by lamardeuse
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Spoilers: Through Season 1, to be safe
Warnings (highlight to view): explicit sex
Cover by the awesomely talented Nicci.
“You want me to what?” Arthur demanded.
Merlin opened his mouth, closed it again. “Come with me to the village fair over at Markham today,” he repeated patiently, as though Arthur were hard of hearing, or perhaps a little slow. Arthur hated when he did that.
“Why?” Arthur shot at him.
Merlin shrugged, looked away. “I thought it might be – fun.”
Arthur stared at him; of all the ridiculous things Merlin had proposed, this was definitely one of the more absurd ones. Despite Merlin's secret belief that he was the cleverer one, Arthur did know when he was being manipulated; there was obviously more to this suggestion of his.
“You have heard of fun?” Merlin prodded, that insolent twinkle in his eyes. The fact that Arthur was getting used to it should have disturbed him more than it did.
“My idea of fun is not a village bloody fair,” Arthur sniffed.
“Have you ever been to one?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, then, how do you know you won't enjoy it?”
Arthur scowled. “Because I know.”
Merlin rolled his eyes, and Arthur reflected that the time had been when such behaviour would have earned a servant two weeks in the stocks – one week for each eyeball. “Look, I thought you might –”
“What?”
Merlin sighed. “Never mind; it was a stupid idea.”
Arthur crossed his arms. “I should say so. After all, it's not as though I don't have, oh, about a million more important things to do.”
“That many,” Merlin muttered, turning his attention to the remains of Arthur's breakfast.
“What was that?” Arthur snapped.
“Nothing, sire,” Merlin replied, putting a little extra emphasis on the second word.
“Oh, for Heaven's sake,” Arthur spat, “will you just save us both the bother and reveal what's going on inside that tiny mind of yours.”
Merlin sighed, straightened and
turned
to face Arthur. When their gazes locked, Arthur refused to feel that
bizarre tingling sensation he'd been noticing of late whenever they
looked at one another. After all, it wasn't as though Merlin hadn't
been looking him straight in the eye since they first met. There was
no reason for it to seem new and bizarrely disorienting after eight
blasted months.
“Look, I thought you could do with a break,” Merlin admitted. “You've been working nonstop on the new knights' training, and that hasn't been going terribly well –”
Arthur's jaw clenched. “I didn't tell you that.”
“You didn't have to,” Merlin said gently, and Arthur could actually feel some of the knots in his neck loosening, as though an invisible hand were coaxing them to release their tension. “You've been even more charming than usual. It's a dead giveaway.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes, refusing to capitulate so easily. “And how will poncing about at a village fair solve my problems?”
“It won't. But it'll give you a chance to lay them aside for a few hours.”
Arthur was shocked at the wave of unexpected longing that swept over him. “Laying down my burdens isn't an option,” he reminded himself sternly. “It's not as though I can forget I'm a prince. And even if I could, I'd soon be reminded by everyone around me.”
“Well, I have a thought about that
last bit, actually,” Merlin began, a small smile tugging at his
lips, and Arthur knew with utter certainty that he was buggered.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“It's too tight,” Arthur complained. He pushed his shoulders back to prove his point, and the coarse material stretched across his chest.
“Oi, I'm not that skinny,” Merlin grumbled. His hands rose to Arthur's chest, then hovered a few inches from his body for several seconds, as though unsure of why they were there. Finally, they settled on Arthur's ribs, fingers spanning his sides; Arthur manfully resisted the urge to squirm as Merlin's hands slid upward, plucking at the fabric as they went. “It fits fine. It's just a little – taut.”
Merlin's hands were now resting on his shoulders, and Merlin's gaze was fixed on the notch in the shirt where the laces had come undone. Taking a deep breath as though about to plunge into deep waters, he reached for the fastenings, and his fingers brushed against the skin at the base of Arthur's throat.
“Leave it,” Arthur muttered, batting Merlin's hands away. “It's not as though I'm completely helpless.”
Merlin muttered something under his breath that Arthur was sure deserved a stern rebuke, but instead he turned away and finished threading the laces through the holes in the shirt with fingers that suddenly felt as nimble as sausages. When he turned back around, he found Merlin digging in the trunk in the corner of his room, his arse waving in the air.
“What. Are you doing,” Arthur said, as he told himself he wasn't really staring, because it was right there.
Merlin's muffled voice emerged from the depths of the trunk. “Looking for my other doublet. It only needs a little mending, and then you could have mine – oh, there it is –”
Arthur eyed Merlin's battered brown coat, flung carelessly over his unmade bed. “I'll wear my own doublet.”
Merlin's head shot up and he twisted around. “The red one? Erm, no.”
Arthur stared at him; that was damned abrupt, even for Merlin. “What did you say?”
Merlin had the good grace to wince. “Sorry. I mean, it's not – suitable.” When Arthur continued to stare at him, Merlin gestured at Arthur helplessly. “Well, it's a little gaudy, isn't it?”
“Gaudy,” Arthur echoed, stung. He'd always privately thought he looked quite fetching in that doublet.
