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Chapter Text

During a quiet moment after the conclusion of a hunt outside of Camelot, in the deepest part of night when the air is dark and cold, and stars shine like white diamonds in the distance, the crackling of wood on the fire and warm ruddy light flickers over the edges of swords. Said light glints off of chainmail and softens faces, sharpening the depths of shadows and the sting of secrets. Perhaps it is due to the chill of the night, or the warmth of the flames, or the soft light that lends some semblance of ethereal beauty to the collection of faces around the fire. It is for certain Gwaine being Gwaine when he pushes back some of his soft long brown hair and asks

"Anyone ever think of someone more than they let on?"

Elyan, who he sits next to, snorts after which Gwaine nudges the side of his leg curiously. "Well, that's rather cryptic. Have you snuck ale out of Camelot in your canteen again, Gwaine?"

"Whatever makes you think that?" Gwaine grins, stretching his arms above his head. "Nah, not this time, Ely. Cannot I ask a simple question?"

"Of course you can," Elyan's teeth shine in the dark as he nudges Gwaine in the side with his elbow, brow lowering as he rolls his eyes at the other knight's ridiculousness. Should have known something would be stated or asked like this. It is Gwaine, after all. "D'you blame me for wondering why, though, mate?"

Gwaine stares for long enough that Elyan is unsure whether or not he is offended, never mind the fact he's teased Gwaine for so many similar comments before; but then Gwaine barks a laugh and shrugs. "Not a bit," he ruffles his hair up a mite as Leon now leans over, pausing in the sharpening of his dagger with a whetstone, having just assisted Percival with his sword and handed the weapon back to the enormous knight with a nod, Percival thanking him.

"What're you asking this for? Have another uncanny dream or summat?" There are groans from Percival and perhaps even Arthur at this. They all have been regaled with Gwaine's dreams before. Merlin, in his spot kneeling next to the fire, feeds the flames with several bits of kindling as his light blue gaze alights mirthfully on Gwaine where the knight sits close behind and slightly higher than him on a fallen log.

"Am I not allowed to ask a simple question of you lot?" Gwaine cocks a brow with a miniscule wink for Merlin and adds "...I just think there's something to telling, or figuring secrets, and all. The way ladies seem to, with their maids, for example. Giggling over all the gossip, you know I love that." There are grumbles and chuckles, nods and sighs as Gwaine continues "There's got to be a sort of... Tell, you know, when someone feels something, or - is in some manner more than they let on outwardly." His dark eyes flicker across the fire to look into the faces of the others, and Lancelot is the person who stares steadily back. "Like Merlin, here." A clap of his friend's hand upon Merlin's shoulder causes the thin young man to jump and the others to chuckle. "He's not quiet about his thoughts, but feelings... I know he's kind, and brave, and that he'd do anything for his friends, the people he loves without any praise or appreciation needed." Gwaine's tone of voice has roughened at the last, as he gently holds onto Merlin's shoulder. The other licks his lips and reaches up to press the knight's fingers with his.

"Thank you, Gwaine, but I -"

"You're going to wave it off, I know you," Gwaine dips his dark head over Merlin's, long soft hair dropping onto either side of the serving fellow's face like curtains. The young man blinks at the sincerity that fills his features. Roughness of Gwaine's scruffy beard shifts next to Merlin's head as he presses his lips to pale skin abruptly. Merlin gasps, plump pink lips parting, and eyes growing wide as he automatically reaches up as if to clutch at Gwaine. "There," withdrawing enough to look into his eyes, "You deserve to know you're appreciated for all that you do for us, and for everyone, Merlin." The knight stolidly says. With warmth and sincerity - and because it is Gwaine, there remains a fond, seemingly mischievous twinkle in his eye.

The way that Gwaine speaks thus, the way his eyes snap across the darkness after, gaze hardening over the fire's flame - and the fashion that Merlin draws in a ragged breath subsequent, his throat bobbing heavily as a flush darkens his sharp high cheekbones - draws the knights' attention to the shrieking movement of metal as Arthur abruptly stands, a crease forming, deepening between his golden eyebrows.

