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Even though he never fails to pitch a fit about it, Gwaine doesn’t mind being punished when he’s earned it. Polishing boots or sharpening swords is merely a good excuse to spend time with his favourite person in Camelot—and unfortunately Arthur is just canny enough to have picked up on it.
“No,” he tells Merlin firmly, arms crossed over his broad chest, chin up and jaw set. The sweat from the training field has darkened his hair and given a healthy flush to him. “Gwaine earned the punishment by himself, so he can do the work by himself.”
“I really don’t mind,” Merlin argues, which all but signs the proclamation that Gwaine will never see the yard, or indeed the light of day again. He can see his own future spread out in front of him in clarity: locked up in the armoury doing menial labour until he’s shriveled up like old tree-bark left out to dry. Wrinkles upon wrinkles.
“Will you still love me when I’m an old man?” Gwaine demands of Merlin, already in mourning over his handsome face. He was young, once.
Arthur sputters, growing red, but it earns Gwaine a sweet laugh. “I’ll see you before then,” Merlin promises. The blue of his eyes sparkles, even in the dim light. “You’ll be out before you know it.”
Arthur bullies a reluctant Merlin out of the armoury before he leans down. “No you won’t,” he murmurs, a promise of his own. Gwaine grins at him, delighted, which in turn sends Arthur stomping out of the room, door slamming behind him. A spear topples over in the wake of it, kicking up a waft of dust.
Sharpening a sword is more muscle memory than anything else by now, so often has he done it; so Gwaine makes himself comfortable, tossing a whetstone hand to hand before he cracks on. He whistles tunelessly, watching the patch of sunlight moving in a slow path from where it pours in through the grotty, half-open window.
So he notices the shadow quickly.
“I sing of a maiden,” Gwaine belts out, watching Merlin’s head poke through the back window. The beautiful, marvelous sneak that he is.
“Shh!” Merlin chides him. “It’s like you want to get caught.”
“Maybe I do.”
An apple is thrown at him for his impudence, and Gwaine learns absolutely nothing. It tastes sweet. Still cool from the larder. “Won’t you come in, o’ fair maiden?” he asks around his mouthful.
“I don’t want to get yelled at,” Merlin denies, but he’s already clambering through the window, the liar. It’s an awkward squeeze even for a man as whipcord-thin as Merlin, but between the two of them he finds both his boots on even ground once more, feet still in them and all. Gwaine holds him by his pointy elbows and beams just for the joy of seeing him.
Along with him, Merlin’s smuggled a bundle of contraband from the kitchens, wrapped up snug in soft cheesecloth. A crusty bread and wedge of hard cheese, apples and half-smashed berries—even a little honey cake that’s only worth two bites. They save that for last, an unspoken accord.
The work goes quicker with two, but only barely, too busy chattering like fishwives.
It’s really no wonder they are discovered. Arthur bellows for Merlin from the yard, as he is wont to do–and he is quick as a bloodhound to sniff out the armoury.
He knows them both too well, perhaps.
Arthur storms in, putting on a loud, haranguing production on honour and discipline and what have you, dragging Merlin away as he does. Gwaine cannot help but feel bemused. It’s like watching a cranky child who has had his favourite toy stolen throw a temper tantrum.
Well then.
Merlin had helped him with the swords, smiling all the while like he had nowhere better to be. Such a gift deserves to be rewarded in kind. “Oh, Merlin,” Gwaine calls out, as the man is hauled up by the arm, “you should take the honey cake.” Gwaine stuffs it into his hand, ignoring the crumbs and the sticky mess it leaves on his fingers. “It will be just as sweet to watch you eat it as to have it for myself.”
Merlin looks at him askance, but also tends to eat as though he has two hollow legs and knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. The cake disappears before Arthur can say so much as a single word about it, vanishing in one single bite, not two. An outraged prince marches his manservant away, half carrying him and squawking all the while–and with his cheeks overfull like a squirrel, Merlin throws Gwaine a cheery wave over his shoulder.