“I mean – look, never mind, I'm going to shut my gob, alright?” Merlin turned, picked up his brown coat and stepped around behind Arthur, urging his arms into it and shrugging it up over his shoulders. The old, worn material molded to Arthur's body like a second skin, and it positively reeked of Merlin.
Arthur lifted his arms to test the fit. “This will do,” he allowed.
“Glad to hear it,” Merlin murmured, stepping around in front of him. “Oh, and –” suddenly Arthur's left hand was being clasped in one of Merlin's longer ones, and he was tugging at Arthur's ring. “No jewelry.” Arthur felt the long ticklish slide of it all the way up his index finger. Next came the bracelets circling his right wrist, Merlin's fingertips skittering over the sensitive pulse-point. After he placed the jewelry on the lid of the trunk, Merlin returned and promptly started on Arthur's belt.
“What the bloody hell are you –”
Merlin slipped the leather free of the buckle. “Don't worry, I'm just removing your sword.”
“You can't take my sword!” Arthur's voice was horrifyingly high-pitched.
“Peasant, remember?” He slipped the knife sheath free as well as the scabbard, then handed the sheath back to him. “Here, you can keep the knife in your boot if it makes you feel better.”
Snatching the knife from him, Arthur grated, “Are there any other rules to playing a peasant I should know about? Shall I scratch myself at random intervals and cultivate a tendency to urinate against stable walls?”
Merlin looked up at him from under his eyelashes, the smirk on his face showing Arthur had completely forfeited this round. “If it helps you get into character,” he drawled. “But you should avoid combining both activities at once. Might make a bit of a mess.” Then his gaze dipped briefly, frankly appraising, and Arthur felt his hackles rise. At least he thought it was his hackles.
“I think you'll do,” Merlin said brightly, stepping back and nodding stiffly. “Shall we?”
Arthur picked up his gloves. “Is my horse ready?”
Merlin plucked the gloves out of his hands. “What horse?”
Arthur's head jerked up. “Oh, I truly loathe you.”
Merlin merely grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Only five miles to Markham. The walk will do wonders to relax you.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
By the time they were halfway to Markham, Arthur was never more certain that Merlin was a huge, bollicky liar, because he had never been less relaxed in his life. They'd taken the secret entrance out of the castle that led directly to the forest, since Arthur wearing Merlin's clothes would cause not a little chatter in Camelot. He rarely mingled with the people of the outlying villages, so Markham would not pose as much of a problem, he thought.
Evidently, Merlin didn't share his confidence, however, because Arthur could feel Merlin's gaze on him as they walked, assessing him, judging him. It was infuriating, maddening. After about a mile of this treatment, he whirled on Merlin and growled, “What? What's wrong with me now?”
Merlin blinked at him. “I – it's only. Your hair.”
“If you're going to rub rabbit droppings in it, I will take my knife from my boot – which will be a vast relief, mind you – and fillet you.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Merlin scoffed, closing the distance between them and peering owlishly at Arthur's head. “It just needs –” And then his hands were sank into Arthur's hair, and his fingernails – doubtless filthy – were scraping against Arthur's scalp, and it was all Arthur could do not to purr like a well-fed cat. Then, long before Arthur was done enjoying the impromptu massage, Merlin's hands started to withdraw. When Arthur caught himself ducking his head to prolong the contact, he straightened so abruptly he nearly toppled backward.
“That's much better,” Merlin said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Arthur felt hot, and the knife sheath was rubbing against his calf, and Merlin was still looking at him, and he had no idea why he was doing this.
“Have I got any hair left?” Arthur snapped.
“Of course,” Merlin answered. “It needed a little – disorder, that's all.”
Arthur opened his mouth to launch a retort, then closed it again when he realised he had none.
“May we continue on now?” he demanded.
“Certainly. After you, my lord,” Merlin said, grinning like an idiot and sweeping his arm in a graceful arc, and suddenly Arthur realised he wasn't Merlin's lord any longer, or at least not for the remainder of this day. There was nothing about him to distinguish him as master rather than man. Certainly, Arthur liked to think his bearing spoke for him, but in this garb, stripped of his sword and all other signs of nobility, it might as well say that he was a pompous ass trying to rise above his station.
Merlin, bugger it all, seemed to be drawing the exact same conclusion; Arthur could practically see the thought take shape in the empty space behind his silly, mobile face and turn it more insubordinate with each passing second. His dark eyes sparked with a mischievous glint, and his smirk grew until it threatened to reach his foolish jug handle ears. Really, he was ridiculous, and Arthur should turn around and march straight back to Camelot this instant.
But dammit, he was not a coward, and he would not admit defeat, even when faced with the very likely prospect of a sound drubbing. Remembering that the only thing that could turn a rout was a mad, headlong charge, Arthur took a deep breath, walked up to Merlin and slung an arm around his scrawny neck. He felt Merlin's body jerk against his as he pulled it close against his side, and a thrill went through him, not unlike the sort he experienced while on the hunt.
“No, friend,” he murmured, head turned toward Merlin's ear, “we go together, hm?”
Arthur had the immense satisfaction of watching Merlin's cheeks flush.
