Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin’s day doesn’t actually start out terrible.

For one, he doesn’t have the opening shift, that means he gets to have a lie-in - which, for Merlin, means that he gets to sleep until eight instead of five-thirty. It also means he can actually take his time, have some breakfast, and put on clothes he didn’t have to pick out the night before.

He stuffs a reluctant and still sleepy Kilgharrah into the breast pocket of his unbuttoned shirt and takes the time to throw a stale croissant from yesterday into the micro-oven.

He’s still gnawing on it as he exits his dingy flat. The hallway is dark; no windows and the light still broken, same as it’s been for the past month or so. Merlin contemplates the merits of conjuring a magelight, quickly running through a rough mental list of spells he’s already used and how many more he’s allowed this week.

In the end, he decides it’s hardly worth it and makes his way blindly. Really, the only tricky part are the stairs and he’s only fallen down twice so far. The third time doesn’t count, because someone had spilled something slippery, the origins of which Merlin resolutely refused to investigate.

In contrast, the early morning sun is bright and cheerful, stabbing mercilessly at Merlin’s eyes. It still makes him smile. Weather like this isn’t always easy to come by in Camelot, especially not in early to mid-spring where the chance of random hail is as high as picking a too-warm jumper and ending up sweltering for the rest of the day.

Seeing as it’s not pissing down, Merlin opts out of taking the El train for one stop and instead chooses to walk, picking up his pace to make it on time. Not that Gwaine would care.

The streets are already bustling, and not with the usual pre-work rush hour. 

Brightly coloured garlands adorn every streetlamp, ribbons fluttering in a gentle breeze, waving as if in greeting. He remembers now that he’d seen droids putting them up last night in preparation for today’s Beltane celebration.

The Prince’s birthday. Of course.

Merlin rolls his eyes. He likes Beltane as much as the next person, because, really, what’s not to like about stuffing yourself with good food and dancing around a maypole? And, when night falls, you simply stuff yourself with more food, this time accentuated with some floral spirits, and the dancing moves from the maypole to the bonfire.

Back in Ealdor, it had been one of Merlin’s favourite holidays. It’s only since moving to Camelot City that it’s lost its appeal. The capitol is a shrine to the Royal Family, their crest plastered on anything from monuments to milk bottles. The El train has dragon-shaped door lights, every holographic street sign is hugged by a dragon, and then, of course, there’s the Palace itself. Flapping tirelessly above it is one of the world’s biggest, most life-like holograms in the form of a huge golden dragon - the gaudy thing a present for King Uther’s 40th birthday. It’s particularly popular with tourists; on a good day, you can see that thing for miles.

No, here at the ‘Heart of Albion’, Beltane is mostly an afterthought. Here, it’s ‘Prince Arthur’s Day’.

And it seems no one is ready to miss out on the chance to benefit from capitalism, which is why come May, you cannot spit without hitting something with the Prince’s arrogant gob on it. For a whole week.

Clearly, Gwaine is no exception.

“What,” Merlin says slowly, torn between horror and disgust. “Is that?”

Gwen follows his gaze, a grin already tugging at her lips. Despite having opened the shop at six this morning, she looks fresh-faced and bright-eyed - honestly, Merlin has no clue how she does it.

“These,” she chirps. “Are our Prince Arthur themed cupcakes! Buy two, get one free!”

Merlin stares at her in horror, then directs his outrage at Gwaine, who seems to have dragged himself away from last night’s hookup earlier than usual.

“You can’t be serious,” Merlin says, feeling utterly betrayed.

Gwaine shrugs. “I got a good deal. Plus, he’s turning 25 so everyone’s going mental. It’s business, baby.”

Merlin returns his gaze to the display case, Prince Arthur’s smug smile staring back at him from the neat rows of cupcakes. The icing job is smooth and shiny and covered in a layer of fine glitter. It looks like a thin sheet of glass - definitely the work of a droid rather than a human. Around the rim, a loopy script proclaims Happy Birthday, Prince Arthur!! and every tiny bit of empty space has been filled with miniature sparkly hearts and dragons.

Merlin wants to gag.

And, because underneath all her sweetness Gwen is actually a demon who feeds off other people’s pain, she chooses that moment to pipe up once more.

“And for every non-themed purchase we have these!” She whips out a handful of tiny flags with an identical design, which are covered in even more glitter. “Aren’t they adorable?”

Merlin wordlessly turns on his heel and storms off towards the staff room, leaving a cackling Gwen and Gwaine in his wake.

Merlin emerges still grumpy, now dressed in his long-sleeved work shirt, apron tied slightly sloppily behind his back and his name tag crooked and off-centre. Kilgharrah, now more awake and sick of Merlin’s pocket, has taken residence on the drinks machine, tail idly twitching where he’s curled up between stacks of black cups.

From beside him, he hears Gwen say, “Welcome to The Drip and Grind, what can I get for you?”

And even after all this time, Merlin can’t help inwardly rolling his eyes. Bloody Gwaine.

Of course the customers ohh and ahh over the cupcake atrocities and one of them even has the audacity to beg for a flag despite buying an alarming amount of cupcakes. Damn Gwaine for his stupidly accurate business sense.

Gwen turns to him once the customers have scampered off, taking a seat beneath a garish garland in eye-watering neon colours.

“You don’t suppose he’ll come in today?”

Merlin snorts. “You act as if he’s a regular.”

Gwen gives him a look. “He’s been here at least a dozen times in the last two months, I’d say that qualifies for someone who can’t so much as sneeze without their personal guard.”

Merlin carefully re-arranges the little holo-sign proclaiming their specials in erratically flashing letters.

“Clearly they can’t make proper coffee at the Citadel.”

Which is complete bollocks, of course. Merlin is sure that the royal palace’s coffee is flown in from some private plantation where a bunch of farmers sing lullabies to the plants and cradle the beans in silk sheets. In all honesty, Merlin hasn’t the foggiest why the Crown Prince would repeatedly visit a shop called The Drip and Grind for fuck’s sake.

All he knows is that Prince Arthur is an infuriating, stuck-up prat who looks just as unfairly attractive in real life as he does on all the stupid merch he’s featured on. No one should be allowed to be that golden without the help of glitter.

Gwen is clearly not buying his shit either, humming a knowing hm-hmm at him with a devilish sparkle in her eye. Merlin refuses to acknowledge her implications because they are, frankly, ridiculous.

“Piss off,” he mutters, finally abandoning the sign and choosing to unnecessarily polish the spout of the steamer instead.

Because while Gwaine certainly doesn’t spare expense to make his customers happy, his poor staff has to content itself with working with machinery from the previous century.

Atop the drinks machine, Kilgharrah shuffles his wings and gives a derisive snort, a small spark shooting from his nostrils before turning into an artful curl of smoke.

“You, too,” Merlin tells him. “Traitor.”

His Royal Highness breezes in just before eleven with his usual hangers-on, some of which Merlin has even managed to remember the names of. Especially the one that Gwen always exchanges cow-eyed, lovey-dovey gazes with. She’s clearly the last person who should be implying nonsense about Prince Arthur’s non-existent motivations.

“Welcome to The Drip and Grind,” Merlin rattles off straight-faced. “What can I get for you?”

“The same thing I always have,” Prince Arthur says, sounding vaguely disdainful and unbearably posh. “One would think you’d remember my order by now.”

Merlin scowls. He remembers His Haughtiness’ order perfectly well, but sees no reason to inflate an already unbearably large ego.

“You’re not my only customer,” Merlin keeps his voice coolly polite; barely.

“You realise that’s not the proper way to address me?”

And is that a smirk at the corner of the stupid prat’s, stupidly gorgeous mouth?

“Apologies, your High-and-Mightiness. Now do you think you can tell me your order or must I divine it from my crystal ball?”

Prince Arthur looks just the faintest bit puzzled. “Can you do that?”

Merlin only barely refrains from knocking his forehead against the drinks machine. Somewhere behind him, Gwaine is unsubtly snickering and Kilgharrah is wearing his most irritating reptilian smirk. Trust the son of Uther Pendragon to be utterly ignorant of how a quarter of his subjects go through life.

Then again, the King probably spent Arthur’s entire childhood reading him ghastly cautionary tales about ‘the evils of sorcery’. Merlin should be grateful the Prince lets him anywhere near his beverages to begin with.

“Your order?” Merlin grits out, rapidly losing patience.

“Caramel Latte, four shots and two and a half pumps of syrup. To go.”

Merlin’s nerve-endings vibrate just from the thought of that much caffeine, but he obediently gets to work, typing in the order on the small touchscreen and manually putting a cup beneath the correct spout. 

And then, because Merlin just can’t help himself, he asks, “Would you like a cupcake with that?”

Which gets him the satisfaction of watching Arthur’s nose wrinkle in distaste.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he says drily.

Seems not even His Superciliousness adores himself enough to eat his own face. Something Merlin feels he needs to rectify by grabbing one of the sparkly flags.

“In that case,” he says, sticking it into the lid he’s just snapped onto the cup. “Here you go.” He smiles brightly as he hands the coffee to a scowling Prince Arthur, and all but sings, “Happy Beltane!”

Prince Arthur snatches the cup from the counter and visibly takes great pleasure in pointedly peeling off the lid and dumping it into the bin on the side. Merlin’s glee isn’t hindered in the least.

He picks up his discarded rag and suppresses a snicker as he wipes down the spouts.

Distantly, he’s aware of Prince Arthur answering his communicator, full cup abandoned on the far end of the counter. Gwen and Lance are busy being coy and quietly finding dumb reasons not to ask each other out, and Gwaine is flirting with Percy, the hunkiest of the Prince’s so-called Knights.

Valiant, the smarmy one who never seems to be paying proper attention to anything, is standing off to Prince Arthur’s side, not-so-subtly playing something shooty on his own comm. Merlin rolls his eyes at them all and is just about to go into the back and do some inventory checks when Kilgharrah suddenly raises his head.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says, voice heavy with warning.

Alarmed, Merlin jerks his own head up, only just catching the reflection of someone coming out of the loos. For a moment, he wonders at Kilgharrah’s urgency, but then he feels it, the unmistakable prick of magic against his skin. In the reflection of the drinks machine’s polished, old-fashioned chrome finish, Merlin finds a person with no face and yet every face at once.

He whirls around, intending to stop the faceless stranger, but then he sees the Prince’s hand reaching for his cup. The cup that not a moment ago had been left unguarded with a suspicious figure lurking about. Prince Arthur brings the coffee to his lips and Merlin is out of time.

He makes his choice.

Magic surging like a tidal wave, Merlin lunges forward, arm outstretched-

“Don’t-”

Pain sears across his wrist as his magic bursts forward - too strong, too untamed. The bracelet tightens its hold, burning into his skin as it seeks to leash him.

Merlin ignores it, the cup falls.

Coffee spills everywhere.

“Fuck,” Prince Arthur curses, posh accent sharpening the word into a knife, cutting through the sudden flurry of motion as all of the Prince’s Knights jump to his side, weapons drawn.

Merlin eyes them warily, but obediently raises both hands, palm-out, to show that no, this hadn’t been an attempt to assassinate the Prince with coffee, although Merlin expects it smarted quite a bit. Even now, he can see steam rising from Prince Arthur’s clothes, the dark liquid seeping rapidly into the fabric. 

Still, he doubts it hurts as bad as his own wrist.

Arthur yanks off his pretentious jacket and pinches his fingers into his shirt to hold it away from his chest and stomach.

“Merlin!” Arthur snaps, making Merlin jump. Name tag or no, he hadn’t expected the Prince to know his name, let alone remember it. “What is wrong with you?!”

Despite his outrage, Arthur motions for his men to stand down, which is honestly a bit of a relief. Merlin doesn’t feel like fending off a barrage of phaser fire and burning his whole hand off in the process.

“It’s fine,” Prince Arthur tells his Knights from between gritted teeth. “He’s just an idiot.”

Merlin makes a small, outraged sound at the insult. He is, however, courteous enough not to give Prince Prat a piece of his mind at full volume. Despite the Knights doubling as a human barrier blocking the spectacle, gawping patrons already have their comms out, some trying harder than others to hide the fact that they’re recording the scene.

“Listen.” Merlin steps closer to the counter, careful to keep his voice low. “I saw someone. They were using magic to conceal their face. I think they might’ve spiked your coffee.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, then pointedly looks around. “And where is this mysterious someone?”

Merlin bites back something uncharitable at the blatant mockery.

“I didn’t have time to stop them because I was too busy saving your royal arse.”

Prince Arthur’s eyes narrow, his voice pitched equally low. “Are you making up some ridiculous story just to get my attention? Five minutes of fame? A reward maybe?”

He gestures at the still enthralled crowd around them. Merlin’s vision swims a little he’s so angry.

“You arrogant prat! I just told you someone sp-”

“What did you just call me?” 

It’s low and dangerous, but Merlin’s never quite grasped the particulars of self-preservation, so he remains unfazed.

“You heard me. And no, I don’t want a reward, a simple ‘thank you’ would’ve sufficed. But seeing as I’m not likely to get one from you, how about you take your goons and move along so things can calm down. You can talk to Gwaine about the security recording, though I doubt it’ll do you any good.”

Prince Arthur looks downright aghast and Merlin supposes he doesn’t get backtalk very often. If ever.

“That’s it?” he says, incredulous. “You attack me, the Crown Prince, with magic-”

“I didn’t attack you-”

“-burn a layer of my skin off-”

“Oh, come on-”

“-and now you think you can give me orders?”

Merlin glares. “I already told you everything I know and you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t believe me. What else do you want?”

Arthur, who seems to have lost some of his petulant air, fixes him with a long, intent look.

“There really was someone there?”

Merlin throws his hands up.

“Yes!” Out of the corner of his eye he sees the Knights twitching nervously and quickly lowers them again. He frowns as a sudden thought hits him. “You didn’t drink any of that, did you?”

Arthur shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s face as though he’s looking for something. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Merlin lets out a relieved breath. “Good.”

For a moment, it looks as though Prince Arthur is about to say something more, but then one of his Knights appears at his side.

“Sire, George has organised a fresh set of clothing.”

Arthur’s expression is a little pinched, and with his stained clothes and general disarray he’s a far cry from his usual polished self.

“I’ll be right there. Thank you, Leon. And tell Percy to stay behind and sort out the security footage with this...Gwaine. I want to know what the hell happened.” He turns back to Merlin, pointing an imperious finger at him. “We’ll have words later. I’m not done with you.”

Merlin scowls at him, though wisely remains silent this time, simply watches Arthur give a tight smile at the still gossip-hungry crowd, and lead the charge out onto the street. Merlin lets out a breath, absently rubbing at his sore wrist.

In all the hubbub, no one seems to remember Prince Arthur’s toppled cup, rolled out of sight beneath the counter. And so, no one pays attention when Merlin calls one of the cleaning droids and bends down to retrieve it. 

Looks like it’s time to pay Uncle Gaius a visit.

Sage & Hawthorn Apothecary is tucked away in a cramped, dingy basement shop in one of the roughest neighbourhoods in Camelot City. Gaius always claims that this is exactly the reason why it’s the safest place for him and, funnily enough, he’s right.

Before King Uther’s implementation of anti-magic legislation and the ruthless culling of the Magical Sciences, Gaius used to be an instructor on magical medicine at Camelot University. But once the so-called Purge swept across Albion, he was forced to resign his position.

Instead he’d opened this little shop and moved into the tiny bedsit immediately above it. Officially, Gaius sells herbal soothers, pain relief, and special bathing salts. Unofficially, he provides healing salves and potions, and seals knife wounds with his illegal dermal regenerator in the back room. With his readiness to be woken in the middle of the night for emergencies as well as his strict ‘ask no questions and I won’t need to lie’ policy, the whole district would most likely go to war for him.

Several familiar faces greet Merlin as he makes his way from the El train to Gaius’ street. He side-steps a brawl in front of one of the seedier pubs and briefly stops to chat with Aglain, who runs the district’s kindergarten. With all his dallying, dusk has just started to creep in when he opens the door to Uncle Gaius’ shop.

It smacks against the old-fashioned bell fixed to the frame, the obnoxious sound making Merlin wince just like every other time.

When Gaius doesn’t immediately appear, Merlin calls out a tentative, “Hello? Uncle Gaius?”

It wouldn’t be the first time Merlin interrupts a delicate experiment, or Gaius delivering a to-be-unregistered baby. But when Gaius does emerge, he’s blessedly blood-splatter free and spares Merlin a warm smile.

“Merlin, my boy,” he says as they meet in a brief hug. “It’s good to see you. Would you like some tea?”

Merlin follows Uncle Gaius into the broom cupboard-sized kitchenette.

“Thank you, yes. Tea would be great.”

Gaius starts pottering about, filling his old-fashioned kettle that Merlin has always found baffling. Even his own shithole of a flat has a tap for boiling water on demand.

“How’s your mother?” Gaius asks, unearthing a gigantic tub of home-made biscuits. “I haven’t heard from her in a while. And how’s the flat hunting going?”

Merlin grimaces. “So far, it’s going nowhere. All the places I’ve looked at are either worse than the one I have, or too expensive. And Mum is fine, just very busy. She says she’s thinking of expanding the bakery.”

They slide easily into chit-chat, updating each other on their lives. Gaius has some hair-raising stories about his latest charges, and Merlin shares some anecdotes about his most annoying customers and complains about his current workload at uni.

“Actually,” Merlin says, finally remembering the main reason for his visit. He bends down for his bag, tugging out the now flattened and plastic-sealed cup. “I need your help with something.”

Gaius raises his eyebrow of doom, already eyeing Merlin with suspicion.

