Archive of Our Own

The first of the year, Merlin has just decided, is his least favorite day. As his tongue presses against something cold and decidedly metal, (deeply unpuddinglike,) there is a moment where he has hope that it's another Fool’s piece; that he will spit it into his palm, and the “X” etched into the metal will spare him. He hesitates before reaching into his own mouth with two fingers (and hesitates further when Gwaine “oohs”, leaning closer to examine whenever he pulls with a hand on his shoulder,) and the food in his mouth turns to ash as the little trinket looks back up at him with a crown on its face. He holds his head in his hands with his elbows on the table, and Gwaine leaps from his chair, cheering.

“Merlin’s pulled it!” He announces like a victory, grabbing Merlin’s wrist and holding it into the air with the metallic trinket between two fingers.

Merlin tries, in vain, to sink into the floor. Gwaine manages this feat perfectly, of course, still holding his hand, down to one knee.

“Let me be the first to pledge my allegiance to you, your majesty.”

Merlin almost yanks his hand away, but remembers this is meant to be fun, and rolls his eyes when Gwaine presses his lips to his knuckles. People are laughing around him—clapping, even, and Merlin feels a bizarre flush rise to his cheeks. He finds the strength to cast a glance at Arthur, who is leaned over the table in much a similar fashion to how he had been, head held in gloves hands. Merlin knows him, though, better than anyone, and recognizes what relief looks like in his shoulders. Lord Gareth cajoles him with an elbow to his ribs, and Percival laughs in his seat beside him, leaning back to clap Arthur on the shoulder and pull him around with a familiar, friendly tease. Arthur drags his hands down his face before he leans back, smiles at Merlin, raises his goblet to him and downs the rest of his wine in a single drag

Before he can think too deeply about what that relief might mean, Merlin is swept away; the feast proper won't begin until tomorrow, they’ve just decided it best to leave Merlin agonizing for the next several hours, until he has perform for the people, otherwise he will officially be labeled a spoil-sport. There's a deep pit of dread in his stomach, though, and the high flush hasn't left his cheeks. It's only made worse by Gwen, in all her terrible knowledge, leaning across his middle and joining her tape measure at the front of him.

“I’m sure I have just the thing for you, but I need to see a few things first.”

“Please don't do this. You don't have to, you know.”

“Oh, don't be a baby, Merlin.” She giggles, and speaks over his shoulder to give Sefa a number to scribble onto a slip of paper. The girl giggles, too, but when Merlin glances back at her, she looks down at her parchment very attentively and presses her lips into a thin line. He thinks her ears might be pinker than they were moments ago.

“I’m not being a baby, Guinevere, you're trying to put me in a dress so that I might pretend at being Arthur’s wife tomorrow.”

“I’m putting you in a dress to pretend at being the Queen.” She corrects with a gentle click of her tongue. “Being Arthur’s wife is simply necessary evil. Or an added benefit, depending upon your proclivities.” She pinches his side to accent her point, and Merlin tries once more to melt into the floor beneath them.

“I’ve no proclivities to speak of!” He thinks he might squeak, but he can't be sure. Sefa giggles again when Gwen makes a face at her. “You're both terrible, you know. Kicking a man during his hardships.”

“Such a hardship, of course, to be dressed in fine things, drink fine wine, and share the company of the King.” Gwen hums behind him.

“For the express purpose of being laughed at by the nobles, Gwen. And to be laughed at by Arthur.”

Gwen runs a comb through his hair before patting his cheeks and holding his face in her delicate hands, still calloused from years of work but softer, now, for her new station. “Arthur laughs at you whether you're in a dress or not, Merlin.”

He frowns, having no rebuttal, and crosses his arms across his chest. Sefa goes to say something but decides better of it, bows her head instead, and they leave together. Merlin’s stomach sinks when he catches them, heads together as they walk, murmuring something about “red velvet.”

Merlin struggles to sleep, tossing and turning most of the night. When he does finally drift off, he dreams of being a delicate thing. He dreams of a soft blanket in the grass and Arthur’s laugh, Arthur’s hand on his jaw, Arthur’s hand bunching his skirts into his fist. He dreams of a figure suited for such a garment, of a body that suits Arthur’s desires, and he dreams of it being his own.

He wakes with a start; with Gwaine in his bed, practically straddling his hips, jostling him awake.

“Rise and shine, my lady!” He grins, and pats his hand against Merlin’s cheek to rouse him.

Merlin groans, shoving him off and attempting to yank his blanket over him as he turns. They are both of them pinned under Gwaine’s weight. He hears the curtains slide open, but the sunlight that bleeds through his closed lids tells him it's hardly yet the break of dawn.

“Gwaine.” Merlin grumbles, thick with sleep, and his hand over his eyes by way of it being the only thing keeping him from the day ahead of him. He still feels the ghost of Arthur’s hand beneath his shift, pressed hot against his thigh. “You have less than thirty seconds to explain yourself. It’s practically the middle of the night.”

“It's just before morning proper, actually.” He corrects in his most aggravating voice. “And you would sleep through the day given half a chance, Merlin, it really is almost impressive how you can doze off anywhere.”

“Twenty five seconds.”

He hears a breath of laughter from his desk he recognizes as Lancelot’s. Traitor.

“Merlin. Do you know how to dance?”

Two of Gwaine’s seconds tick by as the question settles into the sorcerer’s mind before he sits up on two elbows, brows furrowed into a confused crease.

“Yes?”

Gwaine hums apprehensively, and his face scrunches in turn. “You know the Carole. Maybe the Estampie, if we’re lucky. But do you know the Almain? Don't try and lie to me and tell me you know the Basse, Merlin.”

“I know.. The general idea.” He waves his hand noncommitally, and Lance extends his own. Merlin hesitates, knowing he means to pull him from the warmth of his bed.

“There's going to be dancing after dinner. And likely before.” He supplies before extending his other hand, too, and he does pull Merlin up and out of bed in a fluid motion.

His furrowed brow turns to a grimace at the cold stone floor beneath him, and he yawns deeply. His hair must stick in a myriad of directions, because Lancelot presses a comb into his hand.

“I can't believe the princess still lets you dress like this.”

Merlin doesn't have to turn to know Gwaine is pilfering through his wardrobe. “People don't care how I dress,” He yawns again. “Just that I solve their problems with magic. Sometimes they might even notice how I keep the kingdom safe.”

“You're part of the Court proper now, Merlin. You should be wearing nicer things. Running Arthur for all he's worth.” He grins as he presses a warm, wool tunic and brown trousers into his chest. When Merlin takes them, the knight tousles his hair, undoing the comb’s work.

“I don't need new clothes. He keeps trying, though. And I don't need to dance.”

Lancelot is holding his hands at his belt so as not to organize the unruly papers, spell components, and potion bottles on his desk. He keeps glancing at it with a frown, but keeps his attention on Merlin as he addresses him. He really ought to be used to his mess by now.

“We’re just trying to help you, you know. Don't want you tripping over your skirts tonight. Especially if you've had a drink or two, you know you’ve no head for wine.”

“You know you've no head for wine,” Merlin repeats in a childish tone, tightening his belt around his trousers and stepping into his boots.

Gwaine laughs at this, free and open. It's a low blow, but Lance smiles at him before ushering them both out the door.

“Gwen’s waiting. She may be patient as a Saint, but she’ll have our heads if we’re not there before the sun, come on.”

Merlin spends the next agonizing hour (or two? He has no grip on the time that passes as they punish him, cruel and unusual in their torture) learning when to hop, switch feet, dip into his parter's arm, twirl, and bow. The steps are already muddy in his mind as their lesson winds down, but he can't help the giggle that bubbles up and out of him as Gwaine and Gwen argue about the order of importance in timing and subject of conversation during the dances. It's easier to imagine himself and Arthur in their bickering dance than it had been to imagine them in place of himself and Lance, making casual conversation and laughing together.

As they trade partners, Merlin watches Gwen and Lancelot dance with the practiced ease their marriage grants them, and he feels a strange pit of uneasiness gather in his lungs. He’s never been anything but happy for the two of them; pleased at their meeting, pleased at their courtship, delighted at their engagement, and ecstatic at their wedding. But watching them—it almost feels like jealousy, and he (unwillingly) remembers the feeling of dream-Arthur’s kiss against his jaw, his mouth.

“Are you growing bored of me, Merlin?” Gwaine asks with mock-hurt, and Merlin realizes the knight must've been speaking for some time.

“Impossible to be bored with you around.” He says in turn, hopping on one foot and twirling with their hands held above them.

“Where’d you go, then?” Gwaine trades his dominant foot in the dance, and Merlin nearly stumbles over the step. He can't quite get the hang of that one.

“Just agonizing, you understand.”

“You're going to do great.” Gwaine grins, knocking their heads together.

The dance ends and Gwen claps his hands before absently straightening her skirts.

“I think you'll manage tonight without accidentally killing or maiming half the attendants,” At this Merlin grumbles, but she continues without stopping. “And if you'll excuse us, boys, I have to ready his majesty for the day.”