“Y-yes,” Merlin stammered. “Together, right.” Arthur rewarded Merlin with a final, bone-crushing squeeze before releasing him.
Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Merlin's hair trick couldn't have worked, because when they arrived in Markham, every man, woman and child proceeded to stare at him openly.
“They recognise me,” Arthur murmured under his breath.
“No, they don't,” Merlin said, smiling at an old man sitting in front of his hovel.
“Then why are they all looking at me?”
“Because they don't know you.”
This time it was Arthur's turn to stare. “What?”
Merlin's mouth quirked. “You really have no idea how things work outside of court, do you?” Before Arthur could draw breath to answer this slander, Merlin continued. “Look, the first time someone new comes to a town, it's an event. They don't have to be anyone special.”
“They're not staring at you,” Arthur grumbled.
“I've been here a few times on errands for Gaius. Believe me, I was as popular as you once.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Arthur muttered under his breath.
“They'll get over you soon enough,” Merlin assured him. “Something more exciting will come along. A pig will break loose from its pen, perhaps.”
Arthur favoured Merlin with his most fearsome glare, but Merlin only laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, his hand warm on Arthur's back as they headed toward the centre of town,“the fair's this way.”
Merlin hardly needed to say it, since the faint sounds of music could be heard even this far away, a merry tune that wafted to them on the warm summer breeze. Eventually, the growing crowd brought a reprieve from undesired attention, since people were too busy avoiding smashing into one another to pay much attention to a single stranger. Of course, this created a new problem – the worry that Arthur would lose sight of Merlin in the horde. He solved this problem by reaching out and grasping Merlin's sleeve firmly as they were swept along on the sea of humanity. By the time they reached the village common, their presence was going completely unremarked and his hand was warm in Merlin's, Merlin's fingers curled strongly around his own. Arthur wasn't entirely sure how that last had come to be, but he convinced himself it must have been Merlin's doing.
As they walked out onto the common, where the crowds were more spread out across the vast space, Arthur shrugged out of Merlin's grip and surveyed the scene. There was an orderly sort of chaos about the place, with children running to and fro, townsfolk of all ages queued up around various tents and games, cooking fires with pots and roasting pigs and venison turning slowly on spits, sending up mouthwatering scents.
“I'm hungry,” Arthur said.
Merlin pointed at a small tent a couple of dozen yards away. “There's a fellow selling sausages in a bun over there.”
Arthur frowned. “Selling.” He hadn't thought to bring any coins with him, perhaps because he'd never needed to bring any coins with him.
Merlin raised an eyebrow at him, then smirked and reached in his doublet for his purse.
“I'll pay you back,” Arthur said, feeling unaccountably ill at ease. It was odd to feel beholden to anyone, even for the price of a bloody sausage. He found he didn't like it much. “It's not as though I'm not good for it.”
Merlin shook his head, and suddenly he laid a hand on Arthur's arm, squeezing briefly before letting go. “Don't be silly,” he murmured. “I think I can afford to buy you lunch.” The smile was back, and this time it was open and honest and more unsettling than realizing he was penniless and five miles from home with nothing but his short knife to remind him of who he was.
Watching him for an interminable moment, Merlin finally turned away and headed toward the sausage vendor, and Arthur let out the breath he'd been holding.
Really, this was ridiculous. He
could
be a peasant for an afternoon, for Heaven's sake. How difficult could
it be?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Okay,” Merlin said, rubbing at the back of his neck as the two of them regarded the beheaded remains of the stuffed rat lying on the dusty ground, “when they call the game 'splat the rat', they don't exactly mean 'dismember the rat so that it's no longer recognizable.'”
Beside them, the small girl who was next up, bat at the ready, began to sniffle dangerously. Arthur shot her a look, and the child erupted in noisy tears.
“Oh, bollocks,” Arthur said under his breath, as her mother gathered her up and carried her away, though not before treating Arthur to a resounding clap across the ear. He took a staggering step back; Christ, the flat of her hand couldn't have packed more of a wallop if it had been encased in mail. The left side of his head was ringing like a cathedral belfry.
“Wait, it's not as bad as it looks,” Merlin was saying to the rather irritated and unfortunately massive man who was running the game. When Arthur's vision cleared sufficiently, he watched Merlin rise from a crouch and hand the man –
– a whole, apparently undamaged stuffed rat.
Arthur strode forward and stared at it. “You fixed it. How did you fix it?”
“It was just a little – erm, flattened,” Merlin said, brushing at the mangy fur.
“Its head was completely off!” Arthur exclaimed.
Merlin's eyebrows shot up. “Arthur, stop trying to impress the ladies, alright? You may be strong, mate, but you're not that strong,” he said condescendingly – condescendingly, by all the gods – patting him on the back as the crowd around them began laughing.
Arthur grabbed Merlin's scrawny arm and dragged him away, to more laughter. “What was that?” he hissed, when they were away from the cackling crowd.
“Wh-what was what?” Merlin stammered. His blue eyes were very wide, and his lips were slightly parted, and Arthur found himself struggling to remember what he'd been about to say.
“You – humiliated me in front of those people!” he snapped, recovering.