“Don’t give me that look! It wasn’t my fault this time!” He pushes the cup towards Gaius, who grabs the spectacles hanging from his neck and slides them onto his nose to inspect it. “I think someone spiked one of our customers’ drinks. I was wondering if you could find out what it was.”

“I can certainly try.”

They move to Gaius’ workshop and Merlin watches as Gaius carefully pries the cup from its seal. It’s always interesting to see Gaius work. He’s taught Merlin some of the basics over the years, but this requires a far more experienced touch.

Even Kilgharrah has stopped all pretence of disinterest, the tips of his wings brushing Merlin’s cheek as he stretches and follows the proceedings with an attentive air.

Finally, after some muttering, sniffing and dribbling various drops of different coloured liquids onto the cup, Gaius straightens with a rather grave expression.

Dread pools in Merlin’s gut.

“I don’t like that look.”

Gaius’ expression, if possible, turns even graver. “I’m afraid this is a rather serious matter, my boy. Do you have any way to get in contact with the person who drank from this cup?”

Merlin fidgets. 

“Not…as such.” He brightens slightly, tentative hope blooming. “But he said he didn’t get a chance to drink from it before I knocked it out of his hands.”

Gaius frowns. “This is very potent magic, I’m afraid a single drop of moisture against his lips would’ve been enough.”

Any hope evaporates. “Potent magic?”

“All evidence suggests that the traces of the liquid in this cup are of the genus amorum.”

Merlin’s stomach drops. “A love potion? Fuck.”

Gaius doesn’t bother admonishing him about his language, mainly because they must be thinking the same thing. Love potions have their own section on the list of illegal substances - magical drugs such as Rainbow-Crack and Crystal-C have nothing on them. Mere possession of a love potion can get you in deep shit with the law.

“Can you identify it?”

Gaius shakes his head. “Given a few more days I’ll be able to narrow it down, however a more detailed diagnosis won’t be possible without a blood sample. You said you don’t have a way to get in touch with this person?”

Merlin shakes his head, dread unfurling further.

Gaius sighs. “Well, if things are as we fear we can only hope he’ll find his way back to you soon.”

Let it be said that fretfully reading up on love potions half the night, because there’s a very likely possibility that the Crown Prince of Albion has been turned into some kind of love slave, is not conducive when paired with the opening shift of the Grind.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Merlin says, a mere two hours before he knows he has to get ready for work.

He’s slumped over on the tiny, rickety fold-out table he uses as a desk, holo-windows surrounding him from all sides. Merlin sighs and banishes them with a swipe on the pad in front of him.

“Sometimes it is best to simply let things run their course,” Kilgharrah chimes in cryptically.

“What are you talking about?”

“None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. And none of us can escape it.”

Merlin stares at him, tired and not a little annoyed.

“You do talk some shit sometimes, you know that?”

Which prompts a sulk that lasts all through the next morning and well into his shift. Merlin is way too tired and anxious to coax him out of it.

But despite Merlin’s churning stomach and the ever growing sense of dread, the day passes without any sign of Prince Arthur. The shop is busy, the Beltane/birthday festivities still in full swing. For once, Merlin is grateful, if only because it gives him an excuse to dodge Gwen and Gwaine’s sympathetic looks. He’d told them that he has an important essay due as an excuse for his tired absentmindedness.

Thankfully, Gwen and Gwaine know not to inquire more closely if they don’t want to be bored stiff on the subject of Magical Theory. If Merlin had had an actual choice, he’d be studying something more hands-on, but the Purge saw to it that there is only the one subject left. Heavily watered down and ripe with obscurity, not many students last past their first semester, but Merlin promised himself when he started out that he’d finish it if it kills him. 

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be applying his theoretical knowledge to a situation like this. But while hastily stuffing half a sandwich into his mouth during lunch break, Merlin revisits his calculations. The minimum for the enchantment to take effect is 24 hours, but from what Merlin’s read it can take as long as 48 to properly kick in. Add to that Prince Arthur’s obvious pig-headedness, it might yet be a day or two before he turns up. If the potion actually entered his system at all.

Still, if Arthur doesn’t show up himself, Merlin will have to find some way to get to him. He cannot, in good conscience, go on without checking on Arthur’s health. And he really doesn’t trust one of the royal physicians to recognise the signs of magical illness, especially not in its early onset.

Mostly, Merlin is busy feeling sorry for himself and cursing fate, which seems to always have it out for him.

On his way home, he finally caves and comms Freya, who he remembers wrote an extensive essay on mind altering enchantments only last semester. She’s helpful, if puzzled at Merlin’s sudden interest. 

She’s also a bloodhound, which is why she senses something’s going on even before Merlin can start doing his dance of evasion.

“Just spit it out already!” Freya laughs. “I promise I won’t turn you in if you’re looking into making yourself a sex slave- 

Merlin almost chokes on his own spit. “Freya!”

“-though I will give you a very stern talking to. That’s just dark, Merlin, and I know for a fact you don’t need it.”

Rolling his eyes, Merlin weaves his way in-between two broken bins to take a well-known shortcut. A cat with luminous violet eyes slinks from the shadows to greet him. He pauses to stroke it, noting that from the way his magic reacts that it’s real, if genetically enhanced, rather than a zoondroid.

To Freya, he says, “Stop making me sound like a slag!”

Freya cackles some more. “If it walks like a duck…”

“Piss off, you know I don’t do it on purpose.”

The cat gives him a hopeful look, but Merlin shrugs helplessly. He has nothing he could give her.

“Obviously,” Freya says smugly on the other end. “Not everyone can have my level of mastery.”

Merlin straightens. For a moment, he thinks the cat will follow him, but then the deafening roar of an illegally modified hover-bike makes her duck and fold back her ears, before scampering off.

“I’m never letting you hang out with Gwaine again,” Merlin says once the racket has passed, on his way once more. “It was the biggest mistake of my life, introducing you two. You’re the ones who always get me drunk and encourage my bad life choices.”

“You mean horny life choices.”

Merlin scowls. “It’s not like I do it all the time. And I’ve told you, I don’t actually like casual sex, it’s just so…”

He waves vaguely, thinking of shadowy club corners, cramped bathroom stalls, and dirty alleyways.

“Casual?” Freya supplies helpfully. “It’s alright, you know. Prince Charming will come soon enough, you’re allowed to live a little until then.”

Merlin almost gives himself an aneurism when at the mention of ‘Prince’ his brain immediately supplies an image of Prince Prat, dishevelled and soaked in coffee. He pushes it violently aside.

“I live just fine without getting hand jobs and the odd blowie from strangers in clubs.” 

Merlin concedes that the first few times had been fun; new city, new opportunities. It’d just all been so overwhelming - so many places to go, so many people to meet and have fun with. After being stuck in Ealdor for so long, the whole thing had been a revelation. 

The most exciting thing he and Will got up to growing up was alternately getting pissed in the two local pubs or, if they were lucky, bagging a ride with one of the locals to go to a ‘club’ in the next town over. Said club being an abandoned droid-parts factory with a leaky roof and a dodgy light and sound system pieced together from scrap materials left behind.

Merlin isn’t sure he’s capable of enough nostalgic energy to master any fondness at the memory of passing out drunk in weird places and freezing his bollocks off because there was no way of getting home until noon the next day.

“So,” he says, dragging his thoughts back from memory lane. “Are you ready to move on from your slag ranking and actually help me out here?”

“Of course,” Freya says cheerily. “So tell me, who is it you’re trying to enslave?”

Merlin groans.

Two days later find Merlin stumbling out of the Grind just after one in the morning; the end of his closing shift. Tapping his bracelet to the scanner by the door, he waits for the system to sign him out and activate the alarm. Once the computerised voice confirms everything’s in order, Merlin steps away, relieved to finally be done for the day.

With the festivities gearing up for a final hooray this weekend, the shop had once again been packed and the patrons rowdier than usual. Which in turn means that closing up had taken ages, the last few customers lingering for as long as they possibly could. They’d probably still be there, if Merlin hadn’t politely told them to fuck off so he could take their cups and set the till to finalise the takings of the day, while the cleaning droids bustled around the finally abandoned table.

Looking at the unusually busy streets, Merlin weighs waiting half an eternity for the El train against walking home. He absently rubs at his shackled wrist, feeling the familiar prick of tiny, rounded teeth clamped around him like a nasty little animal. It’s been his jailer for as long as he can remember, only waiting for Merlin to misstep so it can send electromagnetic pulses into his skin, latching on and leashing his magic to the bracelet’s specifications.

Decision made, Merlin sets off on foot, turning away from the main road to avoid the crowds. It’s darker back here and is getting progressively more so as Merlin moves further away from the main hover-tracks and flashier billboards. Even so, he’s not particularly worried. Due to his relation to Gaius, the troublemakers in the area know to steer clear of him if they don’t want to incite the local gang’s wrath.

Which is why Merlin probably ends up paying a little less attention than he should. He most definitely doesn’t expect the hand that shoots out of the dark and yanks him into an alley.

Merlin’s magic flares, bright and instinctive, his eyes no doubt like two beacons in the night. The other person’s grip tightens.

“Don’t!” The voice is quiet, but strong; a command issued by someone who’s used to being obeyed implicitly. “Merlin, it’s me.”

Merlin’s magic relaxes, tension bleeding from his shoulders as he exhales.

“Do you have a death wish, Your Highness?” Merlin snaps. “Jumping me like that, you almost gave me a bloody heart attack! I could’ve seriously hurt you!”

“It’s a good thing it was just me,” Arthur says irritably. “You clearly had your head in the clouds.”

“And you couldn’t have just called my name, or something?”

“I did,” Arthur says between gritted teeth. “But I’m trying not to draw attention, if you hadn’t noticed, so I was hardly going to shout it across the rooftops.”

“Oh.” Merlin subsides, feeling suddenly sheepish at his inattention.

He also realises that Arthur still has a hold of his wrist. His hand is strong, but there’s a slight tremor there, and his skin is hot and a little clammy. There’s something almost…desperate about the way he’s holding onto Merlin.

It triggers something inside him, an urge to look after Arthur and protect him. It’s extremely irritating.

“You’re not terribly surprised to see me,” Arthur says quietly.

Magic squirming restlessly within his chest, Merlin sternly tells it to settle down. 

He runs another assessing gaze over Arthur. “Let’s just say I had an inkling.” 

Gently, carefully, he releases the tiniest of tendrils to brush against Arthur, sweeping him for signs of a magical influence. Almost immediately, the tendril snags on something strange and syrupy, a cloying presence that most definitely shouldn’t be there.

Merlin shudders. “How long have you been a stubborn clotpole and trying to ignore it? Two days? Three?”

It’s a testament to how rattled the Prince must be to not immediately call Merlin out on his disrespectful address.

“Three but-” Arthur shivers suddenly. “What are you doing?”

Merlin starts, eyes widening when he realises that his magic had somehow curled its way around Arthur, cradling him and all but purring in pleasure.

“You can feel that?” Merlin asks, equal parts awed and mortified.

He pokes at Arthur gently with the rebellious tendril. Arthur jerks.

“Of course I can feel- Will you stop that!”

“Sorry!” Merlin yanks his magic back, silently cursing it as it fights him every step of the way. “I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to notice that.”

Arthur’s glare is intense enough to penetrate the darkness. 

“Oh, of course, as long as I don’t know about it, please feel free to poke at my insides.”

“That’s not-” Merlin huffs. “Look, I was just…confirming a theory.”

“And what theory might that be?”

“That the person you thought I’d made up the other day, did spike your coffee.” The I told you so remains unsaid, but the sentiment stands. “I took the cup to my uncle - he’s a chemist - to run some tests. He found traces of a love potion in your coffee.”

“A love potion?” Arthur’s voice loses some of its tight control. “But that makes no sense! Why would anyone want me to fall in love with-”

Arthur breaks off abruptly.

“With?”

Arthur waves him off jerkily. “Nevermind, just- How do we get rid of it?”

“Depends on the enchantment. There’s currently 376 listed variants of mind altering enchantments that cause the illusion of love, 312 of those are potions.”

Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose, then says eloquently, “Fuck.”

“Pretty much.” Merlin leans back against the cool wall at his back. “And not the good kind, either.”

“What do we do now?”

Merlin bites back an instinctive retort on Arthur’s sudden eagerness to believe him and follow his lead.

“I can take you to my uncle, but you’ll have to promise me something first.”

“What is it.”

“Well, you see…my uncle’s establishment-” Merlin fidgets, searching for words. “It might, maybe, not always be 100% by the book?”

“Are you saying your uncle is a criminal?”

“No! I mean, maybe a little - but he’s not hurting anyone, I promise! You just- You’ll have to trust me, yeah? And I need your word you won’t cause trouble for him.”

Even in the murkiness of the alley Merlin sees Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“This is to do with magic, isn’t it.”

Merlin hesitates, then nods. He feels sick, having laid himself - and most of all Gaius - so bare. He can only hope that Arthur recognises the risk he’s taking. Hopes the fact that he’s here at all instead of joining his father in a witch hunt means that he’s willing to give Merlin a chance, if nothing else.

“Alright,” Arthur says finally. “You have my word.”

Merlin refuses to bring along Arthur’s car. No matter what sort of pretentious model he drives, it wouldn’t survive five minutes in Gaius’ neighbourhood.

Not wanting to alarm Gaius, Merlin doesn’t press the emergency bell. Instead, he taps his bracelet to the scanner at the door and waits until it recognises him and gives them access. He leaves Arthur in the main room while he goes up the dark, narrow stairs to rouse Gaius.

Years of practice have Gaius up and alert within minutes, shrugging into a tatty robe and following Merlin downstairs. They find Arthur curiously poking at some crystals, snatching his hand back when he notices their presence.

Gaius stares and Merlin belatedly realises he probably should’ve told him who their guest actually is.

“Uhm, Arthur, this is my uncle,” Merlin says, eyes flickering between them. “Gaius, this is-”

“Yes, my boy,” Gaius says a little faintly. “I think I can see who it is. Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Good evening. I’m sorry for barging in on you at such an hour, but Merlin insisted you wouldn’t mind.”

Gaius waves him off. “Not at all. Why don’t you come this way, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur accepts the offer and Gaius parks them both in the tiny kitchenette, the wonky table feeling suddenly a whole lot smaller as they both squeeze in between it and the wall.

In the warm, homely glow, Arthur’s hair looks burnished, almost lit by an inner fire. In contrast, his face is drawn and wan, his lips chapped. And there’s something about his eyes-

Arthur raises his eyebrows at him and Merlin realises he’s been staring. He looks away hastily, biting his lip.

“Merlin has told me of your predicament, Sire.” Gaius sets down three steaming cups, then sits down across from them. “Has he told you about our findings?”

“He said something about a love potion.”

Gaius nods. “With your permission, I shall conduct a small examination and then take a blood sample. It would be helpful if you could detail your symptoms, Your Highness.”

Arthur glances at Merlin, which Merlin finds a little odd. Maybe he’d prefer speaking privately with Gaius? But just as he’s about to offer to leave, Arthur starts talking.

“I’ve been feeling quite sick and haven’t had much of an appetite. And there’s been some chills, especially at night. At first I thought it was the flu, but then I noticed some…cravings.”

Merlin had thought that watching Prince Arthur squirm would fill him with a sort of gleeful satisfaction, but seeing Arthur now, sick and faintly flushed with embarrassment, only makes Merlin want to comfort him.

“Ah, yes.” Gaius is nodding. “And these…cravings, they were directed towards a specific person?”

Inexplicably, Arthur glances at Merlin again, before turning back to Gaius and giving a nod of his own.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Merlin isn’t quite sure what it is that Gaius sees, but he must be seeing enough to declare the interview done for now, because he gets the kind of decisive air Merlin knows so well.

Picking up his as of yet untouched tea, Merlin follows them into Gaius’ workroom.

He watches Gaius get out a haemoscope, Arthur obediently holding out his hand for his finger to be pricked. Like all of Gaius’ implements, the haemoscope is old and a little sluggish. Gaius waits patiently for it to beep, then starts reading the results off the small display along the side.

Muttering to himself, Gaius retreats to his small holo-station in the corner. Taking pity, Merlin joins Arthur at the table and offers him his own tea. To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur accepts it and takes a deep pull.

“So, who is it?”

Arthur chokes.

“What?”

Merlin pats him on the back, slightly alarmed to feel Arthur trembling beneath his touch.

“The focus of the enchantment, who is it?”

Merlin isn’t sure if the redness in Arthur’s cheeks is a blush, or the result of the coughing fit.

“It’s-”

“Ah,” Gaius says from across the room, cutting their interaction short. Merlin doesn’t like the sound of it. “I believe we can narrow it down to about 10 options.”

“I can sense a but,” Merlin mutters gloomily.

“But,” Gaius says and Merlin sighs. “This particular enchantment is rather unstable, not to mention dangerous.”

Tired of Gaius’ prevarications, Merlin crosses to the holo-station to read the results for himself. His stomach plummets.

“Fuck.”

“What,” Arthur says, coming to join the party, but having no way to interpret the results. “What is it?”

“You see this here?” Merlin points at the formular detailing the basis of the spell. “That makes it a 3-point spell.”

“In English,” Arthur snaps impatiently.

Merlin huffs, then casts about for an errant stylus. He swipes the damning results to the side and calls up a blank holo-window.

“Most spells have two points-” Merlin draws a line, then points at one end. “The agent - that’s the caster-” He draws a messy splotch on one end, then does the same to the opposite and taps it for emphasis. “And a receptor - that’s the people or things that the spell is aimed at. There’s some spells, though, that have three points-” Merlin draws a third line sprouting from the middle of the first, this one ending in the same blob as the others. He labels each one for good measure and indicates the final one. “The stabiliser. The name’s rather misleading, though, because stabilisers are only created when the agent excludes themself from a spell and needs something to keep the balance in their stead. In short, it’s really bloody dodgy and unpredictable.”

