it out.”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. “Why don’t you just buy a new one?”
“Things are so easily replaceable, is that it, my lord?” Merlin asks wearily, and Arthur isn’t sure what he’s done wrong, but he must have done something for Merlin to sound like that.
“No,” he tries. “But it’s just a tunic, Merlin, it’s not as if it’s—something with sentimental value, or a very expensive item you just lost. It can be replaced. I’m not so sure why you’re being so difficult about it.”
“Oh, now I’m difficult,” Merlin snaps, and turns back to wade further into the stream. Arthur crosses his arms and sits down on the ground, waiting for Merlin to come back to his senses. Instead, he’s treated to the sight of Merlin’s surprisingly toned backside and his arms, the years of manual work having put some muscle on his bones.
Arthur’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips, once, twice, then reminds himself that he hasn’t been looking for years. There is no harm in once, not when nothing will come of it—so he keeps his eyes focused on Merlin, the way his hair curls into his nape, the gentle curve of his spine, the lean strength of his upper body and the tight embrace of his trousers to his thighs.
He has seen Merlin before, of course, but he hasn’t let himself look, not since he knew what the growing fondness in his heart entailed. It always comes first, the friendship and affection, and then his looks; Arthur doesn’t know how to be any other way, and Merlin had snuck up on him so unexpectedly, so wanted and yet so inconvenient both through his lowly status and the clear way he watches Arthur as a friend and king. Arthur has always known it to be better this way, with the divide between them, but it becomes harder and harder not to look, even as Merlin continues to conquer more of that space inside his chest, making it hard to breathe at times.
“Merlin,” he says, and doesn’t even know why. Certainly, he has nothing to say when Merlin snaps towards him, as vigil as ever despite his apparent anger at something Arthur has done or has failed to do.
“Sorry,” Merlin offers up, unexpectedly. His shoulders hang, and he smiles tentatively. “It’s not your fault, Arthur. Don’t worry about it.”
Arthur frowns. “If there’s something that’s bothering you…”
“I’m fine,” Merlin says, and maybe he senses that it’s not enough, because he adds, “Really, Arthur, I swear. It’s just—we’ve both been a bit high-strung, haven’t we? With you being a new king, and everything going on, and I’ve been trying to make things easier for you, so I don’t want you to—feel like you’re not doing this right.”
A beat of silence. “I’m sorry I didn’t kill that monster before he ended up on you,” Arthur says. “He could have lunged forward and bitten you, or he could’ve broken one of your ribs when he fell on you. I should’ve been faster about it.”
“That’s the point I was just making, you dollophead,” Merlin says fondly. “You’re doing well. Everything’s fine. We’re unharmed, and that’s… the best we can do, sometimes.”
“Unharmed but for your tunic,” Arthur says, nodding towards the soaked bit of fabric in Merlin’s hands. Merlin grins broadly, and it eases something in Arthur’s lungs.
“I hope you’re not planning on running into any other monsters,” Merlin says, and then he wades back to the bank of the stream, rummaging through his bag even as droplets of water drip out of his hair. Arthur presses his lips together.
Merlin grabs the tunic triumphantly—the black one, the one that belongs to Arthur, the one Merlin has kept hold off ever since Bayard’s visit. “You brought that one?” Arthur demands, surprised.
“You said you wanted to make a visit,” Merlin reminds him, arching his eyebrows in that way he must’ve learnt from Gaius. “Leon explicitly told you that you weren’t to go hunting alone, and you said, no, it’s just a visit to an estate, I only need Merlin here, and how was I to know!”
“You always know,” Arthur says.
Merlin lets out a huff of air. “I hoped against hope,” he says. “But clearly, being king doesn’t mean you’ve got any more cultivated sense about what counts as leisure. This isn’t it.”
He worms himself into the tunic before Arthur can say another word, and it plasters itself across his chest, soaking up the water still on Merlin’s chest. Merlin doesn’t seem bothered by this, but Arthur finds himself staring yet again, right after he said he wouldn’t again. Merlin’s hair—wet and sticking to his forehead in a rather unattractive way, but still, Arthur’s heart does a tiny little surge—is blacker than black, matching with the tunic, painting him in greyscale if not for the pink hue of his skin.