Merlin's shoulders lost some of their tension. “Oh, yes, well, among us peasants, that is known as 'taking the piss.' And you agreed to be a peasant for today.”
Arthur took a deep breath and leaned in. “Let me see if I can get this across to you. Someday, I am going to be those people's ruler. What sort of respect do you expect I'll be able to command after that?”
Merlin stared at him for a couple of moments, and then the bugger started laughing.
“Arthur, those people are not going to remember you in a week,” he said, sobering. “To them, you're just another stranger who came to town for a fair.” He paused, regarding Arthur in that profoundly unsettling way he had, the way that said he knew all of Arthur's secrets, including a few that not even Arthur knew about. “You do know, don't you, that most of us go through life completely unremarked and unremarkable? Our deeds aren't engraved on plaques or commemorated in song and story. We're born, we live, we die, and in time, there's no one left who knows that we were ever here.”
Arthur scowled to cover the unpleasant effect wrought by the roiling sensation in his gut. “Yes, of course I know that, what kind of useless twat do you think I am? Don't answer that,” he added, when Merlin opened his mouth. “I know that,” he repeated, with less heat. “I just didn't expect...” He trailed off, at a loss.
“To understand what it felt like?” Merlin prompted softly, when Arthur remained silent.
“Yes. No. Merlin –”
“Shut up, right,” Merlin muttered, looking away.
No, that's not quite it, Arthur thought, but this charade didn't extend to baring his soul in the middle of a village common. “Let's see if there's some other game I might actually not be a disaster at, hm?” he said instead, and was rewarded with a look of puzzlement from Merlin before he nodded.
Good to know you haven't got me completely figured out, Arthur's inner voice grumbled.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“I'm fairly certain this is a horrid idea,” Arthur told Merlin, as Merlin bent over to lash his left leg to Arthur's right with a length of thick twine.
“There's always another sack race,” Merlin said, a little cattily, Arthur thought, his own hand rising automatically to his bruised nose.
“I would have won if that little bastard hadn't tripped me right before the finish line,” Arthur muttered.
“That little bastard was fourteen, and he was the reigning – pardon the term – champion. He wasn't going to let some out of town jackanapes steal his crown. And sack racers are notorious for not following the chivalric code.”
“You might have told me that earlier,” Arthur snapped.
Apparently satisfied with his byzantine network of knots, Merlin straightened and shot Arthur a mischievous look out of the corner of his eye. “Now, where would have been the fun in that?”
Before Arthur could respond, the call went up for the three-legged racers to assemble at the starting line. Grinning, Merlin wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulders, fitting them snugly together, and Arthur, to his utter mortification, felt himself go hot all up his right side.
“Ready?” Merlin asked. “Now, we have to get into a rhythm, alright? Just like dancing.”
“That's the secret to success, is it?” Arthur rasped, trying mightily not to let sweat pop out on his brow.
“Well, that and staying close,” Merlin said, after seeming to think about it. Arthur swallowed as Merlin pulled him tighter, then reached down to take Arthur's hand and urge it to slip around his waist. Merlin was ridiculously skinny and bony, Arthur thought, his thumb inadvertently skittering over the top seam of Merlin's breeches as his palm cupped Merlin's hip. Arthur watched Merlin's Adam's apple bob before Merlin added, “And watching out for those little bastards.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Arthur collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving, only belatedly realizing that to do so meant he would take Merlin with him.
“Bugger,” Merlin breathed, as he collapsed awkwardly, half on top of Arthur, knocking the breath out of him.
“Geroff,” Arthur managed, shoving at him as his lungs screamed for air.
“Alright, just a sec – ” A bony elbow jabbed Arthur in the sternum, and then the weight was lifted. Merlin flopped down onto the ground beside him. “There.”
Arthur squinted against the sun. “I can't believe we won.” He could only imagine how completely silly he must have looked waddling down the field tied to Merlin, but in all honesty, he couldn't say it hadn't been fun, exactly as Merlin had promised. He'd thought it would be nearly impossible to work in concert with someone so effortlessly, but he and Merlin had fallen into a perfectly matched rhythm, no more than a hairsbreadth's difference in the lengths of their strides, so that it was almost like dancing.
Merlin sat up and began untying the knots that bound them. “Here,” Arthur offered, pulling the knife from his boot, but Merlin waved him away.
“Don't. I promised to give this back.”
“Oh,” Arthur said stupidly, humbled by the thought that someone would consider three yards of rope to be anything other than disposable.
“Besides, you already gave everyone quite a show with it before the race,” Merlin said, shooting him a glance from under his lashes.
Arthur shrugged. “My fingernails wanted cleaning.”
Merlin's mouth twitched. “Amazing, isn't it, how no one tried to trip us up this time?”
“Yes, amazing,” Arthur agreed. “I imagine the three-legged racers must be well acquainted with the chivalric code.”
Merlin's mouth curved into an approving smile that warmed Arthur ridiculously, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at Merlin like an idiot. Finally clearing his throat, he summoned the strength to look away, and after a few seconds he felt Merlin do the same.