“Which means?”

Merlin puts the stylus down. 

“Which means that breaking it becomes a whole lot harder because of the high risk of fucking it up and making it worse. Though the good news is that once you figure out who the stabiliser is, chances are you can mostly keep the symptoms manageable.” Merlin gives Arthur an expectant look. “So, who is it?”

But Arthur seems to have developed a sudden fascination with Gaius’ shelving system. It’s only when Merlin turns his gaze to Gaius and receives a painfully sympathetic look that the penny drops.

“Oh, fuck.” Merlin feels the blood drain from his face, his knees weak enough that he has to sink down on Gaius’ uncomfortable desk chair. “It’s me, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” Arthur finally says, still not quite looking at him. He directs his next question to Gaius. “What I don’t understand is why? Why him?”

Gaius rubs at his spectacles with the corner of his robe. “It is not uncommon for the receptor to imprint on the first person they see after the spell takes hold. In this case, I strongly suspect it was a combination of line of sight and the enchantment latching onto the person with the strongest magical ability.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, dubious. “A powerful sorcerer.”

Merlin glares, still reeling. “I know I might not look like much to you, Your Highness, but you can check my level yourself if you don’t believe me. It’s all on file, after all.”

Arthur at least has the decency to look contrite, almost sheepish. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter.” And it really doesn’t. What does Merlin care what Prince Prat thinks of him. “At least we know that the potion hasn’t completely addled your brain.”

Such as it is, Merlin thinks savagely.

“You said the stabiliser can keep the symptoms under control,” Arthur says. “How does that work, exactly?”

Gaius sighs and follows Merlin’s example, sinking down on the closest chair.

“With this sort of enchantment, proximity is essential; so is regular physical contact. That way, the parameters of the spell will be upheld and it won’t try as hard to force the intended outcome. It’s not a guarantee, however. For all we know, this particular spell was set to escalate with time, which means the mere presence of the stabiliser might prove insufficient in the long run.”

“So you’re saying it could be fatal?” Arthur asks, voice surprisingly steady.

“It is unlikely, but the possibility exists, yes.”

A laden silence descends on them. Merlin eyes Arthur carefully, trying to imagine what he must be feeling right now. But apart from the tight line of his jaw and a slightly wild look in his eyes, Arthur remains almost eerily composed.

“There’s clearly nothing for it,” Arthur says in that familiar, all-too-arrogant way he has. He fixes Merlin with a determined stare. “You’ll have to move into the Palace.”

Merlin’s jaw drops. “What?”

“You heard what your uncle said - proximity and… physical contact.” There’s a sudden, faint blush on Arthur’s otherwise still too-pale face. He makes up for it by sounding even more imperious as he goes on. “It’s a matter of my health and sanity, Merlin, maybe even my life! Clearly, that leaves us with no other choice.”

“I can’t just drop everything and move in with you! I have a job, my studies-” Merlin cuts himself off, waving his arms a little for the simple fact that he needs some way to express his incredulity. “And what are you going to tell people? The King?”

Arthur doesn’t look happy at the mention of his father. “We’ll have to make an announcement, make it official-”

“Official?” Merlin all but squeaks, but Arthur ignores him.

“It’s probably best if you take time off work for the foreseeable future. If you need a letter for your employer-”

“Did you not hear what I just said? I’m not moving into the Palace as your live-in fake boyfriend!”

The final part is delivered almost in a shout, though Merlin can’t decide if it’s anger or desperation. Either way, Arthur, the golden prick, looks utterly unfazed.

“I could make it a royal order.”

Okay, it’s definitely anger. “You entitled little-”

Gaius chooses that moment to hastily step in.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that.” He gives Merlin a stern look. “Merlin, I believe our choices here are limited. I think it’s best if you stay with Prince Arthur for the time being. I will also need you to monitor his symptoms while we keep looking for a way to break the enchantment.” He turns to Arthur. “Sire, I will need you to keep doing regular blood tests and forward the results to me. If you could both step over here for a moment, I’ll explain the details.”

Merlin stares them both down mutinously. For a moment he wishes he could be the type of person who’d simply stalk off and wash his hands off the entire thing. Unfortunately, he’s very much not that person.

With a long sigh and a comfortingly large amount of self-pity, Merlin joins Gaius and Prince Arthur at the workstation, resigned to his fate.

Arthur’s car is only slightly less obnoxious than Merlin expected. It also somehow looks exactly like something a posh person trying to blend in would pick.

At Arthur’s proximity, the car lights up, the doors sliding noiselessly upwards. Merlin grimaces and feels the odd urge to take off his shoes before sliding into the passenger seat, lest his worn canvas high-tops smudge dirt onto the pristine interior.

Considering how squeaky clean everything in here is, Merlin almost expects it to smell of antiseptic. Instead, there’s a note of pine - which somehow manages to be even more obnoxious - along with the faint traces of Arthur’s surprisingly understated cologne. Merlin catches himself focusing on it, seeking it out and wanting to follow it to its source.

He hastily reaches for the window, cracking it open just as the car rises and Arthur steers it onto the mostly deserted hover-track.

It’s been quite some time since Merlin was in a car. None of his friends can afford one and the price for a cab is extortionate. Plus, with the El train and two healthy feet, Merlin really doesn’t have much need for anything else.

This though, Merlin thinks as he takes in the view of the glittering capitol below them, is undeniably amazing. He’s used to seeing the city from the windows of the El train, but after years of almost daily rides along the same route, Merlin is pretty sure he can draw it blindfolded and hung upside down.

The hover-tracks, on the other hand, run along unfamiliar paths and most of them higher than the El train. After first moving to Camelot City, it had taken Merlin weeks to realise that the hover-tracks are stacked according to speed. When he’d first visited the capitol as a child, equal parts awed and terrified as he clung to his mum’s hand, he’d thought the high-speed tracks, so far above the ground, were shooting stars.

He still remembers his mum’s delighted laughter at his confession, but the utter lack of guile and childish wonder at a new world are now lost to him forever.

“So, that dragon of yours,” Arthur says suddenly, tearing Merlin from his thoughts. “What is it, exactly? I know it’s not a holo. Is it, like, a zoondroid?”

Kilgharrah snorts. “I am not a toy, young Pendragon.”

Merlin stares at him incredulously, the usual lie dying on his tongue. Kilgharrah never speaks to anyone but Merlin. Never. Not even his mum, or Will, who’d been his friend since both of them were still in nappies.

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “He definitely has your lack of courtesy.”

Merlin scowls. “I’m plenty courteous, I just make an exception for prats.”

“You really should learn to address me properly. Especially now that you’re going to be my boyfriend.” The curl of Arthur’s mouth manages to be both smug and soft and Merlin needs to look away or risk having to label the strange thing fighting to unfurl in his chest. A little like magic, only far more dangerous. Arthur goes on, oblivious. “You also didn’t answer my question. About the dragon.”

Merlin licks his lips and keeps his eyes on the hover-track in front of them. “His name is Kilgharrah and he’s, well, alive? Kind of? It’s complicated.”

“So you’re saying it’s magic.”

There’s a strange note to Arthur’s voice every time he says the word. A type of intrigue that only springs from things long forbidden, but guiltily desired all the same.

“Yes,” Merlin says.

Arthur glances at him when he doesn’t elaborate. 

“Well? Tell me about it. How does it work?”

“You really want to know?” 

Merlin says it to test the waters and Arthur doesn’t disappoint, his voice brusk but no less genuine for it.

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

Merlin is torn between smiling and rolling his eyes.

“It’s an old spell, like, really old, first devised by a healer in the early middle ages. She wanted to create something to help her focus her magic. At first she just made some bright, shapeless blobs, but she kept at it until she managed something more sophisticated. After her, a bunch of other sorcerers took the base of her spell and developed it further. It was quite common practice for a while.”

Arthur frowns. “So why aren’t more MUs running around with miniature animals?”

Kilgharrah makes a huffing noise at being referred to as an animal, but Merlin ignores him.

“It’s a hard spell to master and it requires a lot of energy. There’s really no point teaching it anymore because the bracelets would interfere before the spell could be realised.”

He’d hoped not to sound as bitter as he feels, but by the pinched look on Arthur’s face he doesn’t think he succeeded.

Arthur nods in Kilgharrah’s direction. “How come he’s here, then?”

Merlin’s fingers curl towards his thighs, digging into his dark jeans. He wishes there was a way for him to derail the conversation.

“I inherited him.” Merlin swallows, then lets the words spill out in a rush, not giving himself time to dwell on them. “He was my father’s. I never knew him, he died before I was born. Shot dead by the King’s guard.”

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, his voice soft when he finally asks, “Why?”

Merlin’s fingers curl tighter, the pressure of it pinching painfully at his skin. 

“They thought he was a rebel.”

Merlin feels Arthur’s gaze again, but doesn’t turn to look at him.

“And, was he?”

Merlin fights down something hot and angry, his magic churning as he blinks away resentful tears.

“Would it make it okay if he was?”

“No,” Arthur says and sounds as though he means it. “No, of course not.”

Suffocating silence stretches between them and Merlin unclenches one of his hands long enough to open the window a little further. The sting of the evening air helps clear his head, chasing away stray tears before they have a chance to fall.

When he turns back, his magic has settled and breathing comes a little easier.

“He wasn’t,” Merlin says eventually, suddenly unable to leave it unsaid. “A rebel, I mean.”

Arthur’s gaze on him is heavy, almost as tangible as a physical touch. And in that moment, Merlin isn’t sure which he prefers. He turns his head back towards the window and the soothing, uncomplicated feeling of the air brushing back his hair with invisible fingers.

And then Arthur does touch him, a brief, delicate thing; rough fingertips tentatively grazing his arm.

“I’m sorry.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, but covers the still tingling spot on his arm with his palm, trapping the sensation against his skin.

Merlin’s history teacher in secondary school had been a staunch royalist with an almost unhealthy obsession. This resulted in long hours of listening to all sorts of riveting things, from famous battles to types of chamberpots used over the years.

Which is also why Merlin is rather more informed than he’d ever wanted to be in regards to the Royal Palace. Back then he had to write dozens of tedious essays of spot-the-difference between scans of ancient drawings and old pictures, and more recent memographs.

The sturdy stone walls had lasted for centuries before some past Pendragon had decided that the old look had to go and had either torn down or covered up the original structure. Unbeknownst to them, this had started a trend, making it their descendants’ life mission to re-model or add at least one major feature to the Palace each generation.

Never one to be outmatched, King Uther had taken the challenge head-on and all but torn the Palace apart in his frenzied mission to ‘return it to former glory’. And whoever he’d hired to design it had, admittedly, been a genius, knowing exactly how to maximise effect, having dug out parts of the original, ancient stone structure, then adding a flair of their own. The result being an almost picture book fairytale castle with turrets and battlements.

Still, no matter the amount of scans, memographs and holo-broadcasts, this is the first time he’s ever seen it up close and Merlin refuses to be awed by it. He looks at the golden holo-dragon monstrosity above them, its lazily beating wings almost brushing the turrets, the occasional flicker in the image reflected dully against the stone-clad facade.

All Merlin can see is a blatant reminder of Uther Pendragon’s shameless hubris, claiming a symbol that should never have belonged to someone like him.

“You know,” Arthur says conversationally as they make their way round the back. “Some people would be honoured to be invited to the Royal Palace.”

Yeah, people like Mr Davies, Merlin thinks bitterly.

Maybe he should look up his old history teacher, send him a selfie from inside the Palace, and make him burst with envy in retaliation for years of torture. 

“Clearly, I’m not some people,” he says shortly.

He knows Arthur is probably just attempting to lighten the pensive mood from the car, but Merlin is tired and emotionally wrung out. Not to mention being dragged to live under the roof of the man responsible for making Merlin feel like half a person for all his life. Tagged and registered like cattle.

Arthur doesn’t try to speak to him again and Merlin tells himself that he’s thankful for it.

They’re silent as Arthur leads him past some artful potted shrubbery and tall, gleaming poles of holographic banners. Merlin is just relieved he’s not being marched up the blood red carpet moulded to the grand stairs, straight up to the massive front doors.

“This way,” Arthur says, and it takes Merlin a moment to spot the discreet servants’ entrance.

He watches Arthur first scan his ID-bracelet, then bend to the retina-scanner when prompted by the AI in charge of the security system. Finally, the lock releases and the door slides open. 

And whatever Merlin expected to see beyond it, this isn’t it. Then again, Merlin had never had much reason to imagine what modern servant passages might look like. The ones he’d seen memographs of had all been rather dull and dreary. The long corridor stretching before them is neither of those things.

Tasteful lighting has been installed along the ceiling, illuminating the surprisingly sleek walls and floor. There’s none of that red carpet nonsense here, instead they’re walking on elegant, non-slip tiles which carry faint markings. It takes Merlin a moment to realise that their function is to divide the floor into lanes, likely in order to keep servants from bumping into each other when in a hurry. Every few feet or so Merlin spots a discreet console, some of them displaying to-do lists or various schedules of staff and royal members alike.

“This looks…efficient.”

Arthur looks at him and Merlin never knew that a raise of eyebrows could spell out you’re an idiot quite this explicitly. He hopes his own glower is answer enough. 

At this time of night, the corridor is all but deserted, but the few servants they encounter immediately fall into bows and curtsies. If they find their presence odd they don’t show it. Then again, Merlin is well aware of the rigorous training aspiring palace staff goes through, having to pass gruelling entrance exams and visit a special academy to even be allowed to so much as clean a bog in one of the royal family’s homes. 

They take two different ascenders and finally exit the servants’ corridors through a nondescript door which, when Merlin looks over his shoulder, all but melts away into invisibility from the other side.  

Huge bay windows with stained glass mosaics are scattered liberally on the outside facing wall. Unlike the no-nonsense tiles from before, here the stupid rugs have returned with a vengeance, though their colour is closer to maroon than red, the borders stitched in gold. From underneath, the rich colour of polished hardwood peeks through and Merlin almost bends down to brush his fingers over it, uncertain when he’s last touched wood that wasn’t part of a living tree. Not even Gaius’ vintage furniture is old enough to be made out of wood. If it were, they would’ve sold it long ago and made a fortune.

“It’s...big,” Merlin says stupidly, craning his neck to take in vaulted ceilings and intricate carvings.

Where the servants’ corridors had been sleek, modern and understated, this hallway looks like something straight out of a novel. The walls match the facade of the castle, clad in smooth stone, interrupted only by huge, intricate tapestries, some of which show historical feats by long-dead Pendragons done in a sort of medieval pastiche. 

“What, did the outside not give it away?” Arthur mocks.

Merlin intends to whip his head around and glare at him, but of course that only results in him tripping over his own feet. He’s caught by Arthur’s strong arm around his waist, fingers hot as they slot against his ribs, his body even hotter where it presses against Merlin’s side.

“You really are hopeless,” Arthur murmurs.

It should be an insult, but instead the words are just this side of breathless, laced with an aching kind of tenderness so intimate that Merlin feels heat blooming in his chest and slowly clawing up his neck to his face.

Arthur’s grip shifts, his arms settling more firmly around him, cradling him almost protectively. The movement only brings them closer together, their uneven breaths mingling in the small space between their lips. Merlin fights the urge to look at Arthur’s mouth.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches up to lay a hand against the side of Arthur’s neck. Arthur shivers, the erratic beat of his pulse frantic against Merlin’s palm.

Frowning, Merlin peers into Arthur’s eyes, silently listing symptoms as he studies the slightly glassy sheen. Fevers are common enough, the body fighting off the foreign invasion the only way it knows how, but disconcerting all the same.

“We should check your temperature. You’re burning up,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur’s expression shutters abruptly. He lets go of Merlin and steps away, leaving him chilled and oddly bereft.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says curtly, turning away. “Now, come along. I’d like to get to sleep before the sun rises.”

Merlin is silent as he follows Arthur’s broad back past an assortment of ridiculous vases and statues. Both sport gilded likenesses of mythical creatures locked in combat with faceless heroes.

After turning a corner with an honest-to-gods suit of armour, Arthur finally stops in front of a decorated door. 

“This is one of my personal guest rooms.” Arthur gestures vaguely. “My private quarters are just there.”

He wakes the scanner with his bracelet, then gestures for Merlin to register his own. Once done, the door slides open.

“Won’t the servants wonder why we’re sleeping in separate rooms?” Merlin asks, peering into the gigantic room.

It looks much like the rest of the castle, earthy tones with a lot of gold and modern appliances cleverly disguised to blend in.

“They’re not going to say anything,” Arthur says, drawing Merlin’s gaze back to him. “You should find everything you need inside. Elena and Mithian usually leave some of their stuff behind, but they won’t mind you using it.”

It takes a moment for Merlin to realise that by ‘Elena and Mithian’, Arthur means the Duchesses of Gawant and Nemeth.

“Uhm, thanks.”

They linger awkwardly in the door for several heartbeats and Merlin finds himself once more staring into Arthur’s eyes. Merlin tells himself he’s merely doing it to monitor Arthur’s symptoms and give a report to Gaius.

But there’s no point denying that instead of a clinical examination, he gets a little lost trying to pin down the shade of blue. Something dark and strangely unfathomable.

Arthur clears his throat and looks away. Merlin blinks, feeling caught.

“Well, good night, then,” he says quickly, inching into the room, longing for escape.

Arthur glances at him, then away.