They’re all getting quite a laugh out of taking the piss out of him, but Gwaine produces an apple from his pocket and winks as he tosses it at him as if to say you always feel better after you've eaten something. Merlin never likes admitting when Gwaine is right, but the world seems softer as he tosses the core to the bin in his chambers that needs emptying.

The dress sits strangely on his middle, tightened by laces but corset let loose enough so as not to leave him breathless. Gwen reminds him he is meant to be having a good time through this as well, and that she’s not actually trying to torture him. He runs his hands (covered by the sleeves that end in loops around his middle fingers,) down the red velvet, soft against his fingers, and the white panels of the bodice sit snug against his ribs. He looks down at his chest; flat as it has always been, a straight shot to his skirts, hiding his feet beneath them (for the best, too, considering he’s just got his everyday boots on.) There is a thrill, terrible and humiliating, that flares in his breast at the sight of himself.

Gwen and Sefa continue to pull the laces and hooks into place while Merlin holds the front in to his chest; they’re in something of a rush, Sefa had been late with the dress and forgetful about her duties. She was lucky Gwen was so good with her, but (in honesty,) Gwen was good with most people. And Merlin likes Sefa, she’s a sweet girl with a sweet smile. She reminds him of himself in his early days as Arthur’s manservant, those days long since passed. He’s sure she bears a fondness for him, though he suspects it's of a different nature.

As they finish, and move desperately to his hair, there is a gentle rapping on his door. On instinct, he calls a come in! over his (bare) shoulder and watches the door open slowly. He almost startles to see it's Morgana who enters; she looks tired, as she does most days, now, but she smiles softly as she pokes her head in the door.

“Oh—! Morgana,” Gwen seems to startle similarly, but she’s pleased, grinning and holding her hands at her front. Sefa casts her eyes to the ground, dipping in a respectful curtsy with her nervous fists at her sides. “I know we’re late, we were just finishing up here. I hope Arthur didn't send you all this way to fetch us.”

She laughs in a breath. The gauntness of her cheeks no longer flavors her smiles with bitterness and resentment; Merlin can't feel any of the burning hate that had been nestled beneath her ribs those long years. He still stiffens between the blades of his shoulders at her presence; he can't help himself. He can't trust her. He doesn't yet know if he wants to.

“No, Arthur didn't send me.” The Lady Morgana steps inside the room fully, then, her gown trailing behind her. It strikes him, that he cuts a similar silhouette in this red, ridiculous thing. Ridiculous and beautiful thing. She pulls a wooden box from where it had been tucked against her side, and Merlin’s eyes fall, as they always do, on the cold iron around her wrists.

It has been a concession on both their parts; to arrange any sort of peace, Morgana needed to be reined in. To achieve any sort of peace within herself, she knew an end had to be put to her dreams. She wasn't bound to the bracelets by law or by punishment, but she chose most days to wear them. Merlin hasn't been friendly or nosy enough to ask why, though he suspects she must have confided in Gwen by now. He can still feel her magic; though, where once it had been an angry, feral wild animal barely contained by her ribs, it now felt as tired as she did. Even on the days where Morgana forwent the nullifying bindings, her magic felt calmer in the same way she herself now seemed. Merlin found it hard to believe this wasn't a ruse, another plot. He worries about Arthur suffering another betrayal.

“As you're all very aware, I’m sure, there's been no Queen of Misrule during the Feast of Fools since before Arthur’s mother’s passing.”

This much was true. Arthur had been king several years, now, and the Court thought it time to finally pick the tradition back up. Maybe a little ribbing Arthur would finally convince him it was time to choose a wife of his own so as not to be subjected to this again. Especially with Merlin having pulled the piece, the sorcerer suspects he’ll have the Queen business sorted within the month.

“But I managed to hunt these down, from years past. They're a little old fashioned, of course, but they should sit nicely. Do the trick, if nothing else.” She unhooks the latch with spindling fingers, opening it to reveal a few headpieces. They're costume jewelry, certainly, but costume jewelry commissioned by nobles for this very game. No precious gemstones were used in the delicate diadema, but colored glass sits where gemstones might (no doubt forged with magic, before its ban. Even though they hold no magical properties, Merlin can feel the breath of it, older than anyone in this room, on them). He hears Sefa give a little oh! behind him, both pleased and surprised.

“Oh, Morgana, that's exceedingly kind of you.” Gwen grins, crossing the short distance to stroke her arm.

When she takes a peek inside, Merlin watches as Morgana’s face softens and she seems to forget anyone but Gwen exists in the world. He casts a glance back at Sefa and pops his eyebrows, smiling knowingly at her with a gentle tease. She giggles behind her hand, and even dares to gently touch his arm.

“What are you two giggling about?” Gwen asks, half-accusatory but no bite as she pulls a golden circlet, dripping with clear jewels. It flows like water in her hand, and she places it on his head with careful consideration.

“Sefa nearly tripped over herself, that's all.” He lies easily, and Gwen gives her own knowing look but doesn't call him out on the fib.

“No.” Morgana shakes her head, and pulls a different golden circlet, inlet with ruby-red glass. A larger one is set at the middle and when Gwen affixes it to Merlin’s head, it rests just under his hairline.

Morgana offers him a smile—a real smile, not a sneer, or a pleasantry, a real one where her single dimple carves into her cheek and she nods, pleased with her choice.

“You look lovely, Merlin. Arthur and his knights are going to trip over themselves to offer you their arm.”

Merlin waits for a bite that never comes; steels himself against a mean-spirited tease or a sharp elbow to the ribs, but she doesn't say anything more and he can do nothing but smile in return. Likely not as genuine as hers, he fears, tight at the edges, but he offers her a gentle curtsy, velvet in his hands. He thanks her in the same moment as she curtsies back with a quiet laugh, and he thinks (for what might be the first time,) that the two of them might not always be like two hungry dogs in a ring.

He missed breakfast entirely, he notes with a grumble. He’s doubly thankful for the apple, as he takes the stairs with his skirts in his hands. He knows how Arthur gets about punctuality; he doesn't think this will be any different, even if it is all meant for fun. Merlin still feels terribly self-conscious about all this, alone in the main hall. He can hear the music outside the open doors; can hear people chattering and laughing, he worries that it’ll soon be at his expense. He groans into his hands one final time before he shakes the nerves from them and turns the corner, facing the late-morning sun and the people gathered in the courtyard.

Merlin isn't sure who the first to notice him is, but he suspects it might be Elyan who starts the cheering. The crowd, evidently waiting for him to start the festivities proper, whoop and cheer alongside him, and Merlin has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the hot flush from the outside of them. Arthur turns away from his discussion with Leon to quickly glance at the cause of the commotion, but turns back a second time when the sight of him registers. The sorcerer braces himself for Arthur’s laughter with the second look; steels himself against it but refuses to name why this particular laughter would sting so much. He tries to head it off, to give him a reason to laugh other than the sight of him and, (in a distorted reflection of their second meeting,) he bows his head with a slight curtsy and greets him with a teasing smile and a simple “My lord,”

The laughter doesn't come. He keeps waiting, but Arthur stares at him, blinking rapidly until he presses whatever scroll Leon has handed him back into his hands without looking at him. He thinks the knight might be laughing, but he has a sneaking suspicion it isn't at him.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks incredulously and walks a circle around him just to get a good look. Merlin feels very much like a hunting trophy displayed on the table, but refuses to falter under it. “Who are you and what have you done with my Court Sorcerer who refuses to dress in anything but rags?” He reaches out to grab him by the bottom lip of his bodice, running his thumb over the golden embroidery. His fingers are wedged between it and the dress, and Merlin schools his face into no more reaction than his lips pressed into a thin line as his dream returns to him unbidden (again.)

Someone in the crowd wolf whistles, and another crows the same terrible ooh that Gwaine had given the night previous, and it's enough of a tease to have Arthur yanking his hand away with his own scrunched face. There was no version of this where any reaction on his part ended in anything other than raucous laughter, and it comes with Arthur’s ears pinking.

“Right.” He says gruffly, abandoning his line of questioning and deciding instead to turn to Leon and mutter something Merlin doesn't catch before he clears his throat and offers his hand. When he addresses Merlin, he speaks at a volume so that no one else might hear him. “I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. For both of us.” He takes Merlin’s hand and raises it to his lips with an air of decorum that’s just on this side of feeling too genuine. He finally returns his greeting with a louder “My lady.”

Merlin hates this. He hates every single second that passes and he hates every single thought that his treacherous mind supplies; errant wishes and hopes and the terrible longing that lives beneath his breast. They turn to face the people together, and Merlin has an absolute time of trying to navigate the stairs with only one hand to hold his skirts—he almost makes it, he really does, but oversteps the last one, thinking there wasn't another, and he begins to cascade toward the ground.

There's the terrible feel of falling; the jump of his heart and the catch in his throat of the entire world falling from underneath his feet, and then there’s the equally terrible feeling of an arm around his waist, caught in the crook of Arthur’s elbow with his hand clinging to the red surcoat at his breast without meaning to.

The world, humiliatingly, really does seem to fall away, then, with just the two of them left. The cheers of the crowd (do they think it staged?) are no louder than the breath between his lips. Arthur looks down at him with blond hair falling against his brow (contained only by his daily-wear circlet), and Merlin can pinpoint the exact, horrible second that the teasing glint enters his eye.

