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Chapter Text

A chill wind whipping through the courtyard bites Arthur to the bone, his double-layered tunics doing little to keep out the February cold. He tucks his chin to his chest and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets as he picks up the pace, one foot in front of the other. It will be warmer once he gets the knight’s training session started. Faster, faster. When he finally passes through the castle gate, his eyes turn to the horizon. There’s a smattering of smeary grey clouds in the distance, surely promising snow if they drift this way. For now, the sky above the training field is clear, everything drenched in a wan winter sunlight. Arthur hums to himself, pleased for the weather even as another piercing gust of wind beats against him.

His knights are already gathered at the far end of the field, where the ground has been trodden into solid submission suitable for their daily training sessions. Most of the men are sullenly wrapped in crimson red cloaks, stamping their feet to keep the cold out, clouds of steam escaping them with each miserable breath. Gwaine is the only one seemingly unaffected by the cold, clapping his hands on each knight’s shoulder as he dashes between them, offering a small bag in his hand to each man in turn. He’s speaking animatedly, the way he always does when he’s got a plan cooking, but his words are carried away on the wind, secreted away from Arthur even as he trudges ever closer to the group.

“Ah, Arthur, just in time!” Gwaine hoots when Arthur reaches the hardpacked training field. He’s holding the bag out to Leon, who’s rummaging around inside.

“You are aware that I set the training schedule, yes?” Arthur snarks, raising an eyebrow. Leon removes his hand from the bag, clutching a small piece of parchment that is folded into a square. Gwaine turns to Arthur, meeting his arrival in two lengthy strides.

“Of course, but this is so much better than training,” Gwaine smirks, holding the bag out to Arthur. “It’s the last one, go on!”

“And what is this?” Arthur asks, skeptically. He peers into the opening of the bag, seeing only the corner of one small piece of parchment within.

“We’re drawing names for the Valentine’s feast tonight,” Gwaine says. He raises his eyebrows in a suggestive waggle as a devilish grin grows across his face.

“What?” Arthur barks with a harsh laugh, something about Gwaine’s implication making his stomach drop nervously.

“The feast, surely you remember?” Gwaine asks, knocking his hand against Arthur’s shoulder in a playful hit.

“I remember granting permission for you all to have a celebration, yes,” Arthur drawls, still pointedly refusing to pull the parchment from the bag which Gwaine has yet to retract. “Morale is important,” he adds, feeling exposed in a strange way.

“And what’s morale without girls?” Gwaine teases. A few of the knights, all watching the exchange, let out encouraging whoops, echoing Gwaine’s sentiment. “Lancelot and I solicited the ladies of the castle – charmingly, of course – and any who wished to attend the feast put her name in the bag. We draw names, and voila everyone has a date on this, the one day of our sad and desolate year that is truly dedicated to romance.”

“Lovely for you lads,” Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes at Gwaine’s schoolboy arrangement. He waves away the stubborn hand still proffering the bag, and the sole scrap of parchment. The thought of reaching for it makes Arthur’s palms sweat. “I will not be attending your matchmaking feast, thank you.” He steps around Gwaine, clapping his hands together to get the attention of the other loitering knights. “Okay! Men, today we’ll be-“

“But you must, Arthur!” Gwaine interrupts, seeking support from the group with a desperate gesture.

“Surely, I do not,” Arthur replies, even as a few of the braver knights mirror Gwaine’s words with mumbled objections.

“No, really, you must,” Gwaine insists in a desperate tone, shoving the bag in Arthur’s direction again. “Half the girls who agreed to come only did because of the chance of you pulling their name. That, and the promise that they could gaze longingly in your direction all evening, even if you didn’t!”

“What?” Arthur laughs, aiming for incredulous but landing somewhere more sheepish even to his own ears. Gwaine’s words make Arthur shift his weight around, casting a glance around the gathered group of men. Lancelot solemnly nods his head in agreement, unnerving Arthur even further. His cheeks burn with a sudden warm flush, hot despite the frigid air still whipping across the fields.

“Oh, Arthur, don’t be humble now,” Gwaine laughs, a big belly laugh. Arthur’s shoulder stings as Gwaine slaps a hand on him again, shaking with his mirth. “You must know every woman in Camelot has their eyes on you. You’re practically sex on legs!”

“Erm,” Arthur stalls, poorly. He scours his memory, searching for any inkling of truth in Gwaine’s assessment.

Truly, Arthur doesn’t notice the girls around the castle the same way his knights seem to. Yes, many of them are quite pretty, he supposes, and they’re certainly kind. But, as crown prince, everyone is kind to him, even those who wish him dead. There’s just always so many more important, more pressing things he must address at any given time, leaving little room for luxuries – like girls. And, even if he had the time, none of them had ever stuck out to him. Anyway, surely Gwaine is mistaken. Arthur shakes his head.

“And don’t you think we all, including yourself, deserve a night off? What better way, hmm?” Gwaine tries to sell it further, all the while still holding the bag out to him. “I’ve arranged the finest feast, the finest wine, and the finest girls in all of Camelot. Wouldn’t want to spoil it for us, would you?”

Arthur sighs at Gwaine’s words. The muscle in his jaw clenches as he considers the bag dangling from between Gwaine’s fingers. He casts a wary glance around the gathered knights. Leon is neutral, standing with his hands clasped loosely behind his back with his eyes focused on the grey clouds rolling in on the horizon, but Lancelot, Elyan, and Percival are practically bouncing on the balls of their feet, eyes round with begging hope, mirroring Gwaine’s own persistent look. Arthur sighs again.

“Fine,” Arthur finally groans, plucking the last parchment from the bag, hoping Gwaine doesn’t spot the slight tremble in his fingers. It’s just dinner. One evening with some girl, and then it’ll be over. It’s fine. Arthur swallows hard, anyway.

“Yes!” Gwaine whoops, pumping his fist in the air. Arthur can’t help but notice that the other knights, even Leon, look relieved. “Now, let’s see who’s got who – Percival, you first. We’ll go around.”

Percival is directly to Arthur’s left, making Arthur the last in their circle. Arthur’s jaw clenches, grinding his molars together, sure that Gwaine had picked Percy on purpose to draw out his suffering. His palms start to feel clammy as the first knight unfolds his parchment, gingerly.

“Isabel,” Percy announces with a smile. The name doesn’t strike Arthur as extremely familiar, only the vaguest inkling that she might work in the kitchens. Maybe. It makes his heart beat a little faster, a nervous sort of twinge flipping his stomach around. Perhaps he should have paid more mind to the girls around the castle, if only to know who he’s being paired up with for the evening.

Elyan opens his parchment next, groaning, “Ugh, I got my sister!”

Immediately, Lancelot turns to him, offering his still-folded square of parchment.

“Can’t have that. Ruins all the fun, doesn’t it?” Lance quips, trading papers with Elyan. He has a smug smile on his face when he turns away that suggests he came out ahead on this trade. Since when? Arthur kicks himself again, vowing to start paying more attention to the social politics of the castle immediately.

“Much better,” Elyan sighs. “Beatrice.”

Again, the name means nothing to Arthur. A wave of nausea rolls through him, anxious for his turn to read a name, to get it over with.

“I’ve got Gwen, of course,” Lancelot says with a smile, looking rather chuffed. Leon unfolds his parchment next, chuckling to himself before he reads it aloud.

“Seems I’ve got, eh, Lady Morgana,” Leon laughs, nervously. He meets Arthur’s eye across the circle, quickly darting away. Morgana agreed to this? Arthur sighs a small sigh of relief that he hadn’t the misfortune to draw his sister, unsure any of the knights would volunteer to trade if that had been the case. Before anyone can react, Gwaine cuts in.

“And as luck would have it, I’ve pulled Celestine from the lot,” Gwaine hums, pompously.

“Good on ya, mate, nobody else wants your bar maid,” Percy teases with a harsh bark of a laugh.

“You wouldn’t recognize a fine woman if she bit you on the dick, Percy,” Gwaine replies quickly, offering Percy a rude gesture in retort. Arthur’s cheeks burn a hot red again. Gwaine turns to Arthur, his face still set in annoyance at Percy’s comment, and waves his hand at Arthur’s parchment. “Go on, then.”

Arthur nods, heart hammering in his chest. This is it. He unfolds the parchment with nervous fingers, reading the name scrawled in beautiful script. Instantly, Arthur laughs, a real guffaw, nerves cleared away in only a fraction of a second. It’s all been a big joke. The other knights cast nervous glances amongst themselves.

“I guess you weren’t as charming as you thought after all, boys. One of your girls has put in a trick name,” Arthur laughs. “Because apparently the girl I’ve picked, is Merlin.” He shakes his head, showing off the parchment around the circle. Leon and Percival chuckle nervously, but Gwaine looks stricken. Arthur crumples up the parchment and shoves it deep into his pocket.

“Now that that is over,” Arthur continues, clapping his hands together again. “Today, we’ll be grappling. Split off in twos and begin, winner pins his partner for three.”

The knights quickly split up and spread out across the field, but Gwaine lingers besides Arthur.

“Arthur, I’m serious-“

“Eager to pair up with me, are you, Gwaine?” Arthur attempts to change the subject. His fingers squeeze around the ball of parchment in his pocket.

“The evening is ruined if you won’t at least make an appearance,” Gwaine begs, clasping his hands in front of him. Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes. “Please, Arthur.”

Gwaine falls to his knees, hands still clasped, his eyes as close to a puppy’s as possible, his lower lip projected in a begging pout. And, damn it, something about it works. Sure, Arthur may not have a particular fondness for any of these girls, but his knights certainly do, and they have clearly been anxiously awaiting this evening’s festivities. His stomach still riots at the idea of attending, of having to entertain everyone, of having to confront the complete lack of excitement he feels for the romance that everyone else seems so fond of.

“Let’s make a deal,” Arthur offers, remembering Gwaine’s record in previous grappling sessions. Memory after memory of Gwaine being pinned passes through Arthur’s mind, and he smirks. Perfect. A way out, that looks better than an outright refusal. “If you beat me in a grappling match, pinned for a full count of three, then I will attend your ridiculous feast.”

“Deal!” Gwaine cries, jumping to his feet.

When Arthur’s back slams into the ground ten minutes later, immobilized, he curses his oversight, obvious in retrospect: Gwaine doesn’t normally have something to fight for.

“We’ll find a new girl for you!” Gwaine promises with a shout, when the group steps through the castle gate again, sweaty and red-cheeked, the frigid air more a relief than a bother now. Around them, the faintest dusting of snow begins to fall.  The knights peel off to the right, while Arthur bears left towards the throne room, to update his father on his evening plans. He grinds his teeth, trying to soothe his anxiety, halfway wishing the dawn of a new crisis to avoid having to attend this party that makes his stomach feel so uneasy.

Chapter Text

That evening, Arthur straightens his tunic nervously in front of the window, his reflection visible in the flickering candlelight against the snow-heavy night outside. It’s fine. He huffs, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows hastily, before turning away from the window. Arthur straightens his shoulders, practiced in the ways of bravado, of appearing one way when everything in him screams the opposite.

The sounds of a party, chattering and laughing underlain by festive music, drift down the long hallway towards Arthur. Enough stalling. He takes a deep breath, then strides swiftly to the door of the chamber which Gwaine had managed to lay claim to for his ridiculous feast. Before he can talk himself out of it, Arthur pushes the door open and steps across the threshold.

Inside, there are six small tables arranged in a circle around the perimeter of the room. On each table, there are two place settings and a tall candle burning, a cluster of flowers carefully twisted around the base of each. The room is dim, lit by a handful of torches and a fire burning in the fireplace at one end of the room. Arthur’s heart beats sheepishly at the way romance is oozing from every single thing in the room. He clenches his hands at his sides, nails biting into his palms, worried again about which girl he’ll be stuck with for the evening.

“Arthur, finally!” Gwaine cries, pulling Arthur from his rumination with a tug on his arm. “Come now, we’ll kick this off with a dance, don’t you think?”

“I don’t really-“

“Nonsense,” Gwaine cuts him off, leading him to the center of the room where the rest of the party guests have already arranged themselves in two concentric circles. Arthur’s palms prickle with nervous sweat. Gwaine manhandles him so he’s standing in the inner circle, a round-faced girl to his right and Lancelot to his left. “You’ll know it once we begin,” Gwaine smirks, taking his own place in the outer circle. Gwaine claps twice, and the quartet in the corner sets to playing, a brisk and lively tune.

“If I’ve managed it correctly, you’ll be dancing with your true partner in three rounds!” Gwaine calls over the music, addressing the crowd. Arthur grits his teeth, fighting the urge to whip his head around, to put eyes on whoever Gwaine has secured as his date. Relax. When the music comes around again, Arthur extends his hand to the girl standing in front of him and finally raises his eyes to her face. She is unknown to Arthur, but she has a kind smile, the kind that crinkles her eyes, makes her cheeks rosy.

“Good evening,” he manages to say, as her slight fingers slip into his extended hand.

“Good evening, Prince Arthur,” she replies, as the dance begins. They turn around each other in a tight circle, hands enclosed together. Arthur curses his sweaty palm, and lets his memory of his lessons in etiquette drive his feet through the steps of the dance. It’s simple, but romantic enough for Gwaine and the other knights’ intentions. The steps keep you close to your partner, shoulders brushing, an arm wrapped around a dainty waist, hands clasped, closer and closer, then apart again when the music comes around. Arthur feels stiff and awkward, although the girl is warm and pliant against him. A final spin, and then the inner circle rotates to the left, and the dance begins again, partners anew.

Arthur tries to sneak a glance in the direction of his mystery date, catching only the notion of black hair, pale skin, before he’s face-to-face with his next partner. Her hand slides against his, but this time it’s familiar. Arthur snaps out of his worried thoughts to find Morgana standing before him, her hair piled high on her head, pinned strikingly in place with a sharp golden pin. Her dress is crimson and silky, reflecting the low light in the room like she herself is the flame.  