“Good night,” Arthur says quietly.

He doesn’t linger and Merlin doesn’t watch him go. Not at all.

Merlin gets ready for bed on auto-pilot, experiencing only brief flashes of awareness. Such as the fact that the bathroom alone could fit Merlin’s entire flat, or that the shower controls look like antique manual tabs. But the water pressure is fucking ace and the stall so big that half a football team could fit into it. Which means this is the first shower in as long as Merlin can remember where he doesn’t have to clamp his elbows close to his body to avoid bruising them while he shampoos his hair.

Too tired to even think, Merlin throws a dry towel on one of the pillows and collapses naked into the clean sheets with still damp hair.

Merlin wakes to the sound of someone moving around in the other room. Had he slept over at Gaius’? But no, his back isn’t killing the way it would after a night on the horrid pull-out in Gaius’ workroom. One of his other friends then? Burglars?

Alarmed, Merlin’s eyes snap open, the unwelcome rush of adrenalin yanking him into alertness and into a sitting position. At the sight of the lavish room, stained-glass windows, and the intricately woven iron bed frame, the memory comes back to him in a rush. The Palace. Of course.

Which also explains why Merlin can see a prim, neutral faced woman in the palace’s servant garb efficiently transferring a generous breakfast from a tray to the coffee table in the other room. The sight is blocked a moment later by another prim person, this one a young man who can’t be much older than Merlin.

He’s not dressed like a servant, but has the unmistakable air of someone Very Busy.

Remembering his nakedness, Merlin yanks the covers up over his chest, wondering how much of an eyeful the two got when they first entered the room. It had never occurred to Merlin that anyone would simply slip in unannounced. He’d have to keep in mind to always close the bedroom door from now on.

“Good morning, Mr Emrys.” The man’s voice is coolly polite, his accent as crisp as his suit. “I hope your first night here was satisfactory. I apologise for having to impose, but we have rather a full schedule and time is of the essence.”

“Uhm, okay?” Merlin says eloquently, brain struggling to fight off the haze of sleep. “Sorry, but - who are you?”

“George Harper.” He sounds vaguely put-upon, as though such a thing should’ve been obvious. “Prince Arthur’s PA. His Highness sends his apologies that he cannot be here himself. Now, if you have no objections, I will walk you through today’s schedule while you have your breakfast.”

Merlin wonders briefly what would happen if he did object and simply went back to sleep.

“Can I at least get dressed first?”

George bows stiffly and Merlin has the strange urge to throw a pillow at him.

“Of course, Mr Emrys.”

Merlin grimaces. “My name is Merlin.”

George looks downright scandalised, but professionalism and the no doubt giant stick up his arse seem to prevent him from protesting.

“As you wish…Merlin,” he says sourly, then retreats to allow the bedroom door to slide shut.

Dressed in yesterday’s clothes and pining for the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept in, Merlin emerges into the main room. Marginally more awake than last night, he lets his eyes wander, feeling a little as though he’s invaded an exhibition at the museum and decided to live there.

The maid has disappeared, but George is waiting by the laden down coffee table, ramrod straight and cradling his pad like a lover.

“So where’s Arthur, then?” Merlin asks as he takes a seat on the plush couch.

“His Highness is in a meeting with His Majesty the King to inform him of…current developments.”

Merlin winces in sympathy. He really doesn’t envy Arthur the task; gods only know what tale Arthur has spun to explain why his hitherto secret boyfriend is suddenly living at the Palace. At best, it’ll come across as blind infatuation, at worst, it will paint Merlin as a gold digging MU. Neither prospect is particularly encouraging.

“I was instructed to give you a short tour of the premises, then I will accompany you to a meeting with King Uther’s personal assistant and the royal publicist, where we shall discuss how best to proceed.” 

Merlin only barely suppresses an eyeroll. George makes it sound as though they’re going to war. 

“In the afternoon,” George continues primly. “Two members of the Prince’s guard will take you to retrieve your belongings and pick up any other things you deem necessary for your stay.” He swipes at the pad in his hands. “I will also need you to sign this.”

In the absence of his own pad, George reluctantly hands over his own. Merlin wonders if he’s given it a name and sleeps with it at night.

He glances over the document open on the screen.

“An NDA?”

“It’s standard procedure for any guests being admitted into the royal family’s private rooms,” George says as though such a thing is obvious. And maybe it is, but it honestly never even crossed Merlin’s mind. “It’s likely that Miss Moore will ask you to sign a more in-depth contract.”

Merlin wonders why the fuck he has to sign this thing at all if they’re going to make him sign something more detailed anyway. Do they expect him to start distributing royal secrets between now and the meeting? For him to sneak into Arthur’s room so he can take memographs of him in the shower and spread them all over instasplash?

He wonders if Arthur’s shower is even more spacious than the one in the guest en suite. Would the transparent aluminium of the stall be frosted, or would the steam be the only thing preventing a clear view? Or maybe Arthur prefers baths to showers.

Merlin can just picture him, lounging in some claw-footed monstrosity, his head pillowed on the rim of the tub. In his mind’s eye, Merlin traces a path from his strong jaw, over the line of his neck, down to his gleaming chest. There’d be a soft wash cloth, folded and ready, and Merlin would pick it up and dip it into the hot water, then retrace the route his eyes had taken with his hand.

Arthur would look at him, eyes both dark and fever bright the way he’d looked at him last night. He’d take Merlin’s hand and reverse the path once more, pushing it down, down beneath the water and-

The utter lack of sound and the air of expectancy hanging around them snaps Merlin out of his ill-advised daydream. He blinks at George.

“Sorry, what?”

George looks incredibly unimpressed.

“I was merely stressing the importance of familiarising yourself with His Royal Highness’ schedule.” He enunciates every word carefully, as if dealing with an inattentive child. “If you would allow me access to your calendar, I will sync Prince Arthur’s schedule to yours and organise it into a joint timetable.”

Merlin can think of little else he’d rather do than give George some form of control over how he spends his time. He also knows that he has little choice in the matter. Sighing, he pulls out his comm and accepts George’s request for a joint account.

Almost instantly, Arthur’s obligations bleed over the lines, barely able to fit. Merlin’s eyes widen as he scans tasks including anything from lunch dates with aristocrats to attending Council meetings. Also-

“Training?” Merlin reads out dubiously. “Training for what?”

“Prince Arthur,” George says importantly. “Is an international melee champion, trained in many different forms of combat, including ranged weapons.”

“Of course he is,” Merlin mutters bitterly.

He’d seen memographs of Arthur wearing or holding a ceremonial sword, of course. He’d even seen the odd headline of Arthur winning such and such tournament, but for some reason that had never translated into the Crown Prince of Albion actually knowing how to wield a sword.

It’s enough to once more send Merlin’s imagination running wild - as though he hasn’t already done enough of that for one morning. But all he can see is Arthur, devastating and golden, hair drenched in sweat and armour gleaming in the sun as he smiles in triumph, sword held aloft in victory.

Gods, Merlin really fucking hates him. And he hates that his traitorous dick, barely calmed down after the elaborate bath fantasy, is perking right back up despite all Merlin’s vehement protests.

Not even his own body cares about what he thinks. Great.

After a rather perfunctory tour, which included a lot of ‘if you go down this way you’ll find this or that’ and ‘behind these doors lies such and such’ without actually venturing there, George takes him to one of the meeting rooms situated on the ground floor.

While not a fan of clichés, Merlin has to admit that he’s not at all surprised by what he finds there.

At the wavy-shaped conference table, two women sit across from each other. One is young-looking and doll-faced, ridiculously pretty with not an inch left unattended or ungroomed. Her grey eyes are sharp as a blade and her lips made less pouty due to their currently severe set.

She looks about as happy to see Merlin as he is to see her.

The other is an elegant older woman with an alarming shade of red on nails and lips, who looks as though she’s being presented with something slimy and foul-smelling.

“Emrys, yes?” The older woman asks, lips curling in distaste. “Do come in and sit down, we haven’t got all day.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Catrina,” Dollface says, though it’s clearly not in solidarity to Merlin, but rather an underhanded way to assert dominance. They look rather practiced at this particular game. “I’m Sophia Moore and this old harpy-”

“Now, look here, young lady-” the other woman protests, but is bulldozered over by Sophia.

“-is Catrina Talbot, PA to the King. And I see you’ve already met George.”

“Good morning,” George says stiffly, taking a seat.

Merlin’s respect for him instantly goes up several notches if this is what he has to deal with on a regular basis.

“Merlin Emrys.” He smiles sardonically. “But you already knew that.”

Sophia raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but chooses not to comment, whipping out a pad instead.

“I have your file here. I know you’ve already signed a preliminary NDA, but we’ll need something stronger going forward, so let’s get this out of the way.” She swipes a practiced finger across the screen and Merlin hears the faint beep as the document arrives on his end. “It’s not optional, so don’t bother reading it.”

Merlin fights a scowl and takes out his pad. He might be short of choices, but he’s not signing shit unless he’s at least skimmed it. By the time Merlin detaches the stylus from along the edge of his pad, Sophia’s foot is tapping impatiently and Catrina has started huffing obnoxiously.

Merlin signs and sends it back, feeling a small twinge of satisfaction at holding his own.

“Well, now that’s done,” Sophia says pointedly. “We can move on to the important part-”

“Which is how we can possibly sell a sorcerer as an appropriate partner for the Crown Prince,” Catrina cuts in imperiously. Well, that certainly hadn’t taken long, had it? “Really, what was Prince Arthur thinking. The King is extremely concerned-”

“I’m well aware of the King’s concerns,” Sophia says impatiently. “However, there’s many ways we can turn this to our advantage. The Crown’s had a lot of pushback ever since Princess Morgana left-”

“You mean ran off,” Catrina says huffily. “Lured away by that dreadful rebel group, led by that- that boy, Morgwet-”

“Mordred,” Merlin corrects automatically, unsurprised that Catrina hadn’t bothered to learn the name of one of the most prolific pro-magic terrorist leaders in the country. “But I don’t get it, why do we have to announce it? If I just keep a low profile-”

His answer is a row of unimpressed looks. Catrina snorts, but it’s Sophia who answers. Her voice drips saccharine poison, speaking to Merlin as though he’s an utter imbecile.

“If we were to do that, then people would wonder why we’re doing it. They’d think we’re trying to hush it up because you’re an MU and we can’t have that.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t just lock him up in the Palace,” Catrina huffs. “That way we wouldn’t have to risk the King’s image-”

“Absolutely not,” George chimes in for the first time, surprisingly resolute. “Prince Arthur insists that we keep restrictions to Mr Emrys’ life to a bare minimum. He must be free to move about, attend his lectures-”

“Which is why we need to do it my way,” Sophia says firmly. “Now, if you’ve all quite finished I can tell you the plan.”

Thankfully, it seems that they have and Merlin lets out a quiet breath.

The plan, it seems, consists of a series of outings with Arthur that are meant to slowly ‘escalate his presence’. A few visits to swanky, VIP-only nightclubs, some staged coffee-dates, a charity gala, and, last but not least, his presence at the annual parade for the King’s birthday in July.

Merlin feels slightly ill at the prospect of still being a part of this circus in two months, but if his own conclusions and Gaius’ dire predictions are to be believed, a fast-track cure seems unlikely - if not downright impossible.

“-should also get a security detail,” Catrina is saying. “Being so close to the Royal Family makes him a person of interest in the public eye-”

Merlin, who’d tuned them out some time ago, is abruptly torn from his thoughts.

“No,” he says, uncaring how rude it sounds. Especially considering that Catrina barely deigns to address him directly. “That’s just- no.”

Catrina looks scandalised at the notion that Merlin isn’t simply going to sit by and let them do whatever the fuck they want with him.

“Excuse me? Do you think you know better than us professionals?”

“I might not be a professional,” Merlin says tightly. “But I am a Level 7 MU and don’t need some random bloke trailing after me. I’ll be your dance monkey, but I won’t have my studies disrupted and I can bloody well defend myself if I need to.”

Catrina turns her disapproving gaze on Sophia. “Are you sure he’s had no dealings with the rebels? The King-”

“He is sitting right here,” Merlin finally snaps. “And he’s fully registered and has no criminal record.”

Uncomfortable silence spreads as Merlin silently seethes.

This kind of treatment is hardly a surprise, nor is it the first time it’s happened to him. But he’s not going to sit by and let them compare him to a fucking terrorist.

“May I once again remind you,” George pipes up. “That Prince Arthur was very insistent that Mr Emrys should be left unencumbered. I see no reason for a security detail at this stage.”

The words land like an anvil in the quiet room and Merlin could’ve kissed him.

“Very well,” Catrina says stiffly. “But the King won’t be pleased.”

Sophia rolls her eyes, then uses her diamond-studded stylus to cross something off her list.

Leaving the conference room feels a little like emerging into the sunlight after being trapped in a cave.

As they walk, Merlin realises that George is leading him along the same path that Arthur had taken the night before.

“Thank you,” Merlin says quietly. “For having my back in there.”

George flushes an interesting colour, looking almost offended that Merlin dared speak to him with any kind of sincerity.

“I’m merely doing what Prince Arthur instructed me to do.”

The response should’ve annoyed him, instead Merlin feels something warm and unexpected uncoil within his chest.

They step outside and before Merlin can say anything else, he spots Lance and one of Arthur’s other guards, the serious one Merlin remembers is called Leon, waiting for them.

“Alright, Merlin?” Lance asks with a smile. “May I call you ‘Merlin’?”

Relieved to finally see a friendly face, Merlin grins.

“It’d certainly be a nice change to being called ‘Emrys’ all the time. I feel like I’m back in school.”

Lance laughs and even Leon looks like he’s biting back a smile. He’s suddenly fiercely glad he won’t be stuck with that pinch-gobbed bastard Valiant. 

“Shall we?” Lance says, gesturing at the nondescript car parked behind them.

This one, at least, will do a better job of blending in.

“Do remember to return Mr Emrys in time for lunch,” George says, still looking a little pinched.

Lance spares him a smile. “Of course, George.”

Taking the opportunity for escape, Merlin slides into the back. Lance follows a moment later, while Leon takes the driver’s seat. Seatbelts snake from in-between the seats to tether them in place as soon as the car purrs gently to life. Merlin, still unused to such snazzy features, feels vaguely claustrophobic even though the belt around his chest and waist is supple and not restrictive.

For a while, the car is mostly silent, the faint sound of music barely audible over the gentle purring of the engine. Merlin cracks open his window, welcoming the rush of air and noises of the world outside. A world of real people with ordinary lives and problems, not this strange, other dimension he’s been so suddenly thrust into.

Leaning his throbbing head against the cool, transparent aluminium, Merlin closes his eyes.

He must’ve dozed off, because when a warm hand on his shoulder drags him back to the present, the view outside has changed to something more familiar. Merlin would recognise his district anywhere, even from above.

“We’re almost there,” Lance says, sounding sympathetic for having woken Merlin.

“Thanks,” Merlin says blearily, rubbing at his face.

Lance is looking at him, dark eyes thoughtful.

“I just wanted you to know that Arthur told us about what happened,” he says, voice quiet. “With the whole-”

He inserts a rather vague gesture that Merlin interprets as ‘dosed with a love potion and now dependent on an MU barista’.

“Who else knows?”

Lance shakes his head. “Just me, Leon and Percy.”

“What about Valiant?”

If Lance is surprised that Merlin knows the name, he doesn’t show it.

“He got the sack. And good riddance, if you ask me.”

Merlin grins, surprised that Lance has it in him.

“Good,” Merlin says.

Leon parks the car in a convenient spot on the roof, switching off the engine. The seatbelts retreat and Merlin reaches for the door.

“You can just wait here, I’ll be quick.”

Leon nods his acquiescence, but Lance follows him out and gently grabs his arm.

“Merlin,” he says, fixing Merlin with a grave look. “Arthur wouldn’t really tell us how bad it is, but I can see this has taken a toll on him. Tell me honestly, will he be alright?”

Merlin bites his lip, feeling an odd sense of loyalty to Arthur welling up, though gods only know where it’s suddenly come from.

“He’ll be fine, Lance,” Merlin says, surprising himself that he truly believes it.

I won’t let him be anything else, Merlin thinks firmly.

Arthur’s study is bright and richly decorated, suffering from the same affliction as all the other rooms in the Palace - as in that it’s vastly bigger than it has any need to be. The answer to this, Merlin has learned, is to fill unused space with unused - or often unusable - clutter.

In the case of Arthur’s study, this manifests via things such as a mounted armillary sphere, an old-fashioned fireplace that has probably never seen real fire in all its life, and bookcases of bound books, which only look old insofar that they’re bound books. The crisp, gilded lettering across the spine, however, suggests that they’re as much a pastiche as most of the decor in the Palace.

Merlin had never so much as touched a physical book before, which is why on his first visit he couldn’t resist sliding one out. The rush of holding it, of feeling the spine against his palm and running his fingers over the open pages, had taken him by surprise. The binding had been sturdy, the case firm and smooth, but still Merlin had this irrational fear that it might simply fall apart in his hands if handled incorrectly.

It was only when he’d felt Arthur’s gaze on him that Merlin had hastily stuffed the book back in its place, stepping away from the temptation of touching every single spine and spending the day leafing through endless pages.

At Prince Arthur’s request, the servants had set up a little work corner for Merlin, placing a desk by one of the study’s gigantic windows. It’s nice enough, but Merlin has taken to curling up in the nook of the bay window more often than not, having filched a bunch of pillows from the armchairs by the fireplace.