His jawline appears incredibly pronounced as he grits out "How romantic, Sir Gwaine, just what Merlin needs to hear for his head to swell." He bites off the words and the other knights shift, somewhat uneasily in Leon's case in particular. Something is working at Arthur, he can tell.

"...No chance of it getting as big as yours," Merlin mutters, but he's loud enough for the others to hear, and a guffaw from Gwaine sets off Percival and Elyan too. It is Leon and Lancelot both who see the darkness in their leader's visage, dropping like an impenetrable curtain over his face as Arthur jerks his chin and clenches his jaw.

"Of course not," he spits. "And no chance of you hearing what I could tell you." The way he says those words halts laughter, and a silence stretches to its breaking point until Arthur mumbles "...I'm going to check on the horses," as Merlin boils upright, all lanky limbs and reddening cheeks, from shame or embarrassment or mirth, or simply the warmth of the fire no one knows.

"I'll - go for more firewood," Merlin squeaks, and he crashes off through the underbrush in the opposite direction from Arthur.

Some of the others think they hear their sovereign mutter something like 'good riddance' or perhaps it simply was 'go on then, no one's stopping you,' before he disappears behind a tree to make his way to the place they had left their steeds tethered, far enough from the fire so the animals would not be spooked.

A heavy silence precedes the THWACK of a gauntleted hand across Gwaine's head and he yelps.

"Well BLOODY done, Gwaine!"

"Owch, don't muss me hair!" He cries, fending off the onslaught of ire from his friends.

"You're going to be worrying about a lot more than hair if we can't get after the pair of them and fix things so's they'll bloody make up," Elyan growls.

Percival lets out a low whistle.

"Who's going after Arthur?" He asks, arms flexing as he clenches one fist in concern.

Silence stretches for some moments, save for crackling and popping of the flames behind them. Then:

"Not I, no how. The way Merlin talks? I wouldn't stand a chance."

"Don't look at me, I've still got to - sharpen up my sword," Leon blurts out. He seems instantly ashamed to say it, reddening cheeks strongly contrasting to his golden-brown curls.

"I'll go for Merlin since I was the one who started this with him," Gwaine shakes his head, seemingly apologetic. His tone of voice and facial expression have grown serious. "I just - wanted to let him know he's appreciated. That someone sees his goodness, his abilities, d'you understand? He doesn't get to hear that, and he's really rather hard on himself."

The other knights look at each other, murmuring and scuffing at the ground with boots. Leon appears a little chastised, and Percival looks almost like he could cry. "We take advantage of him, don't we?" The big knight asks.

Lancelot, his eyes softening as he takes in Gwaine's words, shakes his head and drops next to Percival. "Good Percy, Merlin knows that we love him. Or, he will, once this all is done. I will go speak to his Majesty," he rises to his feet again as Percival nods thankfully at him. "And you're going after Merlin now, Gwaine, yes?"

"Aye," says Gwaine with a jaunty salute. "Help him bring some wood back as well, I will. Leave you three to watch the fire, just don't get into any trouble!" He calls to Leon, Elyan, and Percival after turning and bounding away from the clearing and firelight to follow Merlin's track.

Leon scoffs. "You were the one who begot all this trouble in the first place, Gwaine!"

"Eh, semantics!" He winks. "Makes for an interesting evening, though, doesn't it?"

"...If this qualifies as interesting, I think I'd much rather be bored," Elyan says. Percival and Leon both make rapid responses of agreement as they three return to the fireside to wait for the others' return.

Chapter Text

Merlin tramps through underbrush away from the clearing to reach open space alongside trees. He'd caught sight of some spots as they rode during daylight where he'd seen brush growing underneath trees, a sort that surely can be utilised for kindling... he swipes a sleeve across his face as he plunges through the darkness, uttering a spell to create a small globe of light. Surely it's dangerous to be so bold with the magic, but he would hear the crunch of boots on leaves, and most of the knights alert him to their presences by calling his name.