“So what’s your idea of a fun outing?” Arthur asks.
“Picknick,” Merlin decides immediately. “Or a nice walk in the forest without having to kill a thing. I like picking herbs for Gaius, really, and then I can come back in the castle and it’d be nice and warm, and then I come to you, because the fire in your hearth is always going—”
“The advantages of being the king’s manservant,” Arthur says smugly.
“Perhaps the only one,” Merlin tells him indulgently, but he smiles when he looks over his shoulder at Arthur. “Or one of the few ones, anyway.”
So far, there’s always been a clear reason for Merlin to wear his dark tunic. Arthur could accept it, because he had known there to be a cause for Merlin to don Arthur’s clothes: propriety, a lack of his own, spillage.
So Arthur does not quite know why Merlin is wearing his clothes now. It’s not just the tunic, anymore; slowly, over a course of weeks, it has become old jackets that Arthur wore when he was seventeen, the less-ostensibly ornamented ones, lined with fur on the inside, or ill-fitting trousers that are too short and show Merlin’s ankles when he leans up to grab something and that sag around his middle. Mostly, they are old tunics, and Arthur has no idea why it affects him like this to see Merlin, his lean-framed, oddly appealing manservant, in his own clothes.
Maybe it’s the price he pays for his silence, all these long years. Maybe it is his own ill-placed affection coming back to haunt him, to show him what it would be like to dress Merlin like a consort, like he belongs to Arthur in any way but what they’ve crafted between themselves, this odd friendship that shouldn’t have become as important to him as it has.
What he does know is that it tugs at him, and distracts him when he ought not to be distracted. He snaps at Merlin more than usual, and if Merlin notices, he doesn’t say; then again, it’s hardly the first time he’s the object of Arthur’s fury whether he’s earned it or not, and he’s probably sensed that Arthur is annoyed by something, even if he hasn’t asked him about it directly yet. He will, that much Arthur knows; Merlin always does.
And the question comes at the worst possible moment, probably. It’s a clear evening, and Arthur is pacing by the window to see if his knights have returned from their patrol. They were tasked with guarding Bayard as he travelled, and have gone all the way there and now back again. Little is likely to have happened, but Arthur’s anxiety has kept growing in his chest, swelling with every time he’s heard hooves clacking in the courtyard.
“They’ll be fine, you know,” Merlin says, from where he’s polishing Arthur’s sword in the corner. “They always have been. You don’t need to worry as much as you have. You’re doing fine.”
“Oh, what do you know about what makes a good king,” Arthur says to him, sour and prickly, and paces some more just to show Merlin he doesn’t have to listen to him. To make matters worse, Merlin is wearing that black tunic combined with a dark blue jacket, one with sleeves that are so long that his hands nearly drown in them. Arthur wishes they didn’t; Merlin’s hands are oddly comforting to look at, the way his fingers bend slowly and skillfully whenever he does a single thing.
“I grew up under Cenred’s rule,” Merlin reminds him. “And I’ve seen Uther rule for years. And I know what you’re doing. Believe me, Arthur, you’re the fairest one by far.”
“It’s not enough,” Arthur bites out. “If Bayard turns back on his word—”
“Why would he?” Merlin interrupts in exasperation. “If he had a problem with you, he’d have told you before. And he has nothing to gain by losing you as an ally. You’re just anxious because he’s the first ally you’re meeting while you’re the king, but you did well, Arthur. You know it, too, so why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”
“Do you enjoy it, then?” Arthur asks, more sharply. The concern is clawing its way out of his chest, up to his throat and lips, even if he doesn’t want to voice his doubts. Not to Merlin, whom he doubts least of all. “Having the king’s ear? Why does it concern you, Merlin?”
Merlin blinks. “Because,” he says, and frowns. “Because you’re my friend. I’ve always done this for you, and I want to help you.”
Arthur’s shoulders sag. He turns away and grasps uselessly at the window’s sill. In the darkness outside, he can barely see anything, let alone the faint outline of his knights if they were to return. It will have to wait until morning.