“You know, if you wanted me to hold you, Merlin, all you had to do was ask. No need for all these theatrics.”

“Please.” He says indignantly, patting Arthur’s breast (now that he’d managed to pull his fingers out of their iron grip). “As if you aren’t the one always asking to be held.”
“That was one time.” Arthur answers with a roll of his eyes, straightening Merlin to his feet. He suspects that if not for this ridiculous game, the King would have dropped him flat on his back after that little comment rather than retort at all.

Merlin, rather pleased with himself, holds to the horn of his saddle like he means to mount, but he suddenly realizes that he has absolutely no idea how to mount a horse in a skirt without flashing the entire crowd his undergarments. Arthur seems to notice his hesitation, and snorts a laugh.

“We don't have time to get you a mounting block, since someone was so late.” He tucks his gloves into his belt, and then bends slightly at the knee. “Up you go.”

Merlin makes a horrific sound as Arthur grabs him by the waist and launches him up into the saddle, riding with both legs to one side, as though he were a proper Lady. He pats Merlin’s knee, and the touch sears against his skin.

“There you are. Careful not to fall off, I’m sure that velvet is slippery. And George takes his job very seriously—that includes polishing my saddles.”

Merlin can't find any words to say, but Arthur doesn't ask for them, which he’s thankful for. He feels like his tongue’s been snatched from his mouth, but he manages to murmur a few pleas for gentleness to his horse as he strokes her mane. It would be exactly like him to go flying off of his mare in the middle of a crowd. Without any trousers. He really should've snuck on a pair under this thing.

The movement of the horse is jarring; his hips cant in a way he's unfamiliar with, sidesaddle as he is. Arthur addresses the crowd but Merlin hardly catches a word, holding the reins in one hand and trying to wave with the other. Someone tosses something at him and, catching it on instinct, he grins as he realizes it's a rose between his fingers. He tucks it behind his ear and flashes a wink and a wave in the direction of where it came, unbecoming of a Queen but exactly as is expected for the Feast of Fools.

Merlin notices a few things as the parade continues, the first of which being: he has never been so well-received in his life. He is well-liked, sure; the people of Camelot have always been kinder to him than the people of Ealdor were, but this is different. He thinks it likely the game they're all engaged in, but women and men alike whistle at him as he passes, and he even spies a group of youths tittering behind their hands with a pink flush to their cheeks as he turns a smile in their direction.

More than that, he spots Arthur noticing the same group, and follows their eyes back to Merlin in a glance. Merlin sees him laugh disbelievingly and shake his head, and has the unexplainable urge to leap from his horse and tackle him into the mud. He thinks he might stand a chance, now that Arthur knew about his magic, to actually survive their tussling. The dress might hinder him a bit, however, but he thinks it would be worth it to keep the idiot from teasing him like this.

Arthur looks back at him several times, always with some unexplainable tilt to his smile. He’s not bullying him, like he is usually wont to do, just catching a look at him whenever he thinks he won't be caught. Merlin doesn't give him the satisfaction of catching him, but the look burns a hole into his sternum. He wonders what’s going on in that terrible head; if he’s cooking up insults to throw or jokes to take the piss out of him, if he’s just giggling at the sight of him (or fond of what he sees, the traitor in the back of his mind pipes.) He would give anything to know what was going on behind that stupid gaze of his, but instead, he does his best to keep his own mind quiet (especially the quisling at the back,) and the blood from his cheeks.

By the time they circle to the arena, the wine and spirits are freely flowing. It's good to see the people celebrating so, even in the dead of winter where the days are short but the nights so long. Today, they are laughing and, even if it's at his expense, Merlin thinks it might be a noble cause. He’s martyred himself for less, in his years. Arthur pulls him off of his horse with little more fuss than he had put him on it, though there’s the same agonizing turmoil that spins in Merlin’s stomach. He takes his hand this time, rather than offering his own, and holds them aloft between them as makes to help him up the stairs and into the booth.

“Merlin. Your skirts.”

It's gentle, with the unspoken threat of “pick them up or I’ll step on them” and Merlin huffs as he gathers the train to his front. He can hardly fathom the rules implied in the dress alone, but it’s decidedly not for him. He understands in a new light why young girls of the court rebel so thoroughly against the garments they're wrangled into, (but if he’s honest with himself, he understands, too, why Gwen and Morgana are so particular about their dress. He does feel rather beautiful.)

Merlin gives his most dazzling smile, which he’s sure isn't very dazzling at all as he emerges into the sunlight again, and Arthur trails directly behind. They stand before the seats in the booth (a second throne beside the King’s having not been seen since before either of them were born,) and Arthur takes his hand again. The leather of his riding glove feels like it burns his skin down to the bone.

The fighters participating in the day’s tourney stand before them, and Merlin is hardly surprised to count Gwaine among them. Any man may make use of the day of Fools, no knighthood needed to compete amongst them. There are faces he doesn't recognize among them, but the only that does surprise him is Morgana’s, tucked neatly between Lancelot and a stranger. They both bear green ribbons on their biceps as they stand before the King, and when Merlin’s eyes find Gwen in the stands, her hair hangs at her shoulders, distinctly void of the ribbons he knew he saw this morning.

The fighters take a knee as their King addresses them, propped on shields or polearms. A sea of crimson capes flit gently in the wind. Arthur gives the same speech Merlin has heard a hundred times, about honor and valor and what makes a Champion. He sprinkles a few jokes into the spiel in the spirit of the holiday and gets the laughs he's after, but none more than when he ends with “And remember! You fight not only for the title of Champion, be it of Fools, and for a seat at my side during the feast tonight, but for the love of my new wife, your Queen.”

Merlin startles, sure he looks very much like the stoat Arthur is so fond of comparing him to, and his face goes hot again as the idiot leans close (making Merlin’s breath halt in his throat,) and presses a kiss to his cheek. It's a small, tender intimacy but far greater than the kiss to his knuckles. He thinks his brain might've been dropped in boiling oil after Arthur’s lips make contact with his skin—and it seems very much like he isn't going to make this painless as he pulls away to look at him with the half-cocked, crooked grin on his face. Merlin is struck again with the violent urge to tackle him to the ground.

The worst part is, he isn't sure if it's to punch or to kiss him.

The laughter of the crowd bounces around them again, and Merlin desires nothing more than to melt into the throne he sits on. It would be better to play along; to curtsy, to fan his face theatrically, to repay the insult by grabbing Arthur by either side of his face and kissing him square on the mouth. He manages none of this, his brain still frying away—he hardly even manages that same, dazzling smile before sinking into their seats together, still hoping it will swallow him whole.

His lips buzz pleasantly as Sefa fills his goblet a second time. He loves a good tournament, really (and, secretly, he took fantastic pleasure in watching Morgana slam her fist into the ground, sending Kay flat on his back as the arena rippled below them,) but the cold nipped at his cheeks and the winners kept dedicating their victories to him. It was altogether a bizarre way for Merlin to spend an afternoon, but the wine is distinctly Arthur’s and does plenty to warm his belly and his cheeks. He leans close to the King as he pinches the bridge of his nose when Sir Erec is bested by a farmer after a lucky glance across the cheek.

“You know, this is meant to be fun.”

“I am having fun, Merlin, I’m just not particularly enthused about watching that man be won out by his footwork. Again.” He gesticulates with his hands when he speaks—he always does, but especially so when he’s upset by something.

Merlin giggles, half unbidden, limbs and lungs loosened just slightly by the wine as he pats a comforting hand against Arthur’s arm.

“Oh, cheer up, sire, I’m sure you’ll be able to punish him for it plenty, come morning training exercises.”

Arthur laughs before he smiles down on him, Merlin’s face below his own, bent as he is to lean across. “Perhaps you're right.”

The moment is quiet as they smile at one another, even with the swords clanging and the reactions of the crowd surrounding them. Arthur lifts his own hand to pat Merlin’s and, as it lingers, Merlin has the inexplicable urge to lean close and press his lips to the other’s shoulder; press a kiss through the layers of cotton and wool. Maybe Arthur can read it on his face—maybe his heart is too large and loud, maybe he invents the gentle anticipation hanging between them, but it's broken, in any case, by the sudden applause erupting around them as the fight concludes.

They pull away clearing their throats, and if Merlin turned to look at Arthur, he would see the way his ears go hot—if he turned his attention toward the tents, he would see Elyan and Percival cursing as they stamped the ground and dropped gold coins into Leon’s waiting hand.

“And besides,” Merlin starts, gesturing with the goblet in hand. “You’re just upset that you're not competing. One might use the word ‘jealous.’”

Arthur squints at him, mouth open for a moment. “I am not jealous, Merlin.” Any awkwardness that might've lingered surrounding the prior moment is washed away, forgotten by offense. It's how they've recovered a thousand times, it’ll be how they recover a thousand more.

“You are! Have a look at yourself, Arthur, you've been squirming in your seat for hours.”

“Squirming?” He says, affronted. “I have not been squirming.”

Merlin snickers into the cup of wine, bobbing his eyebrows in disbelief. “Of course. I've not known you for years, I’ve no idea what you look like when you're antsy.”