“And how did they convince you to be a part of this, Morgana?” Arthur asks, settling comfortably into this role, one he knows how to perform. The needling older brother.

“Contrary to your belief, Arthur,” Morgana sighs, “I am not completely heartless.”

“I just didn’t take you as a woman who leaves love to chance,” Arthur replies. They step close together again, the final spin before moving on to the next partner. Morgana’s eyebrow pinches in confusion.

“Chance?”

“I mean any of these good for nothing knights could have pulled your name,” Arthur shrugs as they step apart. The confusion on her face remains, even as Arthur is shuffled to his next dance partner. Again, he tries to catch a glimpse of the next in line, the mystery girl who Gwaine has supplied for him. But again, the group is too tightly packed, moving too synchronously to see much, but he gets the impression she’s willowy, long lines and dark, dark hair. Something about the combination makes Arthur’s stomach flutter, even as he comes face-to-face with Percy for this final round of the dance.

“Arthur,” Percy acknowledges, offering his hand, palm up as is customary for the men to do in this particular dance. It is then that Arthur considers that this dance is usually arranged so women are in the inner circle, not all mixed up as the group is today. But the music presses on, and Arthur has no time to do much but play his part. Percy’s arm wraps around Arthur’s waist, strong and firm, and again Arthur’s stomach does that flipping, fluttering move.

“Never seen this side before,” Arthur quips, hoping his voice doesn’t betray the strange way his heart is hammering harder than before. Percy’s hand burns into the flesh of Arthur’s hip as they work through the simple steps of the dance, and the way he’s close enough that Arthur can feel his breath makes Arthur feel lightheaded. Just nerves about properly setting eyes on his date, Arthur rationalizes.

“Oh?” Percy asks, a genuine surprise in his tone.

“Of course not,” Arthur scoffs as Percy maneuvers him into the final spin, face-to-face. “I don’t make a habit of dancing with men, you know,” Arthur over-explains, feeling his cheeks burn red.

“Huh,” Percy smirks with a knowing kind of look on his face. Arthur has half a mind to demand more explanation, but then he’s being swept away with the group again, and this is it. Arthur breathes in deeply, extending his hand out for the final round, this time with his assigned date.

The hand that slides into his own is slender, with long thin fingers that brush against the sensitive pulse point of Arthur’s wrist and smooth skin that is warm against Arthur’s. For a moment, the feeling soothes Arthur’s nerves, having a solid body under his, no longer a mythical imagining. He flicks his eyes up, away from where their hands join, and –

“Merlin?”

“Arthur?”

They speak at the same time, still swept along with the music, spinning around each other. Arthur’s cheeks flush red again, burning hot. It’s indecent, improper, to be here, like this, with Merlin. Isn’t it? Something about it feels wrong. Embarrassing. Exposed. It’s not the first they’ve been this close, of course, but it’s the first they’ve been this close with an audience.

“When Gwaine said some poor schmuck needed a date for the feast, I didn’t know he meant you,” Merlin laughs, seemingly unbothered by the reveal, unbothered by being led through the dance by Arthur like a girl, unbothered by anything at all. Arthur’s mouth feels dry.

“And when Gwaine said he’d find a girl for me, I didn’t know he meant you, either,” Arthur mutters, everything swirling around inside of him in a squiggly mess. Where it’s commonplace between them for Merlin to touch Arthur, it scalds Arthur to have his own arm wrapped around Merlin’s slim waist now, the reversal of it tantamount in Arthur’s mind, painfully aware of every point of contact.

“We should both know better than to trust Gwaine,” Merlin nods, sagely.

“Clearly,” Arthur gripes, rolling his eyes as the music comes to an end. Each pair of dancers is chest-to-chest, face-to-face. Arthur spares a glance around, the soft curves of the girls around offset by the hard lines of the knights’ hands sprawled against them. He turns back to Merlin, heart still hammering in his chest, hand still pressed flat to Merlin’s body.

“Should be a good meal, anyway?” Merlin offers with a crooked grin. Ever the optimist. Arthur digs his fingertips into Merlin’s skin, taut with subtle muscles, at the joke. Merlin’s eyes meet his, starkly blue and glimmering with mirth.

“A good meal requires good company,” Arthur scoffs, even as he feels another wave of heat flush his cheeks. What is this? Around them, the couples break apart, connected only by the hands as they make their way to the tables around the edge of the room.

“I’m wounded, Arthur,” Merlin grins. His hand flexes around its hold on Arthur’s bicep. Arthur’s stomach flips again. “After all this time, you still can’t stand me?”

“Hmm,” Arthur answers, noncommittally. He can’t bring himself to lie outright, but it still feels wrong to admit out loud that Merlin, his servant, is one of his only true friends. “Come on, this must be us.” Arthur nods towards the last empty table. They take the few steps to it, Arthur’s hand still pressed to the small of Merlin’s back, almost without thinking. Except, it’s all Arthur can think of. The way Merlin’s skin is warm through his tunic, how his body flexes as he moves. It’s all familiar in a way, but completely different now, to have his hands on it himself, here. The thought is enough to snap Arthur out of the strange dreamy state he’s been in, and he quickly pulls his hand away as they approach the table.

On the table, a jug of wine has appeared, placed by a servant while Arthur was distracted with the dancing. He grabs the handle, ignoring the way his fingers tremble, and pours out two glasses, wine sloshing over the rims.

“Tsk-tsk. Could never make it as a royal servant,” Merlin chastises, dabbing at the spilled wine with a napkin as Arthur sits. He picks up the jug to wipe off the dribbles. “Oh? What’s this?”

“What now?” Arthur groans, taking a heavy drink from his glass. Merlin holds up an envelope, clearly stuffed full of scarps of parchment, which had been laid under the wine. There’s a red waxen seal in the crude shape of a heart on one side, and a few lines of written word on the other.

“Get to know your partner with these prompts. From sweet to spicy, you’re sure to find common ground within,” Merlin reads. Sweet? Spicy? Arthur’s heart pounds in his chest, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Merlin twists at the waist, casting a glance around the room. Arthur does the same, only to find the others have already opened their envelopes, are already talking animatedly. Soft chattering, the occasional laugh, and gentle music swell around them, pressing in on Arthur’s nerves.

“Surely, we don’t have to,” Arthur squeaks, unsure exactly of how to interpret the anxiety popping inside of him.

“Oh, let’s have a little fun,” Merlin smirks, sliding his finger under the seal. “Think of the hours Gwaine spent making these, it would be shame if we didn’t at least get something from them to tease him about later.” There’s a mischievous glint in Merlin’s eye, and it’s enough to soothe Arthur’s roiling stomach.

“Go on, then,” Arthur acquiesces. When it’s ammo, it’s not so intimidating. It’s not real. Merlin opens the envelope and plucks a piece of parchment from somewhere in the middle.

“Describe your first kiss,” Merlin reads, an exaggerated bravado in his tone. Then, the corners of his eyes turn up as he begins to laugh. “What is Gwaine thinking?” he asks with a sigh.

“What d’you mean?” Arthur asks, taking another sip of the rich red wine in his cup and praying the alcohol will loosen him up soon, the way the mere mention of a kiss made his chest clench.

“Who wants to relive their first kiss, for real? Isn’t it practically the worst one you’ll have?” Merlin laughs, folding the piece of parchment in half and tucking it under his plate.

“So yours was bad, then?” Arthur teases, quirking an eyebrow. The memory of his own tugs on him, threatening to pull him back into it.

“No!” Merlin objects. “I mean, as bad as any other first kiss. It was fine.”

“I fear you must tell me more,” Arthur laughs, imagining a gangly and awkward teenage Merlin slobbering all over a hapless barmaid. Merlin rolls his eyes and takes a petulant sip from his own goblet. “You wanted to play the game, didn’t you?” Arthur reminds him, rapping his knuckles on the table as he sits back, sure in his triumph. Merlin chews on his lip, considering Arthur’s point. Arthur works very hard not to stare, not to add unnecessary details to the imagined first kiss playing in his mind.

“Fine,” Merlin finally agrees. A strange kind of thrill runs up Arthur’s spine, unused to this type of conversation with his servant. He’s heard the foulest things from Gwaine’s and the other knights’ mouths, but even just the notion of a kiss from Merlin is enough to have Arthur sitting up straighter. “I was fifteen, and it was the day of the harvest festival in Ealdor. William’s older cousin had slipped us kids a couple of bottles of wine, and of course we all were falling down drunk by the end of the night.”

“Naturally,” Arthur echoes, smirking at the memory of his own first real experience with wine, fading into a wince when he remembers the way the steps of the castle feel against one’s teeth. He swallows the memory with another gulp of tonight’s wine, finally starting to feel the warm buzz in his veins. Finally.

“Our other friends split, and Will and I were left to walk a neighbor girl home,” Merlin continues, his eyes far away with reminiscence. “I had my arm around her, and Will swore he had his too, but she swerved hard towards me and knocked me right over. She landed on top of me, of course. I landed in the muddy creek bed. She was so grateful I saved her best dress from the mud that she kissed me before Will hoisted her off me. That’s it. Not good, not bad, just. A first kiss.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Arthur admits. “Did you ever do it again?”

“Get knocked on my ass by a girl?”

“Kiss her, you dunce,” Arthur snorts. The idea of being caught by Merlin might be enough to make Arthur want to kiss him, too. The thought catches him off guard, but he steels his face into a neutral mask, pushing it away. Probably just wires getting crossed, the alcohol starting to muddle his brain, the soft candlelight flickering against Merlin’s sharp features, making him look softer, girly almost. Surely, that’s it.

“No,” Merlin scoffs, draining the last of his cup.

“Why not?” Arthur can’t quite understand why he cares at all.

“Didn’t really want to kiss her in the first place,” Merlin shrugs. “It was fine, the way it happened. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t fuel a fantasy or two in the weeks after. But she was never really the one I had my eye on in Ealdor.”

Merlin’s words hang heavy in Arthur’s mind. Fantasy. That strange electric thrill runs up Arthur’s spine again. He clears his throat.

“And who would you have rather been kissing?”

“That’s not the question,” Merlin says with a wink. Arthur furrows his eyebrows, but says nothing. “Your turn.”

“Alright,” Arthur grimaces, gesturing towards the jug of wine with his empty cup. Merlin immediately grabs the handle and pours two new cups, full almost to the brim. Arthur fixes on the cocky smirk that he’s learned to use, mostly from listening to the other knights’ escapades. “It was years ago, during a visit from another royal family. A king and his daughters. Looking to establish trade or something, it didn’t really matter to me. I was young enough to escape the politics of it all, so I was tasked with entertaining the princesses.”

“A strong suit of yours, I’m sure,” Merlin adds, a gleam in his eye. A gleam Arthur’s seen before, in the eyes of other men when an exploit is being regaled by another. “Where were they coming from?”

“Far away,” Arthur replies, leaning back in his chair again. The perfect image of nonchalance, putting on the air of fond reminiscence. It’s a show he’s starred in more than once. “And they looked it – all brown skin, raven black hair, these big dark eyes, mysterious. At dinner one evening, the eldest couldn’t keep her eyes to herself. When I escorted her to her chambers after, I tucked her away in one of those nooks, you know the ones around the castle, and kissed her senseless.”

“Bold,” Merlin admits, the corners of his mouth turned down in an impressed kind of expression.

Arthur’s heart picks up again, dreading the follow up questions, the ones the knights had demanded of him. How did it feel? What was she like? Would you have known she wasn’t from Camelot just by kissing her? More, more, more. Always wanting to know more, more about how mind-blowing, life-changing it had been to kiss a girl from so far away, so different from the girls they know. The questions that Arthur hates, even as he rolls his tongue in his mouth and holds that practiced smarmy attitude to the forefront. Inside, he cringes.

The truth is, she had dragged him into that nook. She had pressed her lips to his, had placed his hands on her hips, had clung to him while he stood, frozen. He’d been a stunned teenage boy, partly interested, and mostly disappointed. Even then, he hadn’t paid much attention to the girls around him. And kissing one, touching one, while new and exciting in a way, had been a letdown.

But that’s not the story the knights want to hear around the campfire, when the ale has made lips loose. They don’t want to hear about how Arthur had gone back to his own chambers alone, confused at his feelings, betrayed by the way it had not changed anything at all. Sure, she was pretty, and soft, and new, but it hadn’t made a difference to him. Something was missing in him then, and still is now.

No, they want to hear what her tits felt like in his hands, what breathy little noises he pulled from her, how long it lasted once he was inside her. All embellishments he’d made up on the spot, refined in telling over the years. Of course, it had truly been nothing more than a sad, wet kiss hoisted upon him from a girl more desperate and more willing than he.

“Did you like it?” Merlin asks, pulling Arthur from his recollection of the past. When Arthur’s eyes flick to Merlin’s face, he’s surprised. There’s no hunger in Merlin’s eyes, no hint of the devilish imaginings the knights had played through when presented with this same story. No, Merlin is leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table, hands cupped around the goblet of wine in front of him. His face is the same as it always is when they’re together, wide blue eyes that seem to see more than Arthur means to show, a scalding kind of knowing within them. Not imagining a girl in a hall years ago, but seeing Arthur. Really seeing Arthur, down to the bone.

“Of course,” Arthur scoffs. His stomach flips, knowing his words for the lie that they are. “Who wouldn’t?”

“There’s lots of kinds of people out there, you know,” Merlin replies, easily. It looks like he’s about to say more, expand on the kinds of people he knows, the kind of person he thinks Arthur might be, but he’s interrupted when a servant boy arrives at their table with a large platter. He dishes out succulent pieces of roasted rabbit, followed by blistered tomatoes and potato mash. The smell is divine, making Arthur’s mouth water immediately, even as he wishes Merlin would continue his thought.