“Why do you keep taking my clothes?” he demands. “You don’t need them anymore. There is no reason for you to pillage my wardrobe, and it looks—” It looks as if I gave them to you, he doesn’t say. It looks as if you have my favour more than you actually do, and I wish I could give it to you. “It is inappropriate if you’re seen in my clothes all the time. You’re a servant.”
“I thought you wanted me to dress more appropriately,” Merlin says.
“Then use your own money to buy clothes,” Arthur snaps. “They don’t fit you regardless, and it’s just—it looks absurd, Merlin, that is what it does. I pay you a living wage, and more than that, even, so why don’t you just—” He waves his hand around, hoping that Merlin will get it.
Merlin’s expression hasn’t changed an iota; it’s still partly surprised, partly defiant, his lips parted and his brows furrowed. “You haven’t said that before.”
“Well, I’ve thought it,” Arthur says defensively, and crosses his arms as he leans against the wall. The fire crackles in the hearth, and it is the only noise that carries between them as they stare at each other; Arthur, feeling prickly and annoyed without the words to explain to Merlin what is bothering him, and Merlin, puzzled and hackled for what must seem to him like no reason at all.
“Right,” Merlin says faintly, and it’s only because Arthur knows him so well that he hears the disapproval at all, curling around the edges of his crisp consonants. “I’ll bring them back then, won’t I?”
“You should,” Arthur says brusquely, and if they were equals at all, Merlin would have responded to Arthur’s childish behaviour by letting him pace himself weary. But Merlin is not, and he has to finish polishing Arthur’s armour when he’s done with the sword. He makes his criticism known by noisily rattling the parts against each other, so that Arthur can’t take even a step without the sound bothering him.
When Merlin finally leaves, only to come back to leave Arthur’s clothes on a heap on his table—well, surely he wouldn’t believe that Arthur takes the fine fabric between his fingers and presses it against his nose.
They smell of Merlin, and Arthur stands alone in his room, and wishes for things he cannot have.
5.
Merlin does not buy new clothes, and Arthur cannot quite figure him out.
Winter is settling in quickly and ferociously, and a harsh autumn turns into an even colder season. Merlin returns to his duty without a word from either side about the clothes he’d been borrowing, in his old, ragged tunic and brown coat that hangs off his shoulders thinly.
It sits between them nonetheless, even if he thinks that Merlin tries to return them to their ordinary equilibrium. Perhaps Arthur is the problem—perhaps he always has been—because he is so used to seeing Merlin one way, and now can’t put it out of his head again. Merlin, wearing his clothes, smelling like Arthur; Arthur’s clothes smelling like him, and Arthur has not yet put them out to be cleaned. The tunic sits in between all his other ones, and Merlin’s smell is starting to fade.
Once, when he’d first started considering Merlin in a different light, he’d thought that this infatuation, like all others, would be over. That it was to be a mild inconvenience alone, like his boyish crush on Leon when he was fourteen and Leon nineteen; like the way he’d admired one of Uther’s newest guards when he was seventeen, before the man had turned out to use his position to bully. Like his admiration for one of the stableboys, one time, who had been lean and dark-haired and had left one day for reasons Arthur never knew.
Of course Merlin had to be the exception in this as in everything.
So Arthur doesn’t entirely know how to go back to ignoring everything that Merlin is to him the way he has been managing for so long, and it is hurting their friendship. What bothers him more, however, are the chills that plague Merlin whenever he stands in the corner of Arthur’s room, too far for the hearth’s warmth to reach.
“Why don’t you buy a new tunic?” he asks, tapping his finger on his desk when Merlin is sorting through his letters.
Merlin looks up, his long lashes casting tiny, fractured shadows on his cheeks in the candlelight. “What?”
“You’re obviously cold,” Arthur says. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m fine, Arthur,” Merlin says, already losing interest in the conversation because it’s about him. He does that a lot, Arthur knows, and anticipates Merlin changing the subject. “The real issue is—”
“No,” Arthur interrupts, and splays a hand on top of Merlin’s letters. “Lord knows you weasel your way out of giving me any answers to anything I demand to know of you, Merlin, and I’ve let you have your privacy, but this is a small thing. You’re cold. Why do you insist on wearing the same rags you wear in the summer?”