Gwaine waves back, and Arthur seethes.
Licking his fingers clean before the next sword in the line is picked up, Gwaine finds that no chore in the world can temper his bliss. He whistles brightly, keeping his eyes deadlocked with Arthur’s as the door shuts between them with ringing finality.
Prick.
***
It’s almost painful, now that he’s become aware of it.
Impossible to ignore. Watching them is like having the bright sun shine in your eyes after three days and nights in a dim tavern.
Arthur, fruitlessly pulling Merlin’s pigtails–Merlin, not noticing Arthur is, all the while wishing he would. Then maybe it’s Arthur’s turn once more, being all mopey and broken-hearted when Merlin fails once again to understand whatever strange princey-dance they do here in Camelot when they want to tup people.
Poor, innocent Gwaine, forced to watch them. And the rest of the knights, he supposes, but he’s not too bothered about that lot.
Leon rubs a hand down his face.
Percival yawns.
Merlin fills Arthur’s chalice with wine—and gets no thanks, mind you—moving down the line to Gwaine when he hopefully raises his own cup. A rather flinty-eyed Arthur observes. Gwaine is still not forgiven, then.
“Thank you, Merlin,” he says purposefully, fluttering his eyelashes as he drinks deeply. Merlin snorts in amusement, but by far the most satisfying thing about it all is the way Arthur looks as though he’s bitten down on a whole bushel full of lemons.
If Arthur doesn’t like it, Gwaine reasons, he should say thank you for himself.
***
The next time Arthur doesn’t say thank you, Gwaine puts his hand on Merlin’s back, stroking down the long length of it, from the short curls of hair at the nape of his neck to the neat cinch of his waist.
“Thanks,” he praises, throwing a wink to an agape Arthur as he does. It’s wonderful.
So wonderful, in fact, that for the next fortnight, for every brusque word that spills from Arthur’s lips, Gwaine spills three sweet ones.
***
It’s funny, at first.
Less so, as Arthur grows more and more frustrated. Well, Gwaine reasons, that’s not quite right. It’s nothing so simple as frustration; in truth he’s not entirely sure what it is other than hard to watch. Some nameless haunting.
The crux of it is that Gwaine has been assuming all of this time that Arthur was merely being an ass. Now, however, things are not so plain. What is plain is that there is a great deal more to Arthur’s feelings than simply wanting to tumble Merlin into the nearest haystack. Of course he also wants to tumble Merlin into the nearest haystack, but that’s not all there is to it. No, Arthur wants to hold his hand, and look into his eyes, and tell him that he’s the loveliest thing in all of Albion.
Gwaine can tell. He’s got an instinct for things like this.
A father like Uther, though…
A sobering thought rolls over and over in Gwaine’s mind, unrelenting. What if Arthur was never shown how to love in any other way?
A tragedy, if so, but one for which there is a remedy.
***
Gwaine curls his hand around Merlin’s rib, fitting his palm flat against the exquisite curve of it. Savours the bright motion that rocks them as Merlin laughs. It’s hardly a chore, by any means, to be demonstrably friendly with Merlin. Indeed, what it is, above all other things, is Gwaine’s most sacred (admittedly self-given) duty.
Look, he urges Arthur with every gesture, look at how easy it is to love him.
In fact it’s quite simple to seek out Merlin’s charms. Harder not to, in truth. There is a fineness in the way he’s put together, all long sweeping lines, pale skin and mink-dark hair. The blue of his eyes, the flush that rises on his cheeks so easily and so rosily. Gwaine could write a poem about his smile, but it wouldn’t be any good. Perhaps he will anyway. Suffice it to say, were Merlin born under a noble banner, they’d be singing about his virtues three kingdoms over–but he was born with no claim to anything more than his own wits, so here they are.
Lucky, lucky Gwaine.
Arthur, across the campfire, fumes so darkly the only shock is that smoke doesn’t pour out of his ears and away into the night sky.