Arthur clicks his tongue behind his teeth as he turns his head away, scoffing in disbelief. He runs his hand over his mouth, and Merlin watches the way his gloved hand pulls his lips. “You know, you're not actually my wife.”

“No.” Merlin says simply, shaking his head. He extends his free hand as he speaks next, straightening out the deep velvet of his skirts. “But I do look the part, don't I?” Arthur opens his mouth, likely to insult him, so he continues instead. “Oh, and I act it. Not even your Queen, but your wife. I lend you my ear, and I take my breakfast with you. I offer you comfort and advice, free of charge. I spent countless years of my life bathing you and rubbing your shoulders when you'd ask it of me. And don't even get me started on darning your socks or mending your underthings.” He closes his mouth with a click of his teeth, surprised at himself for letting it run so long. He very quietly sets the goblet down on the arm of his chair, deciding suddenly that he need no more wine to loosen him further.

Arthur has a strange expression pinned to his face—Merlin can't quite puzzle it out, even after all their years together. Maybe it's the wine, or the hummingbird beat of his heart distracting him, (or the fact he refuses to look at him straight-on,) but the set of his eyebrows and the slight parting of his lips escapes him. He thinks he should brace for being told off, or maybe to have something thrown at him but Arthur, (in a move that surprises him more than anything else he’s ever done,) shuts his mouth, says nothing, and turns his attention to the new match with a furrowed brow.

Merlin wraps his arms around himself, and sets his jaw.

The fight goes by without them speaking a word to each other, and he thinks it might be one of the more aggravating and confusing bouts of silence of his life. He hadn't said anything that wasn't true, not really. He's been taking care of Arthur for as long as they've known each other, both in ways he was paid for as his manservant, and ways he wasn't as his friend. When the strange stalemate is broken between them, it comes in the form of Arthur nudging him until he leans forward, and draping his coat over his shoulders.

“You've been shivering for ten minutes.”

Merlin blinks—the warm, soft lining of the coat surprises him, having not realized how chilled his skin had gotten. He wants to pout, to rally against the accusations, but he sinks into the leather thing and pulls it closed around himself.

“That's very chivalrous of you.”

“Well.” Arthur laughs, “I am a knight, still. That's sort of what we do.”

“Really?” Merlin asked, amusement twinkling in his eye. “You had me fooled, truly. What, with the throwing things at me and dragging me around.”

“You were hardly a lady before today, Merlin. I’ll be back to throwing things and throwing you around tomorrow.”

Merlin doesn't want to think about what comment Gwaine would make about that statement. “I wouldn't have it any other way, sire.”

“Neither would I, Merlin.” Arthur leans across, now, and pats his thigh. He lets it linger and squeezes once. “Neither would I.”

Merlin singles his concentration into Sir Gilli’s form as he casts vines from his hands so that he doesn't collapse from the firm weight of Arthur’s hand still on his leg and the memories of his dream.

When all is said and done, it's Leon who wins the tourney. Gwaine, in his desperate attempt to be crowned as Champion of Fools, had slipped up in the final moment and Leon had been forced to take the opening. He’s going to be pouting all evening, Merlin knows (up until the exact moment he and Percival sneak away to a dark corner, thinking no one will notice,) but he can't help the grin that sneaks onto his face as Leon is crowned in a similar fashion to himself; a crown of almond blossoms, amaranth, bugloss, and (of course,) fool’s parsley is placed on dusty curls. The flowers are kept alive in these cold months by magic, Merlin knows; he can feel Mordred’s touch on them as Leon stands before them.

“Your Majesties,” He agonizes with a bow, smile tight.

“Chin up, Leon. It suits you.” Arthur grins as he claps him on the back. It's good to see them like this, like the friends knit together by time as they are. Leon hunches to Arthur’s height, and does his best to laugh along. “You do your King a service, taking these matters so seriously.”

“I suspect he fought so fiercely only for the love of his Queen, your highness.” Percival teases, and elbows him in the back so he stumbles into Merlin’s space.

Laughing, the sorcerer adjusts his Champion’s laurels with delicate, chilled fingers. Sefa had brought him a sweet roll to combat the wine, and he feels clearer now for it. “And he has well earned it, Sir Knight.” He teases with a glance around him to Percy. He pulls Leon close by his shoulders and presses a kiss between his brows, thankfully wiped clean of sweat.

Leon grins as he stands straight, and rests his own hand against Merlin’s arm. “You honor me, my Lady.”

“No more than you deserve, I know. I would choose no one else as my Champion.”

He hears Gwaine wail theatrically at this, back of his hand pressed to his forehead as he pretends to faint into Elyan’s arms.

The day, cruelly, does not end with the tourney. There is time after where Merlin knows the knights recover and change their dress—and knows, with no small amount of horror, that he’ll be subject once more to Gwen, Morgana, and Sefa’s administrations. He is luckily spared from the first two for an hour or so, but he and Sefa spend that time with heads bent close, sharing a goblet of wine between them and giggling over the reasons behind their shared absence. Her cheeks flush red with it, and Merlin thinks she really is a pretty thing—if his inclinations were different, maybe he could share in her affections. Arthur certainly couldn't protest the match.

His stomach turns when he spends more than a split second considering why Arthur’s approval of his marriage would come to mind.

Morgana and Gwen enter together, which only further serves to send Merlin and Sefa giggling again.

“Do tell me you've saved some for us.” Morgana says, clearly in the know of the intention behind their giggling, and clearly not giving them the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

Merlin taps the rim of the goblet to refill it before he extends it toward them both. “Though, I suspect you don't need my help in relaxing.”

Gwen grips him by the shoulder firmly enough to have him press his smile into a thin, half-pained line. “Why, thank you, darling.” She purrs, and plucks the goblet from his hand knowing Morgana was still unlikely to trust such a gesture from him. She hands it to her afterward, and the sorceress’ rings clink against the cup.

Gwen releases her grip on his shoulder in favor of straightening a few of his more stubborn, flighty pieces of hair. “Is this all you two do together? Sit and titter behind your hands like a pair of maidens?”

“Well, Sefa is a maiden.” Merlin says in her defense, leaning back so that his head rests against Gwen’s middle as she continues to play with his hair. Sefa’s red cheeks only get redder when he says this. “And I’m nothing if not accommodating.”

“You're nothing if not a ridiculous thing.” Gwen chuckles, and moves her hand to pinch his cheek. “But I like that about you. Always have.”

“It's all part of my charm.”

“Is there no one who’s caught your eye, Sefa?” Morgana asks, and it's… Surprisingly refreshing, to see her engage like this, so casually kind. If Merlin squints, it's almost enough to pretend like they’re back, before the battles and before the war. When they were young and unburdened, and the only concern on their brows was what monster they all faced together. There are many things he regrets; sometimes he wishes he could go back, but in moments like these, it’s enough to be alive.

“Well,” Sefa starts, hot in the face and tucking dark hair behind her ear. “There is—” She clears her throat and glances at Merlin before she twirls a potion bottle on the desk. “Sir Brennis is quite handsome, isn't he?”

Merlin knocks his foot against hers beneath the desk, out of sight of the other two. He knows what it is to want what’s just out of reach.

“Sir Brennis? That man is far too boring for a girl like yourself.” Morgana scoffs, and starts in on the other eligible bachelors of Camelot; some of the things she says leave the poor girl hiding her face in her hands.

Gwen insists on primping him for the evening’s activities, lamenting that they have no other evening dress for him. Silently, he says a prayer of thanks. He doesn't know how much more wrestling and velvet he could handle.

Arthur meets him outside the hall, dressed in his usual chainmail, belted around the middle with cape attached by buckles where his collarbones meet. Merlin reaches out instinctively, straightening the scarlet fabric on his shoulders, straightening his crown. Arthur catches his wrists, holding them between them with a grin.

“Hello to you, too.”

They aren't entirely alone, with the guards at either side of the door, but it almost feels that way. Merlin wants to wrench his hands free and punch him in the shoulder. He wants to lean into his chest with their hands between them and dare him to close the distance.

“George really ought to polish these more.” Is all he says instead, fingering the golden broaches where he can still reach them with the tip of his finger.

“Oh, like you kept all my adornments shining?” Chuckling, he releases one of Merlin’s hands, but holds the other as he loops their arms together. “I imagine this will be the easy part. You don't even have to serve anyone, just have to sit there and enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, like you always have? I’ve had the perfect mentor, then, I’ll do great.” It's easier to snip at each other. It always has been. Fortunately or unfortunately, it's how they communicate best.

He can practically hear Arthur roll his eyes beside him, but he can hear the way his smile leeches into his words. “You really are a terrible wife, you know that? Been calling you a girl all these years, and you fumble that, too.”

“Oh, shut up. Sire.”

Arthur snickers, smacking his head affectionately against Merlin’s before the doors open, and the people stand.

It's all a bit much, really. The whistling has abated, thankfully, but the whooping has dug its feet in. Merlin knows Gwaine is the main culprit without even casting a glance toward the Knights. He really ought to beat that man over the head with a broom one of these days; he thinks he might earn himself a medal of valor for it.