“Can I bring anything else for you, sire?” the boy asks, replacing the half-empty jug of wine with a full one. His face is perpetually turned to the floor, his voice shaking with the nerves of youth in face of royalty.

“No, this should more than suffice,” Arthur answers dismissively, grabbing his fork and eyeing his plate hungrily.

“Thank you,” Merlin adds, gently. When the boy dares to look up, Merlin nods his head approvingly, offering an affirmation to the young lad. Arthur pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, feeling something akin to foolish.

“Er, yes. Thank you,” Arthur echoes, setting his fork down again. Arthur grabs the new jug of wine and gestures for the boy to hold out the old one. He pours in a fresh bit of wine, filling the old jug three-quarters of the way. The boy’s eyebrows are pinched in confusion, but Arthur tries to smile warmly. “Why don’t you tuck that away somewhere, for you and the other servants here tonight? Our little secret.” Arthur winks, and the boy’s mouth is agape. As if to leave before Arthur changes his mind, the boy silently nods and quickly scurries away, back towards the kitchens.

“Dare I say, you’re being kind?” Merlin quips with a chuckle, setting to cutting his dinner into bite-sized pieces.

“Maybe it’s his night to be chucked in the mud by his second-choice serving girl, hmm?” Arthur shoots back, grinning harder when Merlin rolls his eyes.

“Remind me to never tell you anything personal again.” His tone is lighthearted, joking, but something about the words make Arthur’s chest feel tight.

“I think that might make this game quite difficult,” Arthur points out, reaching for the envelope. “Unless you’d rather not?” He says it like a challenge, quirking his eyebrow at Merlin.

“By all means,” Merlin acquiesces, tucking into his meal calmly. Arthur nods, and runs his finger across the slips of parchment before picking one from the thin envelope. He holds it up, and chokes on air as the meaning of the words settles in.

“How often do you enjoy the pleasure of your own company?” Arthur manages to squeak, cheeks immediately burning hot red with embarrassment.

Merlin, however, seems unbothered, tossing his head back with a loud laugh. Arthur’s heart threatens to crack his ribs in two, the savage way it’s beating against them. Suddenly, the room is hotter than before, prickling under his collar, along his spine. Arthur crumples the parchment and stuffs it into his pocket, wishing now that he hadn’t pushed the issue. He takes another gulp of wine, praying that oblivion might swallow him whole.

“Well?” Merlin asks, raising his eyebrow in a challenge of his own. Cool and collected. Arthur swallows hard, avoiding Merlin’s gaze.

“Oh, come on,” Arthur deflects, shaking his head. “We don’t need to discuss such-“

“Personally, it’s a daily occurrence for me,” Merlin nods, and his words pull the breath from Arthur’s chest, silencing him. A series of vague images flash through Arthur’s mind, something about Merlin and panting breath, his plush lips hanging open, his long fingers wrapped around his-

“Merlin!” Arthur cries, leaning closer in a panic as if conspiring, afraid of the words leaking into another couple’s space. He’s somehow even hotter than before, something coiling dangerously in the pit of his stomach. Merlin just smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “How- I mean- When are you finding the time? Actually, never mind.” Arthur shoves a bite of his dinner in his mouth, chewing frantically, the sheer misery of embarrassment making him self-conscious.

“At night, of course,” Merlin shrugs, as if this isn’t an insane thing to be discussing. “Nice way to relax after a long day. That, and Gaius sleeps like the dead, don’t have to worry about him.”

“Oh, god,” Arthur mutters, trying to delete the information even as it leaves Merlin’s lips. He does not need to be thinking about Merlin’s personal activities, least of all these personal activities. Is Arthur just another obstacle between Merlin and his pleasures, at night? Every night?

“Honestly, Arthur, you act like you’ve never done it before!” Merlin laughs. It’s a warm and comforting sound, even as another wave of mortification passes over Arthur like a bucket of ice water. “And, trust me, I know you have.”

“And what does that mean?” Arthur yelps, sure his cheeks will light on fire if they get any hotter. Merlin catches Arthur’s gaze with smoldering eyes. Arthur could crumble from the shame.

“Let’s just say, I’ve arrived to your chambers too early in the morning on more than one occasion.” He raises his eyebrows, wiggling them suggestively. Arthur covers his face with his hands, mortified to consider that Merlin had heard him, seen him even.

“Oh, god,” Arthur groans again. Inside, he’s a mixed up jelly mess, part embarrassed, part humiliated, part pounding with a searing heat nonetheless. Surely, he’ll die here, right? Surely, there’s a limit to what one man’s body can take, right?  “Does Gwaine really think these kinds of questions are going to get him bedded?”

“Take a look around, Arthur,” Merlin chuckles. “It seems these questions will get all of them bedded.”

Arthur dares to cast a glance around the room, eyes skipping quickly from table to table. All around the circle, bodies are angled towards each other, heads pressed together conspiratorially. And when he looks closer, even more stands out to him. Fingers intertwined, faces close enough to breathe the same air, expanses of skin exposed and dutifully not recovered, dreamy far-away looks in their eyes. Even Morgana, letting Leon brush a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Arthur’s gaze rockets back to Merlin’s face, where a knowing kind of smirk has settled.

“And that’s just what you can see, isn’t it? Imagine what you can’t,” Merlin says. Suddenly, feather light fingers run up Arthur’s thigh under the table, fast and lithe, like the jittery legs of an insect, barely perceptible but ticklish and highly alarming at the same time.

“Christ, Merlin,” Arthur hisses, jumping hard enough that his knee rams against the bottom of the table, the dishes rattling. Immediately, Merlin sits up straight, pulling his hand away like it hurts, but a devilish smile is plastered on his face still. The path Merlin’s fingers took along Arthur’s leg burn bright-hot, pulling all his attention away from the conversation, from the others in the room.

“Just saying,” Merlin shrugs, the tip of his tongue darting along his lower lip. Arthur fights to look away. “Here, let’s do another. What qualities do you know your soulmate will have? That’s tame enough, eh?”

Merlin looks expectantly over at Arthur, waiting for an answer. For a moment, Arthur’s breath is  stolen, still recovering from the whiplash of Merlin’s touch, not quite sure why he so desperately wishes Merlin hadn’t touched him at all, or maybe that he hadn’t pulled away. The wine, Arthur assures himself. It’s just making his brain feel funny.

Just then, the music changes once again, melting into a dreamy, lilting melody, soft like clouds that wind through the room. Arthur recognizes it, flicks his eyes to Merlin’s face but finds no such recognition in his blue eyes. It’s a soft and slow dance in which couples twist and twirl around each other, like clockwork. First to the dancefloor is Gwen, pulling Lancelot gently along behind her. One of his hands curls around her slim waist, the other gently holding her hand, and they begin to sway around the dancefloor. Quickly, they’re joined by Leon and Morgana, then Elyan and Beatrice, then the others, two-by-two. The room is transformed into a gentle twist and turn of shimmering fabric as the couples intricately skirt around and between each other.

Arthur shifts in his seat, casts a glance out of the corner of his eye at Merlin again. He has a dreamy look around him, the glow of the candlelight bouncing off his pale skin. His elbow is propped up on the table, cradling his chin in his palm, watching the dancing with soft eyes. Longing, almost. Arthur doesn’t quite relate, dancing being just another thing he had to learn.

“Hey now, lads, don’t be sour,” Gwaine hums, stepping to the side with Celestine, a buxom blonde with purple flowers braided in her hair. “Come have a dance.”

“Oh, piss off, Gwaine,” Merlin sighs lightheartedly, shooting a miniscule look at Arthur from the corner of his eye before turning his attention to the crowd again, a faraway look in his eye. That same dreamy, longing look. “I’m sure neither Arthur nor I am interested in another dance.” His mouth is curved in a complacent smile, but that look. That damn look, it’s so wistful it could hurt.

“That’s no Valentine’s spirit to have, is it, Merlin?” Arthur asks, the words leaving his mouth before he can even fully understand them himself. Gwaine raises an eyebrow and looks between Merlin and Arthur a few times. Merlin lets out a scoff, his mouth hanging open slightly, disbelief plain on his features. Arthur clears his throat, then stands, offering his hand to Merlin. “Come then, Merlin. Let’s have a dance, hmm?”

Merlin’s wistful look morphs into one of surprise, gaping at Arthur through his eyelashes. Something about the look makes Arthur feel bold. He offers his hand again, more strongly. Finally, Merlin takes it, sliding his fingers gently along Arthur’s palm as he stands. Gwaine is already back to whispering sweet nothings in Celestine’s ear on the dancefloor when Merlin and Arthur join the dance.

For a moment, they simply stand, eyes locked on each other. Arthur’s heart thumps in his ears, nearly drowning out the music altogether, nothing feeling quite real except the weight of Merlin’s hand in his and the electric connection between their gazes. It’s both the same and somehow completely different from any other time with Merlin.

“May I?” Arthur asks, his free hand moving slowly to Merlin’s waist, both eager and afraid to feel his body again, the memory of Merlin’s fingers on his thigh still tantalizing his mind.

“Yes,” Merlin breathes with a nod. Arthur thinks his voice trembles around the words, or maybe it’s just the music making Arthur feel so twisted up, like everything is smoke, waiting to be blown away. Merlin adjusts so his forearm is draped across Arthur’s shoulder, his fingertips brushing occasionally against the bare skin on the back of Arthur’s neck, searing pinpoints that take up all of Arthur’s attention.

They find the rhythm quickly, stepping in time with the couples around them. Besides the gentle music and the sound of footsteps, the room is fairly quiet, the pairs all speaking in hushed tones directly into each other’s ears, each a private oasis in the room made of warm bodies, soft hands, whispered breaths. Arthur breathes deep, and the smell of Merlin surrounds him, so close as they are. Sort of woody and musky. Familiar and comfortable yet somehow exhilarating all in one. For the first time, Arthur might understand the appeal of dancing.

“I think mine must be kind,” Merlin whispers, his breath ghosting hotly across Arthur’s ear. A shiver runs up Arthur’s spine.

“Your what?” Arthur asks, turning his face slightly into Merlin’s, not wanting to disturb the other couples, of course. The feel of Merlin’s soft hair wispy against his cheek is merely coincidental.

“My soulmate,” Merlin clarifies, reminding Arthur of the prompt he had pulled from the envelope. “They must be kind. Openhanded. They’d help people when they can, maybe even at their personal expense.” Of course, Merlin would want someone generous, kind, altruistic. They’re some of the best qualities that Merlin holds himself, the qualities Arthur is most jealous of. The way Merlin gives so easily, like it’s breathing, in a way Arthur has never been able to.

“Sounds like a saint.” Arthur swallows hard.

“Ugh, of course not,” Merlin chokes, an exaggerated disgust dripping from his tone. Arthur can’t help but laugh, his lips pressed tight in an attempt to stifle it. He turns his face even closer, until suddenly his nose is in Merlin’s dark curls at his temple, the noise dying somewhere between his lips and the warm skin of Merlin’s cheek. Merlin continues, “Besides, can’t be. I’ll need a proper devil who can give it as good as they’d be getting it.”

“Merlin!” Arthur hisses, fingers flexing impulsively against Merlin’s waist. Suddenly, Arthur’s heartbeat is everywhere in his body, pulsing white hot and rhythmic in his cheeks, his legs, his palms. The points where their bodies connect seem amplified, chests, hips, Merlin’s arm around his shoulder, his palm pressed hard against Merlin’s back. It’s too much. Arthur’s breath quickens. He’s too close. He’s not close enough. What is this? Too much wine, probably. Surely.

“And blonde, preferably,” Merlin adds. His lip catches on Arthur’s ear, and there’s no air in the room. Blonde. A wave of electric tingles shoot across Arthur’s scalp, down into his spine, as his stomach drops out the bottom. In equal measure, Arthur wants to dig in deeper, wants to shove Merlin away. A part wants to hook his fingers deep, deeper, into Merlin until they’re inseparable, while the other part is more sensible. The dichotomy makes his palms itch, antsy with the shoulds and should nots that he’s been fed, practically since birth.

Just then, the music ends on a drawn out flourish. Arthur immediately breaks his contact with Merlin this time, taking a healthy step away and willing his heart to settle in his chest, his breath to come back to him. What is going on? Arthur feels completely turned upside down, thoughts and feelings and vague impressions swirling every which way inside of him. He sucks a gust of air in, then out, before he dares to look directly at Merlin again.

Merlin’s hands are buried deep in his pockets, standing loose and tall in that lanky, cocksure way of his, as if he hadn’t just been lighting Arthur’s skin on fire, mixing him up like he’d never done before. Hadn’t he been? Arthur shakes his head, trying to remember the truth of it over his pounding heart. In the candlelight, Merlin’s face is so gentle, all soft cheeks, round lips. But the nonchalant look doesn’t reach his blue eyes, which glitter with the spark of knowing, knowing what he’d said, knowing how Arthur reacted. And Arthur’s stomach drops again, twitchy with a strange kind of nerves. It makes Arthur want to grab him again, dance again maybe, or maybe not. Give him a taste of his own medicine, maybe. Anything to have him close again.

Arthur is struck with a harrowing thought, as the dancers all return to their tables. Is this what the other knights are feeling, with their girls? Not just the girls tonight, but all their girls? All the time? The thought makes Arthur’s mouth go dry.

This is Merlin, for Christ’s sake.

Snap out of it.

On each table, the dinner dishes have been swept away, replaced at each seat by a small plate covered by shiny metal cloches, reflecting and amplifying the flickering yellow flame of the dwindling candle. As Merlin and Arthur settle back into their seats, Gwaine claps his hands twice, crisp and bright, sharp against the dreamy atmosphere of the room. The quiet chatter settles as the partygoers turn their attention to Gwaine.