Arthur sat back and watched Merlin's fingers work, his head bowed over their joined legs. The back of Merlin's neck was pink from the sun, and even among all the odours – pleasant and not so pleasant – of the fair, Arthur swore he could smell the salt tang of the sweat beading on Merlin's skin.
Arthur frowned when Merlin's leg fell away from his; his own leg felt odd, as though it no longer entirely belonged to him. Shaking his head, he looked up to see that Merlin was already standing and reaching a hand down to him. He paused for a moment, then took Merlin's hand and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet.
“Come on,” Merlin urged, his hand lingering in Arthur's for a few seconds longer than was absolutely necessary, “let's collect our prize.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Their prize turned out to be two worn Roman coins – one of which, Merlin informed him with glee, would pay for half a dozen pints of ale – and a shy kiss from a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen. She gave Arthur a look that brought the heat rising to his cheeks; when Merlin saw his reaction, he laughed for an excruciating two minutes.
“They marry young in the country,” he murmured, leaning so close to Arthur's ear that he could feel the warm puff of Merlin's breath, “you'd better watch yourself.”
“No danger there,” Arthur muttered, and Merlin smiled in that approving way again, and Arthur's cheeks got even hotter.
The sun was setting as the feast began; Arthur and Merlin purchased a venison hock, which they shared between them, and a pint of beer apiece. They took turns biting into the warm meat, the juices dripping down their chins. Finally, Arthur understood why Merlin wore those silly kerchiefs, he thought as he wiped his mouth for the sixth time with the back of his hand.
After they were fed and Arthur was beginning to feel pleasantly light-headed on his second pint, the bonfires blazed higher and the evening festivities began in earnest. Arthur noticed that most of the younger children seemed to have disappeared, along with many of the older folk, but he didn't appreciate the true significance of this until the third woman – well, girl, really – came up to ask him to dance.
“Oh, bugger,” Arthur murmured, when the third beauty flounced off, “this is worse than court.”
“Don't worry. It's just that you're exotic,” Merlin said, hiccuping elaborately.
“I'm what?” Arthur demanded.
“You know,” Merlin said, waving a hand at Arthur, “fresh blood. Different. Pretty. Of course they all want to shag you.”
Arthur nodded and lifted his tankard to his lips, then swiftly lowered it again. “Did you just call me pretty?”
Merlin frowned, his eyes nearly crossing with the effort to concentrate. “I think so,” he said. “Yes. Yes, I distinctly remember calling you that, yes.”
“I should bloody well hope so, considering it was no more than a half a minute ago,” Arthur muttered. Before Merlin could fight him, he snatched the tankard out of his hands and poured the remainder of Merlin's pint into his own.
“Oi, that's my ale!”
“You've had enough. You're completely stinking, and if you keep on you'll no doubt do something you'll regret.”
Merlin glared at him, and Arthur was shocked to feel an odd thrill weave up his spine. In the glow from the firelight, Merlin's eyes seemed to be made of molten gold.
“I think that was rather my point,” he muttered, and before Arthur could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, another girl, this one even younger than the last, came up to Merlin and smiled at him moonily. He bounded to his feet like an eager puppy and followed her as she headed toward the dancing circle.
Arthur finished the remains of his and Merlin's ale, then sat on the ground and watched the festivities with his arms resting on his knees and his left hand twitching over the knife hidden in his boot. After a few minutes of what could probably be called sulking if he truly had been a peasant, Arthur shook off his foul humour and went in search of more ale. While the publican was filling his tankard, he enquired as to the location of an inn. He didn't relish spending the night wandering around darkened roads in a drunken condition, dragging an even more drunken Merlin along with him.
The woman closed the spigot on the barrel and eyed him suspiciously. “I run the only inn in Markham,” she said. “What dost want a room for?”
Arthur stared at her. “To sleep in? What did you think I –” her eyes narrowed, and Arthur had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing in her face. “Oh. No, no, I – I'd be needing accommodations for my friend and me –”
The woman's face cleared a little. “You're here with Merlin, aren't you? He's a lovely boy.”
“Yes, I – I mean, we're good friends,” Arthur said, sensing an opportunity.
“Well,” the innkeeper said finally, “I suppose if you're a friend of his.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said, as charmingly as he could. “You won't regret it.”
“See that I don't,” the woman warned, handing Arthur his tankard.
Arthur wandered back to the center of the common, and soon found himself at the edge of the dancing circle. It took him a couple of minutes to locate Merlin in the press of swaying bodies, but eventually he spied Merlin's silly mop of dark hair bobbing among the others on the far side of the circle. He was dancing with the same girl as before – or perhaps not – or, oh blast, it seemed that there were two of them vying for his affections now. Fresh blood, indeed.
Doubtless Merlin had as much idea of how to deal with women as he had anything else, which meant that if he hadn't impregnated the both of them by morning, it would be a miracle. There was only one thing to be done: Arthur waded into the crowd and paddled swiftly toward the opposite shore.
He reached it after suffering several blows from errant elbows and dancing feet, and then one of the girls, whirling from a spin on Merlin's arm, nearly crashed into him. He wheeled, trying to avoid a collision, and stumbled backward until he collided with something solid.