It’s where he’s sitting right now, a bit over a week since moving into the Palace. He’s been studying for most of the day, struggling to make sense of a text so old and dense that he feels like taking a nap every other paragraph. The fact that he’s had to read it off the original scans of an ancient tome doesn’t help.

Merlin sighs and rubs at his grainy eyes. Wanting to give them a break, he lets his gaze wander, only for it to be unbiddenly drawn to Arthur’s straight-backed form, seated primly behind the safety of his massive, intricately carved desk. 

 The amber light of the dying day has gilded Arthur’s hair and put everything into soft focus. Before Arthur had first invaded the Grind, Merlin had been convinced that most of it was amazing styling and some underhanded holo-manipulation. But then there Arthur had been, all deep blue eyes and devastating jawline and more golden than the stupid dragon above his Palace. 

Though the way things are, Arthur might as well be nothing more than a memograph on one of the billboards high above the city, distant and untouchable. Not even when Arthur had been nothing but his customer - albeit a very famous and annoying one - had Merlin felt this yawning chasm between them. Now, they might as well be on two different planes of existence, what with Merlin unable to connect with not only Arthur, but the world he grew up and lives in.

And so far, Arthur had done absolutely nothing to bridge the distance between them. If anything, Merlin is convinced that he’s been trying his very best to keep them as far apart as humanly possible. Arthur, it seems, is hellbent to act as though nothing at all is out of the ordinary. That Merlin’s presence is incidental at best and the fact that he has to have his finger pricked every evening is simply one more point on his to-do list.

Gaius has been keeping up a steady string of communication with Merlin, sharing his evaluations and discussing potential solutions. When Merlin tried to include Arthur, all he’d received was a blank stare, so he’d stopped trying.

Not only that, but Gaius has warned him repeatedly that Arthur’s condition is precarious at best and that his fever is just high enough to be worrisome. Merlin knows it’s because Arthur has been railing against the spell, no matter how stoic he might seem on the outside. More than once this past week, Merlin had caught him swaying after getting up, which is the only time he seems to tolerate Merlin putting his hands on him. Apparently fainting is preferable to physical contact with Merlin.

He tells himself he should be happy that Arthur’s so reluctant. That he’s been largely ignoring him, and yet…

There’s something demeaning about it, about being treated like little more than furniture. And as much as Merlin tells himself he doesn’t care, shouldn’t care, he still somehow ends up resenting it. He’s angry at this prat of a prince, angry to be so dismissed yet still have to hang around like a mopey shadow on the sidelines.

“Don’t forget we’re going out tonight,” Arthur says suddenly, breaking through the silence.

Merlin blinks, dragging his mind back from his musings. “What?”

Life at the Palace, Merlin had learned, is nothing if not strictly organised. Honestly, most days it feels more like bootcamp than anything else.

For all Merlin knows, this is part of the regular routine.

“I said,” Arthur says slowly. “We’re going out tonight. Elena and Mithian will meet us there. George will pick out something suitable for you to wear.”

Merlin scowls, annoyance already on the rise.

“I can dress myself, thanks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Merlin locks his pad and puts it aside. “Excuse me?”

Arthur sighs, long-suffering.

“We’re going to an elite, high profile nightclub. I can’t very well have my boyfriend turn up looking like-” He waves a hand. “Well, this.”

Merlin’s magic roils unhappily in response to his sudden spike of anger.

“And what,” Merlin says tightly. “Do I look like to you?”

Arthur has the decency to appear slightly uncomfortable, though it’s quickly hidden by his usual bulletproof arrogance. 

“The club has a dresscode.”

“I’m sure they’d make an exception for you,” Merlin says frostily.

Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose. “Look, there’ll be pictures, social media posts…”

Had Arthur led with anything other than an order laced with undiluted entitlement, Merlin might’ve let himself be dressed up like a doll. Now all he wants is to be as contrary as he possibly can just to piss Arthur off.

Having had enough, Merlin grabs his bag and shoves his pad inside.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asks, sounding almost alarmed.

“I need some air,” Merlin says as he crosses the room, feeling suddenly suffocated. “I’m sure your enchanted heart can take the separation until our oh-so-important outing.”

Merlin hates himself for it, but he looks up the stupid nightclub on his comm. 

The website is predictably minimalistic and flashy, bragging about its exceptional security and privacy policies, quoting all sorts of posh knobs who frequent it with supporting images of said posh knobs having a staged ‘good time’.

Merlin is certain that every high-profile, fake, publicity-stunt relationship in the past decade or so must’ve happened there. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected he’d ever play a part in something like this himself. After all, only a week ago he’d been a complete nobody, a struggling MU trying to make ends meet in a magic-hostile society.

Merlin looks down at the polished and perfectly plastic smiles on his comm, at the pristine creases in their clothes and hair so painfully natural looking it must have taken hours of styling. The screen goes abruptly dark and Merlin closes his fingers around it, the edges digging into his skin as he squeezes.

Merlin’s self-preservation instinct has long since rid him of any vanity. After a lifetime of being short on money and dressing in hand-me-downs from friends and the odd charity shop, he couldn’t care less what he covers himself with, as long as it’s comfortable. Though given the choice, Merlin supposes he tends to prefer darker colours, loose shirts and tight jeans.

So Merlin puts on the same clothes he’d worn to numerous clubs and pub crawls; all black apart from his usual pair of royal blue canvas high-tops. He contemplates eyeliner, then shrugs and puts some on. His hair, he leaves alone. He’s never been much for styling it, not seeing what difference it would make. It’s still a little damp from his shower, so he simply brushes it down, leaving it to gently curl just past the tips of his ears. 

He decides that going ahead and waiting by the car is likely to reduce the chance of Arthur making him go back and change.

The Knights are already there, leaning against the same car Lance and Leon had taken him in to pick up his things the other week. A second car is parked behind it which, to Merlin’s horror, he recognises as a limousine. If Will ever finds out he stepped foot in one of those things, he’ll likely never speak to Merlin again.

Thinking of Will makes guilt coil in Merlin’s stomach. They’ve always had that kind of friendship that doesn’t need regular comms or messages to remain strong, but even Will would draw the line at having to find out about Merlin’s ‘relationship’ through social media.

“Alright?” he asks them, giving a small smile.

They grin back at him, returning the greeting. Percy especially seems amused by his wardrobe choice.

“Looking good,” he says and Merlin even believes him. Percy tips his head, squinting a bit. “What is that on your shoe?”

Merlin glances down reflexively, though he thinks he already knows what Percy means. He turns his leg, lifting his heel slightly to give Percy a better view of the crooked wizard’s hat on the outside just under his ankle.

“My best mate from home drew it,” Merlin says, huffing a laugh. “He said it’s to give them character.”

Merlin had bought the shoes on his seventeenth birthday, after what, unbeknownst to him, had been his final growth spurt. Will, in typical Will-fashion, had ripped the shit out of him, then whipped out one of his fancy art-pens and set to work. 

At the time, Merlin had complained, “You couldn’t have drawn something cool? Like the falcon I’m named after, or something?”

Will had snorted. “You’re not cool, Merlin, you’re a nerd. And nerds don’t get birds of prey, they get wizard hats.”

Clearly, he needs new friends.

“I like it,” Percy says, grinning. “Suits you.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Thanks, I suppose.”

Catching something over Merlin’s shoulder, the three of them straighten abruptly. Merlin half-turns, already expecting the sight of Arthur stalking towards them. What he hadn’t expected are the skin-tight black trousers all but painted to Arthur’s thighs, the fancy material catching the light at odd angles. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s also the Pendragon-red coat sporting more belts and buckles than should reasonably be allowed on clothing. In short, Arthur looks ready for a photoshoot, which, Merlin supposes, is kind of the point.

He scowls at them collectively, his eyes landing on Merlin last.

Merlin watches as a myriad of emotions flicker across Arthur’s face, feeling an unbidden rush at having broken through his usual poise. It’s nothing like the vindictive satisfaction Merlin expected to feel at ruffling Arthur’s feathers, rather something hot and restless churning in his chest like an overcharged bout of magic.

He raises his chin, doing his best to stare Arthur down in self-preserving defiance, but there’s heat climbing up from his chest to his neck. He wants Arthur’s reaction, but not the fallout. Wants his attention, but not his disappointment.

But Arthur isn’t meeting his gaze, his eyes dark and distinctly hungry where they’ve snagged on the exposed skin framed by the frayed rips at the knee of Merlin’s jeans. When Arthur’s eyes finally meet his, it’s with the searing, fever-bright heat that Merlin had seen on that night when Arthur had first brought him to the Palace.

Merlin had expected Arthur to scold him, disparage him in some way, but Arthur’s jaw is a tight line and all he says, when he finally speaks, is “Get in.”

Merlin suppresses a shiver at the hoarse edge of Arthur’s voice, and gets in. 

If he thought Arthur’s other car posh, it’s nothing compared to the inside of the limousine, complete with plush, facing seats and a raised partition between front and back.

Arthur is pale and silent next to him, forefinger pressed to his lips. His ring glints, catching stray beams of light; an amalgamation of streetlights, hover-tracks, billboards and holo-ads.

Merlin studies him quietly, wishing Arthur would let him check his temperature. But there’s something about Merlin’s concern for his health that always makes Arthur go even pricklier than usual. Merlin had tried to pass on Gaius’ advice to take it easy, but Arthur had of course ignored him and gone on to attend every single training practice, swinging swords and all sorts every other morning.

Stubbornly and not for the first time, Merlin tells himself that it’s not his business if Arthur is determined to bake himself alive with fever, but as always, the niggling worry remains. He makes a mental note to ask Gaius for a flask of his elderberry syrup. Hopefully the mild healing spell woven into it will soothe rather than aggravate the insistent strands of the enchantment.

“Stop that,” Arthur says suddenly.

Merlin jumps. “Stop what?”

“I can practically hear you blathering. I’m fine.”

Merlin snorts. “You’re not fine.”

Arthur sends him a venomous glare. “Well, I’m not about to drop dead, which is good enough for me. So stop it. I don’t need your concern.”

Merlin wants to fucking shake him.

“Of course not, what could you possibly need from me other than my silent and unobtrusive presence.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin bites his tongue so hard he thinks it might bleed. He turns away, facing the window, fingers tight on the doorhandle for lack of something else to grab.

They spend the rest of the ride in tense silence.

Merlin is still thrumming with annoyance when the car comes to a stop, though he forgets all about it the second the driver opens the door for him.

A lightning storm of flashlights and excited screeching crashes down on him, momentarily paralysing him. He can barely see, the wall of noise so sudden and overwhelming it nails him in place.

But then Arthur is there, solid and warm, a shield against the madness around them. Arthur wraps an arm around him and Merlin leans into him instinctively.

“Is it always like this?” Merlin asks, still wide-eyed and overcome.

“Yes.” Arthur gives the crowd and cameras a polished smile, then mutters from the corner of his mouth. “Smile, Merlin.” Then softer, reassuring. “It’s not far.”

Merlin forces his lips to pull upwards, hoping it looks only half as pained as it feels.

Don’t let me go, Merlin almost says, but bites it back.

Even with the bracelet, Merlin is almost certain he could push back the crowd if he had to. He’s in no danger here, rationally he knows that. But somehow it does nothing to make him feel less trapped, his magic coiled tightly within his chest, ready to burst forth at the smallest provocation.

Around them, Arthur’s Knights fan out in a practiced pattern, covering them while still allowing flattering angles for the cameras. Some of Merlin’s initial trepidation eases and he lets Arthur lead him towards the entrance. 

A few paces ahead of them, a group of flashily dressed people is currently posing for pictures. Merlin vaguely recognises them as a famous pop-group. They look like they’ve come straight off the stage, with manic grins and slightly dishevelled hair.

Looming ahead of them is the madly blinking facade of the nightclub. There’s three different entrances and Merlin vaguely remembers reading something ridiculous about gold and diamond tiers. Whatever they want to call it, it means that none of them have to so much as scan their ID-bracelets.

They enter unmolested under the sharp eyes of the club’s security while the remaining mere mortals at the other entrances are meticulously scanned for hidden weapons and illegal substances.

Merlin lets out a long breath of relief as soon as they step past the main force-field, leaving the worst of the noise behind. Arthur releases him, but remains a reassuring presence at his side. Lance’s hand closes briefly around his shoulder, giving him a small squeeze and a reassuring smile.

Merlin returns it, finally shaking off the last of the strange jumpiness.

They pass a cloakroom, which Arthur completely ignores, but then are intercepted by a girl in tasteful glittery make-up and the club’s staff uniform.

“If you could please come this way and put your comms in-oh! Your Highness, I didn’t- I mean, of course you and your guests don’t have to-”

But Arthur, smiling his infuriatingly charming smile, is already dropping his comm in the sleek lockbox the girl is holding out.

 “Fair is fair,” he says magnanimously. “I’m not your Prince tonight, I don’t expect any special treatment.”

Merlin barely suppresses an eyeroll, but the girl is practically shooting heart-shaped confetti from her sparkling eyes.

He isn’t thrilled about the prospect of leaving his only source of entertainment behind, but follows suit. None of the Knights relinquish their own devices, but Merlin isn’t surprised, considering that he knows each of them have at least one slender phaser tucked away on their person.

“I’m sorry, I know we’re not supposed to- But I just wanted to say that it’s such an honour to meet you, Your Highness.”

The girl sounds a little breathless, but Arthur just smiles at her again as he holds his bracelet to the box, scanning his ID to the lock and securing it.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Arthur says. “Thank you…”

“Linda,” the girl jumps in, flush high on her cheeks.

Arthur winks and Merlin thinks he might actually rupture something from the effort it takes not to roll his eyes again.

“Thank you, Linda.”

Linda, of course, looks ready to swoon. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

But when they finally move along, Merlin doesn’t miss the furtive look she sends his way. It makes his skin prickle uncomfortably and for a moment he isn’t sure whether she’s scrutinising his attire or his place at Arthur’s side. Either way, he supposes he’d best get used to it.

The club proper looks, if possible, even shinier and sparklier than the website had promised. Flashy lightshows are reflected and multiplied with the help of well-placed mirrors, the bar and small pockets of seating areas protected by force-fields to dampen the music and make conversation possible. The dance floor consists of huge, deep-black tiles inlaid with something glittery that makes it seem as though you’re standing in space, surrounded by stars.

Countless dolled-up people are already writhing and grinding against each other, many of which Merlin recognises if not by name, then certainly by having seen their faces plastered on billboards and featuring beneath tabloid headlines.

Unlike outside, Arthur’s presence stirs up far less of a hubbub, partly, Merlin supposes, because people must be used to seeing him here, and partly due to frequent exposure to international celebrities.

Arthur leads them unerringly through the crowd, returning friendly waves and greetings as they go. Their destination lies behind a force-field cordoned off in red and gold with a matching Pendragon heraldry adorning the wall above a sprawling seating area.

“So much for no special treatment,” Merlin says in an undertone.

To his surprise, Arthur grimaces. “I tried to tell them to keep it low-key, alas…”

“Arthur!” An exuberant blond woman in a short, blue jumpsuit jumps up and throws herself at Arthur, who catches her with clearly practiced ease. “It’s so good to see you!” 

To Merlin’s surprise, instead of hastily shaking her off, Arthur grips her tightly around the waist, lifting her a bit as he laughs.

“Good to see you, too, El.”

Pretty as she is, Merlin is almost certain he wouldn’t have recognised the Duchess of Gawant from the next person. Lady Mithian, however, he remembers from when she’d done that arty perfume commercial a couple years ago. Just like Arthur, Merlin is disgruntled to find her looking just as stunning as she’d been on the billboards plastered all over the country.

“Hello, you must be Merlin,” Lady Mithian says warmly, reaching out a hand. “I’m Mithian.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Merlin says, taking her hand with a nervous smile, then wonders briefly if he was supposed to kiss it or something. 

But Mithian just smiles, her handshake surprisingly firm. 

“And this is my fiancée, Elena,” she says, gesturing towards Elena, who’s only just finished hugging each of the Knights in turn.

“It’s so good to meet you,” Elena says, foregoing a handshake and stepping closer to give Merlin the same treatment - and gods she’s strong, his ribs all but creaking in protest as the breath is squeezed out of him. “We’ve heard so much about you!”

“Go easy on him, love.” Mithian laughs. “His ribs haven’t worked up a tolerance yet.”

Elena draws back, looking sheepish. “Sorry, don’t know my own strength.”

Merlin huffs a laugh, deciding that he likes these two.

“Which reminds me,” Elena goes on, pointing at someone over Merlin’s shoulder. “You still owe me a rematch, Perce!”

Percy takes her outstretched finger and jiggles it playfully. “You’re on.”

“Maybe we can get Leon to join the bets this time,” Elena says, eyes shining gleefully.

“Leon likes his money where it is,” Leon says drily from his position behind Arthur.

Arthur half-turns and claps him on the shoulder. “Leon isn’t a gambling man. He’s far too sensible for that.”

“You can get the first round of drinks,” Elena says magnanimously. “To make up for being such a stick in the mud.”

That generates a round of laughter and a put-upon sigh from Leon.

They crowd around the table and Elena drags the cocktail menu from the 2D surface into a 3D holo with memographs of disembodied hands making fancy cocktails. 

“I think I’m going for a Bloody Mary,” Elena says.

“Only if you don’t want me to kiss you again tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon, Mithie,” Elena croons, abandoning the menu to drape herself over Mithian’s side. “I even brought mints and everything!”

Mithian makes a face, but even a grimace doesn’t do anything to make her look less regal.

“Can you at least wait until the second round?” she asks. “You’re going to disappear with Arthur onto the dance floor soon enough. You can take the smell of that abomination with you and breathe it in his face instead.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says drily.