“We’re approaching the sweet, sweet conclusion of this evening’s truly lovely festivities, aren’t we, my friends?” Gwaine says with a devilish smirk, a chorus of agreement rising from the group. “Only dessert left, of course, which is already set before you. But it wouldn’t be a party without one last surprise, eh?”

“Save your surprises for Celestine!” Lancelot interrupts, and even Arthur finds himself laughing.

“When the girls compare notes in the morning, we’ll see who really had surprises to spare, eh, Lance?” Gwaine shoots back, unphased as ever, directing a pointed wink at Lancelot’s table. Gwen buries her face in her hands, laughing even as her cheeks flush pink. “But this surprise is for everyone, of course! Under eleven dishes, you will find a delicious custard. And under just one, a lucky guest will find a surprise. Come now, the unveiling!”

Arthur shoots a nervous look across the table at Merlin, who responds with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

“Together, then?” Merlin asks, his fingers curling around the metal knob on top of his cloche already.

“Here’s to custard,” Arthur agrees, genuinely. Whatever this surprise is, it’s got to be devious. This is Gwaine’s party, after all.

“Three, two, one!” Merlin counts down, and they lift their cloches in unison. Merlin’s reveals a small bowl filled with intricately decorated custard, dollops of whipped cream set across the smooth, yellow surface, and Arthur’s – oh, no.

Not a dessert, but instead a single red candle, thin and short.

Eagle-eyed, Gwaine spots it, too, before Arthur can cajole Merlin into trading with him.

“And our lucky winner seems to be none other than our dearest Prince Arthur!” Gwaine announces, gesturing for Arthur to join him in the center of the room. On jelly legs, Arthur slips the candle into his palm and puts on a brave face, straightens his spine. Gwaine claps a hand on his shoulder as he approaches, urging Arthur to show off his prize.

“I’d rather have the custard,” Elyan snorts, eyeing the candle that Arthur is holding out in front of him now.

“Ah, but this is not just any candle, Elyan,” Gwaine chastises. “No, this is a candle that is made to burn for exactly seven minutes. Seven minutes that Arthur here gets to spend in that closet, there.” Gwaine sweeps his arm with a flourish, gesturing to the plain wooden door in the corner of the room, behind which Arthur knows is nothing but shelves, usually full of goblets, plates, and the like.

“Now I’m really jealous,” Percy interjects, throwing his head back to laugh.

“You may not be laughing soon, Sir Percival,” Gwaine continues. “For Arthur will be bringing any person of his choosing into said closet, to keep him company.” Gwaine waggles his eyebrows in a way that makes Arthur’s stomach threaten to revolt. He swallows it down, attempts to dampen the surprise on his face as he looks around the room. “So, who will it be, Arthur?”

And then all eyes are on Arthur, the suffocating heft of anticipation flooding the room’s atmosphere. He flicks his gaze around the circle of tables, his palms prickling with nervous sweat as he takes in his so-called options. He skips across Morgana, whose smirk betrays her complete and total enjoyment of Arthur’s humiliation, to Gwen, too lovestruck with Lancelot to even be considered.

“Er,” he stalls, skipping over the other girls with equal disinterest. If the very idea of being crammed into the closet with them weren’t nauseating enough, the vaguely panicked look on each of his knights’ faces as he crosses over their tables would be enough to move his gaze along, to the next table, and the next, and the next, until –

“Merlin,” Arthur says, a genuine relief settling his stomach as the familiar word leaves his mouth. Suddenly, it seems the obvious choice. Merlin startles, his spine straightening like a shock had run through him, his mouth forming a shocked ‘o’. The air returns to the room, as the knights let out a collective sigh.

“Be grateful – our prince has taken mercy on you sorry lot. He could’ve stolen any one of your dates,” Gwaine laughs, heartily. “Come then, Merlin. No time like the present.”

Merlin stands hesitantly, a faint pink coloring his sharp cheekbones, and Arthur realizes the relief was temporary as his stomach does a flip. The knights around the room variably whistle and hoot, making Merlin’s blush burn brighter. Arthur’s own cheeks feel hot, too.

“Don’t you think one of the other knights would appreciate this surprise more?” Arthur asks in a low voice, as Gwaine ushers them towards the closet. “Rather than stuffing me and Merlin in there, why don’t you take the opportunity?”

“Ah, but the fates have chosen you,” Gwaine objects, waggling his finger in a chastising way. “And I’ll remind you that you chose Merlin, God knows why.” Arthur grinds his molars, not quite sure exactly why he’d picked Merlin either. He only knows that any other option felt wrong. Although now, with Merlin at his side again, this also seems wrong in its own unique way.

Gwaine opens the door before them, revealing a tiny closet. It’s lined on all sides with wooden shelves, stacked with dining ware, with the smallest space between them. Really, it’s enough room for one, Arthur knows from experience. A strange sort of dread pulses in his veins as Gwaine gestures for the candle in his hand. Gwaine lights it easily, setting it on a shelf just above eye level.

“Go on, then, your time’s begun!” Gwaine laughs, urging Arthur forward with a firm hand on the shoulder.  

“Oh, whatever,” Arthur grumbles, stepping into the tiny closet. His palms are sweating already, his collar prickling with nervous heat. It’s fine, he tries to convince himself. No different from the way he and Merlin have already played the game all night. Just another of Gwaine’s stupid follies.

“You could’ve picked anyone, Arthur,” Merlin mutters, sliding in beside Arthur. The closet is just barely big enough for the two of them, the shelf digging into Arthur’s back as he attempts to scoot away, to give Merlin room. It’s a valiant attempt, but they’re chest-to-chest, anyway. Already, it’s too much. Arthur’s heart pounds in his chest, and he swallows thickly against the heat rising within him. Gwaine closes the closet door with a devilish grin on his face, a sing-songy good luck leaving his lips, and then they’re alone. The closet is lit only by the pitiful flame of the small candle, flickering and altogether too small. “Why’d it have to be me?”

Merlin’s breath ghosts across Arthur’s face, warm and sweet. Closer than they’ve ever been before, and Arthur’s stomach feels like jelly. Get a grip. They’re both standing straight and rigid, still attempting to give each other space, even as the closet continues not to afford it to them.

“I didn’t want anyone else,” Arthur mumbles with an unbidden amount of honesty, and Merlin inhales sharply. Arthur flicks his eyes to Merlin’s face, shrouded in more shadow than light, nearly impossible to make out. It’s for the best, Arthur figures, if he could properly see Merlin, it would only make it, all of it, worse. “Just, the rest- they’re so pleased with their girls, aren’t they?”

Merlin sighs.

“Yes, I suppose they are,” he agrees. Arthur strains to focus on Merlin’s face, his palms clammy at his sides. The heat of Merlin’s body is searing, and Arthur is painfully aware of every point of contact between the two of them. Chest, belly, hips, thighs. Merlin is everywhere, and Arthur is suffocating on it, the thrill of it novel and strange, the shame of the thrill making his head spin. He remembers his first kiss again, the way he’d been just as close to her in that alcove, and yet. It hadn’t felt like this, back then. No, nothing has felt quite like this, and the realization clouds Arthur’s mind with a haze of confusion.

Finally, Arthur’s eyes have adjusted to the dim light, everything still murky, really it’s barely enough light to see by. Even so, Arthur can see Merlin’s eyes, clear blue and fixed squarely on his face. His expression is unreadable, but the intense attention is enough to make Arthur shift his weight on the balls of his feet. He can almost feel where Merlin’s gaze pierces his skin. The air is silent between them now, tense in a way that is unfamiliar. Arthur averts his eyes, focusing on the shelf just behind Merlin’s shoulder, but his heart picks up its pounding once again.

“Would you have been?” Merlin asks suddenly, his voice quiet.

“Would I have been what?” Arthur replies, equally quiet. The darkness is heavy, a weight hanging on them, twisting between them, blurring the lines of everything so easily. Already, the points where their bodies are touching feel familiar, leaving Arthur almost wanting more.

“Pleased to have a girl tonight?” Merlin’s gaze is suffocating, even when Arthur isn’t facing it directly. Or maybe it’s his words, a needling reminder of Arthur’s dread leading up to the feast. Or maybe it’s the way his body shifts so subtly against Arthur’s, never quite completely still, even when there’s nowhere else to go. It all weighs so much.

“No,” Arthur answers without a thought, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his palms prickling with nervous sweat. His stomach flips again, pulling taut at the edges. Merlin shifts again, and the bony ridge of his hipbone presses harder against Arthur. Suddenly, Arthur’s hands itch instead with the urge to touch.

“Not any girl?” Merlin presses.

“No,” Arthur says again, and the truth of it feels like a stone in his belly. He really wouldn’t rather be in this closet with a girl, any girl at all. In all his life, no girl had made him feel like this, the way just standing here with Merlin has. He grits his teeth and finally dares to return his gaze to Merlin’s face, finding only a kind of curiosity written on his features. “I don’t know why, they just don’t… interest me.” It should be mortifying, humiliating, frightening to admit, but Arthur’s mind is only aware of the way Merlin’s body is molded to his, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his eyes are still singularly focused.

“And tell me, Arthur, what does interest you?” Merlin’s voice is low and gravelly, his mouth quirked up at the corner in a wicked smirk. Again, it’s too much. Arthur’s ribs threaten to crack with the sudden wave of want that crashes over him, although want exactly for what, even he doesn’t know. He’s hot and itchy and off-kilter, desperate to get closer, desperate to get away.

“Certainly not this foolish closet business,” Arthur replies, brusquely, attempting to shatter the fragile atmosphere that Merlin’s constructed simply by existing. Existing, and speaking. His words are ratcheting up Arthur’s heartbeat with each passing moment.

“So, you’ve never played before?” Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Have you?”

“Just once, back in Ealdor,” Merlin replies, his breath ghosting across Arthur’s face. Immediately, Arthur’s mind is flooded with a litany of images, of slender hands slipping under gathered skirts, of soft lips and sharp kisses, desperate to get as far as possible, as soon as possible.

“With your second-choice first kiss, perhaps?” Arthur attempts to joke, but his words come out lower, more earnest than he intended. Maybe he really wants to know.

“’Course not,” Merlin snorts. “Obviously, I picked my first choice.”

“Can’t make much of a difference. A girl is a girl,” Arthur says with a shrug, very little inside of him still except the excruciating awareness of Merlin’s body, now augmented with dizzying visions of that same body filled with want, rather than just shoved in a cramped closet. He purposefully ignores the hollow feeling in him when he considers replacing Merlin with any of the girls from the party outside.

“Ah, but he wasn’t a girl at all,” Merlin says, finally turning his gaze away from Arthur’s face, taking sudden interest in the shelf just above Arthur’s head. Embarrassed, or maybe nervous, or maybe both.

“What?” Arthur barks with a harsh laugh, caught off guard by Merlin’s admission, the words sinking in, burning as they settle on to Arthur’s skin. Of course, he knows of men like this, who prefer the romantic company of other men. But suddenly, the concept seems new, as the images in his brain morph to something different, the soft curves and silken dresses and long hair replaced instead with the solid body of a man, hard lines and smooth muscles, and Merlin. It’s a path that’s never been available to Arthur, never one he’d even considered in all this time he’d spent, waiting for the perfect girl. Suddenly, his mouth is dry.

“It was Will’s cousin, actually. The one who brought us the wine that harvest festival I got my first kiss,” Merlin smiles fondly. “He was older, just a little bit, and so cool. More experienced. Although it’s not hard to have more experience than a seventeen-year-old virgin, I suppose.”

“What could you even do in here?” Arthur croaks, shifting on the balls of his feet, the shelf digging sharply into his back again. It’s grounding, almost, gives him something to focus on besides the heat of Merlin, the ghost of his breath, the visions embedded in his words.

“Are you asking me to show you?” His eyes are locked on Arthur’s again, a sparkle in them, half joking, half not. Arthur’s stomach drops out the bottom, and that dangerous want thrums in his palms again. Again, the image in his mind evolves, not just Merlin and a man, but Merlin and himself. Merlin’s hands, on his body, Merlin’s lips, on his own.

“Wha- No!” Arthur doesn’t know what else to say, the protestation so strongly going against what he feels, aligning rather with what he knows he should be feeling.

“Admittedly, it was a bigger closet,” he says, a nonchalant tone even as the glimmer in his eyes seems to spark into something brighter.

“Oh, Christ,” Arthur huffs, breaking the intense eye contact that’s sweltering around him, threatening to unravel him. He twists his neck, straining to see the candle on the shelf above him, desperately hoping it’s almost gone. It’s too hot in here, nowhere to go, just Merlin, everywhere. On his skin, in his lungs, wrapping around him. The line between the two of them blurs until it seems it never existed at all, merging them into one.

“But I’m sure I could make it work,” Merlin’s voice drops to a different register, losing the offhanded tone from before. And then he moves somehow even closer, planting his hands on the shelf behind Arthur, and his lips are just barely brushing against the shell of Arthur’s ear. Arthur’s everything is consumed by Merlin. The feel of his lips is shocking, forcing Arthur to gasp. “Don’t need much room, after all.”