The only saving grace of the entire, humiliating walk is that he’s officially got a hang of not stepping on his skirts.

They turn to face the people together, arms still linked. Arthur waves, and (after a sharp elbow to the ribs,) Merlin waves, too. He's still not used to feeling every eye in the room on him, waiting for him to do or say something funny. Hell, he should be awarded a medal of valor for being such a good sport during all this, not turning to a storm cloud and raining out everyone’s fun.

“My honorable guests,” Arthur starts, with a placating smile on his face. Merlin smiles at his feet, to hear Uther’s words come from his mouth. “It is my great joy to present to you your Champion, Sir Leon.”

Merlin claps with the rest of them, glad to feel the weight of their gazes off of his shoulders. He grins at the sight of Leon’s flush, as Gwaine makes no pardons for their Champion in his wolf whistling. Merlin is sure he’s going to be tackled to the ground for it, come training tomorrow.

He’s tucked between them in his seat at the table, Leon on one side and Arthur on the other. It feels strange to be sitting at the head table; even in his new position in the court, he usually finds himself seated with the Knights, or between two nobles. Usually Lord Dunne and Lady Blackburne if they got their way; they loved to ask about his work, correspondence with the Druids, Aithusa, whatever took their fancy. He was sure they coordinated their attacks to ask him as many possible questions, sometimes.

He spots them chattering away once everyone’s sat, and he truly hopes it isn't about him.

The feast really is the easy part. He does just have to sit there and enjoy himself. The music is lively, the food and wine delicious, and the company bright. No one even asks him to juggle.

He and Leon bend their heads together and discuss Gilli and Mordred’s training routine as well as today’s ridiculous events with laughter stained with wine. The two youngest of minor House Rutherford (twin girls, with red curls coiled into braided halos on their heads,) offer him white and golden ribbons. They proudly proclaim, with mirrored missing teeth, that they “match with his pretty dress,” and Merlin is in no place to argue. He holds his finger to his lips so as to share a secret with them as he ties one around Arthur’s bicep and magics the other around his own wrist. They giggle with both before scampering back to their mothers’ skirts. If Arthur notices the ribbon, he makes no indication of it as he leans to the opposite side, head bent toward Geoffrey as they discuss something critically boring, he’s sure.

“You know,” Arthur starts minutes later, speaking into his goblet. “You may be a terrible wife, but I’ll admit, you're alright at this Queen business.”

Raising an eyebrow, he gives him the open door of an “Oh?” before assuming the worst.

“You know.” The King gestures vaguely in front of them with his hand, evidently invoking the entire scene before them. “They like you. Even the little ones, but I suspect that might have something to do with the impish air about you.”

Merlin has known Arthur long enough to recognize the bait as it's laid before him. He’s also had enough to drink that he clicks his tongue and turns to look at him with narrowed eyes. “The impish air about me?”

Arthur hums in the affirmative. “Exactly that. Always causing trouble, being a nuisance. You can't help it, I know.”

“So cruel to your new wife.” Merlin says with mock-hurt, hand to his chest as though scandalized. “Even as he does exactly as you've instructed; looking pretty and enjoying himself.”

Arthur’s nose scrunches in his amusement. He tilts his head in the same way Aithusa does when she’s confused, but the tilt in his brows is hardly ever a good sign. “I never told you to look pretty.”

Merlin clears his throat and takes another sip so he doesn't have to speak for another beat. It turns to two, then three, and Arthur continues, instead.

“I don’t think you need—”

A servant dips between them to clear the table, and Merlin recognizes Sefa only by the elbow that tips his cup into his lap. The dress is saved only by the instinctual pull of his magic to stop the wine in the air, bending it with a quick incantation until it's contained once more, firmly sat on the table. He scoots it over to his other side to spare them both from her elbows’ warpath.

“Oh! My Lady, I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, Sefa, it’s—” Her words sink further into his mind, most specifically the title, and when he looks up at her, she’s smiling bashfully. Merlin has a sneaking suspicion that if he were to glance at the Knights, or react in any way, the table would explode with laughter. “—alright, I swear.” He motions her closer to whisper in her ear, and she giggles as she nods and scampers away.

Arthur gives him an inquisitive look, but the festivities continue around them in a whirlwind as they're herded to dance in the main hall.

The music is lively, looser and brighter than what usually pleases the noble palate, but today of all days is about indulging the baser desires. If the common man can be Kingly, why can't the nobility celebrate like the common man?

It starts in the usual, restrained way—Merlin presses his hand against Arthur's, palm to palm, and holds his skirt in the empty hand as they spin around one another in line with the other dancers. When Gwen and Lancelot spin by, she brightens her grin to remind him to smile, and mouths “mind your feet!” Merlin, of course, does his best to heed this warning but plants his foot firmly on Arthur’s a minute or two in as he attempts to remember which foot he's meant to be hopping on.

Arthur grunts before he nods, lips pressed into a thin line. “I was wondering. Was almost concerned by your sudden grace, thought you might've been replaced.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, and when he steps on Arthur’s foot again, he means to. The blond snickers with it, but Merlin watches him be incredibly mindful about where he places his feet for the next two songs.

“You didn't have to do all this.” Arthur says after several beats of silence between them where Merlin does his absolute best to remember Gwen’s instructions.

“I didn't.” Merlin shrugs. He’s glad all the other pairs make conversations amongst themselves, too, it gives them even a modicum of privacy. “I thought about using magic to get out of it. Lady Pellinor would've gladly taken my place—in fact, she was staring daggers at me all afternoon.”

Arthur glances behind them, and Merlin hears him laugh. “I don't believe she’s stopped.”

They turn in unison, and the sorcerer practically cheers when he manages the moves in the correct order.

“Why didn't you?” He continues.

“Hm.” Merlin hums, and quickly scrambles for an answer until he grasps hold of the first one he finds. “Well, defying Destiny has never gone well for me in the past.”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“And,” He continues, before the idiot can get a word in edgewise. “It was easier to relent. It's not been all bad. I got a good seat for the tourney.”

“You've stood behind me in the box for years. Even when you weren't my manservant anymore, you always managed your way in.” Arthur counters, and Merlin takes his hand to wag his finger at him.

“Seat being the imperative word.”

“You are the most obnoxious man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

Merlin twines their fingers together (scandalously,) as he grins at him. “And you're stuck with me.”

“And I’m stuck with you.” He answers, smiling.

By the fifth song, the entire hall has devolved into shrieking laughter and loose limbs; servants have been pulled into the celebrations, and a circle of held hands has formed. The world seems to both slow and spin faster as they dance together; Merlin holds Gwaine’s hand in one of his own, and a kitchen girl’s in the other. He laughs as they go, the game seemingly to see how fast they can get before someone falls.

If he turned his head across the circle, he would see Arthur looking only at him. If he had his ear pressed to the Earth, he would surely hear the skipping drum of his heart as he watched him nearly trip on his own two feet, howling with laughter all the way. He would know what a precious thing he was.

It's Percival who trips, falling almost directly onto Mordred in the process (Gods help him). Sefa catches Merlin’s eye and, as she winks, he giggles to know his revenge is fulfilled.

It isn't much longer before folks start to trickle away. Those with children slip out with their thanks and bowed heads, little ones asleep on their chests and trailing after hand in hand like the undead. Some of the servants who work the kitchens, too, early risers as they are, and Elyan kisses his hand politely as he trails after the kitchen maid he’d been dancing with all night. Morgana disappears suspiciously soon after Lancelot and Gwen depart, and Merlin punches Gwaine in the arm for his crude comment before he and Percival scamper off, undoubtedly to kiss in a hall until they're caught.

Arthur is bound to shake every hand, bow to every curtsy, laugh at every departing joke and, as this mock-Queen, Merlin is expected to do the same. He would stay anyway, like he always has, but he doesn't mind the extra work of having to accept and return goodbyes of his own this time. Usually it's only his friends who acknowledge him hanging behind the King, but he should've expected being included in it tonight.

Finally, and suddenly, they are completely alone at the foot of the throne. Arthur had even dismissed the guard, so it echoes off the walls when Merlin’s boots fall to the ground as he yanks them off.

“I don't think I’ve ever had a more exhausting day in all my life.”

“It must've been so difficult for you, getting compliments and getting drunk.” Arthur chuckles, leaning on the arm of his seat of power.

“You've no idea. I really don't know how you do it every day. And I’m hardly drunk, certainly not after that dancing and those sweets. You, on the other hand.” He blows breath from between puffed cheeks, eyes wide in an expression of mock-disbelief.

“I, on the other hand, am at least half-capable of holding my drink.” He protests, and laughs when Merlin squints and wobbles his hand front side to side.

There is a short stretch of comfortable silence before Merlin ruins it, looking down at his feet. “Do you think it’ll still be like this?”

“Do I think what will still be like what, Merlin? We’ve talked about that vagueness.” Arthur’s still smiling at him, and Merlin does his best to smile, too.

“Us. You and me, maybe. After you’ve married.”

This seems to startle Arthur. Hells, it startles Merlin with the way it drops, unbidden, from his tongue. He shifts, sits a little straighter on the arm of his throne.