They all decide on their drinks, though Merlin notes that Arthur and the Knights all choose something non-alcoholic. Merlin is glad he won’t have to remind Arthur that mixing alcohol with a love potion would be a bad idea. He almost follows suit, then decides one drink won’t hurt and he’s pretty sure he’ll need it to get through this.

No matter how friendly or welcoming these people are, Merlin still somehow feels like an outsider. An intruder, almost. None of them would want him here if it weren’t for this whole mess.

If Merlin felt like furniture before, it’s nothing compared to what he feels like now. Arthur has downright abandoned him, only reappearing in odd intervals to absently touch his arm or shoulder as he takes a drink, never once properly acknowledging Merlin before once more disappearing with Elena to the dance floor.

It’s clear that by delivering himself and Merlin for the media and fans to gawk and snap memographs of, he sees his duty for the evening done. Still, would it really kill Arthur to treat him like a human being instead of a breathing antidote?

Merlin takes a tiny sip of his overly sweet cocktail, watching as Mithian exchanges some apparently hilarious anecdote with Percy and Leon. Her and the Knights have been trying their best to include Merlin, to keep him company, but really, they don’t know him and it’s not their job to babysit him. Merlin doesn’t begrudge them their fun.

“So, not a party animal?” Lance asks from beside him.

Merlin turns to face him, managing a sardonic smile. “That’s not really what I’m here for, is it?”

Lance gives him one of his small, genuine smiles. It isn’t hard to figure out what Gwen sees in him.

“I know what it’s like,” Lance says quietly. “When I first started working for Arthur it was as if I’d been transported into a new world. It still feels like that, sometimes.”

“So what did you do?”

“I reminded myself that, despite everything, they’re still people. They might’ve known a very different life from mine, but they all still feel, have weaknesses.”

Merlin can’t help a snort. “Even Arthur?”

Lance fixes him with a serious stare. “Especially Arthur.”

Merlin looks away, swallowing, suddenly unable to take the weight of the exchange. It’s easier if he can just hate Arthur, can think him callous and supercilious and refuse to dig for hidden depths.

Lance must sense his reluctance, because he banishes the somber mood with another disarming smile.

“Now,” he says, leaning in to companionably bump his shoulder against Merlin’s. “You’ve been sitting here all night. How do you feel about dancing?”

Grinning, Merlin raises his eyebrow. “What, in general?”

Lance chuckles. “More like right now.”

Merlin doubtfully eyes the undulating crowd beyond the safe shield of the force-field. Does he really want to subject himself to a bunch of posh wankers sloshed out of their minds having clothed sex on the dance floor? Then again, it might put things into perspective. After all, seeing them like this only brings into focus what Lance told him: they’re all just people.

And it would definitely beat sitting on his arse for the rest of the night. He’s had more than enough of that for one night.

So Merlin turns back to Lance and shrugs one shoulder. “Why not.”

Up close and boxed in from all sides, the dance floor feels even more crowded. But Merlin has been to enough clubs, concerts and uni rallies, not to mention pride parades, not to be too fazed by it. The only difference is that he never before had to worry about stepping on the toes of shoes that probably cost more than he earns in a year.

He feels his scheme of non-conforming worked almost a little too well.

Still, Lance was right. The lights may be a bit brighter, the people a lot flashier, but in the end it’s not that different from any other club Merlin’s visited. He especially appreciates the fact that there’s a strict ‘no drinks on the dance floor’ policy. It’s nice to not be bathed in ten different kinds of booze within the first five minutes for a change.

The music is also surprisingly good, if a little on the trashy pop side.

Merlin absolutely doesn’t expect to be having a good time, especially considering how incredibly crappy the whole week had been, but he’s soon laughing, letting Lance twirl him with surprising grace and co-ordination while they exchange shouted and mostly nonsensical comments about hating or loving a particular song.

Before long a small group, its members in various states of inebriation, decide to join them and Merlin thinks he recognises some of them as part of the pop-group he’d seen outside. One of them, a slim man with delicate features, is clearly interested, though Merlin isn’t sure how much of it is tied to the fact that he’s both fresh meat and clearly doesn’t fit in.

Under any other circumstances, Merlin might’ve given it a go, but he’s here to play the Crown Prince’s boyfriend - even if said Crown Prince couldn’t give less of a fuck about him. 

The guy doesn’t seem the type to be easily deterred, however. He’s in Merlin’s space, pressing smiling lips to his ear with the excuse for conversation.

“You’re new.”

Merlin is torn between an eyeroll and an amused huff. He can’t help himself.

“You couldn’t come up with a better line than that?”

The guy chuckles and pulls back a little to look Merlin in the eye and Merlin has to admit he’s quite pretty.

“I admit, I’ve had a few and we came here directly from a concert, so I’m not at my best.” He moves closer, his slim hand deceptively firm on Merlin’s hip, a sultry smile curving his full lips. “Give me another chance and I promise I’ll do better.”

Merlin opens his mouth, ready to deliver an amused but resolute rebuff, when a strong arm wraps around him. He knows it’s Arthur, a strange, deep-buried instinct springing to life the moment his scent hits Merlin’s nose. The strange furnace-like warmth of his body burns through Merlin’s clothes where it presses against his side, pulling him closer and away from the other guy.

“There you are.” Arthur’s smile is that of a shark’s. “Who’s your friend?”

To the guy’s credit, he only does a small double-take. Undoubtedly, he must have at least been aware of Arthur’s presence in the club tonight. 

“Uhm,” Merlin says eloquently.

Arthur raises his eyebrow and the guy wilts beneath his superior stare. There’s a lot that can be said about Arthur, but he has true presence. Merlin can tell himself he’s unimpressed all he likes, but the truth is that Arthur carries himself like a king, and resisting the instinctive sense of awe and deference it brings is all but impossible.

The guy looks awkwardly between them. “I didn’t know-”

“It’s alri-” Merlin starts, but Arthur cuts across him with a brusk, “Clearly.”

Merlin glares at him, but Arthur, the bastard - even slightly sweaty and bathed in laser lights - is entirely unruffled.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Arthur says, the heavy beat doing nothing in blunting the crispness of his posh accent.

The guy makes some form of flustered, aborted little bow, but Arthur is already leading Merlin away. Despite the overall chilly politeness, Arthur might as well have thrown him over his shoulder to carry him off to his cave.

Short of mowing over a whole crowd dancing the dance of pissed fervour, there’s no way they could make it out side-by-side. A fact Arthur realises for himself, because he takes back his arm and grabs Merlin’s hand instead.

Merlin almost tears himself free, annoyed at the proprietary handling, but it wouldn’t do to make a scene, nor to lose Arthur in the crowd. The fact that Arthur’s hand, warm and strong and strangely calloused, makes his skin tingle and heat claw up his spine is staunchly ignored.

He’s becoming quite accustomed to the dual sensation of both wanting Arthur while also wanting to punch him. He supposes he could slap him with his tongue, or his di-

Merlin ruthlessly squashes that train of thought.

Emerging from his own head, Merlin realises that Arthur isn’t leading them back to their booth, but instead to the back of the club and through a discreet looking door that leads to a series of rooms that look like changing rooms for the odd live performance. The whole place seems deserted.

Merlin supposes this is preferable, having it out here instead of dramatically exiting the club into a flood of tenacious vultures who are no doubt still waiting outside, desperate to catch drunken missteps of various celebrities.

Arthur rounds on him as soon as the door is closed.

“Care to explain what that performance was out there?”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot upwards, incredulous. “There was no performance-”

“Oh yeah?” Arthur cuts in sharply, jaw tight and mouth set into an angry line. “Because it sure looked as if you were ready to fall into that bloke’s arms just now.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Merlin snaps, truly angry now. “I was about to reject him when you swooped in like some gilded neanderthal.”

“Gilded nean-”

Arthur breaks off, dubious, but Merlin doesn’t let him collect himself before he barrels on. It’s as if all his fury has finally burned down the dam that’s been holding everything in over the past week.

“If talking to a stranger is all it would’ve taken for you to remember my existence I would’ve-”

Arthur sneers. “Oh, talking - is that what they call it these days?”

“Yes, it is. And if you hadn’t abandoned me-”

“I didn’t abandon you-”

“Yes you did!” It comes out louder and a little more emotional than Merlin had intended. “You’ve been treating me like some sort of portable lamp since I came to live at the Palace! I know we don’t like each other, but would it be too much to ask-”

“Don’t like each other?” Arthur’s face does something highly complicated. He looks pale, whether with fury or sickness, Merlin isn’t sure. “Are you really this much of an idiot? For all intents and purposes I’m in love with you! Or did you forget the reason why you had to move in?” Merlin stares as Arthur rubs at his lips with a shaky hand, his eyes bright enough to burn. “I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to make this easier for both of us, but you can’t expect me to just sit by and watch some random prick drool all over you!”

Merlin is too stunned to even think of formulating a response. Arthur visibly deflates, his eyes briefly squeezing shut as though in pain.

“Look, I know it’s not real, I know that, but right now it feels real and nothing I do seems to help. And stuff like this-” He swings an arm, pointing in the general direction of the dance floor. “It’s not- The thought of you with someone else is-”

He breaks off and for the very first time, not a single stone of Arthur’s arrogant wall is left standing. He looks raw, torn open, and it hurts Merlin to look at him, his own chest feeling wrenched apart at the seams.

“Arthur-” Merlin barely recognises his own voice.

But Arthur shakes his head, cutting Merlin off even though Merlin has no idea what words could possibly convey everything going through his head right now.

“No, just-” Arthur rubs at his forehead. “Forget I said that, it’s just this stupid fucking-”

Merlin steps closer, truly contrite, reaching out helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Arthur holds out his hand as if to ward him off. “Just don’t, alright?”

And even though Arthur sounds utterly wrecked and as though he very much means the opposite, as though there’s nothing on this planet that could possibly make it better other than Merlin’s touch, Merlin refrains. He drops his arms, fingers clenching to fists.

“Give me twenty minutes,” Arthur says quietly, not looking at him. “Half an hour maybe, then we’ll go. Just try not to drape yourself over anyone else in that time.”

And then, making sure to give him a wide berth, Arthur walks past him, and is gone. The door swishes closed behind him like a ghost, unsatisfyingly silent.

Sleep clings to Merlin and at first he isn’t sure why he’s waking up in the first place.

He’s still tired and unwilling to face the world, but a series of short, staccato buzzes keep pushing sweet oblivion further and further away. The buzzing finally stops, only to be replaced with the sudden ringing of his comm.

Muttering curses, Merlin flings out a floppy arm, patting clumsily around the edges of his pillow until his fingers meet smooth metal. 

Not trusting himself to blindly hit the right spot on the screen, he mumbles, “Comm, answer.”

The ringing cuts off abruptly, the connection established.

“Yeah?” he says around a stifled yawn.

“I hope,” a very familiar voice says slowly from the other end. “For your sake, that you have the most brilliant fucking excuse as to why my mum rang me at arse o’clock this morning, screeching in my bloody ear about how I dared to ‘keep this from her’. And when I told her I hadn’t the fucking foggiest what she’s on about, she told me to check the news. And ‘lo and behold, what do I see? My best fucking friend cuddled up to the fucking Crown Prince-”

Fuck. How could news have possibly travelled this fast already?

“Will-”

Merlin’s brain is sluggish, utterly unprepared for one of Will’s famous tirades. Will, never one to be deterred, barrels on.

“So I hope you’re about to tell me you’ve been captured, or blackmailed-”

And gods, why does Will always have to be so bloody dramatic.

“That’s not-”

“That your comm and pad were taken away and ground to dust-”

“Will you just shut up for a second, you wanker!” Merlin snaps finally in exasperation. “At least give me a second to wake up!”

Will makes an angry sound. “Oh, I’m the wanker, am I?”

Merlin sighs, struggling to sit up. He’s naked, his clothes from last night marking a trail to the bathroom, a still damp towel on the floor next to the bed. Merlin touches his hair, remembering going to sleep with it still damp and knowing it must now have turned into an epic bird’s nest.

He pats at it absently, snatches of memory flashing in and out of focus. Arthur in his red coat, the harsh exchange in the car, the screams and flashes, Arthur wrapping an arm around him, abandoning him, pressing hot and furious against him, leading him away.

The raw note in Arthur’s voice when he’d said I’m in love with you. His cracked open expression, the way he’d shied away when Merlin had reached for him-

Merlin covers his eyes with his palm.

“Listen, Will. I’m sorry, alright? Stuff just happened and I didn’t think-”

Will snorts. “Yeah, figured that one out myself, thanks.”

Merlin clenches his teeth. He’s so not in the mood to deal with this right now.

“I meant to tell you, I swear. I just thought I had more time…”

“Oh yeah? How long has it been, then?”

Merlin neatly dodges the question. “Look, it’s complicated, okay?”

“I would fucking hope so!” Will bites out. “Which is why I’m talking to you at all, you fucking twit. Now spill. What’s really going on here? Do I need to come to Camelot and assassinate royalty? Are you in trouble?”

Merlin rubs at his face. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m just...helping Arthur with something.”

Will makes a strangled sound. “Oh, you’re helping Arthur-”

Merlin groans again. “Shut up.”

The absence of an immediate, griping response tells Merlin that Will must’ve got the worst of it out of his system. A fact Merlin is intensely grateful for, if only to give his throbbing head a break.

“Where did you even meet him?” Will asks after a blessed moment of silence. “I mean, like, properly and stuff.”

“He was a customer at the Grind.”

Weirdly enough, the memory of Arthur swanning in like an arrogant peacock almost makes him smile.

“The Crown Prince of Albion,” Will says slowly, incredulous. “Came to Gwaine’s sensationalist, sexual-pun-named shop to buy coffee. From you.”

Well, when put like that…

“You’re making it sound weirder than it is.” Merlin really doesn’t want to get into it. “Look, Will, just- Fuck, what time is it?” He wakes the screen of his comm, glancing at the clock and feels his eyes almost bugging out. “Fuck, I have class in, like, 40 minutes. Listen, I’ll vid comm you later and explain everything, I promise.”

“Yeah, no, your promises don’t mean shit, mate.”

“Will, c’mon…”

Merlin’s already struggling to untwist himself from the covers. He grabs his comm and takes it along to the bathroom. The sight that greets him is anything but promising, traces of smudged eyeliner stubbornly clinging to his skin despite his shower last night.

He grabs his toothbrush, barely listening to Will prattle on as he shoves it in his mouth.

“Did you know they’re going to make a limited edition shoe collection where some designer prick is going to ‘re-imagine’ those minging high-tops of yours, including my fucking drawing-”

Merlin chokes on a mouthful of toothpaste.

“What?” he coughs, eyes watering and voice hoarse. “Please tell me you’re having me on.”

Will snorts. 

“I couldn’t make this shit up,” he says, then grumbles. “They should bloody well pay me royalties, it’s my design. Do you think I could trademark it?”

Merlin spits out a second mouthful of water, throat still burning. He wipes half-heartedly at his eyes with the edge of a towel.

“You’re asking me?”

“Who else am I going to ask? You’re the one with the fancy connections now. Least you can do is help me defend my rights.”

Merlin snorts, taking the comm back into the main room to rifle through the one shelf occupied by his things in the ginormous walk-in wardrobe.

“I really need to go,” he says, dragging out clothes at random. “I promise I’ll ring back, yeah?”

Will lets out a noise heavy with skepticism.

“Mate, just so we’re clear. If I don’t hear back from you I’m going to post those memographs from that Samhain when we were six and you were dressed up as a-”

“Thank you, Will,” Merlin all but yells to drown him out.

“You’re famous now. I could probably sell those m-graphs and retire. I have such a great arsenal, like the time you got pissed, got your kit off and drew a Mage Circle with your di-”

“I’m hanging up!”

Will, the knob, is cackling madly on the other end. Despite his threat, Merlin leaves the connection open while he tugs on the last of his clothes.

“Merls?” Will says eventually and it’s his serious voice, no trace of amusement left.

Merlin stills. “Yeah?”

“You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Merlin’s chest clenches, his magic coiling into something small and unhappy.

“I’m fine, Will,” he says and the worst part is, he doesn’t even know if he’s lying, but the words taste bitter on his tongue all the same.

Perched on the bedside table, Kilgharrah watches him with luminous golden eyes and snorts out a perfect ring of smoke, silently judging.

Having got another glimpse at the time, Merlin curses up a storm as he bursts from the guest quarters, hopping on one foot to get his shoe on, laces still untied as he rushes through the halls and gods, why does it always take so long to get anywhere in this place? Thankfully he remembered earlier to send a message downstairs, which means that his usual driver is already there, car hovering as it idles.

Merlin throws himself inside, at last able to catch his breath.

Heart rate slowed to a more reasonable pace, he digs out his comm to finally check his messages. From Gwen, there’s a simple !!!!! and underneath CALL ME!. Gwaine sent, you tapped that and DIDN’T TELL ME!??! And finally, from Freya, I can’t believe you made the Crown Prince your sex slave!!

Merlin buries his face in his hands and groans.

“Fuck, I’m such an idiot.”

He thanks all his lucky stars that he at least had the self-preservation to tell his mum about this.

“Self-awareness is the first step to betterment,” Kilgharrah, the scaly dickhead, says.

“Uargh, piss off.”

Ever since the dissolution of the Faculty for Magical Sciences during the Purge, once the biggest on campus, magical studies have been relegated to a tiny building, renamed Faculty of Magical Theory.

Despite the low enrolment rate, the lecture hall is small enough to be cramped, packed to the brim with students, their bracelets gleaming in the sun shining in from the east-facing windows. Thank the gods for Freya, who’d been early enough to reserve them seats, otherwise it’d have been another two hours spent on the floor.