A shaky “Merlin,” is all Arthur can muster as Merlin’s lips drift lower, grazing against the sensitive skin over his pulse point. Whether it’s a warning or an appeal, even Arthur doesn’t know. Nothing is real in Arthur’s world but Merlin and the hot pulsing thrum of desire that’s suddenly flooding every part of his body, a wild and foreign sensation. One of his hands finally loses the stalemate of wanting, his fingers latching tightly onto the loose-hanging fabric at Merlin’s hip, skin-warm and rough. It’s not enough. It has to be enough. All he can think of is Merlin’s lips, his body, his smell.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers against his skin, all hot, wet breath and soft, smooth lips. There’s a certain kind of desperation in his voice that’s unfamiliar to Arthur, and exhilarating. It sends a shiver up Arthur’s spine, makes him keen even further into Merlin’s touch, awakens a stirring heat in his groin. Arthur tightens his grip, unable to do anything but hold Merlin ever closer to him. One of Merlin’s hands slides along the shelf until his fingers can curl around Arthur’s bicep. His fingertips burn against Arthur’s skin, siphoning all his attention to the pin pricks where they meet anew. When he speaks, Merlin’s voice is tight and desperate, his grip tightening, almost painful. “Arthur, please, you’ve got to tell me-“

Suddenly, the closet is filled with light as the door swings open. Merlin and Arthur jump at the same time, snapping away from each other with gusto. Merlin’s head knocks loudly against the shelf behind him, and Arthur’s elbows fair no better, sending a sharp pain shooting through his bones.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Gwaine announces as he pulls the door open. A strange wave of something close to guilt rushes through Arthur, making his stomach feel tight. He’s not interrupting. Is he? “But I am not the captivating host I thought I was. Everyone’s split for the night. Figured I wouldn’t make you two wait around in the closet any longer, even if the image is quite hilarious.”

Merlin steps out of the closet, rubbing the back of his head firmly with a flat palm. Arthur’s body still throbs where it had been pressed against Merlin’s, where Merlin’s lips had trailed against his neck, pulsing white hot, shameful and thrilling in the same turn.

“Scared them off, did you?” Merlin asks. Arthur follows him out of the closet, casting a glance around the room. Sure enough, the tables are empty, and there is no one in sight, save Celestine waiting by the door. She runs a hand through her long, blonde hair, curly now that it’s been freed from the braid it was in earlier in the evening. Arthur tries not to wonder if Gwaine had anything to do with its undoing.

“Sadly, I am not capable of overcoming the powers of romance, try as I might,” Gwaine sighs with a shrug. “I should’ve hosted this feast in a room with more closets.”

“I think one was plenty, Gwaine,” Arthur manages to say with a laugh. It sounds natural enough to his own ears, but, inside, his stomach flips again. They’ve left the stuffy confines of the glorified cupboard, but his head still feels warm and floaty, as if nothing had changed at all. Separated now, but Arthur can only think about how Merlin felt against him, worse now that Merlin is standing a few feet away, as if the distance has made the memory starker. Merlin raises an arm above his head, stretching to the side, all long lines and sharp bones and smooth muscles. Arthur pointedly looks away.

“I’m sure it was,” Gwaine says with an ominously knowing kind of chuckle. Arthur swallows hard and steels his face in a royally neutral expression, turning fully away from Merlin. Space. He needs space. The more he can put between him and Merlin, maybe the less guilty he’ll feel. Guilty for what? It’s not clear, even to him, but his stomach twists into knots anyway. “But this is where I leave you. Romance is calling my name, too, after all.” Gwaine claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he quickly strides towards the doorway, where Celestine is still waiting for him.

“Somebody’s presumptuous,” Celestine muses, laughing when Gwaine playfully collides with her. He wraps a strong arm around her waist, lifting her up as he spins in a circle. Her laugh is musical and boisterous, and Gwaine grins at the sound. He presses his lips to her shoulder when he returns her feet gently to the ground, and a pink flush spreads across her cheeks.

It almost feels wrong to witness. Arthur dares to glance back at Merlin, only to find his lips turned up in a close-lipped smile, and that damn look in his eyes again. Wistful, wanting. Arthur can feel the same feelings in himself, something about their interaction making Arthur feel hollow and full at the same time. The unbidden joy, the teasing, the closeness. Things Arthur hadn’t realized he could be jealous of, until now. And to see it reflected back to him in Merlin’s eyes, makes him feel almost nervous.

Who is Merlin thinking of?

Why does it matter?

It doesn't, Arthur assures himself, ignoring the needling feeling in his side.

Celestine pulls Gwaine by the hand into the hall, as he casts one final look back at Arthur and Merlin.

“Don’t forget your dessert, boys!” Gwaine manages to call before he’s dragged out of sight, Celestine’s melodious laugh turning to playful scream as Gwaine commits to following her, the sound of footsteps disappearing quickly.

And then, it’s quiet.

Chapter Text

Merlin takes a few steps to their abandoned table, nothing but the soft sound of his shoes against the stone floor, the rustle of his clothes filling the room. Arthur tries and fails to keep his eyes to himself, brain addled still by the energy between them in the closet, the strange feelings built up from seeing Gwaine and Celestine, the oddly placed hollow sorrow ringing deep in his bones. A wanting, never filled.

“Fancy a custard?” Merlin asks, picking up the bowl still sitting on the table. The decorations are gone, cleared away already, but a jug of wine and two glasses remain.

“All yours,” Arthur answers, clearing his throat. As a member of the royal family, he is painfully aware that he is spoiled. His food, his wine, his everything, it’s rare Merlin would have access to these things. When he has the opportunity, Arthur is wont to take it away from him.

“Wine, then?” Merlin asks, already filling the goblets before Arthur can answer.

“Well, alright,” Arthur sighs, hoping the drink will settle his stomach, his nerves. He’s still on edge, nothing but Merlin on the forefront of his mind. Arthur’s thoughts are dominated by the way Merlin’s body had felt, the memory only growing stronger as he tries to force himself to think of anything else. He sits at the table across from Merlin, heartily grabbing the cup when it’s offered. He warms from the inside out when a heavy swallow of wine hits his stomach, as Merlin picks up the spoon that is still lying beside the bowl of dessert. When Merlin takes a bite, Arthur is captivated by the shape of his lips, the way they form around the spoon, the way the tip of his tongue darts out after to catch an errant drop.

“It’s good. Have a bite,” Merlin says, offering the spoon to Arthur.

“If you insist,” Arthur sighs, unwilling to argue with Merlin’s stubborn generosity. When he slips as spoonful of custard into his mouth, the sudden realization that this same spoon had just been in Merlin’s mouth sends a shiver up his spine. Closer than ever, lips separated only by time. His neck flushes hot around the collar as he viscerally remembers the feeling of Merlin curled over him, his lips against his neck, so vivid that it’s as if they’d never left the closet at all.

“Look, Gwaine was kind enough to leave us some entertainment,” Merlin says with a laugh, fingertips brushing against Arthur’s skin as the spoon passes between them again. Arthur follows Merlin’s gaze to the table, where the edge of a parchment envelope is sticking out from under the jug of wine. The same envelope they’d been pulling questions from during dinner.

“Luckily, Gwaine isn’t here to ensure we play his silly games any longer,” Arthur replies. This game in particular had only served to make Arthur embarrassed, and to fill him up with these strange mixed-up feelings that are clouding his judgment.

“Oh, come on, Arthur,” Merlin laughs, already sliding the envelope out from under the bowl. “Where’s your party spirit gone?”

“Away,” he grumbles, sitting low in his chair as his palms prickle with a new nervous sweat. There can’t be anything good within that envelope, surely.

“Perk up,” Merlin laughs, playfully kicking at Arthur’s foot under the table. The contact sends sparking shivers through Arthur’s whole body, and he stiffens, sitting up straight again as if shocked. Merlin passes the envelope across the table, setting it in front of Arthur as he takes another bite of custard.

“Fine,” Arthur mutters, choosing to play along rather than be caught out staring at Merlin’s lips again. Those damn lips, consuming every part of Arthur. He slips a piece of parchment out of the envelope, and reads, “Face-to-face or – Oh, Christ – or face-to-pillow?” Arthur wants to melt into the floor again, but settles for another hearty gulp of wine instead.

“Face-to-face,” Merlin answers, as if the words don’t immediately make Arthur’s stomach constrict, as if they don’t flood his mind with blurry notions of bodies and hands and faces all mixing together. The memory of themselves being face-to-face in the closet flashes through, as well. Arthur shudders. “Although, I wouldn’t complain either way. Start with one, end on the other.”

“Merlin,” Arthur scolds, and the images in his mind morph to something new, more dynamic. Arthur swallows hard, trying to clear his mind, even as the tantalizing ideas continue playing. Merlin just shoots him a cheeky grin, the tip of his tongue stuck out between his teeth. His cheeks are pink, ruddy with the buzz of alcohol in his veins. Arthur ignores the insane desire he feels to reach out and touch.

“Here,” Merlin says, dropping the spoon back in the bowl with the handle aimed at Arthur. His long fingers slip past Arthur’s, pulling another piece of parchment out. Arthur ignores the spoon, and braces for Merlin’s question, his stomach still clenching, partially nervous, partially enthralled. It all feels so strange, the mix of excitement and stress and newfound wanting. “Hands or mouths?”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur balks, again the images in his brain taking on a new quality, slender fingers and plush lips and hot breaths. His cheeks feel hot, embarrassed as if Merlin can tell what’s happening in his mind. Maybe he can. Merlin always seems to know more than he should.

“A mouth can be quite nice, if you’ve never had one,” Merlin smirks, something flashing in his eyes. Arthur’s pride rises to the occasion.

“I have had one, thank you,” he retorts, squirming in his seat. And he had, once, in the back rooms of a tavern in a village on the edge of the kingdom. She’d had short, dark hair and sharp features, and it had only lasted a few minutes. Merlin only smirks harder, surely enjoying Arthur’s unease.

“Hands have their merits, too,” Merlin prods, kicking Arthur under the table again. And again, the contact ratchets up Arthur’s heart rate, and his cheeks suddenly burn a deep red. “And, once again, both are-“

“Mouths,” Arthur interrupts, desperate for Merlin to stop speaking, even if it comes at his own expense. Merlin quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing further, instead reaching for another bite of custard. Again, Arthur directs his attention to diligently pulling out another piece of parchment, flicking his eyes to Merlin’s lips for only a moment, feeling scalded when he sees them wrapped around the spoon, with the topic at hand as it is. “Give or receive?”

Merlin swallows, thinking hard. Arthur tries to pretend he’s not interested in this answer, but his stomach twists and turns about as he waits.

“Give or receive what?” Merlin finally answers, cocking an eyebrow.

“Doesn’t specify,” Arthur shoots back. “Surprised you didn’t say ‘both’.” The wine is loosening his lips, he decides, surprising even himself as the comment slips through.

“Oh, certainly,” Merlin smirks. “Reciprocity is the name of the game in most cases – hands, mouths-“

“I get it,” Arthur interrupts, regretting he’d spoken at all.

“But some things are one way-“

“Really, Merlin-“

“Personally, I’m happy to provide a cock, but receiving one-“

“Okay,” Arthur barks, slapping his palm against the table a little rougher than intended. The wine is his cup sloshes, and it mirrors what his insides feel like. Mixed up, frothing, splashing about, his mouth dry, his body hot. His cheeks burn red, hotter when he manages to flick his eyes to Merlin’s face. He’s sitting back in his chair now, relaxed and lanky, a crooked smirk fixed on his face. Arthur rakes his eyes along the long lines of Merlin’s torso before he regains control, clearing his throat. “That’s rather enough, I think.”

“If you say so,” Merlin says, with a gentle chuckle. Not a mocking, teasing kind of laugh. No, it’s so quintessentially Merlin – all kind and good-natured.

“It must be getting late,” Arthur mumbles, gesturing towards the door with a roll of his neck.

“Indeed.” Cool and collected, crinkled eyes, the same Merlin as always. And yet, Arthur feels strange.

“We should- probably, I mean- I should-“ Arthur stumbles, still reeling from Merlin’s words, from Gwaine’s stupid games, from the way his palms are prickling with damp sweat.

“Let’s go, shall we?” Merlin asks, lazily pushing back from the table. “Dessert’s gone anyway.”

He stands, and Arthur quickly does the same. It’s all he’s wanted since before the feast even began, for it to be finished. Part of him feels weak with relief. And yet, another part twists with a yearning that begs to reach out to Merlin again, to entice him to speak more of his wicked words. Arthur swallows hard, shakes his head to himself, and strides towards the open door. Merlin follows behind, hands buried deep in his pockets again, soft steps, long strides.

They wind their way through the twisting corridors quietly, just off-color from the companionable silence they usually find themselves in. Arthur casts a glance at Merlin from the corner of his eye, but he’s as unreadable as always, his face loose and neutral except where his teeth are worrying at his lower lip. The memory of those lips against his skin makes Arthur’s stomach flip again. The crushing heat of the closet has long since dissipated, yet his cheeks flush again anyway.

Arthur’s mind is heavy with thoughts of everything Merlin, swirling about in every direction. Come to think of it, it’s actually a familiar state for him to be in, is it? He’s often wondering where Merlin is, or what he’s doing. On their missions outside of Camelot, he’s painfully aware of Merlin’s fragile constitution, of his unwillingness to wield a weapon, of Arthur’s responsibility to keep him safe. Sure, tonight he’s thinking about the way Merlin’s skin feels, the way his body is shaped, the way he somehow seems to know exactly what words will ratchet Arthur up. But, having Merlin on the brain, that’s… normal. Isn’t it? Arthur wills himself to be content with what he’s already been given, to forget the finer details that send pangs of something white hot through him. He needs to be normal again.

Finally, they reach the door to Arthur’s chambers. The handle is cold and rough against Arthur’s palm, but he doesn’t turn it immediately. Merlin lingers behind Arthur, clearly intending to follow. Loyal, to the end. Arthur drops his hand to his side again, turning to face Merlin truly head-on for the first time since they’d exited that damn closet.

“Go on, Merlin,” he manages. “Go salvage what you can of your evening, God knows Gwaine wasted enough of our time.”

“My night’s not going to get much better than this,” Merlin shrugs. Arthur grinds his molars, annoyed at himself for feeling pleased at Merlin’s words. Annoyed for lacking control. Annoyed for letting himself be put in this position. Annoyed at Merlin for being so very Merlin.

Ineffable Merlin, who rolls with the punches, who defies all odds, who manages to find levity with Arthur where most cannot. Merlin, who’s always there, always generous, always kind. Merlin, who is sensitive and funny and smart. Merlin, who Arthur looks to in times of trouble, who Arthur relies on implicitly, who Arthur needs. Arthur realizes, all at once, that he wouldn’t have rather spent the evening with anybody else. Wouldn’t have been subjected to the mortifying ordeal with anybody else. Certainly could never have been convinced to be forced into such proximity with anybody else.