“I don’t want new clothes, Arthur,” Merlin says, exasperated. “I don’t need them. I’m doing fine.”
“You do know where the seamstresses are, don’t you?”
“Of course I know.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you lost your head on your way there,” Arthur tells him, and narrows his eyes. “Tell me, then, Merlin, because I swear, you’re as stubborn as my father was.”
“I’m not cold at all,” Merlin lies, and Arthur wishes he could just shake the answers out of him, sometimes. But Merlin has always been this—in turn an open book and a tome in a language Arthur can’t read, and even so, Arthur wishes he could run his fingers through Merlin’s hair and press them together.
His cheeks grow warm, and Arthur looks down again. “I’ll never work you out, Merlin,” he murmurs. If this is such an important secret for Merlin to keep, he’ll let him. When he looks up again, Merlin has returned to his own work, and the tips of his ears are conspicuously red.
If there is anything that Arthur has learnt over the years, however, it’s that his pride is the least important thing he has. When Merlin leaves, deep into the night and after they’ve burnt several candles, Arthur takes his clothes out of the wardrobe again. The silver thread of the black tunic Merlin wore most often is coming loose at the ends, and Arthur picks at it listlessly.
What difference does it make, really, if Merlin wears his old clothes? Arthur doesn’t use them anymore, and if the price of Merlin’s comfort is the fact that he makes Arthur’s heart quicken at the sight of him—well, it’s not as if he doesn’t do that regardless of what he wears. This is a game Arthur has lost, and will keep losing undoubtedly; Merlin has wormed his way too close to Arthur’s heart, and to remove him would be to never love another again.
Arthur stares at the clothes for a moment, the handful of tunics and the coats he has assembled, and puts them on his table. He debates if he needs to write a note for a moment, and decides not to. If Merlin can keep his secrets, then so can Arthur, even if he feels he will give them away with a mere look.
He goes to sleep, and by the time Merlin wakes him up, the pile of clothes has disappeared. Merlin does not wear them that day, but the morning after, he wears one of the white tunics that has made its way onto the pile. Arthur does not comment on it, and neither does Merlin, but Arthur feels lighter nonetheless.
There are things he can fix when they’ve been broken, it turns out.
Interlude.
Arthur learns another way to live.
It’s not so much settling into a distant longing as it is about acknowledging that Merlin is an essential part of him. In a way, he is better off like this, and it is easier to push down his affection when he slings an arm over Merlin’s shoulder when he can tell himself to appreciate the friendship he has instead of pretending there is nothing else here. Arthur grows used to the fabrics clinging to Merlin’s shoulders and biceps, and learns to appreciate it from afar.
Merlin is not hurt by his carefully-curbed love. There is no shame in what Arthur does; the only one whose heart aches and is softened in turns is his own. This, more than anything else he has done, feels like being king; putting his kingdom before everything; before Merlin, before himself, before anything that slices through his life like a knife through flesh. Camelot is his life and his blood, and Arthur has vowed to give her everything that is his, including his heart.
He thinks that Merlin understands that too, no matter how little or how much he has guessed of Arthur’s feelings towards him. Perhaps that is half of the reason that Arthur loves him so much at all.
“Leon did say Bayard was very positive about you,” Merlin reminds him, just as Arthur is about to pace himself into a fright for the preparations for Queen Annis’ visit. Now that Arthur has ascended to the throne, many will come to see for themselves the young ruler of Camelot; to assess his fairness and the quality of his rule, and mostly to see how their alliances will hold. Uther had a reputation, and Arthur will no doubt gain another. It is his hope that he will be seen as a fair king; stern enough that no one will turn against him, but soft-hearted enough that he can show mercy. He wants peace, above all, and he has some ideas about how to gain it.
“Bayard knows me better than most other kings,” Arthur says, even though Bayard has only visited the one time when Merlin was in his service. “My father and he allied when I was a child, and they had many talks when I was just a boy. Not all kings and queens can say the same, and… not all of them liked my father, I’m afraid.”
Merlin makes a face. “Well, your father didn’t much care about being liked,” he reminds him.