Merlin had done an exemplary job and been right about everything, as usual. He’d pulled all of their collective fat out of the fire with his quick thinking, again, as usual, and Arthur had, as usual, done precisely nothing to praise him. Well, not nothing. Yet one princely slug on the arm and a gruff, overly manly nod is not what a delicate soul like Merlin needs.
More annoyingly, it’s not what a delicate soul like Arthur needs, either.
Both of them need tending to, but Arthur would likely take a bite out of Gwaine’s hand were he to try anything, whereas Merlin opens up like a flower seeing the sun for the first time each and every time Gwaine leans in with a mischievous grin. He catches Arthur’s eye through the dancing sparks of the fire, and rests his head upon Merlin’s shoulder, nosing in towards his neck.
“Hey,” he says quietly, “want to hear a joke?”
The corner of Merlin’s lips tug upwards too, even though Gwaine hasn’t said a funny word yet. “Yeah, alright then,” he agrees. Between them where they are pressed together it is almost too hot, this close to the fire as they are, though neither of them moves.
“There was a monk, walking through town,” Gwaine begins, still grinning at Arthur, and keeping his voice quiet enough that he might be whispering anything. “He’d lost half his teeth, and the others were so loose that—”
“Ugh, that’s foul,” Merlin complains, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sure I do want to hear this joke any longer.”
“No, no,” Gwaine belts out a laugh, unable to help himself, “don’t worry, in the end it’s about testicles—” Merlin shoves him, laughing along in spite of himself, covering his mouth with a hand to hide his grin. “No, no!” Gwaine chants again, and tugs his hands away in order to see his smile, and Arthur sullenly throws a twig into the fire, looking down at his own feet.
Idiot.
When they finally set out their bedrolls and a watch order is assigned, Gwaine makes sure to carefully lay his own so the edge of it just overlaps Merlin’s–just a pinch. It’s chilly, once the sun has set, after all.
Innocent enough, to anyone who is not Arthur.
Arthur, who is bullying Merlin into setting his own bedroll out, over and over again, until he is satisfied. It’s on a lush spot of soft grass and clover, and has no one crowding in along the edges whatsoever. He sends a challenging look Gwaine’s way, and all Gwaine has to do to get back at him is pat Merlin’s bedroll, beckoning him over with a wink.
Arthur settles in, arms crossed, certain to be awake half the night stewing. Next to Gwaine, Merlin settles in with no stewing at all–only a content little sigh.
“Night, Merlin,” Gwaine coos obnoxiously. Leon covers his ears with his hands, but it’s not about him, now is it? Arthur winds up even tighter, if that’s possible.
“Night, Gwaine,” Merlin replies. He’s pulled his thin little blanket up so far it covers his nose and all Gwaine can see is the shine of his eyes as he smiles. It’s only the work of a moment to settle Gwaine’s blanket over the two of them–although for it to cover them both they are forced to have a cuddle.
All in all Merlin isn’t a bad bit of body to lay with. A little bony, and his nose is cold–but he doesn’t snore, or kick.
No, it’s Arthur who kicks—a shocking wake-up call after such a dreamy doze.
“Get up, layabout,” he says meanly, “it’s your turn at watch.”
“Alright, alright, keep your pants on,” Gwaine groans, shuffling backwards. One of Merlin’s hands escapes the tangle of blankets, reaching to sleepily draw him back in. “If I must,” he sighs, resigned, “although–”
“Shut up,” Arthur orders, looking past him entirely.
“Just saying,” Gwaine shrugs, rolling out his shoulders, “it’s still nice and toasty in here, if you wanted to—”
“Shut up,” Arthur orders him again. He turns away, but not fast enough to hide the ruby red flush on his face.
Gwaine watches. Not for bandits, really; he’s not too worried about that. No, he watches Arthur, who watches Merlin. An arm is flung up out of the blankets, his wrist a white strip in the grass. The moon is bright, and Merlin’s skin is luminous under her favour, glowing like alabaster or pearls or something suitably poetic.
Gwaine looks away, then. The naked yearning on Arthur’s face seems a little too personal, even for him.