What does that mean? Arthur’s head feels too full, unfamiliar thoughts and feelings clashing violently with the fact that this is Merlin.

He has got to get away. Distance, distance is good. Distance will put his head back on right, surely. Distance will remind Arthur of his position, of his duty. His duty that expressly cannot include Merlin, not like this.

“Really, Merlin-“

“Are you feeling well? I didn’t know it was possible for you to willingly give me a night off,” Merlin says with a laugh, taking half a step closer to Arthur. It’s the opposite of what Arthur needs, seeing Merlin up close. He sucks in a deep breath, and regrets it when he’s filled again with the smell of Merlin, letting it out as quickly as he had taken it in.

“Oh, bugger off,” Arthur grumbles, hiding behind the grumpy façade he’s constructed for himself. This is familiar. This, he can bear for a few minutes longer. He grabs for the handle of the door again, this time twisting and pushing the door open without hesitation.

Inside, the fire has burned low, settling an unpleasant chill over the room. Without a word, Merlin crosses to the hearth, crouching as he sets to work on rekindling the fire. Arthur suddenly feels disheveled, antsy to be just standing about. It’s never bothered him before, for Merlin to perform his duties. But now, when his mind is still confused, still blurring the lines between friend and servant and something else unnamed and unfamiliar, he is restless.

He busies himself by crossing the room to the window. Outside, snow falls in steady droves, twisting and twirling in the whistling winter wind. Already, the ground is smoothly blanketed in white, pristine and reflecting the bright moonlight like a jewel. The air seeping through the window pane is frigid, a welcome relief from the sweltering heat Arthur has been burned by all evening, from the very first moment he laid eyes on Merlin. Arthur’s breath rests heavy on the glass, slowly but surely replacing the view with a blurry fog of moisture. It doesn’t matter, because Arthur isn’t really enjoying the picturesque landscape before him, too busy with his anxious thoughts about Merlin.

“What’re you thinking of?” Merlin’s voice startles Arthur out of his contemplation.

“Spring,” Arthur lies easily, as he turns back to Merlin. A healthy flame flickers in the heath already. Uncanny, how quickly Merlin can build a fire. Another of his better qualities, that never fails to come in handy when they’re sent on excursions around the kingdom.

“You do get stir crazy in the winter,” Merlin hums.

“Hey!”

“You do!” Merlin laughs, setting to preparing Arthur’s bed for the evening. He throws back the covers, and continues, “It’s too much politics, and not enough action. You’re always happier when the frost thaws, and Uther can fling you to the far edges of the kingdom again.”

“I resent the implication,” Arthur grumbles, although he can’t quite find the fault in Merlin’s words.

“So, you’re not over there reminiscing over excursions of days gone by?” Merlin quips, rearranging pillows as he does. “What was our last? Somewhere up North in the fall, yeah?”

He hadn’t been thinking of that particular trip, but now the memories flicker through Arthur’s mind quickly.

It had been mid-autumn then, still warm while he and Merlin travelled. Pleasant enough to sleep under the stars with no bedroll. They had laid side-by-side, no other knights accompanying them for the excursion. The trip was really more a formality than anything else. Just Arthur and Merlin, exchanging stories, jokes, thoughts without regard, free-flowing between the two of them. It’s always like that, when they get away from the politics of Camelot proper. In some ways, these trips are like tonight, a time alone with Merlin, when the lines blur. More friend than servant. Closer, more personal. Free.

Maybe Merlin is right, after all. Winter’s focus on politics must be getting to his head.

“That was a good one,” Arthur says with a sigh.

“The wine was good, anyway,” Merlin reminisces with a quirk of an eyebrow. He flits across the room again, rummaging about in the wardrobe for a minute. Arthur recognizes his cue and goes to stand beside the bed, the warmth rolling off the fire much stronger there.

The wine, good as it had been, was a gift from the villagers they’d made their rounds to, which they had heartily helped themselves to around the fire on the final night of the trip. It had been late, the moon high in the sky, bright the way it seems to be only in October. The fire, burned low. Stretched out in the soft grass, one arm tucked behind their heads, the other passing the wine back and forth, mirror images of each other. Wasn’t it always that way? Arthur and Merlin, Merlin and Arthur, moving as one. Two parts of a whole.

The tranquility of the trip had been an oasis, a true break from the rough and tumble life in the castle. Relaxing, even. Even Merlin had gotten a break, those nights around the fire. Arthur remembers the final night, the night they had drank so much wine, how he had wished and wished he could have just one more night. One more night, in that reverie with Merlin. It had scalded him, how badly he’d wanted it.

In the present, Merlin reenters Arthur’s orbit, laying a set of sleep clothes on the bed. He turns to face Arthur more squarely, close enough again that Arthur can see the sparkle in his blue eyes, the light pink flush on his cheeks, both remnants left over from imbibing at the feast. His fingers are firm and warm when they clasp Arthur’s wrist, and the touch nearly scalds, sending white hot shivers through Arthur’s whole body. Arthur takes a shaky breath in, and the corner of Merlin’s mouth quirks up, subtle and flashing fast enough that Arthur would have missed it, if he weren’t solely focused on everything Merlin. Quickly, Merlin unfastens the few buttons on the cuff of Arthur’s tunic, trading one wrist for the other.

But now, Arthur thinks to himself, isn’t this close to that night in the woods? The warmth of the fire, the looseness of the wine, the soft light between them. Jut him, and Merlin, and, suddenly, Arthur is wanting again.

When Merlin moves to the buttons at the collar of his tunic, Arthur holds his breath, willing his heart to settle in his chest. Merlin is so close, the same way he is every night, but, this time, it feels different. Arthur is painfully aware of where Merlin’s fingertips brush against his chest, where Merlin’s breath breezes across his skin, as more and more is exposed with each button unfastened.

All at once, Arthur is crammed in that closet again, his world narrowing to nothing more than Merlin, his body, his breath, his everything. Arthur’s blood is fire in his veins, pounding through him with a force he’s never felt before. His neck feels warm at the collar again, and his mouth is dry. Arthur desperately wishes Gwaine had not intruded on them now, longing for the sense of secrecy, of dangerous freedom he’d felt behind that closed door, with Merlin’s hands, lips, body on him. The breeze of his breath, warm and wet, the gravelly register of his voice, laden with something sounding like desire, like desperation, demanding something. And then, it hits Arthur, and he finally digests Merlin’s aborted words from before, in the closet.

“What was it you wanted me to tell you?” Arthur asks, the filter between his brain and his mouth loosened by the wild wanting within him. He doesn’t even have the good sense to blush as he asks.

“Hmm?” Merlin hums as he fiddles with the final stubborn button, sounding confused, but Arthur can see the subtle way his body tenses at the question.

“Just before Gwaine opened the door, back there when we-“ Arthur cuts himself short, bold enough to ask but too shy to be specific. He clears his throat. “You said, ‘you’ve got to tell me.’ What did you want to hear?” He pointedly does not acknowledge that Merlin had said please, but he’d be lying if his stomach didn’t flip, remembering the desperate way Merlin had practically begged. It must be important.  

“Oh, uh, just- I- nothing,” Merlin stumbles over his words, finally loosening the tricky button. He moves to step away, to reach around for the sleep clothes lying on the bed, but the thought of him being any further away makes Arthur feel squirmy, off-kilter. Before he can think, Arthur grabs his wrist, keeping him within arm’s reach. Merlin doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t meet Arthur’s gaze, either.

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur encourages, desperate himself to hear the answer. He squeezes Merlin’s wrist gently, trying to be nonchalant, even as his heartbeat picks up its pace again at the contact, at the novel way Merlin feels under his palm.

“No, it was nothing, just- silly.” He sounds nervous, almost. Embarrassed, maybe. He shifts on the balls of his feet, neither pulling away nor moving any closer. Maybe he’s remembering, maybe he’s trying to forget. The not knowing makes Arthur’s palms feel clammy.

“It didn’t sound silly to me,” Arthur breathes, willing his voice to stay steady. And he means it, heat rising in him again as he recalls the press of Merlin against him in the closet, the gravel of his voice, the drag of his lips.

Merlin sighs, shifting his weight.

“I wanted to know,” he starts, slowly. He swallows, the continues, “if you really, actually really, wanted to keep going. Like we were. Or, at least, like I was.” His words are stilted, and his eyes are closed, grimacing as his cheeks suddenly flush a dark pink. Arthur’s brain short circuits, playing through the possibilities from before, had they not been cut short. More, more, more, lips and hands and skin, all swirling through his mind, making his stomach drop in a dangerous way. In letting his imaginings run wild, the air falls dead between them.

“Like I said,” Merlin says with a dismissive shrug, putting on a neutral tone, but his voice still sounds tight under it all. “Silly.” When Merlin finally opens his eyes, Arthur can see it there again. A sad kind of wanting. Yearning.

Maybe the night is making him bold, or maybe it’s just Merlin. Either way, Arthur feels brave.

“Ask me again.” His voice is low, but his tone is sincere, sounding decidedly as if his heart isn’t hammering in his chest, beating savagely against his ribs. He flexes his fingers around Merlin’s forearm. Finally, Merlin meets his eyes again, shocking blue and wide with surprise.

“What?” Merlin laughs, half incredulous, half nervous as if on guard, waiting for the joke to land.

“Ask me again,” Arthur says, pressing closer as he tugs on Merlin’s arm softly, arranging them so they’re separated by little more than the width of Merlin’s arm, practically chest-to-chest. His palm is red hot and pulsing where it’s wrapped so firmly around Merlin’s body, and Arthur almost can’t stand it anymore. He catches Merlin’s eyes pointedly, and waits. Merlin swallows hard, and Arthur’s eyes are transfixed, watching his throat bob with the effort.

“Did you? Want to?” Merlin asks, his breath ghosting across Arthur’s face again. Arthur can’t help but lean into it, chasing anything Merlin has to offer, even the air from his lungs.

“I did,” Arthur answers tersely, flicking his gaze back to Merlin’s, meeting Merlin’s eyes and holding steady. And it’s true. One night with Merlin has unlocked a new kind of desire that is wholly unfamiliar to Arthur – not tired or going through the motions, but alive and active, a wanting that is driving him to the brink of control. He leans in even closer, unable to resist. Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up, a real shock written on his face before he quickly steels it away again with a shake of his head. It’s not enough, the words don’t satisfy the sheer thrumming need coursing through Arthur’s veins, so he emphasizes, “I do.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, voice low in a husky warning even as he presses closer, too. Arthur matches his level gaze, something in him pleased now to see that yearning look in them again. “We’re not playing the game anymore.”

“I know,” Arthur breathes, feeling it in his bones. He lets his gaze drift lower, to Merlin’s lips. It’s not a game. Maybe it never was. “I know we’re not.”

There’s a terse moment of silence, hanging heavy between them, nothing but the crackle of the fire and their quiet breathing filling the space. Arthur’s fingers twitch against Merlin’s arm, as Merlin’s eyes bore into him, making him feel antsy. The familiar blue of Merlin’s eyes seems darker as the intensity grows. The wanting is still there, still backed by a melancholic tinge, but something else, too. It’s something torn between hoping and believing, and Arthur can’t take it any longer.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Arthur surges forward, closing the small distance between the two of them, driven forward by the sudden needy desperation within him. His mouth lands against Merlin’s, and he’s lost already. Merlin’s lips are softer than he could ever have imagined. They are also, for a moment, frozen. Arthur presses more firmly, insistent, as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.

In a single instant, the dam seems to break, and Merlin moves all at once. The arm in Arthur’s grasp twists, grabbing a handful of Arthur’s tunic, while his other hand shoots up to cradle Arthur’s jaw in his palm. The tips of his fingers bury themselves in Arthur’s hair behind his ear, sending exhilarating waves of sparks through Arthur’s whole body, and Merlin’s thumb presses possessively against his cheekbone. And then, Merlin is kissing him back, and it’s almost more than Arthur can bear. Merlin flattens against his chest, deepening the kiss as if trying to occupy the same space, to breathe the same air. Arthur returns in kind, parting his lips easily and letting Merlin’s insistent tongue in, warm and wet and so foreign that it’s somehow familiar.

Driven only by a thrumming need to be even closer, he desperately grabs at Merlin’s hip, digging his fingers in to the bony hollow and dragging him in. To Arthur, everything is Merlin. The air in his lungs, the ground beneath his feet, the racing blood in his veins. It’s more than Arthur’s ever had, more than he’s ever wanted, and it’s already not enough. The wanting only grows within him with each swipe of Merlin’s tongue against his, with each flex of Merlin’s hand around his jaw, possessive and earnest. Arthur scrambles with the hem of Merlin’s tunic until finally, finally there’s skin under his palm, smooth and warm and so, so tempting. The growing hardness in his pants throbs, just to feel it.

Merlin gasps at the fresh contact, breaking the heated kiss, but not quite pulling away. Both of their mouths hang open, barely grazing against each other. For a moment, only panting breaths pass between them, and then Merlin is moving against Arthur’s hold on his hip, sliding closer and closer until the searing length of his own erection is slotted against Arthur’s. Arthur shudders against Merlin, the firm pressure on his cock sending a rippling wave of pleasure through him.

“Arthur,” Merlin groans, tugging on his handful of fabric, pushy. “Take this off.” Then, a breathy afterthought, “Please.”