He just - it's enough for Arthur to get angry and storm off like that, just because Gwaine was being kind; but the fact Gwaine had initially asked his question sort of about secrets...it causes Merlin's stomach to tie itself in knots. Every day, he hopes somehow lying, hiding this integral piece of himself would get easier. Like a jagged piece of wood or stone smoothed by time, by wind and weather.

When actually every moment even somewhat alluding obliquely to sorcery makes his heart skip, his stomach clench. He feels a deep ache of nausea, the agony of a wound opened and reopened, and sometimes he simply has to...go. Dropping to the ground now, Merlin whispers a spell to gather sticks together, and they clack and tumble into a pile beside him. He gets to stacking them into a sort of roll and then hearing movement, looks up.

"There he is, gathering wood. Whaddya know," a voice drawls. In the light of his spell (as it remains for an instant before Merlin ends in a panic) the young sorcerer spots Gwaine fighting his way through a bunch of clinging vines, as he had not the ability to light his own way. "Argh, never like the bloody stuff," he nearly falls on his face and catches his tongue between his teeth, almost laughing.

Merlin does laugh, and pulls Gwaine up with a hand clasping his forearm after blinking rapidly, hoping there remain no remnants of tears upon his face. His voice is bitter though as he replies "I do, actually, attempt to perform some aspects of my job." He knows his tone is harsher than he'd meant, especially towards Gwaine, who has always been kind and good. Never talks down to him. Titles don't matter, it's what you're like inside, he had said before. And Merlin remembers that; keeps that sentiment nestled within his heart for the hard times.

Like now.

And as if the other man has somehow caught wind of those thoughts, even as he's certain Arthur would scoff at him: stop being such a girl, Merlin! "I stand by what I said, y'know, Merlin. There's more to you than you let on. Even a drunken fool like me can see it," Gwaine nudges him with a smile as he slices up some sticks with his sword (really ought to've used his hatchet which each knight carries for just such purposes, and yet) and hands them over for Merlin to layer into the faggot of kindling he has begun to build. It's a fair bit of firewood, far more than most people could amass in such a short amount of time alone. "There's just something about you."

"Arthur doesn't know," Merlin tries to smile, ducking his head as on a stick his long pale hands tighten where he crouches down, not able to look directly at Gwaine. "I know I - no matter what you said, I seem like an idiot, and a coward...,"

"You don't." Gwaine's jaw is now set, his eyes warm and soft and sad as he steps close, pulling Merlin to his feet with a hand curling around his arm. "Look at me," he relinquishes his hold and puts a hand up as if to stroke Merlin's cheek or hair instead; and yet falters as he gulps. Bright and glorious Gwaine gulps, seemingly unable to find proper words. "Blimey, does Arthur's treatment really affect you so much? I thought it was jokes, really. Down deep I can tell he cares about you."

Merlin lowers his head, sharp shoulders stiffening as his fingers curl into fists. "He wouldn't, though," the young man speaks quietly. "Not if he knows... If he were to see what I truly am."

Gwaine cocks his head and then his eyebrows rise a little. "Ah. If he knew the sort of power there is about you," the knight speaks so blandly, so bald. Merlin's eyes fly open and his breath catches in his throat. He stares at Gwaine unable to breathe, arm outstretched whether to grasp or shove him away, even he does not know. But the other man continues to speak. "...I knew it the instant we met. No one can fling a passel of plates into a fellow's neck like you did without some sort of help. You didn't even have your arm up neither." He waits as if expecting a denial, but Merlin only speaks in a croak, almost a sob:

"You...you were drunk," is the only thing he can manage. "Weren't you? I -" he cannot remember rightly, not now; his mind is all awhirl. Gwaine grins.

"Not drunk enough to miss that, mate. But you get in enough tight spots as me, you know to keep your mouth shut about some things. I didn't see anything enough. Only saw enough to know you're resourceful, Merlin. And brave. Along with all those other things I said." Gwaine waves a hand and nods at his friend. More seriously, he adds "You haven't got to tell me anything."