“Neither do I,” Arthur says, and when Merlin raises an eyebrow at him, he amends, “It doesn’t equal to being liked as much as it does to being respected, and not in the way that my father always meant it—respect through fear, I mean. I want to be known as fair. I want to be respected because I do my best by my people. It’s not—of course I want to be a great warrior,” he tries, because he has never been capable of putting this in words, “but not as my greatest skill—I want to be…”
“A king of peace,” Merlin finishes for him.
“Yes,” Arthur says, relieved that Merlin understands so effortlessly. “Pick up the sword for peace, and not for glory, or for anything else. Albion has been so divided, and even now there’s rumours about war in the north… we need to be united, Merlin, more now than ever.”
“Perhaps you will need to fight to get it,” Merlin says quietly. “One day.”
They both know that the conflicts that are breaking out are only escalating—one piece of land that belongs to one king or another, Arthur knows, and the fragile borders losing their shape as they go, and warriors pledging themselves to one monarch or the next. Peace is breaking, and Arthur wants to cup his hands together and catch what is left of it. Merlin is right, though; there is a fair chance that Arthur will have to fight for it before his reign is out.
But until then, a king of peace.
“Perhaps,” he says only, because there are lighter things to be spoken of. “Things will need to change regardless. The laws around the druids, for one thing; the taxes, for another. We cannot be at war with ourselves if a storm is brewing outside of Camelot. Merlin, what are you doing?”
Merlin had been startled by his words, although Arthur isn’t sure why. But Merlin had leaned fully forward when Arthur had mentioned the druids, his face pale. “What do you mean, the druids?”
“The ban on magic,” Arthur says. “It needs to be reviewed. At the very least for the druids. I discussed this with Bayard as well—were you not paying attention?”
“I didn’t notice,” Merlin says faintly. “Sorry. I’m just—sorry.”
“As long as you dress appropriately when I discuss it with Annis,” Arthur says, waving it away. “She’s more of a stickler to the laws than Bayard, as far as I’m aware, and she won’t take kindly to you tumbling over your own feet and drenching us all in wine. Merlin, are you listening to me?”
“No, never,” Merlin says absentmindedly, and then looks up suddenly, so quickly that it’s nearly frightening. “I can bring back the clothes. I’ve bought new ones, so I’m not—they’re all appropriate, I checked with Gwen, so I don’t need yours anymore.”
The change in subject is jarring, and Arthur blinks. “What?”
“I can bring them back,” Merlin says, a flush high on his cheekbones.
“I don’t need you to,” Arthur tells him. “I just—you were cold, and you didn’t need to be. Why on Earth did you buy your own right after I gave mine to you?”
“It wasn’t about the warmth,” Merlin says, and the pink hue settles darkly on his cheeks as he ducks Arthur’s gaze. “Sorry, it’s not—they were familiar, and they were yours, and I’m sorry that I took them for so long. I shouldn’t have. I don’t know why I did. So many things were changing, and you’ve had all of these clothes forever, and then it just became convenient, and they’re yours, and—sorry. I’m sorry.”
Arthur stares at him. Merlin isn’t meeting his eyes at all, just clenching and unclenching his fists, suddenly very interested in the floor.
“I know things have changed,” Arthur says, finally. “But not all of it, Merlin. And if you—I don’t mind. If you wear them. I’ve sort of… grown fond of the idea, truly.”
His own cheeks burn hotly, and Merlin’s eyes snap up to him. “You do?”
“I don’t have to look at your rags all day long,” Arthur says, his tongue feeling too large in his mouth, awkward and fumbling and uttering all the wrong things. “If you want them—for warmth, or familiarity, or any other reason… they’re yours.”
“Mine,” Merlin repeats, as if that is too odd a notion to grasp without openly saying the words. Maybe he does it so that Arthur can correct him, but Arthur doesn’t; he just waits until Merlin swallows and fiddles with his thumbs.
“Keep them,” Arthur repeats, just to make sure Merlin knows. “Wear them. Wear them when Annis is here, and it’ll be appropriate and it’ll show them all—well.”
It’ll show them that Merlin really does have Arthur’s favour; intentionally, this time.
Merlin nods slowly, and uncurls his fists slowly. Crescent-shaped indents have formed in his palms, and Arthur stares at those rather than at Merlin’s face, because he thinks he will know what he will find.