“Yeah- yes, of course,” Arthur replies, breathless already and chasing after more, more, more. Quickly, he yanks his shirt up and over his head, dropping it thoughtlessly on the ground, his thoughts focused solely on getting Merlin under his hands again. Merlin is equally desperate, already on Arthur again before the fabric even hits the floor, hands splayed greedily on Arthur’s hips, fingers digging searing points into the flesh there. He dips his head into the space where Arthur’s neck meets his shoulder, lavishing the sensitive skin there with wet open-mouthed kisses. Arthur lets his head roll to the side, giving Merlin more room, urging him in closer. Merlin, in turn, tightens his grip on Arthur, crushing their hips together as he latches his lips to Arthur’s skin, sucking hard enough to leave a purple mark in his wake.

Satisfied with his work, Merlin laves his tongue across the mark, warm and wet and rough, then drifts downwards. The grip of his fingertips are pinpricks of electricity, almost painful, but not quite. Merlin skims his lips across Arthur’s chest, eliciting a throaty groan from Arthur when he pauses briefly to pay special attention to the pink bud of his nipple. Arthur is hot all over, already a sweaty, trembling mess as Merlin sinks even lower, the trail of his kisses cool against Arthur’s flushed skin, until his knees are squarely planted on the ground. Merlin mouths along the vee of Arthur’s sharp hipbone, working across his taut, twitching stomach to his navel. His fingers are not far behind his lips, and when he finally breaks away, sitting back on his heels, his index fingers are already looped through the laces of Arthur’s pants, poised and ready.

“May I-?” Merlin asks, looking up at Arthur through his lashes. Pink cheeks, pink lips, blue eyes wild with want. Arthur’s knees threaten to give out at just the sight of him already.

“Anything,” Arthur breathes, nodding vigorously. The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitches up in a devilish smirk, and he deftly undoes the lace. The pants slide to the floor easily, and Arthur’s dick springs free, moisture already beading at the tip. Merlin wastes no time, wrapping a tight fist around him and pumping from the head to the base, spreading the wetness along his length. A breath punches out of Arthur, and one hand tangles itself in Merlin’s dark hair in an attempt to steady himself against the white hot pleasure of Merlin’s hands on him. Another drop of precum weeps from the tip, and Merlin leans forward, lapping it up with his tongue without hesitation. That alone is enough to make Arthur lightheaded, overwhelmed, finally giving in to his weak knees. Merlin’s hand on his hip stays fixed, guiding him on the way down so he lands squarely on the edge of the bed. Arthur catches himself, one hand still buried in Merlin’s hair, the other landing palm-down on the mattress, propping him up.

Merlin’s eyes rove over Arthur’s face, hunting for any indication that something is remiss. Arthur only nods, reassuringly flexing his hold on Merlin’s hair, not quite sure he’s capable of stringing together more than a word or two out loud. Seemingly satisfied with Arthur’s silent answer, Merlin runs his hand along the hard length of Arthur’s cock again, this time foregoing any teasing as he leans in and slips the dribbling head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before descending. He takes more and more of Arthur’s dick, enveloping him in the hot, wet heaven of his mouth. Arthur’s eyes slam shut, and he grits his teeth, fighting the instinct to thrust his hips, especially when he feels the blunt back of Merlin’s throat. Merlin pulls back, the combination of friction and suction forcing a hiss out of Arthur, then drops down again. This time, he takes more and more into his mouth, until his nose is buried in the mess of blonde curls at the base, and Arthur’s cockhead is seated fully in his tight, wet throat.

Merlin pauses for a moment, giving them both a moment to adjust to the feeling. Arthur takes a deep breath, then cracks his eyes open. The sight is overwhelming – Merlin, still fully clothed, on his knees, his hair a mess between Arthur’s fingers, his eyes watery and bright, his lips stretched pink and wide around his mouthful of cock. Arthur is already strung out, taut everywhere, but somehow everything twists another notch as he takes in the vision below him. Again, Merlin starts to move, this time with purpose, lavishing his tongue around Arthur’s erection as his mouth slides up and down along its length.

This is not going to take long, Arthur can tell. The coil in his stomach tightens with every pass of Merlin’s mouth, his lips and tongue driving Arthur closer and closer to the edge with vicious earnestness. Arthur tightens his hold on Merlin again.

“Christ, Merlin, I’m almost there,“ Arthur pants, pulling back on Merlin’s hair with urgency as the cresting pleasure threatens to crash over him. Merlin crinkles his eyes and resists Arthur’s urging, instead doubling his efforts, sucking harder around Arthur’s cock in his mouth. The searing heat, the mind-numbing suction, the intense eye contact, it’s too much, and, all at once, the white-hot pleasure consumes Arthur entirely. His muscles draw taut, fingers flexing around his hold on the back of Merlin’s head, and his eyes slam shut as he spills his release into Merlin’s hot mouth. Merlin swallows hard around him, milking every drop of cum from Arthur’s softening dick before finally leaning back.

Merlin is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Arthur manages to peel his eyes open, his chest still heaving in panting breaths as he comes down from the high of his orgasm. Merlin’s breath is coming in faster now, too, his cheeks flushed high and red. His lips are pink and puffy, still wet from being locked around Arthur’s dick.

“Don’t take very long, do you, Arthur?” he teases, quirking his eyebrow with an attitude.

“Take it as a compliment,” Arthur growls, fisting his hands in the front of Merlin’s shirt, desperate enough for more of Merlin that he can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed. He tugs firmly, pulling Merlin up off his knees. Before he can argue back, Arthur crushes their lips together. He licks eagerly into Merlin’s mouth, relishing the sweet taste of Merlin overprinted with the salty bitter taste of his own cum on Merlin’s tongue. Arthur stands, adjusts his grip, and hoists Merlin’s leg up onto his hip, just enough to be able to turn them in tandem without breaking their kiss. Gently, but urgently, Arthur lays Merlin down across the mattress, pleased to feel the hard line of Merlin’s cock trapped between their bodies.

“You have too many clothes on,” Arthur pants into Merlin’s mouth, shoving at the hem of his tunic, urging it up. Merlin makes a vague keening sound of agreement in the back of his throat, sitting up only enough to pull his shirt off before landing heavily on the bed again.

His body is all creamy pale skin, shocking smatterings of dark hair, and long, hard lines, and Arthur is powerless to resist touching him. He runs one hand down Merlin’s side, across his sharp hipbone, and back up to his chest, relishing the trail of goosebumps that crop up just behind the pass of his palm. Arthur worries at the pink nub of Merlin’s nipple, rolling it gently between the forefinger and thumb of one hand while the other sets to untying the laces on the front of Merlin’s trousers, his hard cock straining against them.

“Arthur,” Merlin groans, raising his hips off the mattress. His voice is low and rough again, the same timbre that had set Arthur on fire in the dark closet before, and Arthur wastes no time dragging Merlin’s pants down. For a moment, Arthur can only gape at the sight of Merlin’s hard length, flushed red and smearing wet precum against his tight stomach.

Arthur’s never done this before, but, all at once, it doesn’t really seem to matter. He moves on impulse alone. Merlin’s erection is thick and hot in Arthur’s hand, velvety skin dragging against the callouses on his palm. Merlin whines, high and throaty, at the small gift of friction. He squirms, thrusting into the tightness of Arthur’s fist in desperate little circles. Arthur indulges him and leans in again, slotting their mouths together as his hand passes again and again along the length of Merlin’s cock. It’s not that different from jerking himself off, the angle being slightly wrong, but at the same time, it’s so much more exhilarating to feel Merlin beneath him, to taste Merlin’s mouth as he gasps for breath against his pleasure. Already, Arthur’s dick is interested again, hard and throbbing between them.

Merlin slides his hands over Arthur’s broad shoulders, digging his fingernails in as his palms drag along Arthur’s side. They settle on Arthur’s hips, his fingertips burning red hot points into Arthur’s skin there, the sting of his nails almost a welcome relief from the intensity of the contact. Arthur quickens the pace of his hand over Merlin’s cock, twisting his wrist at the tip to coat his palm with the wetness steadily leaking from the slit for slicker passage on the way back down. Merlin matches the pace with thrusts of his hips, meeting Arthur’s fist on each downstroke.

All at once, Merlin licks into Arthur’s mouth with heated urgency, tightens his grip on Arthur’s hips, and flips them over. It’s shockingly easier than Arthur thought Merlin would be able to do, a powerful strength concealed by his lanky limbs and lithe frame that has Arthur’s back pressed into the mattress before he can even think to protest. Merlin disappears for a moment, reappearing quickly with a vial of golden oil, the one he massages Arthur with after particularly long training sessions. He unstoppers the vial, sidling up between Arthur’s knees, forcing his legs to spread wider and wider. He pours a thin drizzle of oil on the underside of Arthur’s cock, a shocking cold against his heated flesh - that Arthur quickly forgets about when Merlin’s dick is suddenly sliding through the oil, too, smearing it between them. The smooth friction against his dick is already making Arthur’s head light, a crop of stars swimming in his vision when Merlin’s hand wraps around the two of them, squeezing just right as he continues to piston his hips, dragging his hot length against Arthur’s with pointed thrusts.

“Gods, look at you. You’re perfect,” Merlin babbles, eyeing Arthur hungrily. His gaze dances across Arthur’s body, his open mouth, his sculpted chest, his weeping cock. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Been thinking of me, then?” Arthur quips, thrusting his own hips in time with Merlin’s, doubling the intoxicating drag against both of them.

“Every night,” Merlin groans, leaning down to plant sloppy kisses behind Arthur’s jaw. A thrill runs through Arthur at Merlin’s words, doubly so when he remembers how Gwaine’s silly questions had made Merlin’s masturbatory habits public knowledge, at least between the two of them. Every night. Merlin’s breath is harsh and cold against the trail of wetness he leaves as he works his way from Arthur’s jaw to his ear, his voice desperate and breathy when he whispers, “The things I want to do to you, Arthur.”

“Tell me,” Arthur pants. His heartrate ratchets up as he thinks about Merlin, alone and hard in the darkness of his room, nothing but his hand and his imagination to satisfy himself. He’d been thinking of Arthur all this time, while Arthur was oblivious.

“I want to watch you touch yourself so I can learn exactly the way you like it,” Merlin says, with no hesitation, his words punctuated with harsh panting breaths as he continues fucking into his fist at a punishing pace. “So I can take you apart myself. I want to put my hands on you, all over you. Take you with my mouth, taste your release when you’ve had enough.”

As he speaks, Merlin changes the rhythm of his hips, slowing his thrusts to a pointed drag, pressing Arthur further into the mattress with each movement. Arthur is helpless to do much but dig his fingertips in to Merlin’s flesh, urging him on, head buzzing with the rush of pleasure and heat and closeness of Merlin looming over him.

“I want to touch and kiss and tease every inch of you,” Merlin says against Arthur’s skin, nipping with his sharp canines in time with a squeeze of his fist still wrapped around both of them. “Take you right to the edge and leave you there until you’re a mess, begging for it. You’d beg so pretty, wouldn’t you?”

“Merlin,” Arthur moans, completely and totally overcome with everything Merlin. His hand still clamped possessively to Arthur’s hip, his cock catching in all the right ways against Arthur’s, his other palm slick with oil and the steady wetness leaking from them both.

“And, gods, I want to fuck you,” Merlin rumbles, grabbing Arthur possessively. “Want to see how good you can take it, make you come on my cock again and again, fill you up ‘till you’re dripping like a whore, then fuck it back in to you.”

The image is shocking and filthy and exhilarating, sending shooting sparks up Arthur’s spine as Merlin speaks. His voice carries the confidence of self-indulgence, and it occurs to Arthur that Merlin is reciting a fantasy so well-visited it’s second nature. The thought is overwhelming, intoxicating.

“Please,” Arthur breathes, pleading. “Christ, Merlin, please.”

“Please, what?” Merlin whispers with a grin. The desperation in Arthur’s tone is more than enough for Merlin to know what he’s asking for, but Arthur is too far gone to protest begging.

“Fuck me,” Arthur whines, squeezing his thighs around Merlin’s waist and urging Merlin down until they’re plastered together, chest to belly to hip, their erections trapped in the tight space between them. “Now.”

He can’t even bother to be worried how he sounds, wanton and needy, because the sheer force of his wanting drowns everything else out. He’s never felt this way before, drawn to another person with a force so magnetic it is irresistible. Arthur’s head spins when Merlin groans against his skin, low and gravelly and possessive, and adjusts his grip on Arthur’s body, pulling him down the bed until his hips are angled up, propped up on Merlin’s upper thighs.

Merlin runs his fist down and then up Arthur’s throbbing erection, gathering oil on his fingers as he does. Then Merlin’s other hand is pressing at the joint of Arthur’s hip, spreading him open so one oiled fingertip can circle around his puckered hole. Arthur at once jumps away and presses into the foreign feel of Merlin’s finger, and Merlin strengthens his hold on Arthur, fixing him firmly in place just as his finger finally breaches the tight ring of muscle, plunging deep inside. Arthur gasps, arching his spine into Merlin, convulsively so when Merlin crooks his finger and brushes up against a shocking bundle of nerves inside of him. Quickly, Merlin adds a second finger, and then a third, each new addition driving Arthur closer and closer to the edge of cresting pleasure, or maybe insanity.

When Merlin withdraws his fingers, they’re quickly replaced with the blunt pressure of the head of his dick, well-oiled and already leaking.

“Look at me,” Merlin commands, husky and strung out. Powerless to do anything else but listen, Arthur obeys, opening his eyes. Merlin is above him, balanced on one long arm while the other holds his cock in place, and his eyes are locked on Arthur’s, cloudy with lust and wanting. “Yeah?” he asks, shifting subtly against Arthur’s hole.

“Yeah. Yes,” Arthur pants with a nod, pulling Merlin down into an open-mouthed kiss, all soft lips and languid tongues tangling. Merlin breathes into the kiss and pushes for real, pressing and pressing until finally the head of his cock slips past Arthur’s entrance. Arthur gasps, full for the first time, and Merlin only kisses him deeper, thrusting in slowly until he’s buried to the hilt. The lines between them, blurry before, are completely obliterated now, as Merlin settles in, giving them both a moment to adjust. Him, to the tight, wet heat. Arthur, to the searing stretch and fullness. Both, to the melding with the other, closer than ever before. Arthur breathes Merlin in, surrounded everywhere, inside and out, with pure Merlin.