"Gwaine...," Gasps Merlin, his throat thickening and so his voice as his eyes fill with tears. Shoulders slump as if he is relinquishing a burden heavy enough to send him to the ground, and he would stumble, truly clumsy in this moment, if it weren't for Gwaine's hands upon his shoulders. And cold links of chainmail be damned, Merlin flings his body forward and buries his face in Gwaine's armour, thin arms locked around his back.

He cannot speak, cannot avow the knight's words as truth, because that would necessitate Gwaine having to die were anyone else to find out. It is hard enough with Lancelot, but he had actually witnessed magic in a manner he could not mistake. Though obviously Gwaine had too, and Merlin clenches his eyes shut, tears squeezing between the cracks of his lids. Gods, he really was so thoughtless; he could have been, and they could still be killed, because of HIM, how stupid -

"Hey," Gwaine runs his palm up and down Merlin's shuddering spine, calling him back to the moment, snatching him up from the spiral of his thoughts. "It's okay, Merl. You're alright, mate, I'm here. Just breathe with me. I've got you." And I'm never letting go.

Chapter Text

Lancelot carefully moves between trees towards the place they had all tethered their horses, stepping lightly over the underbrush. He begins to hear nickering sounds and then neighs, along with Arthur's voice, sounding exasperated. "Oh, hush, that - I'm sorry I can't curry you properly, I'm not Merlin!" His tone cracks, breaks a bit at the end, and the tall knight enters the horses' clearing to see Arthur leaning with his face resting against the crook of his arm, resting on the shoulder of his horse and dealing with the animal's head jerks and snorting. "You've as much a mouth for talking back to me as he does," he tries to tug his red cloak free from the horse as with almost mischief it seems to be nibbling at the fabric. "Oh, bugger," the sovereign sighs, and Lancelot cannot help the chortle that bursts from his lips.

Arthur flings back his cloak and jerks his sword from its scabbard with lips pursed and eyes burning. Lancelot's sword crosses his in defense, and yet he speaks gently. "Sire,"

"Sir Lancelot." Arthur sighs, sheaths his sword with a shinking sound and rubs his forehead with a leather gloved fist. "Come to chastise me?"

"No," the knight's lips twitch ever-so-slightly as he resheathes his own weapon. "I'm not Merlin. Haven't his privilege, or his skill."

"Skill?" Arthur snorts, trying to scoff without anything else a part, but his jumping jaw and trembling fingers give him away. He clenches the mane of his steed in those fingers and feels the jerk of power, muscles and sinew, of such strength that unbidden he senses, sees in Merlin, too; something he cannot speak of, that he can find no words to voice. Yet he knows it is there.

Lancelot stands, solid and unyielding and somehow seeming to understand the voiceless aspects of what Arthur is trying to say. He has always been adept at knowing what remains unspoken. Arthur would almost call it a sort of intelligence about... emotions. Whatever it is he understands, this man is no fool. Arthur is glad to have someone such as he by his side.

As if to illustrate that fact "Yes," the tall swarthy knight replies, simply, before he comes close to click his tongue at the horse in response to sharp jerks of head, of whinnies. "Ssh ssh, ooh, there now," stroking the animal's nose, the knight blows into nostrils and Arthur's steed quiets. "We know he is capable of much, even if not how far his power extends," Lancelot's dark eyes catch and hold Arthur's, yet there is something in them more respectful than the looks that Merlin gives him. Respectful, deferential. Understanding, too. "As I can only attempt here, he calms you."

"He infuriates me," Arthur grouses. "He's - ever since the day, the moment we first met. He's always talked to me in a way no one else has ever dared to talk."