“I will,” Merlin says, and then there’s a hand on Arthur’s cheek, forcing him to look Merlin in the eye. And he was wrong, because Merlin’s expression is empty of the hesitance and the doubtful friendship Arthur thought he’d see; instead, there’s something determinedly pinched in the set of his brow.
Merlin leans down, and kisses him on the lips—softly, quietly, dryly, for only a second, and Arthur freezes. It lasts a second, and it is the longest and shortest second of Arthur’s life simultaneously, and before he has even had the time to reach up to cusp Merlin’s cheek and return the unexpected gesture of affection, Merlin has pulled back. A quiet, pleased smile curls his lips upwards, and Arthur swallows at the sight of it.
“You will be a good king,” Merlin vows. “Make sure you get some sleep, sire. Don’t spend the rest of the night pacing.”
Normally, he would retort in a similar vein, keeping up the fast-paced slinging of arguments. Now, however, Arthur is struck quiet, and all he can think to say is, “I won’t.”
Merlin bites his lower lip, amusement glinting in his eyes even as his cheeks burn. And Arthur is such a fool that he never even considered that Merlin might have seen into even the deepest recesses of him. Merlin knows him better than he even knows himself, perhaps; Arthur wonders why he kissed him.
Because Arthur wanted him to, or—dare he consider it?—because Merlin wanted to?
“Good night, Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, and slips out of the room.
+1
Somehow, Queen Annis’ visit doesn’t seem nearly so daunting as Bayard’s did.
There is a period of grace, Arthur considers, for both him and his people, to get used to what the kingdom will be when he is the one to lead it. They are all learning, and he most of all, and maybe this is that point in time where the lesson sticks.
Where he knows what kind of ruler he will be, and how to implement it.
Annis is kind and understanding, and she is a fair ruler. They talk about magic a bit, but mostly about the pains of advisors who all want something different, and the balance between ruling mercifully and ruling strictly, and he tentatively even tells her a little bit about Uther when she asks, and she pats his hand in a motherly fashion.
When she has retired, quirking her eyebrows at him as if to tell him she’s impressed, Arthur quickly returns to his own chambers with Merlin following his every step. When the door finally closes, Arthur slumps against it, and feels a boneless relief.
Merlin wears his dark tunic and one of Arthur’s jackets, and he sits down next to Arthur on the ground. He pushes his shoulder against Arthur’s amicably, and they fall into a comfortable silence. Arthur focuses on Merlin’s calm breathing, making sure his eyes are fixed far away. Merlin may own his clothes now, but Arthur still can barely bear to see him in them, especially now that he has felt Merlin’s lips pressed against his own.
His heart beats fast, despite the silence. Merlin’s fingers come tantalisingly closer, and then they settle on Arthur’s thigh, bold and slender and so close that they burn Arthur’s skin.
“Thank you for the clothes,” Merlin says, simply, as if they did not just pass an evening with one of Albion’s queens, a woman that Arthur direly needs to impress if he wants an alliance with her. As if the most important thing that has happened is what has occurred between them.
“You’re welcome,” Arthur says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I should’ve known you to be too cheap to buy any of your own.”
Merlin’s smile feels private, even though he’s seen it a thousand times before. “Maybe if you paid me a decent wage.”
“I do,” Arthur protests. “More than you’re worth, anyhow.”
“Oh, you do?” Merlin says. “What’s that, then?”
“What?”
Merlin jostles his shoulder against Arthur’s again. “What am I worth?”
Arthur looks away at once. He has spent so many years with Merlin out of his focus—there on the edge of Arthur’s vision, like a blurry picture; like the sun, not to be stared at unless he was willing to be blinded. It seems he has made a habit out of looking away, and only learnt to be drawn back in once Merlin changed. Changed his clothes, changed their dynamic, and uprooted even the settlement of Arthur’s already-unruly existence.
“More than you could possibly imagine,” he tells Merlin before he even means to. Merlin’s face softens in a combination of surprise and clear fondness, and it’s not nearly so well-hidden that Arthur can’t tell. Perhaps Merlin knows him best, but Arthur has spent just as many years learning Merlin.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, swallows, and then brings their lips together again gently. It’s so slow that Arthur could pull away at any time, and he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes open until Merlin kisses him, and only then allows himself to drown in it; pulling Merlin close, so that he will know that Arthur wants him, more than he has ever wanted anything for himself.