“Watch where you're – oh,” Merlin said, as Arthur turned to face him. “What are you doing here?” Even in the dim light thrown by the bonfire, Arthur could tell Merlin's gaze was unfocused. He continued to sway, but it seemed to have less to do with the music and more with a growing inability to keep himself upright.
“Oh, for Heaven's sake,” Arthur muttered, taking Merlin's arm and pulling.
“Wh – what – where're you –” Merlin spluttered, staggering as Arthur yanked him away from the protesting girls.
“I'm getting you out of here before you wind up being forced to marry one of the local lovelies at the point of a crossbow,” Arthur intoned, weaving his way back through the revelers.
Merlin snorted, bumping into him when Arthur drew him up close to avoid being trampled by a group of dancers. His grin was just this side of idiotic as he gazed at Arthur, one hand splayed over Arthur's chest to steady himself.
“Don' worry,” Merlin slurred, “I've had so much ale I couldn' get it up now if y' pointed a crossbow at me.”
And there was simply no reason why that statement should cause Arthur's face to go hot, and his throat to constrict, and the snappish retort he should have uttered to die in his throat, but he was left silent and flushed and staring at Merlin in the middle of the common for a few moments until he could gather sufficient reason to force his feet to move.
Mercifully, Merlin made no more comments and asked no more questions; he allowed himself to be dragged, and only peered owlishly at the innkeeper as she took the remainder of Arthur's prize money in exchange for lodging. The inn was actually housed in what must have once been a stable behind the pub, and the interior still smelled faintly of horse dung. There was a generous rope bed stuffed with straw that took up most of the room, and three candles which the woman was kind enough to light before giving them one last lecture about the respectability of her establishment. Merlin nodded dumbly throughout, and Arthur smiled thinly and thanked her for her pains and silently wished her gone.
When she finally did depart, Arthur turned back from barring the door only to find Merlin swaying dangerously without his support. Muttering a curse, he crossed the short space and backed Merlin up against the bed, then shoved at him gently until his knees buckled and he sat down hard on the mattress.
Arthur opened his mouth to say something – he envisioned it as a pithy commentary on the evils of strong drink – but whatever he'd been about to say fled from his brain in an instant when Merlin suddenly wrapped his arms around Arthur's hips and pressed his face to the front of Arthur's trousers.
“Urk,” Arthur said, because bloody hell.
Merlin made a small distressed sound, and the resulting vibration was not impeded by a couple of thin layers of wool and linen. “Don't,” Merlin said, as though Arthur had been objecting or trying to pull away, “just – let me.”
“I'm not one of your doxies,” Arthur managed to say, although considering his cock was starting to harden under Merlin's lips, one would think that was rather an obvious point.
Merlin shook his head, which was even more unsettling than the vibration had been. “I know who you are,” he murmured, and Arthur sucked in a breath, because Merlin had said that to him once before. The first time, the statement had been attached to labels like warrior and king and prat, but now it seemed to mean a great deal more, as though Merlin were speaking of something in Arthur that went much deeper, that no one but Merlin had ever seen.
He was unaccustomed to feeling fear, but the thought that Merlin had somehow taken the measure of soul, his heart – frightened him to his boots. That he considered it possible was no surprise, though he knew it should have been. Tonight, however, with all the trappings that formed a comfortable barrier between them stripped away, it became not only possible, but inevitable, inescapable. With no crown on his head and no sword at his hip, it was easy to admit that they had been moving toward this for some time, perhaps since the first moment Merlin had challenged him with the full knowledge of the difference in their stations.
Merlin raised his head, but in the shadow cast by Arthur's body, it was impossible to read his expression. Arthur took a deep breath and lifted his hand, then, after a moment of hesitation, stroked his fingers through Merlin's hair.
“Gods,” Merlin breathed, his own hands rising to unfasten and unlace Arthur's trousers. Arthur noted, with the small part of his brain that was still functioning, that Merlin's fingers seemed more coordinated than he would have expected, and then Merlin freed him and sucked him in and Arthur gave up thinking for some time.
When Merlin had both his surprisingly large hands on Arthur's arse and was encouraging Arthur to thrust gently, it occurred to Arthur that this was a kind of madness – or worse, enchantment – and then Merlin did something with his tongue that was doubtless a form of sorcery, but since Arthur was coming down Merlin's throat he found he couldn't be bothered to care.
Dazedly, Arthur realised that his hand was still clenched in Merlin's hair; he murmured an apology and untangled himself as best he could. For his part, Merlin didn't even seem to notice. His forehead was resting against Arthur's thigh, and his left hand was absently stroking Arthur's hip. Arthur looked down at the top of his head for a few moments, stupidly fond of the way those ears jutted out from the sides.
“Alright,” he said finally, tugging on Merlin's shoulder, “stand up.” Merlin complied, and suddenly they were quite close and it seemed perfectly natural for Arthur to lean forward and touch his lips to Merlin's. After a frozen moment, Merlin's head tilted, fitting his mouth to Arthur's more snugly, and his hand slid behind Arthur's neck, keeping him close.