He recalls so vividly the manner in which Merlin spoke to him when first they met; those forthright light eyes, blue as the summer sky without rain. I'd never have a friend who would be such an ass. How long have you been training to be a prat? Oh, I'm sorry - how long have you been training to be a prat, my lord? No one speaks like that to him except perhaps Morgana, and yet there is somehow nothing of poison in Merlin's words. She has...she had always something of distaste, or distrust. Yet Merlin... "He speaks as to an equal," Arthur adds now, almost to himself, though Lancelot remains close enough to hear. "I don't flatter him as Gwaine does because I see no need to." Merlin knows what he means, surely. Arthur rolls his lips and clears his throat, the itching feeling of frustration draining out of him at once.

Lancelot offers quietly "Well, sire, perhaps you must ask yourself why you feel so strongly about Gwaine speaking as he did, if you truly recognise no need in saying it."

"I -" Arthur's head snaps up and he locks his eyes on Lancelot's. Were those words from Merlin's mouth, he would think him a cheeky bastard, or an idiot. Yet Lancelot speaks without archness or insolence; he is ever noble, ever kind. It's almost exhausting, and Arthur finds himself yearning to go and speak to Merlin, listen to whatever new insult the boy has for him after his outburst (as he's sure there are or will be several). "I see no need for Gwaine to be the one to say it," he grits out instead, and thinks he spies a smile flit across Lancelot's face.

Yet if it was there, tis instantly gone after as the knight nods. "Understood," he says, and relinquishes the horse with a final gentle sound and a pat, gesturing politely to the other. "If you wish to return and say something yourself, I believe the others plan to return to the fire." Arthur has the distinct apprehension that he is going to need to apologise, either that or be goaded into saying something else he shall regret. Swallowing hard, he settles his shoulders as his eyes flicker up.

"Very well. I will follow, Lancelot," he responds to the knight, patting his horse's flank before expelling another sigh after his acquiescence.

What he shall say to Merlin, if he has in fact returned with kindling for the fire, Arthur does not know.

Chapter Text

Merlin remains wrapped in Gwaine's arms for he knows not how long, trying to get his emotions under control.

He should be able to handle himself, to handle this, really ought to stop sniveling, inwardly he chastises himself; but the fact that Gwaine knows about his magic without asking, and is still accepting, without pushing; that he remains Merlin's friend - enough to physically hold him close and not think of him as a monster simply because he is a sorcerer. That he has never viewed Merlin that way; it is so much. It means so much. Merlin lifts his face and wipes at his eyes, gasping wetly for air as he tries to stop his tears, and all Gwaine does is hold on to him and then to deftly untie Merlin's neckerchief to help him dry his face. "You alright, mate?" He asks, and adds "...we can snog again if that would help."

"You didn't exactly snog me in the first place, Gwaine," Merlin rolls his eyes lightly.

"I still could, though," the knight tosses his hair and smiles before stroking his strong fingers across the manservant's hand, folding them round Merlin's nubile ones and squeezing. This is familiar territory for the both of them. Harmless flirting, which the warlock can work with. He doesn't have to allow himself to feel the dread drip and pool in his abdomen, burning like dragonflame as it had when Gwaine initially mentioned learning something secret about a person. And - when he noticed the expression upon Arthur's face just before he vacated his seat beside the fire.

How there had been a crease in the crown prince's forehead, the expression in his eyes that looked like disgust. No matter what has happened between them during the course of their acquaintance, Merlin has never seen Arthur look at him in that manner before. It makes his stomach clench, and he closes his eyes with a shudder, imagining that as the look on Arthur's face were he to discover that Merlin has magic. Merlin's heart thuds heavily and saliva pools in his mouth as he strives to swallow the feeling that he is going to be sick. "But Arthur," he chokes out, not wholly certain what he means to say. Gwaine is still standing close beside him, and has moved his other hand to rest upon the centre of Merlin's slim back.