Merlin slides in next to her and promptly receives a punch to the arm.

“Bloody ow!” Merlin protests.

Freya leaves off the punching and hits him with her pad instead, punctuating each word with a slap.

“I. Can’t. Believe. You!” She finally leaves off. “Gwaine and Will have been blowing up my comm since morning. At least I don’t have to feel slighted that you left me out of the loop, because apparently you didn’t deign to tell anyone.”

Merlin can’t believe how many times he’s going to have this conversation.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before, but it’s not going to get you out of this one.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Just, a lot has been going on.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“I’ll tell you everything after the lecture, alright?”

Merlin spends the entirety of the lecture staring into space, not hearing a single word. His thoughts are orbiting last night’s disaster like a desolate planet, trapped in its orbit and unable to escape. He feels guilty and angry at himself for feeling guilty, because really, if Arthur weren’t such an enormous prat they wouldn’t be in this situation. If he’d only get off his high fucking horse for once and talk to Merlin like a normal human being-

He lets his head thunk down on the table, officially giving up on absorbing anything useful. At least getting some more sleep will stop the angry buzzing of his head.

Freya elbows him awake none-too-gently sometime later. All around them, students are streaming towards the exit, though Merlin notices some funny looks thrown their way. And what’s that all about, anyway?

“I’ve already forwarded you the notes,” Freya says, voice heavy with judgement. She’s as bad as Kilgharrah, honestly. “Now c’mon, you owe me all the juicy details.”

“Nothing juicy about it,” Merlin mumbles, almost biting his tongue when an unbidden image of Arthur’s plush mouth and unreasonably delicious arse pop up in his traitorous brain.

Merlin hates his brain.

They walk the short distance to one of the many campus coffeeshops. As always, Merlin feels a little as though he’s cheating on the Grind when he enters, though the prospect of not having to stand behind the counter and deal with customers is all the sweeter for it.

“I still can’t believe this happened,” Freya says for the second time after Merlin has filled her in as concisely as possible. She picks up her iced chocolate abomination, sucking at the straw only to realise she’s drunk it all. She discards the cup with a grimace. “Seriously, though, what’s he like? Prince Arthur?”

Gorgeous. Inscrutable. Someone I want to tear open and explore, while also wrap in my magic and keep safe.

But out loud, Merlin’s voice is resentful, the sting of unfair treatment still lingering.

“Supercilious, insensitive, entitled.” Merlin scowls. “He’s been treating me like a door stopper since I moved into the Palace. And last night he criticised my wardrobe, as though he’s embarrassed to be seen with me, or something, the privileged prat.”

Freya’s eyebrows have slowly been inching upwards. “Wow, you must really like him if he gets you this riled up.”

Freya the bloodhound strikes again. Merlin glares at her, fearing that protesting too much will just expose him more.

He watches Freya tap in a fresh order on the table-top, scanning her bracelet to pay for it.

Merlin sighs, deflating a little. “I think I might’ve fucked up. A bit.”

Freya looks at him curiously. “How so?”

“I’ve read the theory behind it, so I thought I understood what it was doing to him, but now I’m not so sure. It doesn’t help that he’s so bloody tight-lipped about everything.” Merlin runs his finger along his own cup, smearing beads of condensation. “He blew up at me last night after some guy flirted with me at the club.”

Freya sits up, alarmed. “You didn’t flirt back, did you?!”

Merlin grimaces. 

“Of course not! What do you take me for?” He finally leaves off the cup, rubbing his finger dry against his sleeve. “But I honestly didn’t think it would bother him so much. If he’d just bloody communicate-”

Freya hums, then leans back as a droid buzzes over, delivering their drinks. She waits for it to zip away before replying. She leans closer to Merlin over the table, her voice quiet.

“In the Prince’s defence, the whole thing must be pretty overwhelming. He’s probably trying to wrap his head around everything while not coming apart at the seams. This is scary stuff, Merlin. Really scary. Imagine just waking up one day and being hopelessly, obsessively in love with some stranger you’ve only met a few times. So much so you need to be near him or you’ll literally die.”

“I’m not some-” Merlin starts, but breaks off when he realises that, to Arthur, he is some stranger.

Just some guy who’s made him coffee a few times and who he exchanged glares with. Merlin still can’t believe Arthur even remembered his name. The thought is strangely discouraging.

“Fine, I get it,” he admits grudgingly. “But I’m stumbling around blind here, too! I’ve had to move to the Palace - the bloody Palace, Freya - so I can play Arthur’s boyfriend.” He shakes his head. “I had to sit through a meeting listening to King Uther’s stuck-up PA and the royal family’s publicist talking about how parading me around like a show horse would benefit the Crown. Do you know how dirty that makes me feel, knowing they’re using me like that?”

Just remembering that farce of a meeting makes Merlin’s blood boil and his magic pulse with fury.

Freya reaches across the table to squeeze his arm.

“I get it, Merlin, I do,” she says softly. “And I don’t know Prince Arthur. But just remember he didn’t ask for this either and that he probably doesn’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t imagine having King Uther as your father is very conducive to developing healthy communication skills.”

Merlin lets out a long breath, knowing that Freya is right. The whole thing just makes the guilt inside him churn harder, his magic fluttering anxiously at his inner turmoil.

Arthur is clearly floundering and in pain, but far too proud to simply ask Merlin for what he needs. But Merlin had promised Lance, promised himself that he won’t let Arthur come to harm.

So, Merlin thinks. If the dragon won’t come to you, you must go seek the dragon.

Back at the Palace he only gets lost twice, until he recognises the shiny set of armour which guards the corner of the corridor leading to Arthur’s office.

He doesn’t bother knocking.

Arthur’s head snaps up from where it had been bent over the holo-station at his desk. He looks pale and tired, though his scowl is no less fierce for it.

“Have you ever heard of kno-”

“Shut up,” Merlin cuts across the beginning of a no doubt over-dramatic tirade. 

Thankfully, Arthur is apparently taken aback enough to actually stop talking for once. Merlin presses his advantage by stalking further into the room.

Rounding the massive, antique desk, Merlin thinks back to his first visit here. Thinks about how little has changed and how much more worn and sickly Arthur looks for it.

“You’re going to get up from behind this thing, then we’re going to walk over there-” Merlin nods at the bay window, still sporting the cozy results of Merlin’s cushion scavenger hunt. “And I’m going to hold your hand and we’ll have a talk. A proper one. Not the kind where you act like a prat, then clam up and glare at me.”

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it. Merlin stares him down.

“Now, c’mon.”

And, to his eternal surprise, Arthur comes.

Admittedly, he’s still a little tense as he settles in next to Merlin, keeping to some invisible line of propriety as he folds himself a little awkwardly in between the cushions. Merlin wonders for the first time what Arthur is like in private, with people he actually likes and feels close to.

Sure, he’s seen Arthur party, but that was in a room full of polished strangers, each trying to outshine the other. But there must be times, private places and trusted friends, where Arthur’s guard comes down. Right?

Feeling oddly unsettled and trying his best not to show it, Merlin reaches rather unceremoniously for Arthur’s hand.

 Their skin brushes and there’s a strange, suspended moment where everything stills. Merlin studies Arthur, waits for him to stiffen, to grimace.

But then the moment passes and Arthur’s whole body simply…melts. His touch is soft but greedy as he weaves their fingers together, his hand broader and stronger, enfolding Merlin’s longer and slender one. Despite the tenderness of it, there’s a hidden edge of want, something desperate that strikes Merlin’s nerve endings like a flint, sparking a flame that threatens to spread like a wildfire if Merlin doesn’t act fast enough to contain it.

It’s dangerous, being this close to Arthur, building intimacy on a wonky base held together by nothing but induced feelings and Merlin’s frighteningly real reaction to them.

Unwilling to fall down that particular rabbit hole, Merlin licks his lips, intending to pull himself together, only to catch Arthur’s eyes following the path of his tongue. He fights down a shiver and quickly looks away. He needs to get a grip. How is he going to survive if a little handholding already has him flustered? Especially considering the little speech he’s prepared, currently sticking to his tongue.

Merlin almost licks his lips again, but stops himself just in time, swallowing instead. He chokes a little on his own spit, but the coughing is almost a relief, giving him an excuse to turn his face into his own elbow for a second, aiming his body away from the enticing heat of Arthur’s own.

“So,” Merlin says. “About yesterday-”

Arthur’s hand around his tightens.

“Let’s just…forget about that. Just forget what I said, I wasn’t-”

“No,” Merlin cuts in firmly. He squeezes back tightly, drawing Arthur’s gaze to his. “No, I won’t forget that. It’s the first real conversation we’ve had since I moved here, even if it was a bit…”

He waves vaguely, but the meaning is clear enough. Arthur looks away.

“The point is, I didn’t know you felt that way,” Merlin says. “Reading about it, it’s not- It didn’t prepare me for this.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur says shortly, even though they both know it isn’t.

Merlin tugs at Arthur’s hand, trying to catch his gaze once more.

“It’s not fine. I don’t want to hurt you, Arthur.” It comes out mortifyingly gentle, but Merlin can’t bring himself to gloss over it. At least Arthur is looking at him now, fever-bright and achingly vulnerable. Merlin swallows. “But for that I need you to talk to me. I can’t read your mind, yeah? You don’t have to do this alone. That’s why I’m here.”

Arthur remains silent, but Merlin can see he’s finally getting through to him. Merlin’s just glad they haven’t started biting each other’s heads off yet.

“You must see that the way you’ve been carrying on isn’t healthy,” Merlin continues, determined to get it all out now that they’ve made it this far. “What good does it do if you keel over barely a week in?”

Arthur grimaces and Merlin risks a small smile, leaning in to tentatively bump their shoulders together.

“Besides, wouldn’t it be easier if we actually tried to get on?”

Arthur sighs, looking a little out of his depth and incredibly put out by it. But he does finally answer.

“I suppose it can’t hurt.” 

His tone is brusk, but the way his thumb runs along Merlin’s own is anything but.

“Good,” Merlin says. “And one more thing.” Arthur raises his eyebrows and Merlin bravely pushes on. “Starting tonight, we’ll sleep together.”

Arthur jerks in surprise. “What?”

Merlin’s eyes widen, only realising after the fact what that sounded like.

“Not like that!” he backpaddles hastily, trying to ban the array of heated thoughts that instantly jump to the fore. But seeing Arthur’s blown pupils, the darker shade of his eyes - it’s not helping. At all. “Just…sleeping sleeping. A whole night is a lot of hours to be apart. I’m supposed to be your stabiliser, so let me…stabilise you.”

Arthur’s gaze abruptly slides away once more and Merlin gets the distinct feeling he might’ve said something wrong. He pushes on all the same.

“We tried it your way and it sucked. So now it’s my turn, and I’m telling you we need to work together, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur finally says, but it’s quiet, almost a little sad. “I suppose we do.”

And Merlin doesn’t know whether to feel resentful at Arthur’s reluctance to be friends with him, or if there’s something else going on here. Either way, it leaves a bitter taste in Merlin’s mouth.

Entering Arthur’s room is like stepping into a different building altogether.

Unlike Arthur’s office, his private quarters are free of unnecessary clutter. Everything is light and sleek, transparent aluminium rimmed in silver, the colours ranging exclusively within a blue-grey scale.

“Wow,” Merlin says, rubbing curious fingers along the back of the sprawling couch, finding it surprisingly velvety. “Not a fan of red and gold after all?”

Arthur, who’d been lingering awkwardly just inside the doorway, shrugs as he steps a little further into the room.

“I like it fine. It just…gets a bit much at times.” 

Arthur stops by the floor to ceiling windows that give an almost obscenely beautiful view of Camelot City. He looks a million miles away and Merlin finds himself longing to know what he’s thinking about.

The intense pull of it takes Merlin entirely by surprise, makes his skin feel both alive and too-tight. He abruptly averts his eyes, frantically searching for something less precarious to focus on. His gaze snags on the strangely shaped desk across the room.

Curiously, Merlin draws closer. “This doesn’t look artificial.” 

Unable to help himself, Merlin pokes at it, feeling the sleek, cool smoothness of the surface. The whole thing looks like a wave frozen in time, all its edges smoothed away.

“It’s not,” Arthur says quietly. “It’s a mineral - blue anhydrite.” 

He comes over to stand beside Merlin, the heat of his body as intoxicating as ever. Merlin can smell his cologne, something fresh and subtle, complementing instead of overpowering Arthur’s natural scent.

It makes Merlin’s mouth water stupidly and he curses himself for it.

“It was a gift from my-” Arthur swallows, clears his throat. “From Morgana.”

His hand is next to Merlin’s now, their thumbs almost touching. 

“Can I-” Merlin hesitates, then pushes on, tentative but burning to know. “Can I ask? What really happened?”

Arthur is silent for so long that Merlin stops expecting an answer, surprised when Arthur finally starts speaking in a low voice.

“I doubt it’s much different from what the gossip rags have reported. Morgana came into her powers, had a huge blow-up with Father, and took off. I tried to stop her, tried to find her after, talk to her but-” Arthur shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to see me. It’s like her time here, with us, doesn’t matter to her at all.”

Merlin rather doubts that, but then again, he doesn’t know Morgana beyond what he’s seen in the media and in holo-live broadcasts. He aches to cover Arthur’s hand with his own, to hold it like he did in Arthur’s study earlier. But for some reason he…can’t. Because this is different. Raw and unscripted and far too real.

“Maybe…give her some time?” Merlin says, the words lame to his own ears.

Arthur snorts, but there’s pain there, in the clenched line of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes. 

“She and Father-” Arthur shakes his head again. “They hold grudges like no one else. They’ll probably take them to their graves.”

Before Merlin had reason to ponder it in detail, he’d always thought that Prince and King are simply younger and older versions of each other, that Arthur is merely a carbon-copy, shaped by millennia of aristocratic history and King Uther’s hate of all things magic. It’s a shock, to now discover that Arthur is his own person. And, despite never having actually met the King - at least not yet, Merlin mentally adds with stomach-dropping dread - he’s starting to realise that out of the three Pendragons, Arthur might be the one who stands apart.

“C’mon,” Arthur says. “I’ll show you the bedroom.”

It’s not said in any way suggestively, which is why it’s even more ridiculous that the words alone send heat along Merlin’s spine. He can only be grateful that he’s never been much of a blusher. Unlike Arthur, who Merlin has seen slightly flushed more than a few times by now.

Which, really, isn’t the best road for his thoughts to take, especially when confronted with the sight of Arthur’s gigantic four-poster bed.

“Well, at least we’ll both fit,” Merlin says weakly, trying very hard not to think what else one can do on a bed this big.

He side-eyes Arthur and there it is, that slight flush high on his cheeks. Merlin hastily looks away again.

“I’ll just-uhm-” Merlin points a thumb over his shoulder. “Get some of my things, yeah? Though I can keep using my own bathroom if you don’t want me to-”

“No,” Arthur says, sounding determined if a little stilted. “It’s fine. You can- you don’t need to run back-and-forth every night. Just get your stuff. As you can see, I’ve more than enough room.”

Which is rather a generous thing for a Prince to say, Merlin thinks. He’d expected Arthur to be one of those spoiled brats who don’t understand the meaning of sharing, who get annoyed whenever you so much as breathe in the direction of their earthly possessions.

Of course the prat had to go and prove Merlin wrong in this as well.

“Thanks,” Merlin mumbles and makes a hasty departure.

What the fuck had possessed him to all but order Arthur to share his bed? How are either of them going to get any sleep again, ever?

It seems that letting Merlin into his private rooms - not to mention the prospect of letting him into his bed - has made Arthur feel less married to his study. After Merlin returns from picking up a few essentials, they spend the rest of the afternoon in Arthur’s quarters.

Merlin makes use of Arthur’s gorgeous desk and holo-station, filling the space around him with research references as he slugs through an essay on General Formulae for Aerial Spells and their Historical Usage.

He expects Arthur to turn on his entertainment system, put on a show or film, possibly a game he can curse at obnoxiously. Merlin had prepared for that eventuality, putting his in-ears at the ready to filter out any disrupting noise with his study playlist.

But Arthur surprises him again and instead stretches out across his spacious couch with his pad for the several hours that follow, and Merlin’s in-ears remain untouched.

In fact, Merlin cannot remember a time or environment that has helped him concentrate this deeply in…well, forever. Even at the uni library small disturbances happen constantly, which isn’t a big deal when he’s working on something interesting. But when, like today, he’s torturing himself with something as dry as the dust in Gaius’ attic, even the smallest distraction can throw him off and make him think about how much he wants to do anything but this.

But Arthur’s rooms are quiet, cocooned in soundproofing and warded off against people by what Merlin assumes must be royal decree, because not once are they disturbed.

Merlin finally emerges from his essay-frenzy with a pounding head and a surprisingly ache-free spine. Royal arses and backs are clearly much better cared for. Seems all the stupidly fancy furniture is good for something other than looking pretty.

Stretching, Merlin looks over at Arthur, who’s barely moved a muscle since he settled down. Despite the long hours spent at the desk at his study, Merlin never would’ve thought someone as athletic as Arthur capable of such quiet downtime. 

Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Merlin dismisses the holo-windows around him with a flick of his fingers and leans forward on the now bare desk.

“What are you reading?”

Arthur doesn’t look up, but grimaces. “Something Lance recommended. I should’ve known better than to pick it up. He has terrible taste in fiction.”

“Oh? What, is it, like, a romance novel or something?”