“Well.” He swallows. He scratches the back of his neck in the nervous way he does, and Merlin cannot help the endearment that aches in his breast despite himself. “You may not get to wear a pretty dress and pretend at being the Queen anymore, but I think so.”

He sounds more sure of it than Merlin feels.

“You’re certainly not getting out of the table meetings. Nor the training. I’m sure I’ll still be dragged away on quests every other week, and you've never, not once, stayed home for one of those. Even when commanded to do so by your King.” Arthur extends his foot until he bumps Merlin’s in the same comforting gesture he had extended to Sefa earlier. He wonders if he picked it up from Arthur, or if Arthur picked it up for him. He wonders if he could pinpoint the exact moment they had begun to blur.

“If I had listened to his commands, he’d be dead every time.” Merlin prods, and the smile doesn't feel so pretend.

“He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself!” Arthur laughs, and it echoes across the walls, too. “He would like to remind the Court Sorcerer that he survived twenty winters without him, and no one had plotted his death until after the Sorcerer entered Camelot.”

Merlin hums placatingly, and nods as though he agrees. “True enough,” He acquiesces. As he turns to face him, he extends his hand and Arthur humors him in taking it. “But the Sorcerer would remind the King that nothing had ever tried killing him, either, until he was sewn into his seams.”

Maybe it's the wine—maybe it’s the game that put him in this dress, or the new game of third-person they play, but Arthur pulls him close by their joined hands. Merlin stands between his knees, practically on top of him, until Arthur rests his hands on Merlin’s sides, just above his hips, for seemingly no reason but to touch him. After years of absent touches, he’s learned to school his face into distinct, non-reactions. He’s had to—since the touches started searing, the ghost lingering long after his hand had left him. He had spent so long working his way into Arthur’s affections; he was a prince, after all, it was unseemly to be seen ribbing his servant, touching his arm, ruffling his hair. It had taken so long for Arthur to become comfortable with him, he wasn't going to ruin it for his ridiculous desires.

“Well.” Arthur rubs his thumbs along the fabric of the dress, leaving white-hot trails in the skin beneath in their wake. It's an intimate touch, Merlin’s heart jumps. “That may be true, but the King blames him for the trouble anyway.”

Merlin sets his hands to fixing blond hair, mussed by the dancing and the removal of his crown, sitting pretty on its pillow beside the throne. George would come collect it by morning, and it would be sat on his head before the sun rose. “The King rather likes trouble, I think.”

“I think he prefers the one causing all the trouble, if he were honest with you. And himself.”

Arthur smiles up at him in a comfortable, lazy sort of way that has Merlin’s heart seizing in his chest. He gives Arthur that same smile, (though perhaps a bit cocked for his words,) and he’s sure he imagines the same tension he felt in the tournament booth. Like a soap bubble just on the verge of popping; all he would need do is act, and it would be done. For better or worse. At least he would know. Merlin tentatively, gently moves his hand (like Arthur were a flighty mare, easy to spook) to the crook of his neck. His thumb rests just under his jaw, and he can finger the flipping ends of his hair. He needs to cut it soon, or he’ll start to complain about how it tickles his ears. Merlin can practically feel his breath ghosting across his skin at this closeness.

“I prefer you, too.”

Arthur smiles at him, and it feels like turning his face to the sun. Merlin feels the pull of the thread tied ‘round his sternum; he wants to sink into Arthur’s arms, be kissed—or even to be held would be heaven in this moment. It's too big, the feeling gets caught in his throat and he’s afraid he wears it plainly on his features. Like an open, weeping wound, the love drips off of him to stain their hands.

He pats his hand against Arthur’s cheek. “I don't know about this ugly mug, though.” He squeezes his cheeks between fingers and thumb, and squeals as Arthur pinches his sides in retaliation. Merlin still laughs as he wriggles out of his grasp, pushing off of him and slipping back into the casual air they were used to. He couldn't keep doing this; Arthur would start to suspect, and he didn't want to imagine what might change between them if he did. He didn't want to think what the other might think of him; he didn't want Arthur to think his words or his touches as something dirty, something other than what they are. They're friends. Merlin wouldn't risk losing that, not now and not ever.

Instead, he contorts his arms around his back to try and undo the lacing and hooks of his corset, but he can't quite reach. “God’s bones—Arthur, get this damned thing off of me, won't you?”

“You could say please.” He hears him come close, though, and feels him start to work at the lacing. “Especially after calling me ugly. So rude.”

Despite his best efforts, Merlin can't help when his mind wanders to the idea of this as their every-day. He and Arthur spend an evening or three together each week, attached at the hip as they are, but it's been quite some time since they'd spent every single one in each other’s company. It's almost strange to think about how he spent so much of his life readying Arthur for bed, unwinding together and sharing the days’ events on the rare occasions they were separated. But now, as he closes his eyes, he can imagine the soft crackle of the fire. He can imagine dismissing their servants so that Arthur can pull him out of his clothes just like this, for no other reason than the quiet intimacy of the act itself. It’s easy to imagine Arthur’s hands pressed against his middle, pulling him close to kiss the empty space behind his ear and ask about his day. To make himself, in his mind’s eye, into the shapes Arthur might want—into what he needed in a wife; soft curves at his waist, his thighs, his chest. Something to fill his bodice.

The world, very suddenly, can fit within the eye of a needle. The air is punched out of him at the same time he tries to gasp, hands pressed to his middle. Lost in his thoughts, it seems he had neglected to notice how Arthur was weaving the corset strings through the eyes Gwen had left empty. He had been too preoccupied with imagining those hands on his middle that he had missed the way they wrapped themselves in the strings until they yanked, pulling the pieces together at his back like she had spared him of.

Arthur seems to have anticipated this shock and holds him against his chest, hand splayed, open-palmed against his stomach. His muscles jump beneath his fingers, mind still spinning at it all.

“There you are. Shouldn't be able to get my fingers up under your corset, you know. Bad practice. Been bothering me all day.”

Merlin’s tongue feels like a stone in his mouth. He blinks once, twice, trying to gather any of his thoughts into even a single word. He fails.

“You looked incredible, though, infuriatingly. Even when you insulted me. Maybe even especially then.” He slots his chin between Merlin's throat and his shoulder, like he might if he were being nosy while Merlin worked at his desk. “Listen at this. Blessed silence, after all this time.”

Merlin tries to will his voice into another insult. He tries for a quip, or a tease, or any sort of declaration of any kind, but all he manages is a fist full of nothing at all. His hand comes to rest over Arthur’s, holding onto his wrist to make the room stop spinning. His face has ignited despite his want and will, and he does his best to hide it behind his opposite hand. Not that Arthur can really see him, but all the same.

“If I had known this is all it would take, I would've gotten you one of these years ago.”

Merlin finally wills his tongue to move, even as he leans further back into Arthur’s chest. “Piss off.” He murmurs, wishing he couldn't feel the flushed heat of his cheeks on his palm. “You're such an ass. Why don't you—”

Arthur yanks again and Merlin wheezes as the air is pressed out of him anew.

“Don't be such a girl.” He clicks his tongue again, then hums. “No, I suppose girls are usually better at this, aren't they?”

Merlin frowns, getting his wits about him as best as he can as air reenters his lungs. He can't hardly believe he’s letting Arthur get away with all of this uninterrupted, but he still finds himself incredibly distracted by his back pressed against his chest, and the large hand that returns to its spot on his stomach to keep him steady, keep him close.

“One might think you're desperate for me to be one, with how often you're accusing me.” He tosses back, and feels Arthur take pause. Merlin makes use of this staggering blow, squirms in the trappings of his arms until they're pressed chest-to-chest. He opens his mouth to say something, desperately ignoring the way that hand now holds against the small of his back, but Arthur beats him to it.

“I don’t want you to be a girl.”

And Merlin rolls his eyes, prepared for the next ridiculous thing to come out of his mouth, but Arthur lifts the hand not on his back (no longer wound into the string,) until it holds just under his jaw. It burns into the core of him, where he hides his yearnings away, as his calloused thumb strokes against his cheek.

“Merlin, I…” He trails, and there's a moment where the air hangs completely still between them. It almost reminds him of the moments where he feels Destiny unravel at his hands; when he willed his magic back to him, when Arthur drew another breath in his arms, on their knees in the muddy bank, and when they came home, together, with a new world to build.

Seemingly without thinking, like it was easier than breathing, Arthur leans close and kisses him.

Rather than having the wind knocked out of him, Merlin feels very much like he's breathing right for the first time in his life. It's a slow and gentle kiss; it warms him to his very core, though he suspects that might also be, in part, due to the hot rush of blood to his cheeks (and ears, and shoulders, and chest.) He’s kissed men before—Will, when they were still boys, and Gwaine, in a few moments of weakness, but neither had felt like this. Horrifically, humiliatingly, kissing Arthur felt like coming home.

He leans his full weight against him, fully surrendering to his hold, his own hands coming to  hold to his shoulders on instinct—though it's hardly a beat that passes before Merlin is threading his fingers into blond hair.

Arthur chuckles, deep in his chest, as he parts from Merlin, who trails after him. “I thought I was the desperate one?”