Merlin pulls back in an experimental thrust, only slipping out partway before sliding back home, filling then refilling. Arthur’s head swims, vision decorated with sparking stars, crying out when Merlin reangles his hips on the next thrust. He pulls out almost to the tip then plunges back in, setting a determined and faithful pace, slow and measured. The blunt head of his cock hits that special spot inside Arthur again and again, and Arthur is lost to the sensation of it all. There is nothing except the bone-shaking pleasure of Merlin’s cock, the tantalizing feel of his mouth, all tongues and teeth, and the white-hot dig of his fingertips.

“Come here,” Merlin groans into Arthur’s mouth. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s torso, hoisting him up so they’re both chest-to-chest, Merlin up on his knees, and Arthur wrapped around his waist. Arthur’s forearms land on Merlin’s shoulders, which he uses as leverage to deepen their kiss. Merlin picks up the pace, fucking up into Arthur with a new fervor, bearing most of Arthur’s weight himself. Arthur is raptured, nothing to do but take his pleasure as it’s given – the punishing thrusts of Merlin’s hips, the strong flex of Merlin’s arms holding him up, the desperate searching of Merlin’s lips claiming his. It’s possessive in a way that sends a thrill through Arthur. To be Merlin’s, it’s all Arthur knows.

“Touch yourself,” Merlin orders, his hips stumbling for just a fraction of a second. “I want to see you come again.” His voice is strained, tight with the effort of holding himself together. Arthur complies immediately, his hand setting to its familiar rhythm over his own dick, timing each pass with a thrust of Merlin’s hips, everything hotter and hotter, tighter and tighter, until-

“Ah!” Arthur cries, mouth frozen open as pleasure takes over. Merlin kisses him through it as wave after wave of orgasm washes through him, his cock spraying thick ropes of cum across both their chests. Arthur is aware of nothing but the white hot supernova of pleasure, the distinct lack of oxygen in his lungs, and the way Merlin’s cock slides into him again and again, frenzied and off-rhythm now as Merlin chases his own climax with sole focus.

“Fuck, Arthur-“ Merlin’s voice is strangled, and then he slams home one last time, his arms tightening almost painfully around Arthur’s torso. Every muscle is taut in Merlin’s body as he buries his face in Arthur’s chest and pumps Arthur full of his release, searing hot and pulsing, with a gutteral groan.

Merlin sits back so his weight rests on his heels, holding Arthur against him, careful so he stays seated on his cock, still buried to the hilt. For a moment, there’s silence as they catch their breath, Merlin’s mouth open against the sweat-slick skin of Arthur’s chest, Arthur’s nose buried in Merlin’s messy hair. The room is warm now, partly from the fire but mostly from the heat of them, and the pink haze of post-orgasmic satisfaction lingers around them everywhere. As they return to their bodies, all sweaty skin and sore muscles, Merlin’s gasps against Arthur’s skin slowly turn to deliberate presses of his lips, a gentle trail of kisses starting in the center of Arthur’s chest and running up to his collarbone.

“You. Are. Just,” Merlin whispers, punctuating each word with a kiss, migrating up Arthur’s neck each time. Merlin’s hands splay wide on Arthur’s back, trying to maximize the area of contact between them, and he nuzzles into the space behind Arthur’s jaw. “Everything.”

And it’s only now – with Merlin’s cum dripping steadily from him, and Merlin’s cock softening in him, and his own cum cooling sticky on their chests – that Arthur has the sense to feel embarrassed.

Part of him wants to pull away, push this all down, even pretend it never happened. Deny, deny, deny. Go back to the way things were, before he knew what it feels like to let someone in, or to want them there in the first place. But a larger part relishes it all, is clinging to the parts already fading, not sure how he’d managed to make it this far before realizing just how much he needed someone like this. But it’s not just someone, is it? It’s Merlin. And being cradled in Merlin’s arms this way has Arthur feeling vulnerable, the way Merlin is cherishing him with every breath making Arthur feel important in a way he’s unfamiliar with. It feels reckless to have peeked behind this door. It must be time to close it again.

“And you are a dramatic git,” Arthur huffs, trying to stuff that sentimental, mushy version of himself down deep, the version that lets him indulge in silly things, like feelings. It needs to be deep enough that it won’t be a weakness. He clears his throat. Arthur loosens the hold of his arms, which are still thrown around Merlin’s neck, and tries to wedge some space between them. It’s too dangerous to have Merlin so close, where everything about him threatens to draw Arthur back in so easily. “Well, come on then, I’m sure there’s a cloth somewhere around-”

“Hey,” Merlin breathes, pulling his face from the precious space behind Arthur’s ear where he’d been breathing deeply. “Hey,” he repeats, when Arthur continues to squirm. His voice is so gentle, it almost burns Arthur to hear it. He ignores Arthur’s attempts at space and wraps his arms tighter around Arthur’s torso, ducking his head to catch Arthur’s avoidant gaze. “Don’t be that way.”

“I’m not being any ‘way’,“ Arthur says, tersely. He only lets Merlin have a fraction of a moment of eye contact, scalded by the soft emotion swimming in the blue of Merlin’s eyes. It’s too raw, too shocking to see his own feelings reflected back at him like that.

“Yes, you are,” Merlin says with a small chuckle, a fondness written in the little smile on his lips, the crinkles around his eyes. “You’re getting lost in your head.”

Arthur doesn’t deny it, because he can’t. He can feel the ragged nails of the worst parts of him, fearful and risk averse, digging in, clawing him back from what he is now painfully aware of.

“Just be here with me,” Merlin continues, flexing his arms around Arthur. The pressure of Merlin’s hold, the smooth skin of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, it all lulls Arthur into a sense of ease again, and he tries to stop fighting against it, to let the current sweep him away. He relaxes, lets Merlin’s arms bear the weight of their embrace, holding them together tightly, chest-to-chest, nearly nose-to-nose.

“There we go,” Merlin hums, ducking to press a series of kisses along the sharp bone of Arthur’s jaw. “Let me enjoy you while I can, hmm?” Arthur preens at the idea of being enjoyable, silently demanding more of Merlin’s attention with a small tilt of his head. Merlin obliges, pressing his lips more firmly to Arthur’s skin.

“While you can?” Arthur asks,

“I don’t want to be presumptuous,” Merlin says between kisses.

“Of?”

“That this could be a repeat affair,” he answers, with a put-on shrug. The image of nonchalance, but his grip on Arthur only tightens, as if afraid to let go.

“Merlin-“

“I know, I know,” Merlin sighs, his arms still wound around Arthur even as his words are clouded with an air of defeat. He leans back, but suddenly his gaze is flighty, flicking from Arthur’s face to anywhere else. “I know that you’re Prince Arthur, and you’ve got important politics to worry about, and I’m a servant-“

“You would want to…” Arthur interrupts, hesitantly testing the idea for the first time. “Again?”

“You’re very pretty, but you really are quite stupid, aren’t you?” Merlin laughs, although not meanly. Arthur’s cheeks flush pink and warm, but he resists the impulsive urge to recoil. Instead, he settles for a playful swat of his palm against the back of Merlin’s head, scolding.

“But yes,” Merlin continues with a groan, trying but failing to avoid Arthur’s reprimand. “Gods, yes. Yes, a thousand times over. If you give me a minute, I’ll do it again right now. Gladly.” His hands roam eagerly from where they’d been sprawled across Arthur’s back, sliding down his sides to grab at his hips instead. Merlin’s palms are warm, and his grip is solid, seating Arthur more firmly against his hips as he speaks.

“Merlin,” Arthur groans, ignoring both the image conjured by Merlin’s words and the half-interested throb of his cock.

“I’ve wanted you from the very first moment I saw you, Arthur,” Merlin breathes, flexing his hands around his hold on Arthur. “And if this is all I get, just this one night, then it is still more than I’d ever dreamed I could actually have.” His voice is steady and low, reverential in a way Arthur isn’t used to.

Arthur already knows, just one night of letting his guard down, of letting himself really feel, was too much. It’s too much because now he knows it could never be enough. He tries to think of a future where he knows how Merlin’s skin feels under his hands, knows how Merlin’s lips feel against his own, knows how Merlin feels moving inside him, and he resists feeling it all again. The knowledge is damning, sentencing him to either a life of indulgence or a life of agonizing, desperate wanting. Wanting that is irresistible. Already, Arthur knows he is lost in the captivating pull of Merlin’s orbit, irrevocably intertwined, perhaps even long before this night where Arthur let himself cross those physical lines. It occurs to him that Merlin may have been a soft spot for longer than he’d even been aware.

“Who am I to deny you your dreams?” Arthur asks, gently cupping Merlin’s jaw in his palm, urging his gaze up until their eyes are locked together again. “If they are my dreams, too?”

Merlin’s lips curl into a genuine smile, and he releases his hold on Arthur’s hip to instead lay his hand over top Arthur’s, pressing them together with pointed pressure. Connected anew, lost in the world of each other’s eyes, and Arthur feels like he can breathe for the first time in his life, like Merlin is breathing new air into his lungs.

When he leans in, Merlin meets him halfway, moving in tandem as their lips find each other again. It’s a chaste and sweet kiss, all warm lips and soft movement. The room falls away, and all that’s left is Merlin, and his body, and the way the lines between them are blurring. Arthur relishes the taste of Merlin’s lips, the softness of his skin, content to kiss and kiss and kiss him until the world ends around them.

Or, until Merlin shivers in his arms, and Arthur notices for the first time just how low the fire has burned in the hearth.

“Come now,” Arthur says, breaking apart from Merlin only just enough to speak. “You can enjoy some more when you’re dressed for bed and tucked in.”

“Okay,” Merlin agrees, barely above a whisper. Arthur presses a quick kiss to Merlin’s waiting lips, runs his thumb along Merlin’s sharp cheekbone, then finally pulls away, all the way away, as he slides off of Merlin’s lap and stands. Merlin follows him, sliding across the bed until he’s seated on the edge, feet flat against the floor. Arthur fishes his tunic from the floor, wiping the streaks of cum from first Merlin’s chest and then his own with it.

“Thanks,” Merlin murmurs as Arthur drops the now-soiled tunic to the floor again.

“Take those,” Arthur says, gesturing to the sleep clothes that lay abandoned near the head of the bed. “Might be big on you, but they’ll keep you warm.”

When Merlin stands to dress, Arthur crosses to the wardrobe. He grabs the first pair of sleep clothes he lays eyes on and quickly steps into them. His hands tremble slightly as he shifts his attention to rekindling the fire from the bed of coals in the hearth. Sure, he’s been kissed and sucked and fucked tonight by Merlin already, but his heart beats skittishly now at the thought of sleeping, really sleeping, with Merlin. Vulnerable and exposed, and Merlin. He takes a deep breath and places two new logs on the fire, waiting just a moment to ensure they catch.

When he turns around, Merlin is standing beside the bed, the borrowed tunic and pants hanging loose on his lanky frame, and his eyes are locked on Arthur’s every move.

“Staring is rude,” Arthur grumbles, good-naturedly, as he crosses back to the bed once again.

“Just committing the image of you actually working to memory,” Merlin snarks, the tip of his tongue stuck out between his teeth.

“I am still the prince of Camelot, mind you,” Arthur shoots back, crowding into Merlin’s space. “I could have you in the stocks in fifteen minutes, if I wanted.”

“Ah, but you’d much rather warm your bed with me, wouldn’t you?” Merlin grins, angling in to Arthur’s outstretched hand.

“I’m not sure your skinny arse will be doing much warming,” Arthur quips, grabbing roughly at the sharp bone of Merlin’s hip as illustration.

“Hmm. That’s not what you were saying when I had your cock in my-“

“Oh, enough!” Arthur cries with a laugh, pushing Merlin on to the bed. Merlin lands heavy, throwing his head back with a boisterous laugh of his own as he settles squarely in the middle of the bed. Arthur follows him in, throwing the covers over the both of them before pulling Merlin in close again. Merlin comes easily, throwing one leg across Arthur’s and nuzzling his face into the crook of Arthur’s shoulder, as if it’s where he’s always belonged. His body is solid and warm against Arthur’s, and his breath is wet against the skin of Arthur’s neck. Just enough to get Arthur’s heart beating a little faster again.

“Don’t be so loose with your words, unless you’re ready to demonstrate again,” Arthur whispers against Merlin’s temple, heaving him impossibly closer with the arm wrapped around his back.

“Don’t underestimate the number of times I’d be willing to demonstrate,” Merlin shoots back, even as his voice lowers, taking on the rumble of exhaustion.

Merlin’s words send an electric shiver down his spine, but a larger part of Arthur is quickly being swept away with the tides of sleep, everything warm and comforting, especially the way Merlin’s breath evens out, the way his body relaxes into Arthur’s, the way his hand flattens against Arthur’s chest.

Arthur has no more words, and he doesn’t need them. Merlin is curled against his side, his nose is buried in Merlin’s hair, and Arthur’s heart is content. Everything Merlin is everything Arthur, like pieces of a puzzle finally slotting into place.

The moon peeks through the curtains, bright slashes of cold nighttime light cutting across the bed. It’s rivaled only by the faint yellow glow of the fire in the hearth, crackling and snapping as the fresh fuel is steadily turned to ash. A sleepy sound escapes Merlin, and he wriggles into a new position, settling with a sigh. Arthur holds him closer, breathes in his scent even deeper, lulled by the even rhythm of Merlin beside him.

In the morning, life will be different, and, somehow, it will be exactly the same.

Arthur sighs, and drifts to sleep, into dreams of warm skin, and soft lips – and Merlin.