“It sends a message,” he says, a breath against Merlin’s lower lip. “That you wear these clothes. My clothes. And I couldn’t—you have my favour, in all ways, no matter how horrible of a servant you are, because you are my friend, and more than that—”
“I know,” Merlin says, frantically, and his thumb presses hotly against Arthur’s nape. “I didn’t realise, not at first, but then I couldn’t stop—and they smelled like you, and I didn’t have to pretend so much that you didn’t drive me mad like the prat you are, but they do, and I didn’t think you’d care—”
“I care,” Arthur says, and Merlin looks at him dryly, so familiar that Arthur is nearly choked with the affection that rises up in his throat.
“I know,” Merlin reiterates, and both of them laugh, snickering like nervous boys as they’re pressed against each other. But Merlin is a boy no longer, and nor is Arthur; they have grown up together, and they have grown entangled, incapable of being separated without damage. “You are the king, Arthur. I didn’t want to make things more complicated for you.”
“By wearing my clothes?” Arthur asks, and runs a hand over the silver threading on Merlin’s shoulder.
Merlin smiles weakly. “Not really,” he says. “Mostly—other things. There’s—you ought to know something, Arthur, and I should’ve told you a long time ago, or maybe I shouldn’t have told you at all, I don’t know, I’ve never known when to do this, but I’ve wanted—”
“Merlin,” Arthur says.
Merlin bites his lower lip, and it is red and tantalisingly close. Arthur puts his thumb over it, and breathes slowly. Merlin’s eyes are large and dark on his own, and something heavy has settled over them. The affection is no longer so easy, but it’s there.
It’s there, and Arthur never even considered it could be. Has been so caught up in making sure that Merlin didn’t know about his devotion that he never thought to look for Merlin’s.
“Will it change things?” Arthur asks. When Merlin nods, slowly, he presses his lips together, and adds, “Will it change us?”
“Possibly,” Merlin says, and winces. “Probably. But not—not if you don’t want to. Not for me.”
“Alright,” Arthur says, and smiles. “Let’s leave it for tomorrow then, can’t we? If it’s waited that long, I don’t see why we need to spoil a perfectly nice evening.”
Merlin stares at him as if he’s grown another head. “Are you sure?”
“Merlin,” Arthur says. “I’ve spent an entire evening catering to one of the most powerful women in all of Albion and have had to deal with your annoyingly aggravating presence for all of it, and I haven’t even had the option to take off the clothes I’ve given you. If there’s something I have to deal with, and it has waited for that long, I don’t see the harm in waiting for another day. Not if you are willing to let it lie.”
“I didn’t know I was so aggravating, my lord,” Merlin says, and swats at Arthur’s face. Arthur grabs his hands before he can, and runs his thumb over Merlin’s bony wrist.
“That tunic,” Arthur says, and leans closer to breathe in Merlin’s ear, “looks very good on you, and I’d like to take it off.”
Merlin’s ears are red, and Arthur nuzzles against them before he leans back to look at him. Merlin shivers, and then slowly nods. “You can,” he murmurs. “And then tomorrow—”
“And then we’ll see what tomorrow brings,” Arthur declares, and reaches for the buttons on Merlin’s tunic. It will be the first time that Merlin is the one undressed in this room, and Arthur can let his fingers linger like a servant never could. But he is the king, and Merlin is willing to give him this, and Arthur doesn’t need his propriety when he can have his honesty, and his heart, and his loyalty—and it has all been given to him, he knows that, and it is his.
And it won’t be tomorrow, or the day after, but perhaps in a year or so, Arthur will have to see if he still has an old crown that will fit Merlin. If Merlin wants it, and if it fits them—
Merlin wrestles himself out of his tunic, his skin warm against Arthur’s, and Arthur considers the glint of silver threads that now fall to the floor, and the flash of pale gold of Merlin’s skin in the candlelight, and maybe—
Maybe he can have a crown especially made.