He turns his eyes instead to the velvety sky. It spins above them, clear enough that he can see the ribbon of stars cutting down to the horizon, and eventually, the break of gold that spills over the hills like honey.
Arthur, fool that he is, does not sleep, even though his turn at watch has long since ended. He only has eyes for one thing.
That’s usual, too.
***
Despite the long odds—and frustrating oblivious student—Gwaine is not a quitter. He presses a messy kiss to Merlin’s cheek when he brings waterskins to them. Helps when Merlin has to clean the chainmail, chivalrously carrying all the heaviest bits. He opens doors and he brings flowers.
Look, he nods mockingly to Arthur.
This is how you do it.
When Arthur offers his hand to Merlin to aid him in dismounting his horse–always a dangerous event, with Merlin–it feels like sweet, sweet victory.
“He’s learning,” Gwaine whispers to Lancelot, who watches the spectacle of Merlin hanging half-way upside-down off a horse with insulting incredulity. At least this time Arthur tries to set him upright whilst laughing, instead of only laughing.
They’ll get there, Gwaine swears.
***
The Rising Sun is over-full, fires roaring, and noisy with the boisterous, constant low roar of a drunk crowd. A sticky table, a warbling lute-player in the corner, and a warm, tipsy Merlin rucked up under Gwaine’s arm–it’s everything in life that a man needs.
On his other side, Arthur takes a polite sip of his ale, plainly sulking.
“I’m going to get us another, shall I? Budge over.” It’s Arthur that Gwaine shoves out of the way, and it’s Arthur that he shoves back into his seat. Directness is called for. He claps a warm hand to Arthur’s shoulder, leaning in so Merlin can’t overhear. “You might try talking to him. You might even be nice.”
The two of them, Gwaine huffs, wandering to the bar. Taking his sweet time to do so, too. It’s a rare day indeed when all the knights can come out together, and to Gwaine’s reckoning it’s also a rare, golden opportunity. If only Arthur’s feeble little mind could catch up. Well, Gwaine had thought that Arthur was the idiot, but he’s come to realise it’s both of them in a set pair. They deserve each other, really. It’s a service, that Gwaine’s doing, for the whole of Camelot.
“Come on, man,” he urges under his breath, watching them sit there, stiff as statues. There is barely room to breathe, let alone have any semblance of personal space–the perfect opportunity to throw an arm over your manservant, to any rational mind. Or a leg, Gwaine isn’t picky at this point. There is a certain segment of the patrons in the Rising Sun who would pay good coin for that particular show, in fact. “Come on.”
“Sorry, busy night! Yes, love?” the barmaid asks, breathless.
“Oh, I wasn’t trying to rush you.” Gwaine apologises with a smile. He knows better than to ruffle the feathers of the woman bringing you ale. “Six more,” he orders, putting the coppers down in a tidy stack, “and take your time.”
He leans against the bar, letting his head drop back and some of the tension drip, drip, drip away. Arthur should be well and truly provoked, by now, the competitive sod. And have some ideas of his own on what to do about it. What else need a man do? He opens his eyes when he hears someone join him at the bar. Merlin—and for maybe the first time in his life, Gwaine wishes he’d stayed behind. Arthur , he despairs, what are you thinking in letting him go?
“It’s busy!” Merlin shouts over the din, dimpling at the barmaid when she at last returns, overburdened with mugs. She slides them across the counter, dipping low to look at the two of them from under her eyelashes, smiling sweetly and showcasing her spectacular bosom all at once.
“Heartbreaker,” Gwaine teases, as they go back to the table.
Merlin places a mug in front of Arthur before settling on his other side, leaning over him to speak to Gwaine. Tipsy enough that he leans on Arthur’s shoulder, and speaks a little more freely than he might otherwise. “What do you mean?”
“She was flirting–you can’t tell me you didn’t notice!”