Having obviously given up thinking as a bad job, Arthur's mind decided it would be a fine thing to get Merlin naked, and so it instructed his hands to carry out the task. When he reached Merlin's trousers, it became clear that Merlin was not as drunk as he had seemed, or he recovered with spectacular speed. At any rate, Arthur bypassed the evidence of Merlin's arousal in favour of divesting him of every stitch of clothing first. He kept his kisses confined to Merlin's mouth and jaw and neck, and he could feel Merlin's frustration mounting with every passing moment.
When he was completely naked, Merlin tried to reciprocate, but Arthur stopped his hands. “Lie down,” Arthur commanded; Merlin's head jerked up and he opened his mouth. “I want to look at you,” he admitted softly, and Merlin's eyes widened.
“I'm not –” he began, but Arthur cut him off with a kiss.
“Can you not indulge me this one time, when it will so obviously benefit both of us?” he murmured in Merlin's ear. He could practically hear Merlin swallow at that. When he drew back, though, Merlin's smile was wicked, filled with his own power, and Arthur's cock stirred in response.
“I suppose I might,” Merlin said loftily, and he only laughed before Arthur's glare and tumbled back onto the bed. He was all graceful limbs and lean lines, with a smattering of dark hair at chest and groin, and in the candlelight his pale skin almost seemed to glow, and suddenly Arthur needed to be naked now. He stripped himself out of his borrowed clothes eagerly, ignoring Merlin's admonitions to be careful with his shirt.
“I'll have ten shirts made for you,” Arthur growled, pouncing on him.
“I like that one,” Merlin countered, eyes dancing with mirth. “If you've ripped it –”
Arthur's hand closed around Merlin's cock, and Merlin's mouth opened in a startled gasp. “What will you do?” Arthur murmured, nipping at Merlin's chin as Merlin groaned. “Come on, Merlin, what will you do to me?”
“You – have – no – idea,” Merlin panted, and Arthur grinned and tightened his grip.
“Show
me,” Arthur demanded, tracing the outline of Merlin's mouth with
the tip of his tongue, and felt Merlin surge under him, meeting his
challenge as always.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Arthur awoke disoriented and hung over to the sound of a cockerel crowing loudly and insistently from somewhere very close by. He cracked open an eye to check that it wasn't actually in the bed with him.
No, he confirmed after a momentary survey, there were no chickens sharing his lodgings. However, the right side of the bed was currently occupied with a sleeping Merlin.
Right. He'd shagged his manservant last night. Several times.
Although, to be quite fair, Merlin hadn't exactly been his manservant last night, just as Arthur hadn't been Merlin's master. And that line of reasoning begged the question of whether or not those titles could ever have truly been applied to either of them, and oh, bollocks, all of this was getting him precisely nowhere.
Merlin chose that moment to stir. Eyes still closed, he stretched languidly and his mouth curled into a smile, and Arthur couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and focused sleepily on Arthur. “H'lo,” he murmured, smile turning carnal.
Arthur swallowed. Well, that answered the question of whether or not Merlin remembered last night's debauchery. “Good morning,” he said, as neutrally as possible. “How's your head?”
Merlin frowned, as though he wasn't sure why Arthur would be asking the question. “Oh,” he said finally, “fine, just fine. How's yours?”
Arthur's skull felt like a cracked egg, thank you very much, but he wasn't about to admit it now that Merlin claimed to have emerged unscathed. “Fine,” he managed, and felt the top of his head throb as though to make a liar of him.
Merlin rolled his eyes. “Here,” he murmured, and touched his thumb to the spot between Arthur's eyebrows.
“What are you –”
“Shhh,” Merlin admonished. “Close your eyes.”
And perhaps because Merlin said it like a caress rather than a command, Arthur complied. Merlin stroked Arthur's skin, pressing just hard enough to ease the knots. Arthur was about to tell him to stop when he realised the pain was gone.
“Better?” Merlin asked, and his voice was very near, low with promise. Arthur opened his eyes in the instant before Merlin's mouth joined with his, and then he closed them again.
“Arthur,” Merlin said some time later, when he was half sprawled on top of Arthur, his hardening cock making rather free with Arthur's thigh, “listen, there's something I have to –”
“Bugger,” Arthur said, suddenly remembering.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Arthur said, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “I only have a bloody sparring practice this morning with half my knights.” He shoved at Merlin's shoulder. “Get off, I have to be back in Camelot within the blasted bollicky hour.”
Ignoring Merlin's scowl, Arthur threw off the blanket and began searching for his clothes. He was lacing up his breeches when it occurred to him he might have seemed a little insensitive. The fact that he recognised this quality in himself was disturbing. “Erm,” he began, reaching for his shirt – Merlin's shirt – “what had you wanted to say?”
Merlin looked at him as though he had just woken from a pleasant dream and was not overly fond of the reality which confronted him. “I – nothing. I forgot what time it was.”
Arthur frowned. “Yes, well,” he said, suddenly at a complete loss as to what to say next, “it happens to the best of us.”