In a brave show of will so as not to strangle him to death, Merlin shoves him hard until they both go tumbling backward into the throne proper—it would've just been Arthur, but he drags Merlin down with him with an arm looped around his waist.

Arthur groans with his laughter, moving to hold the place where he had connected with the arm of his throne.

“My back,”

“Listen at you, you old man. Absolutely scandalous, you know, giving a pretty young servant a promotion just to bed him, some might s—” Merlin is shut up by Arthur’s kissing him again, and he suspects that may be half the intent behind it. He can't help the way he melts for it.

“Who said I had any intention of bedding you, Merlin?” Arthur asks with a raised brow, shifting and turning until he’s sat properly. Merlin adjusts his skirts so he can sit properly in his lap, with his knees on either side of Arthur’s hips. He’s glad the throne is so forgiving as it comes to room.

The absolute ridiculousness of the scenario doesn't escape Merlin. He expects to wake up at any moment, for it all to be some ridiculous dream like the picnic; but he hopes this dream is a long one, at least, without Gwaine bounding to his bed and shaking him awake.

“Well.” He pulls imaginary lint off of the cape at his shoulders and flicks it to the side. “You've pulled me into your lap here, sire.”

“You left me very little choice in the matter.”

Merlin continues, without acknowledging his protest “And look at me.” He bats his eyelashes for show, palm pressed against the newly-secured flatness of his corset. “How could you resist? I’m still your wife for a few more hours yet.”

Arthur smiles up at him in his goofy, lopsided way and Merlin wishes he stood any chance against it. He’s endeared by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, and the way that snaggletooth of his still refuses to fall into line. The blond shakes his head, sliding his hands against the velvet until the settle on his thighs, (leaving Merlin’s ears hot again,) and he suddenly stands with Merlin held in his arms.

He squawks, there's no other word for it, holding to Arthur’s shoulders with an iron grip. He’s sure it's hardly beyond the man to dump him onto the floor in jest; their teasing has never been limited by physicality. It would be well within-character for Arthur to dump him to the floor and then pin him to the ground with the heel of his palm at his sternum just to prove a point.

He doesn't. Merlin braces himself for it, feels magic brew in his lungs to help soften the landing, but Arthur turns, bends, and places him gently onto the seat of the throne. He leans over him with both hands on the arms, and his cape falls around them both like a shroud. He looms above him, and if it were anyone but Arthur, Merlin might almost feel intimidated. But here, in the trappings of his arms, hidden away from the world, Merlin feels safe. He feels like a coveted thing, precious and sought after, sequestered away from prying eyes in the security of Arthur’s strength, his watchful gaze.

And maybe, in some ways, he is.

“If you're going to be Queen, Merlin, you may as well get used to the view.” He noses against his cheek, like their affections had always carried this weight they do now, strange and unfamiliar as it is. Like melting into this new meaning was the next natural step; he doesn't want to shatter the illusion before him, so he says nothing of it, but he’s incredibly aware of every touch, every breath. He suspects Arthur may be, too.

“God’s bones, Arthur, I’ve no interest in being Queen, you idiot.” Merlin grins, though his ears are still hot, and his heart still pounds.

“That's exactly why you make such a perfect one, my lady.” He bumps their foreheads together and, through all this, that is truly a familiar gesture. Almost grounding, through all this ridiculousness, in its familiarity. Suddenly, Arthur starts to sink, and Merlin’s stomach starts to perform strange twists and dangerous jumps from high ledges as the cover of his cloak is removed, and he takes a knee before him.

“Gwaine hardly gave anyone else the chance, but…” He trails, before taking Merlin’s hand into his own. He seems to examine it for a moment, especially the place where the sleeve loops around his middle knuckle, before he commits and lifts it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss there. It lingers, as Merlin’s skin continues to steadily heat up, until his turns it in his own hand, kissing his palm. The sorcerer’s breath bitches in his throat as he holds Arthur’s face in his hand, and Arthur, in turn, keeps it there with a hand on his wrist. He rests his temple against Merlin’s knee, and looks up at him like he’s so much more than he is.

His fingers thread through blond hair, and Arthur chases it like a needy pup, pressing back against the simple affection with a gentle, quiet sigh. He turns his face, and presses a kiss against the same knee, ensuring Merlin’s suspicion this was a dream.

“Can I…?” He acts without finishing his ask for permission, and it's so deeply Arthur, that Merlin would be endeared to him even if the answer wasn't a shaking, breathy “yes.”

Arthur’s hand disappears behind his knee, and it's almost trembling as it hesitates, fingers cautious as his mind obviously races before he connects the touch. His hand rests against his ankle for a beat before his fingers drift upward, wrapping behind to feel the giving muscle of his calf. The dress catches on his wrist, being dragged up with his touch until it tumbles, cascading down his arm and gathering at his elbow. Merlin holds the dress in place with a hand between his thighs, so as to protect any modicum of decency he has left; Arthur doesn't need to get an eyeful of his underclothes, much less his reaction to these touches. The King doesn't tease, even if he wants to, when he notices, and he bends to kiss his bare knee instead, no longer barred from skin by the fabric.

It’s a miracle, Merlin thinks, that he doesn't spontaneously burst into flames.

Arthur’s touch stops only for a moment before he continues his tour. He takes a fistful of thigh into his hand, squeezing once before tentatively continuing, looking up at Merlin for permission. The sorcerer wants to cover his face; wants to melt into the chair and disappear as much as he wants to surge forward and tackle Arthur to the ground, have him right there on the floor. Instead, he nods again, and his King continues, battling Merlin’s hand away with the other so he can tug at the hem of his underthings, his intention unmistakable.

“Are you—” Merlin squeaks, horrifically, and he can't believe the sound that comes out of him. He’s never going to live this down for all his days. “Here?”

Arthur’s other hand joins the first in its task at the opposite hip. “What?” His smiles goes crooked, and Merlin doesn't even have time to brace himself. “Do you need a proper bed? Roses?”

Merlin quickly lifts his knee to connect with Arthur’s chest, and he pushes his face away with the hand in his hair. Arthur has the gall to laugh, the bastard. “I don't need flowers. I don't—It’s just... You know. A bit out in the open. And it doesn't seem right, to debauch your throne like this.”

“That's a big word, Merlin.” He ducks out of the path of his hand this time. “And it's hardly a corruption to consummate a marriage. C’mon, up with you.”

He pats his hand against his hip, and Merlin only hesitates a moment before he lifts them to let Arthur pull them away. He kisses his inner thigh, now, as he pulls them off, and it's enough to make Merlin abandon all hesitancy. If Arthur notices the gold flash of his eyes, or the sound of locks engaging on the doors, he doesn't mention it. His mail is cool where it touches bare skin, and Merlin almost convinces himself it's the reason behind his shudder.

Arthur swallows as he looks up at him, his blue eyes shining in the low candlelight. “Have you ever—?”

Merlin shakes his head without thinking, and braces himself for the tease to come, but Arthur’s mouth doesn't turn in his wicked grin. He only nods, and gently pulls him closer by his hips as he swallows again.

“Me neither.”

And that, somehow, strikes him. As though Arthur were ever capable of keeping a secret, as though he didn't tell him every experience in a day, every thought in his mind. He remembers when Arthur had first kissed Gwen and he had returned to his chambers spinning on the balls of his feet; he supposes the same would've been true of anything… More intimate, too, but it seems bizarre that Arthur should be as inexperienced as himself. Not with the way he looks, not with anyone he could ever want chasing after him. He’s chosen Merlin, and the realization send his head spinning so quickly that he almost gets seasick from it.

“Don't get a big head about it.” Arthur says, as though reading his mind.

“How can I not?” Merlin wills himself to say. He is incredibly aware that the only thing truly separating them now is the skirt. “The King of Camelot has put me on his throne, taken a knee, and offered up his first all in one fell swoop. Of his own volition. To me. If ever there was a thing to get a big head about…”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Is this some sort of power fantasy of yours?”

“It's quite nice, I won't lie to you. Chair’s a little uncomfortable, though.” He runs his hands through Arthur’s hair, more delicately this time. More confident in his touch. “But I’d share my first with you even if you were a destitute pig farmer, you know.”

“Hardly be destitute.” Arthur looks away from him now, and pulls Merlin closer to the edge of the throne by the crook of his knee. “Not if I had you.”

Merlin thinks his ears might have gone pink, before he loses focus entirely and couldn't stop the humiliating, choked sound that springs from him under pain of death.

Arthur’s hand is warm as it suddenly takes hold of his cock, pulling up once before swiping his thumb over the head. If Merlin were capable of thought, he would wonder if he used that move on himself. He lifts his hand to cover his mouth, for both of their sakes, but Arthur turns back to look at him with the movement, and grins at him like a loon. He reaches up for his wrist with the empty hand, and pulls it down, away from the bottom of his face.

“Don't get shy on me now.”

Merlin thinks he’s so warm that he’s about to catch fire, truly. He doesn't know what he's meant to do in this situation, what he's meant to say, but Arthur shifts and holds at the base of him before taking him into his mouth and Merlin nearly chokes on his surprise. Lightning crackles up from the base of his spine as he settles into the realness of the situation, Arthur half-obscured by his dress, lashes fluttering against freckled cheeks as he presses his tongue flat against the underside of his cock and bobs experimentally. He’s sure a poor vase shatters somewhere nearby.