“She wasn’t,” Merlin easily denies. When he shakes his head little curls of hair, all fluffed up from the heat of the room, brush against Arthur’s very red cheeks. Gwaine suspects that red has little to do with the heat of the room; Merlin has crawled halfway into his lap.
“She shouldn’t have,” Arthur interrupts. His shoulders are stiff. It’s like he’s never spoken to another human being before. “In front of Gwaine. It was rude.”
“She wasn’t,” Merlin denies once more, wetting his bottom lip. “No one ever flirts with me.” This time he stares right into Arthur’s eyes as he says it, from just a heartbeat of distance, and neither of them pull away. It’s indecent, is what it is, and that’s coming from Gwaine. “And Gwaine wouldn’t care if she did, why would he?”
“She really was,” Gwaine confirms, packed tight on Arthur’s other side. Percival studiously ignores them all from across the table, and Elyan is pretending he doesn’t know them. Smart men. “Say thank you,” he hisses, elbowing Arthur hard enough that his ale sloshes over the side of his cup, trickling down over his clenched fingers. Leading by example is clearly doing nothing–Arthur needs it spelled out plain.
Arthur clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says, flicking the drink off of his hands with a grimace. “For the, uh, ale.”
It’s pathetic, Gwaine thinks, already rolling his eyes. That is, until Merlin lights up from within, as though he’s been crowned. His smile is softer, and the room seems to glow golden with the joy of it. Gwaine would swear it even smells better in here, like lilies and lavender rather than sweat and stale drink. Merlin is so easy.
“Merlin, you girl,” Arthur rasps wetly.
So easy. And yet.
Gwaine drains his mug in one long pull, slamming it on the table once he’s done and blinking stars from his eyes. It’s thirsty work, shepherding these two fools. “I’m getting another.”
“I’ll come with you,” says Percival over the two full cups still in front of him. Elyan stands without a word, abandoning them to practically leap over the table to get to the bar.
“Me too,” says Leon, eyes turned anywhere other than at Arthur and Merlin and their strange little courtship dance.
“I’ll help,” Lancelot offers in chorus, smiling blankly and dodging Gwaine’s hands as he tries to haul him back.
Not a one of them has the stomach for war. “Cowards!” Gwaine shouts, half-risen but now reluctant to abandon Merlin and Arthur—who knows what they’ll do left to their own devices. Stare, seemingly. Adoringly. And endlessly, good gods. Have they nothing better to do? “Wait up!”
***
The autumn is a beautiful one, with crisp, clean air carrying leaves of gold and red dancing down the road ahead. Flowers of every shade bob along as the leaves go, and above them little shreds of white clouds roam the sky. The sun is still a warm one; winter is yet a distant beast. It’s not quite harvest time, but the preparations are underway and everything is bustling and full of life. Hence why they’ve taken this routine border patrol, which, in Gwaine’s experience, means at least one injury—he hopes it’s not him.
It’ll probably be him.
It’ll probably be Arthur that does the injuring, come to think of it. Maybe this isn’t a routine border patrol at all, but a terribly obvious trap with many witnesses, in order to teach the knights to fear Arthur again. He probably brought Merlin along to dig the grave, a final insult. To which of them, Gwaine is not certain.
“Should I die,” he instructs Merlin, “I want you to have all my things.”
“I don’t want all your things,” Merlin says callously. “I’ve seen your things, and I’m alright.”
“The barbs of your arrows sink deeply,” Gwaine tuts, urging his horse to take him to ride by Arthur, instead, as a measure of his disapproval. “Merlin’s being mean,” he tattles.
“Good,” says Arthur, squinting into the distance.
“Oh, come on.” Gwaine rolls his eyes, patting at his horse's mane as they make their way towards the treeline. “You can’t be angry with me. I’m the only person in Camelot bold enough to help you. And boy do you need help.”