"Merlin, hey. If Arthur has a problem with me showing my affection for you with a kiss on the forehead, or even a good snog," his eyes are glittering and the burr of the taller man's voice is soothing, even as air is not entering Merlin's lungs too well at present. "...Well. That's on him, alone. It's his problem, yes? Besides, he knows that you're a good friend and loyal to him, even if he doesn't outright say it." Gwaine steps back and slaps Merlin's shoulder now. In a far gentler fashion than Arthur or the others do with their arm-punching, for which Merlin is grateful to Gwaine. He stoops and picks up the wood that Merlin had gathered. "C'mon, let's get back to the fire."

As they head back through the trees to return, Gwaine pontificates on the fact that there's a lot of luck to being a lady, being wooed, and told all sorts of lovely things: "They get compliments, like the ones I gave you, mate - those plus gifts, and kisses. A fellow could get jealous."

"You're saying you're jealous? Oh Gwaine, you want to be pampered, don't you?" Merlin asks him, laughing.

"Eh, I'd rather pamper you," Gwaine returns easily, the moonlight catching on his handsome features as he walks close to Merlin, nudging his shoulder companionably. Merlin ducks his face and sucks in air, feeling his ears get hot. He appreciates how warm and open Gwaine is, the way he has always been - not even minding shenanigans they'd got into, how he'd awoken once to receive breakfast in Merlin's bed and had not batted an eye; how they two had shared meals in Gaius' rooms countless times, when first Gwaine became a knight and even after, how when Gwaine was certain that everyone gets tired of him, I didn't, you livened the place up, Merlin had said.

How free and easy he feels with Gwaine, as with Lancelot though in a different fashion - and how it hurts to wish, even for the briefest moment, as he does when they break out of the trees to reach the firelight and he spots walking from the opposite direction with Lancelot's hand resting comfortably on his shoulder - that he could act such a way with Arthur.

Yet that is nigh impossible, he is the prince, a royal prat, and to top it off Merlin cannot, must never tell Arthur of his magic. It would ruin whatever friendship they have, and yet, still keeping such a secret still keeps him at arm's length. There is nothing for it; to believe otherwise is a fantasy; a fantasy that, were it to infringe upon reality, would be dangerous when doing so. Even lethal.

And thus, Gwaine knowing what he has come to know is only acceptable if of it they never directly speak. Just as is Merlin's tacit agreement with Lancelot. And Arthur, for all his decent ways and the loyalty he inspires, can never know of this aspect of Merlin from Merlin's own lips.

And that realisation hurts.

Oh, how much it hurts.

Chapter Text

Gwaine smiles at Merlin and squeezes his arm as the boy blurts out to the congregation round the fire: "Well, I've brought the firewood. Will there be anything else?" His voice cracks even as he presses his lips together and lifts both brows as though in challenge. The knights reach out and take kindling bits as Gwaine slings the faggot of wood onto the dirt close to the fire.

"Merlin -" says Arthur, that slightly exaggerated tone he uses just before shouting his manservant's name.

"Do you require assistance with your swollen head situation, sire?" Merlin responds almost easily, and is rewarded with a snort of laughter from Percival and yet another grin from Gwaine. Yet his shoulders heave as he breathes and both fists, empty of wood for the moment, are clenched. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"No, Merlin, but I require your attention." He beckons and at the look on his face, Merlin steps lightly round the far edge of the fire. Lancelot nods to Arthur before going to join the other knights (all of whom are attempting to dissuade Gwaine from putting an apple and a piece of cheese upon a stick to 'crisp' in the fire, so he says. "The stick will burn - and that apple will taste disgusting!")

Arthur's lips twitch upwards even as he sighs upon hearing this, yet Merlin laughs aloud, that deep almost sputtery sound that he only makes when truly amused. His eyes are gleaming in the firelight and his cheeks are crinkled, teeth visible, gleaming pearly white, and - "You are a sight to behold, Merlin," Arthur cannot help but to say.

Merlin presses his full lips together and glances over. "Oh really, what sort of sight would that be, sire? An idiotic one, I'm sure." And he is not looking directly at Arthur.