Merlin knows he makes an obscene sound, but he also knows he couldn't help it if he tried. He knows it must go directly to Arthur’s head, and he knows he’ll never live it down, as long as they both live. The knowledge that it's Arthur, Arthur’s tongue, Arthur’s warm hands, Arthur’s breath of his skin would be enough to send him careening off a cliffside, let alone the wet heat of his mouth. He stands no chance, none at all, and the quickness of it almost knocks him off of his feet before he grips Arthur by his shoulders, arms stiff, keeping him where he is. He pulls off with eyebrows turned in and breathes raggedly against him. The cold bites his slicked skin before Arthur runs his fist along the length, and Merlin thinks the vases in the castle don't stand a chance if they keep up like this.

“What? D’you—” He clears his throat, grip loosening. His lips shine, red and kissable, and Merlin thinks he stands no chance at getting the image out of his mind any time soon. “We can—stop.”

Merlin stumbles over the words as they fall out of his mouth. “No! No. You just—I—” He swallows hard, shaking his head before he pulls Arthur closer, just to kiss him. Spare himself a moment to collect his thoughts. “I don't want it to be finished so soon.” He says, almost bashfully, and Arthur grins before kissing him again.

He starts in on a tease, Merlin can hear the wheels in his mind start turning, but he hardly gets more than two words out before it's Merlin’s turn to shut him up with a hand between his legs. Whatever Arthur was going to say dies on his tongue as he leans over him, cape shrouding them both again.

“Can hardly prod at me when you’re doing no better.” He grins, and (with a confidence he isn't sure he’s yet earned,) he pulls at Arthur’s belt with a new intensity.

He spent years dressing and undressing Arthur, knows the folds and seams and buckles of him better than any man ever could. He’s done this a thousand times, but it’s decidedly different, now, with Arthur nosing at his cheek, laughing softly, the need that hangs in the air between them. His belt hangs undone around his waist before Merlin moves to stand, dress falling down over his legs again. Their faces are slotted close, not quite kissing, but smiling together as Arthur asks him “what on Earth he’s doing” before Merlin shoves him into the throne. He follows after him immediately, hiking his own skirt up and around his hips so that he can be pressed fully against his lap. His underthings lay discarded next to his boots, and the thrill of it races up through his spine.

Arthur grabs his thighs again, head leaned back to look up at him with a lopsided grin. “Do you mean to have your wicked way with me now, dear wife?”

Merlin rolls his eyes, tugging at the buttons and clasps of his trousers until they come undone, and he can pull the tie on his underthings loose.

“Got to work at the business of heirs, don't we, dear husband?” He asks with raised brows, and Arthur laughs. Free and light and easy, and Merlin hopes they stay like this. That their lives are full of laughter, and Arthur never takes his hands off of him again.

“You're such an idiot. Come here.” He holds him by the neck and kisses him, slow and deep and bright, and Merlin’s hands slow to stopping as he’s distracted entirely by it. He kisses him like they've been doing it for years, like this is always what their relationship has been, like kissing him is the most natural thing in the world. Merlin loses himself in kissing him, loses time and loses himself in just getting to touch him.

When they part to each take a breath, their foreheads are pressed together as lashes fan across their cheeks. Merlin, bubbling over with everything in his chest, gives a whispered “hi,” and Arthur laughs in a breath as he noses against his cheek with the returned “hello.”

Merlin's hands set back to their task, slower and more assured, Arthur lifts his hips so his trousers can be moved more easily out of the way. Merlin tries not to focus in on the way he feels the muscles of his thighs go rigid to lift the weight of him, as well. He spits in his hand before taking Arthur’s length into it, watching his face as he does so. His jaw sets; Merlin watches the flutter of the muscle there, feels him grip at his thighs  and the rush of air from his nose. He grins, to watch his King’s will falter him, to know it's at his hand. Merlin wants to kiss him, but he worries he’ll get lost in it again.

“You’re such a pretty thing.” He finds himself murmuring instead, and watches Arthur’s face pink at the words. He cracks open his eyes to glare at him, but any defiance he might’ve uttered dies when Merlin twists his wrist, dragging his hand back up. He groans, half-aborted and embarrassed, and Merlin gets a terrible thrill out of the whole thing.

“See? Look at that. Listen to you.”

Arthur takes his revenge in the form of taking up Merlin’s member into his hand again, his touch searing his nerves all the way to the core of him. He loses his upper hand in an instant, he feels it slip away from him but he doesn't think Arthur picks it up, either. They're sat there together, gasping with Merlin in his lap, catching one another in kisses between. He pants, harsh breath sharp as it leaves his mouth; his hand moves against him as though desperately chasing his own end, and feels Arthur do the same. He loses himself in the moment, grounded only by Arthur’s hair threaded between his fingers at the back of his neck and the soft press of velvet at his middle.

“Arthur—”

“Merlin,” It's broken and aching, warbles with need at the end. It's a new color to his name, a bell he won't be able to unring; even if they went the rest of their lives without touching each other again, he would always know how Arthur fell to pieces at his touch, how he imagined no one else in his place. It was Merlin’s name on his tongue, and Merlin’s weight in his lap.

He spills across Arthur’s hand with a sharp cry, heads pressed together and no one left in the world but the two of them. It's hardly a moment before Arthur follows after him with a quiet grunt and his lips pressed to a thin line. He’s not convinced that the hummingbird-trill of his heart will ever slow.

“Made a mess of my mail, Merlin.” Arthur says, after the silence settles. “How am I to explain this to George?”

“He’s much better at his job than I was.” Merlin muses, but his eyes flash gold as he waves away the mess between them. He’s sure the flush on his cheeks is permanent, now, and that his hair sticks at wild angles again. “He doesn't ask you questions.”

“I’ll never get tired of you doing that.” He marvels, and Merlin feels pride well in his chest. Like a prized, precious pet, stroked behind the ears.

“What? Using magic?”

Arthur nods. “It's… I know you could tear me apart, if you wanted.” He still sounds half-breathless, but his eyes glimmer with wonder as he looks up at him. “I've seen you do it, just… blast people to bits, like a madman. But you're here. Letting yourself be wrangled into a pretty dress, and using that magic to—well. You know.”

Merlin laughs at Arthur’s hesitancy. Even after this raunchy tryst in Camelot’s ultimate seat of power, Arthur was still a nobleman. He couldn't always get over the hump of vulgar language.

“Think I've blasted you to bits here, in a sense.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “And I didn't even need magic to do it.” He pulls at the dress, covers himself (and Arthur, too). “There's been a time or two where I’ve thought about it, you know. You can be a real prick.”

Grinning, Arthur runs his hands along Merlin’s sides, to his back to hold him there. As though he might disappear in an instant if Arthur weren't holding him. “Yes, well. You do love me, anyway.”

“Love you?” Merlin clicks his tongue and scoffs. “I hardly even like you.” He turns his nose up theatrically.

“You like me well enough. You always have. Can't help yourself against my charms, poor thing.”

Merlin laughs as he kisses him, not to shut him up but for the pure joy of finally knowing he can. “It's amazing that head of yours can still fit through doors.”

“I’m really going to be insufferable now, you know.”

“You can't possibly be any more insufferable than you already are.”

“Just you wait.” Arthur grins. “Especially since I’ve got to really marry you now. Protect your honor and such.”

“My—” Merlin grins as he flicks his ear. “I’m still not a girl, you ridiculous man. I can't believe I just had sex with you. On purpose.”

“Me neither.” It's Arthur who kisses him this time, and who sets him on his feet as he stands, hands then occupied with setting his trousers right. “Come on, I gave George the night off. You can wear something of mine.”

“Are you asking me to bed, Arthur Pendragon?” Merlin asks as he slips into his underthings, followed by his boots.

“Of course. Didn't you hear me? I gave George the night off, I need someone to undress me.” Arthur says like it’s obvious, and it’s Merlin who's the idiot. He sets his brow in the way he always does when he talks like that, and Merlin think he really might strangle him someday.

“Mm, right, right. Of course, sire.” He teases, straightening Arthur’s belt, and his cape. Merlin thinks half the castle will have heard them, and the rumor mill will be cycling faster than they can run alongside it. No need to stoke the fire further. “Got to admit you miss me as your manservant, though.”

Arthur holds him at the small of the back, and they're suddenly pressed together. Merlin’s hands rest on his broad chest, and he can't help the way he grins at him.

“I do. I miss you terribly, Merlin. He still tries cracking jokes about my armor, it's a new horror every day.” Arthur smiles at him, and the moment hangs soft. The charade of man and wife lasts a little longer, here in the throne room with no sound but their laughter on the walls. “Tell me you’ll come back. I’ve new use for all that time alone with you.”

“You terrible romantic. I should've seen it coming.” He kisses him, and they finally face the halls.

If anyone wonders why the King drags Merlin to his chambers at this hour, they dare not ask. Trailing after each other like boys in a game, giggling at one another as they nearly trip over themselves in their haste to be alone in the confines of his room. The castle grows still and quiet in the long winter night, and something finally settles at her heart.