A muscle in Arthur’s jaw clenches. His back is set straight as Excalibur, and in the afternoon sun he’s limned with gold. With a profile so regal, it’s easy to forget he’s mostly an idiot. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Merlin requires a careful hand, you know,” Gwaine tries to be blunt, since subtly clearly isn’t working. He looks around for inspiration, truly on his last legs. The blooms around them wave. “Give him flowers, yeah? I think—”
“I think you should shut your mouth,” Arthur suggests, and it’s not a suggestion at all. He turns towards Gwaine at last, glare as frigid as midwinter. “What the two of you do together is hardly any of my business.”
Gwaine considers this, for a moment. Is Arthur shy? Is it possible he doesn’t know how to? Gwaine considers himself a good friend, to those precious few he counts, but even he doesn’t know if he wants to tackle that conversation. “It could be, though,” he says carefully, “if you wanted. I know it’s a little daunting at first, but I think you’re underestimating yourself! Hm. Love is a beautiful thing. It comes in every shade and from unexpected places; just like the wildflowers do! Let me tell you a story about a bird and a bee—”
“Please don’t,” Arthur groans, burying his face in his hands. His neck is red like a lobster. “I’m … well, no, I’m not happy for you, that’s a lie—”
This is when Gwaine is shot with an arrow.
There is quite a lot of fighting, after that, and shouting, and really, in the end, Gwaine is pretty happy to have a bit of a rest. Falling off of his horse was an accident, but the unconsciousness bit, well that bit is pretty good.
***
The first thing he sees is Merlin’s angelic face leaning over him, a soft, cool cloth in hand. He is tender as he sees to Gwaine’s comfort. Unfortunately, he ruins it all by opening his mouth. “Arthur says you tried to invite him to have a ‘ménage à trois’ with us? What’s that?”
He pronounces French words like he’s never so much as heard the language before, which, come to think of it, he might not’ve. Gwaine, when he was a much younger lad, had tutors, of course, and Arthur certainly must have as well. “Uh,” he mumbles, playing up that he is a little more dizzy than he truly is, “I think Arthur probably hit his head in the battle. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Merlin cocks his head at him, not buying it for a minute. He doesn’t ask again, though, patting carefully around the wound. It’s on the meat of Gwaine’s left arm. So far as such things go it’s lucky.
“The mail stopped most of it,” Merlin says, voice quiet with just the two of them in the tent. “It’s shallow and doesn’t show any signs of infection. I think you got unlucky when you fell, though, so I want to watch you for the night. You’ll be ready to travel tomorrow, and Gaius will have a better look at you.”
“Thanks, Merlin,” Gwaine says, reaching up to take Merlin’s wrist. It’s so thin. Fragile. Gwaine’s hands are rough, calloused from years of hard sword work, and so he takes great care to be gentle. “You’re my best mate, you know that, don’t you?” Merlin smiles down at him, and it makes him feel light, and free of sin. All will be well, so long as Merlin is here–so long as Merlin is happy. “I was lost, before you. You found me, though.”
“Gwaine,” Merlin sniffs in weak denial, shyly pleased.
A bubble of amusement tickles Gwaine’s heart. He can deny Merlin nothing. “And because you are my best, most wonderful and most dear friend, I am going to tell you what a ménage à trois is. But also, I’m going to need you to guess first.” Gwaine grins, waiting.
Merlin frowns, wrinkling his, frankly adorable, nose. “Is it a kind of fish?” Gwaine laughs so hard he might reopen his wound, but it’s worth it. “Like the trout! The cook makes it!” Merlin defends himself, blushing to the tips of his ears.
“That’s meunière,” Gwaine hiccups, wiping tears from his eyes, “but that is also French, yes. Oh, Merlin, you’re too good for him.”
Merlin ducks his head, the pink in his cheeks fading away before he speaks again. “I’m not,” he disagrees.
“You’re too good for all of us,” Gwaine insists. The tent billows this way and that in the autumn breeze. He’s cold, where his shoulder is uncovered, and Merlin tucks the softest blanket over it, light as a feather. Any kindness Gwaine has shown him is always repaid ten times over, isn’t it? There is no debt between them, though; there never is. A swell of fondness comes over him, so vast he cannot see the ends of it.