The response is spoken in a low tone. "No." If he were any other man, Arthur Pendragon would jerk his fingers through his hair in frustration. Merlin is so frustrating - he keeps things off-balance. If Arthur could count the times he has told his manservant that he thought he knew him, but Merlin still puzzles him, surprises him... Yet he knows one thing, and that is "Those sentiments spoken by Gwaine," Arthur's tone is still low and quiet, for him. He turns to face Merlin directly, back now to the knights across the way. "They are -"

"Ones of which you don't approve?" Merlin shuffles his feet and those long fingers of his rub at the nape of his neck a moment before he tries to shrug, to smile. "Don't worry, Sire, I'm not fixing to get a big head." He's almost curling in on himself now; they are almost exactly of a height, perhaps only different in thickness, as Arthur's shoulders are broad, as is his chest. He registers that difference as Merlin folds in upon himself now.

Damn it. Arthur closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and grabs the other by one shoulder. "No, you idiot, they - only reason they didn't meet my approval is because I didn't speak them myself." As Merlin's light eyes shoot up to stare at him in shock, Arthur feels as though he could go weak at the knees. Which is rubbish, he should be able to stay strong. This is Merlin.

Merlin, ever loyal. Always ready to work, even if he's shite at some things. He does his job and gives advice (which is actually brilliant even if Arthur has not told him so). He's kind to those who deserve kindness; every interaction of the boy with Guinevere tells Arthur that. But most of all, he's... real. He treats everyone as equals, tells them what he thinks. Well. Tells Arthur some of what he thinks, at least - most of it unflattering names, sure, but he'll be damned if even hearing those things from Merlin's mouth doesn't make him want to be better.

"I've told you," Arthur says at last, hand still curled around Merlin's shoulder. "... You're the only friend I have, and I couldn't bear to lose you." As a span of silence stretches between them, Arthur finds himself rubbing circles on the front of Merlin's shoulder with his thumb, and watches the other man's eyes softening. His lips part as he expels a slight sound like a gasp. Of thankfulness, or shock, maybe; and Arthur thinks he really ought to back away before he does something -

"...And that equates to saying all those other things?" Merlin replies, almost in a whisper. "You wouldn't believe it, Arthur, if you-"

"If I what?" Arthur steps closer, eyes flashing, voice rising, jaw clenched. He still hasn't let go his hold. "If I wasn't such a, a clotpole or a dollophead, or any of your other colourful and ridiculous names?" He lowers his chin and rests his eyes directly upon Merlin's. "Trust me, even what I don't know, I can tell when someone possesses a good heart. I have been round my father long enough to see past -" his throat tightens and his eyes flood, ridiculously, embarrassing - but Merlin sucks in a breath and suddenly his fingers are threading through Arthur's own. He's pressed his hand over the one still resting on his shoulder, and his eyes are so warm and sympathetic...past that, Merlin has so much empathy in a simple look; the edges of his own eyes seem to be reddening in response to Arthur's tears. That will not do; they cannot both be standing here acting like girls' petticoats. So he clears his throat and continues "If you ever have anything to tell me about yourself, Merlin, I will listen." I've figured out a bit on my own, what he wishes to say next is likely presumptuous, especially because Arthur is unclear on WHAT he has figured, only that it's... something. But until he knows more "Rest assured that, you are what Gwaine thinks of you, and more. And I say this of you as a friend, not simply a servant." Swallowing again, he reaches up and tousles Merlin's hair before adding "You're still a complete idiot, don't worry, I know that as well."

With which he is rewarded "Ha! And you, Arthur, are a royal prat, I well know."

They smile at each other and Arthur rolls his eyes. "Don't you have some armour to tend to, Merlin?"

"You mean all that extra weight you decided to bring with on a hunt?"

"A hunt for bandits, and I'll have you know this was necessary!"

Merlin rolls his eyes. "If you say so." Whispering the last, "Dollophead."

Arthur relinquishes and shoves him, feeling the tight clenching within his chest since he'd left the fire loose, and at the smile curving Merlin's lips he seems relaxed too. This territory is familiar, as is the exasperation saturating the crown prince's tone.

"Merlin!"