“It certainly does,” Merlin said darkly, and Arthur thought it best to say no more.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Arthur snuck back into the castle the way they had left it, but his luck being what it was, he couldn't avoid being spotted by twelve separate servants, who would no doubt report that the prince of Camelot had been skulking about dressed in peasant garb, and oh, wasn't that Merlin's doublet? Not that Arthur cared about the gossip of servants, only Morgana would probably hear about it and question him mercilessly. And he couldn't help wondering if Merlin would have some questions of his own put to him by Gwen.
But as the week wore on, no one asked any questions or even looked at him askance, and Arthur convinced himself he'd survived his little adventure unscathed. He didn't ask Merlin if he'd had similar good fortune, primarily because he never saw him. Gaius came down with a summer cold, and Arthur decided the old man needed Merlin's services far more than Arthur did, and called one of the other servants for most of his personal needs. And really, it was astounding how much better everything was – his quarters were cleaner, his mail more polished, his food always piping hot, his bathwater warm. Really, he'd forgotten what good service was like.
The hell of it was that by the end of the week, he wanted to take the man and shake him until his teeth rattled, just to see if he could wrest some sort of less than agreeable emotion from his imperturbable surface. Tepid bathwater and all, he needed Merlin back in the worst way; there was no point in denying it. Unfortunately, he also had no idea what he'd do with Merlin once he got him back. He had a suspicion that it would involve nakedness and spectacular sex, but it was also likely to make Merlin even more rebellious than before, and might have an adverse effect on Arthur's willingness to leave his bed on cold mornings to drill yet another round of incompetent new recruits.
And then he realised he still had Merlin's clothes, tossed over a chair in the corner of the room. He picked up the shirt and turned it over in his hands, slowly, the rough material catching on his fingertips. Sure enough, there was a rip along the left shoulder seam.
“Sire?” Arthur whirled around, the shirt still in his hands, and saw Edgar standing at the door with his dinner tray. Right on time, as always.
“Edgar, I have a job for the seamstresses,” Arthur said.
“Very good, my lord,” Edgar said, without a trace of irony. Arthur barely restrained himself from slapping the poor bastard silly.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Three days later, Merlin barged into his room.
“What the bloody hell do you think you're – erm,” Merlin said, perhaps just noticing that Edgar was in the room, and that Arthur was about to step into his bath.
Arthur sighed and reached for his trousers. “That'll be all for tonight, Edgar, thank you.” The servant nodded and bowed, then all but fled from the room. “Gaius feeling better, then?” Arthur asked casually.
“He is. He's been better for two days, which you could have known if you'd cared to send for me.”
Arthur sighed. “I was waiting for my servant to tell me when he was ready to report back to work.”
Merlin blinked. “You're trying to change the subject.”
“And what would that subject be?” Arthur asked, busying himself with his laces.
“I want to know why one of the Camelot seamstresses delivered ten shirts to me today,” Merlin snapped. After poor Edgar, the sudden, shocking return to insolence was making Arthur fairly light-headed.
“I also sent you half a dozen pairs of breeches and three doublets,” Arthur countered. “I was appalled at the state of your meager wardrobe.”
“It's not – meager,” Merlin gritted, fists clenched. “I'd like my old clothes back, and no more.”
Arthur hesitated for a moment, then waved a hand at the corner. “They're over there. Take them.”
But Merlin didn't move. “Well?” Arthur prodded. “If that's all you've come for –”
“Is this it, then?” Merlin asked softly. “Are you going to be using Edgar's services from now on?”
Arthur couldn't resist a small smile. “He is frightfully efficient.”
“Right,” Merlin said, and before Arthur could say another word, he reached into a pocket and dropped something that clattered against the top of Arthur's chest of drawers. Oh, of course, his jewelry. He then strode over to the chair and scooped up his doublet and shirt. “I'll be sending the new clothes back to you,” he snapped, and turned on his heel.
“Keep the shirts at least,” Arthur called, just before he reached the door. “I'm not about to break a promise for the sake of your pride.”
Merlin stopped dead, then fumbled at the shirt in his hands. When he turned back to Arthur, his fingers were poking up through the hole in the shoulder. “You – I told you to be careful with this shirt!” he spluttered.
Arthur took a step toward him. “Stop whining. I'll have it mended.”
Merlin opened his mouth, then shut it again when Arthur closed the distance between them and rested his hands on Merlin's hips.
“What about Edgar?” Merlin drawled, when Arthur leaned in.
“Edgar is wonderful,” Arthur said, pulling back, “polite, mild, and good-natured. And if I have to endure him another day, I'll push his simpering face in.”
“That's not very nice,” Merlin chided, though the foolish smile on his face took the edge off the reproach.
“I'm not very nice,” Arthur told him, then proceeded to kiss Merlin senseless.
“Oh, I don't know,” Merlin breathed when they parted, hand sliding down Arthur's bare chest and into his half-tied breeches, “parts of you are quite nice.”
“There's a bath,” Arthur said, nodding at the tub. “Set to the perfect temperature, too.” Merlin pinched his nipple hard, and Arthur yelped and wrestled with him until he'd pinned his arms behind his back. “You'll pay for that,” he murmured in Merlin's ear.
Still grinning, Merlin twisted in Arthur's grip, his gaze molten and defiant and utterly intoxicating. “Show me.”
End
February 2009
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