“A ménage à trois,” he says brightly, ignoring the shimmer of over-emotional tears he can feel welling in his eyes, “is when three people love each other—well, it’s not always love- love , now is it? Sometimes it’s just love, if you know what I mean. Hm, this is harder than I thought.”
Merlin’s eyes have gone gratifyingly wide, which only serves to make Gwaine want to shock him all the more. “You see, when three people want to—”
“Alright!” Merlin claps a hand over Gwaine’s mouth. “I can guess! Arthur thinks we’re … you’re, I mean? Uhm.”
“Sweet on you?” Gwaine fills in, shaking with suppressed laughter. “Of course he does. He’s jealous, the stupid prick.”
“He’s not,” Merlin says, something breakable in the tremor of his voice.
Gwaine softens, hearing it. “He’s not jealous or he’s not a stupid prick?” he asks, in a tone far kinder than his words. “I assure you he’s both.”
“You have hit your head,” Merlin says, fiddling with the edges of his sleeves and not meeting Gwaine’s eyes at all. He bites his bottom lip until it is red and shining, and all Gwaine can think is that Arthur truly is the biggest fool in Camelot.
“You’ll see,” he promises, although he is growing very sleepy once more.
“Get some rest,” Merlin orders him, and who is Gwaine to disobey?
***
The next time he wakes it’s not Merlin he sees. It’s Arthur.
“Oh, gods,” Gwaine complains, and pretends to go back to sleep.
“I have been informed that I’ve misunderstood—”
“Oh, gods,” Gwaine complains again, but louder.
“And so,” Arthur speaks over him, “you will immediately cease doing whatever it is you’ve been doing, with all of the—” he cuts off, unable to even speak the words, and all at once Gwaine has had enough.
“I’ll cease nothing,” he vows, prying open his sleep-dusted eyes to stare at Arthur. Even in the dark, it doesn’t matter. “Every time you don’t say thank you, I’ll say thank you. Every time you don’t hold his hand, I’ll hold his hand. And every time you don’t kiss him, I’ll kiss him—you just see if I don’t!” He’s shouting by the end of it, and has just enough prudence to hope the rest of the camp can’t hear every word.
Arthur is struck dumb, and Gwaine watches the way his throat bobs. His anger leaves him as quickly as it came to him—it’s impossible to hold onto in the face of Arthur’s punched-out agony. “Doesn’t he deserve a bit of kindness?” he asks, though they both know the answer. “Don’t you?”
“If you…” Arthur exhales, shaking his head as though that will get all of the thoughts to fall out. It would be easier if they did, Gwaine thinks. He could just pick them up off the floor and sort through them with his own two hands, maybe finally make some sense out of them. “You love him.”
“Of course I do,” Gwaine says plainly. There is little use denying it. “He’s very easy to love. I think you know that.”
“You love him,” Arthur repeats, ignoring the rest, “so why on earth—”
“Because he loves you.” It doesn’t actually hurt, although Arthur clearly thinks it does, the way his stupid, noble face crumbles. Shades of Lancelot and Gwen colour the air, and Gwaine can’t let Arthur step aside again, he just can’t. “I love everyone,” Gwaine goes on, before Arthur can do something mad like shed a tear or storm off to be a self-sacrificing lummox again. “I love you, even though you’re an ass. I love Percival, and Leon, and Elyan—”
“That’s not really what I mean.” Arthur flushes, and Gwaine cannot help but wonder when the last time anyone had told him they loved him. Was this the first? It mustn't be. It seems too cruel.
“I know,” Gwaine agrees softly, “but that’s what it is.” It takes effort to sit up, but he does, so he can look Arthur in the face. “Love is endless. I’ll never run out. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” He’s not certain how to explain it in a way that might make sense for someone as courtly as Arthur. Forced from boyhood into the shape of a knight, then a prince, a regent. A king.
“I want to win tournaments,” Gwaine muses aloud, letting it bloom behind his eyes, “and give Merlin the wreath.” He doesn’t need to lay with Merlin to love him. He needs something else. Smiles, and patient hands. Loyalty and understanding, all of which he already has in spades. Gwaine’s baser desires are happier when left to wander, and such a thing is a poor fit for Merlin of the one-and-true loving sort. Gwaine feels no bitterness—how could he, when he’s already won the greater prize? “I want to be the sword that stands between him and his enemies. I want to swear an oath to him, and be in his service and wear his colours for everyone from here to Caerleon to see.”
Arthur swallows, his shoulders slumping. His blond fringe hangs over his eyes, but something like fresh hope sparks there as well. “Merlin hasn’t got any colours.”
“Yeah,” Gwaine sighs in agreement, letting the curl of amusement he feels find its way to his voice, “so I’ll just have to wear yours until he does.”
Arthur whips his head up. He’s not a crier, by nature—or if he ever was, Uther had long ago beaten it out of him–but his eyes are shining. The only light is from the narrow gap in the tent flap, the golden light of the campfire cutting across Arthur’s face, illuminating. His hair glistens like burnished gold, and Gwaine can see it, a little, what Merlin finds so terribly easily. That devotion, once it’s woken, is forever.
“You’re not going to kiss him,” Arthur claims at long, long last. Every bit a dragon guarding his hoard. “You’ll never have any reason to.”
Gwaine throws his head back to laugh, delighted beyond measure. He feels light as air. Finally. “That’s all I wanted,” he swears, meaning it down to the very bones of him. When Arthur goes, he hesitates, lingering above Gwaine’s sickbed for a heartbeat, then two, then three. He bends, cupping the back of Gwaine’s head in his strong hands, and presses a kiss to his crown.
“Thank you,” he says, breath warm and tangling in Gwaine’s sleep-mussed hair, “for championing him.”
Gwaine tries to go to sleep, he really does–but he’s been sleeping for hours now and he’s full up. He’s also nosy. It takes very little dithering about the matter before deciding to take a peek outside of the tent flap, blinking into the sudden brightness of the campfire.
All he can see is their silhouettes, so it’s not really peeping, he justifies. Besides, he has to make sure Arthur doesn’t renege on their deal once he’s confronted with the terrifying ordeal of Merlin’s big doe-eyes.
Arthur does not.
It’s not the first kiss Gwaine would have thought. He would have imagined between the two of them there would be months of hand-holding and then perhaps a chaste kiss in a meadow of daisies or some such. In truth, it’s a back-bending, hair-pulling, grasping sort of affair, where in darkness one quickly loses sight of where one ends and the other begins.
Gwaine feels himself blush, and decides maybe Arthur has things well in hand after all, and leaves them to it.
***
Merlin re-dresses the wound in the morn, before they depart. As always, his hands are careful, as if Gwaine is something precious. He opens his (suspiciously kiss-bruised) mouth to speak a good half dozen times before he gets where he’s trying to go. “I love you, too,” he says, all earnest and shy, the words worth more than gold. More than kingdoms.
Gwaine lets them wash over him like high tide, happy to drown.
For how easily he says them, he doesn’t hear them much. It’s a beautiful feeling, and he lets it sit there for a while, just to drink from it. “I know, Merlin,” he agrees, a rare contentedness rolling over his heart. Pride, too—which he thinks is more than fair. He’s well earned it.
“I do like it when he teases me, though,” Merlin says, a cheeky grin dimpling his face when he leans in to whisper. “So maybe don’t poke your nose in too much—”
“I don’t want to know,” Gwaine groans, clapping his hands over his ears, but not firmly enough to block out the sound of Merlin’s laughter ringing out like bells over the dawn.
Ahead of them, Arthur looks back over his shoulder at the sound, free of envy.
Gwaine grins down the line towards him, before leaning into Merlin’s space once more. For old time’s sake. “Want to hear a joke?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows when Merlin leans in too.
Flowers line the road home in countless hues, petals swirling up and into the air.
Arthur catches one in his hand, and shyly holds it out to Merlin.
Merlin takes it.