“I don’t mind romance novels that much.” Arthur finally looks up and Merlin has no idea what his face is doing, but Arthur immediately hastens to add. “Within reason, of course. Not the completely ridiculous ones, though those can be quite hilarious on occasion-”

Merlin puts his hands up. “No need to defend yourself. There’s nothing wrong with liking romance novels, though I find them a bit boring. I prefer erotica.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to look a little weird. “You do?”

It sounds a little choked, but Merlin shrugs, fairly used to that response. He’s never made an effort to hide what he reads for pleasure.

“Sure. They can be hilarious, too. Have you read any?”

There’s that faint blush again and Merlin honestly cannot believe how golden and aloof Crown Prince Arthur can be this adorable.

“Some,” Arthur admits, an edge of defiance clinging to him as though he’s used to having to defend his actions.

And with a father such as King Uther, Merlin supposes it makes sense. But Merlin finds that he doesn’t want Arthur to feel like that with him.

“I have a pretty extensive collection, I can send you some recs.”

Arthur shuffles into a more upright position and licks his lips. 

“Thank you.”

Merlin realises a little too late how having the person you’re enchanted to be in love with recommend you smutty fiction might be a bit distracting. Merlin hastily tries to yank the atmosphere back from the gutter.

“So what is it that Lance recommended?”

The question seems to succeed in bringing Arthur back from the dangerous precipice they’d been toeing. He clears his throat.

“Some literary novel he waxed lyrically about.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “It’s full of whimsical descriptions of nature and endless introspection. Feels like I’ve been reading the same thing on loop. Nothing at all has happened and the thing has over 400 pages.”

Merlin winces. “Yeah, literary fiction isn’t my thing either.”

“Really?” Arthur sounds surprised. “I thought you’d go in for that type of thing.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows, though he’s more amused than offended. It’s reassuring, somehow, not to be the only one constantly surprised by Arthur’s real self.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know, just-” Arthur makes a sweeping gesture in Merlin’s direction that doesn’t tell him anything at all. “So what do you like? Other than smutty fiction that is?”

There’s a teasing glint in Arthur’s eye and Merlin finds himself huffing out a laugh.

“Fuck off,” Merlin says, grinning. “If you must know, I like high fantasy. You know, dragons, swords and sorcery…the whole package.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur perks up. “So do I.”

Merlin gapes at him. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m fucking not,” Arthur says, sounding and looking incredibly smug for some reason.

“Are you even allowed to read that stuff?” Merlin blurts before he can bite it back. He grimaces at himself, but curiosity is, once again, his downfall. “I mean, surely your father doesn’t approve?”

Arthur scowls. “I’m an adult, Merlin, I’ll have you know I can choose my own entertainment.”

“Yes, but…”

It’s Arthur’s turn to grimace.

“Father isn’t interested in my reading habits,” he says tightly. “As long as I’m not brewing a scandal he doesn’t much care what I do with my free time. Such as it is.”

Merlin bites his lip. “But isn’t this the shit they ask in interviews?”

Arthur nods, unhappy. “I have a Sophia-approved list of what to say in interviews. There’s even a-” Arthur hesitates, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “A fake bestreads account of all my supposed favourite books and all that shite.”

“That’s…”

“Awful, I know.”

Merlin aches to tell Arthur that it isn’t his fault, he’s seen first hand what Sophia’s like, especially in combination with that troll Catrina. He finds himself fighting a renewed longing to hold Arthur’s hand, maybe to simply hold Arthur. Merlin stamps down on it, struggling to understand how they got here.

A mere two days ago Merlin had been nothing but live decor in Arthur’s study, but the blow-up at the club seemed to have obliterated some invisible wall between them. Or maybe the wall hadn’t been a wall at all, rather more like a flimsy curtain, opaque but easily worn thin beneath the relentless pressure of the enchantment.

I know it’s not real, Arthur had told him, pained and desperate. But it feels real.

Merlin knows that his presence doesn’t disappear Arthur’s agony, only alleviates it. And while people often want to believe otherwise, Crown Prince or no, Arthur is only human. A human who seems to be under far more pressure than Merlin ever stopped to realise and who now has the addition of a potentially fatal enchantment on top of everything else.

This last week Merlin had been far too busy feeling resentful to acknowledge that what Freya had said today is right - it’s not just his own life that’s been turned upside down. Arthur hadn’t asked for this anymore than Merlin had, and though it had been Merlin who’d had to leave his flat and work behind for the time being, it’s Arthur whose privacy is being invaded. Arthur who is grappling with a no doubt scary deluge of induced feelings and sensations, trying to keep a clear head and having to fight his instincts at every turn while some diluted and polished version of his private business is presented to the adoring public on a silver platter.

The whole thing is fucking obscene, really.

Fighting his way back from inside his head, Merlin blinks, finding Arthur’s eyes already resting on him.

Letting instinct lead, he gets up, rounds the desk slowly, and makes his way over to the couch. He nudges Arthur’s leg gently with his own, the brief contact enough for Arthur’s shoulders to tighten in a suppressed shudder.

For the first time since all of this started, Merlin recognises that there’s power in this. The realisation is sudden, devastating in its clarity, and the thought of having Arthur at his mercy leaves him burning with equal parts desire and shame.

Throat suddenly dry, Merlin swallows. He forces his thoughts onto a more light-hearted track.

“Let’s see it, then,” he says, then elaborates when Arthur looks at him in askance. “Your fantasy collection. We can compare notes.”

Despite the generous size of the couch, Merlin waits for Arthur to scoot over in invitation. He leaves a careful space between them, but only barely, greedily drinking in ever more familiar heat of Arthur’s body. Arthur shifts restlessly for a moment, the movement bringing him closer.

Their shoulders bump lightly, their sides brushing tantalisingly, and it’s Merlin’s turn to suppress a shiver.

Arthur hands him his pad, their fingers meeting in a shower of invisible sparks. It leaves Merlin’s skin tight and over-sensitised and when Arthur takes the excuse of looking at the pad to lean in and press his chest along Merlin’s side, Merlin lets him. 

Because he’s doing this to help Arthur. Because Arthur is a prat, but maybe not as big a prat as Merlin believed.

And that’s all there is to it, Merlin tells himself firmly as Arthur’s warmth seeps past his bones and pools somewhere deep and fundamental. That’s all this is.

Arthur’s bathroom has none of the faux-antique look and Merlin notices, to his disappointment, that the bathtub does not actually have claw feet. It is, however, the size of a small pool with a myriad of strange protrusions one can lie or sit on. The sight only serves in mentally shifting his previous fantasy into something more…creative.

Merlin groans and lets his forehead thunk onto the counter next to the sink, toothbrush still sticking from the corner of his mouth. Uncaring of how dramatic he’s being, Merlin remains where he is, brushing without much care, trusting the sonic function to take care of the worst of it.

All he can think about is that there’s only one door between him and the fact that when he walks through it, it’ll be to crawl into Arthur’s bed - with Arthur.

He can still see Will’s unimpressed face during their earlier vid comm.

“I know that look,” Will had told him almost as soon as Merlin was done explaining the situation. “It’s the look you get when you’re trying to bullshit yourself. You’re already in for it, aren’t you? You like that posh prick.”

“I told you-”

“Merlin,” Will had said seriously. “I get that you’re already in this mess, so there’s no point telling you to get out. I’m also aware I know fuck-all about all your fancy magical theory bollocks. All I understand is that the bloke’s addled, and he’s going to do and tell you all sorts of shit. Just- remember it’s not real, alright?”

Merlin’s insides twist sharply at the memory. 

“I know that,” he’d told Will stubbornly.

And he does. He’s just not sure what good it actually does him. Will had given him an uncharacteristically sympathetic look. Apparently being out of ‘friendly’ punching range and hugs that more often than not end up in choke-holds means Will is forced to show his affection like a regular human being for once.

“I just worry about you, you wanker,” Will had said gruffly. “This is no way to get your heart broken. Imagine your very first time happening because of a love potion. It’s embarrassing.”

Merlin honestly hadn’t known whether he wanted to laugh or cry. All he’d known is that he’d been too tired to argue.

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you…”

Grinning, Will had said, “Because you’d be lost without me.”

Merlin peels himself off the counter and drags the toothbrush from his mouth, staring at it sightlessly. He can tell Will is worried about him - he always is, even the times he doesn’t want to admit it. But Merlin has the situation under control.

Yes, he admits grudgingly, he’s attracted to Arthur. Really, who isn’t? He’d have to be dead not to find him hot. That doesn’t mean he’s mentally crowning himself and dreaming of being his future Queen.

He’s under no illusions. Arthur and him aren’t friends. They aren’t anything. And as soon as the enchantment is broken and Arthur regains his senses, he’ll send Merlin on his way. There’s going to be some short, public statement to make their ‘break-up’ official and Merlin will be relieved to get back to his regular life.

Arthur will no longer be ‘Arthur’, he’ll be ‘the Crown Prince’. Someone you read about in the news and watch in holo-broadcasts, maybe get a glimpse of at the annual parade - utterly out of reach.

And Merlin might have some vague regret about not kissing him, or making him come, but that’s all it’s going to be. 

Will is wrong. 

There’ll be no breaking of hearts, least of all Merlin’s own.

Arthur’s already in bed when Merlin finally emerges.

Despite the paleness and the shadows that tiredness has painted beneath his eyes, Arthur looks annoyingly delectable. He’s leaning against the headboard, dark covers pooled in his lap, and clad in a loose, white shirt so thin it might as well be see-through, blinking tiredly at the pad in his lap.

Merlin swallows. Arthur looks up at him and frowns.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he says irritably. “Get in. I want to go to sleep.”

Merlin tries not to think about how unlikely sleep will be for either of them tonight, approaching the bed as though it’s a wild animal. Tentatively, he peels the covers back from one side. Unsurprisingly, they’re even silkier than the ones in the guest quarters. There’s probably some kind of top secret formula that’s only allowed to be used for making royal silk, spun thread-by-thread by gold plated droids.

Merlin is barely settled before the room is plunged into darkness. It’s almost suffocating, especially with the transparent aluminium windows now gone opaque on what can only be a blackout night setting.

They lie in stillness on opposite ends of the bed, and if it weren’t for the sound of Arthur’s breathing, Merlin would think himself alone. Instead, the darkness seems to only enhance Arthur’s soft exhalations, slightly too fast to be restful and almost harsh in the otherwise silent room.

Merlin licks his lips, but it ends up sounding almost dirty and only serves to unsettle Merlin further. At this point, he’s convinced that Arthur must be able to hear the frantic beat of his heart.

“Does it have to be so dark?” Merlin blurts finally, unable to take it another second.

The bed jerks slightly and Merlin thinks he probably startled Arthur. Though, really, what had he expected? For Merlin to simply lie there in tense silence for the rest of the night?

“Are you scared, Merlin?” Arthur asks and Merlin isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be teasing or disparaging.

Arthur can be such a prick.

“Piss off,” Merlin snaps. “It’s just- it’s pitch-black! I feel like I’ve been buried alive. In a very fancy coffin.”

Arthur makes a disgruntled sound. “Thanks for that imagery.”

Merlin feels Arthur move beside him and thinks there’s a good chance he’ll simply turn over and ignore him. But then the bed moves again and there’s a muffled curse.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks, frowning into the darkness.

“Hang on,” Arthur mutters irritably. Then after a moment, “There we go.”

The words have barely left his mouth when all around them the room is suddenly lit by thousands of stars, studding everything from floor to ceiling - including the blacked-out windows.

“Satisfied?” Arthur’s voice is dry, but Merlin thinks he can hear the tiniest sliver of wariness. 

Sleep forgotten, Merlin sits up, feeling the silken sheets gliding away and pooling around him. He cranes his neck for a better view.

“When did you get this?”

Arthur doesn’t answer at first and Merlin turns to him, the silvery light only just enough to outline Arthur’s form. He’s bleached of colour, made entirely of shadows and artificial starlight, so unlike the golden Prince Merlin has admired so many times, inadvertent or otherwise.

Arthur isn’t looking at him, his gaze trained upwards, the lights having turned his eyes from an ocean to a night sky.

“There was this one time,” Arthur finally says quietly. “When I visited my father in his study. I must’ve been about 10 or so.”

Merlin has no idea where this is going, but he finds himself burning with curiosity all the same. The fact that Arthur is sharing something personal with him makes his chest almost unbearably tight, doing nothing at all for his still erratic heartbeat.

He’s scared to move and break the spell, instead arrested where he is, silently urging Arthur to continue. After a moment, Arthur does.

“It was before Morgana came to live with us, so there wasn’t-” He breaks off and it doesn’t take a huge leap to infer what Arthur stopped himself from saying. That there hadn’t been anyone else; that he’d been lonely. “Anyway, so I came to Father’s study, but he was quite busy.” The as always is rather heavily implied. “He had to rush off to a council meeting or something. He didn’t tell me I had to leave, so I sat down at his desk. He hadn’t locked his holo-station, so I started poking around-”

Merlin finally shifts, lying back down, but this time on his side, head propped up on one hand to be able to look down at Arthur, close enough now to feel the familiar heat radiating from his body.

“Can’t think your father was happy about that.”

Arthur snorted. “He certainly wouldn’t have been, if he’d actually caught me.”

Merlin grins. “How sneaky of you. Who knew you had it in you.”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Merlin mimes zipping shut his lips and Arthur must be able to see enough of it for the sentiment to come across. Merlin can practically feel his eyeroll.

“Most of the stuff went right over my head, of course, and believe it or not, my father is actually terrible at organising files. He has this tendency of just making folders within folders and giving them all really vague names.”

Merlin is struggling to reconcile his understanding of King Uther with Arthur’s exasperation at such a human quirk. But he’s not King Uther in this story, Merlin realises, he’s just a father who’s left his young son unsupervised in his office.

“But then I found this one folder.” Arthur’s tone is quieter now, almost painfully somber. “It had my mother’s name on it.”

Everyone knows of the Queen’s tragic death when giving birth to her son. And despite his many faults, King Uther’s love for his wife is legendary. Merlin knows what it’s like to grow up with a grieving parent and he can only imagine what a man such as King Uther was like with the pain still fresh and a young child in need of his attention and care. It’s hardly a leap to think that the King was not forthcoming with either.

And Arthur’s next words only confirm Merlin’s suspicions further.

“He never talks about her, you know,” Arthur says tightly. “I used to ask questions, but he always got this look on his face-” 

He presses his lips together and Merlin wants to reach out, trace them with his finger to coax them back into the usual lush pout, then lean in and taste them with his own. He wants to wrap Arthur in his arms and comfort him.

He curls his fingers into the soft bedding instead.

Arthur sighs. “So I…stopped. The only memographs and holos I had of her were official footage that I’d found on the net. But that folder…it was full of all these things, stages of her life I never even knew about. M-graphs of when she was younger, before she was Queen-” 

Arthur breaks off once more, his voice raw. 

Merlin’s magic is clamouring within his chest, his anger at such blatant selfishness manifesting in a very real desire to wring the King’s neck.

“Your father never showed you any of these?” Merlin asks, voice tight with the effort it takes to contain his emotions.

Arthur shakes his head, then clears his throat. His voice still comes out hoarse.

“I thought he’d deleted everything, but it was all there. I just don’t understand-” Arthur cuts himself off abruptly, then clears his throat again, his tone smoothing over into something wooden. “It must’ve hurt too much.”

He’s trying to make excuses, Merlin realises. His father had wronged him, but still here Arthur is, resigned rather than infuriated. Merlin will gladly be furious enough for both of them.

He considers briefly pointing out how utterly despicable the whole thing is, but bites it back. Now’s not the time and Arthur is likely to direct his anger at Merlin instead. The thought saddens him more than he’d like to admit.

Tentatively, Merlin reaches out, his fingers barely grazing the thin material of Arthur’s sleep shirt. Arthur shivers, muscles jumping beneath Merlin’s almost-touch, before abruptly catching Merlin’s hand with his own. The sudden heat of it, the utter realness of Arthur’s fingers sliding against and between his own lights something akin to a wildfire in Merlin’s body.

Merlin’s magic thrums happily, eager to be set free and engulf them both. He fights it down resolutely.

“So, the stars?” Merlin croaks, desperate to focus on something other than that one point where Arthur’s skin is pressed against his own.

“The folder, it wasn’t just m-graphs and stuff. I found plans for a holiday home - a small one, nothing really special. But the master bedroom, it had a ceiling of transparent aluminium so you could see the stars.” Arthur huffs a small, bitter laugh. “And I suddenly got this idea - foolish, I know - that having something like that would…”

“Make you feel closer to your mum?” Merlin hazards gently. He squeezes Arthur’s hand. “It’s not foolish, Arthur. You were a child. It’s natural you’d want that.”

Arthur swallows audibly. “I knew I couldn’t ask my father about it, so I spent about a week searching for ways to ‘get stars on my ceiling’.”

Merlin smiles, imagining little Arthur fervently searching the net for a solution. He’s impressed, really. He knows he himself had been quite a self-sufficient child, but he remembers other kids that age. Will hadn’t even known how to tie his own shoelaces yet.

“And you found this.” Merlin twirls his finger at their surroundings.

Arthur nods. “It was the best alternative. My father wasn’t too thrilled about it, of course. Especially because they had to take out all the stained glass.”

A definite improvement, Merlin thinks. The glass is pretty enough, but it can get a little oppressive, what with being unable to actually look outside through most of them.

“I think it’s amazing,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur’s smile is small, but still bright enough to pierce straight through the darkness.

“Yeah?” Arthur runs his fingers along Merlin’s, an absent caress that nevertheless leaves Merlin breathless. It almost makes him miss Arthur’s next words. “I’d like to think my mother would’ve liked it.”

Merlin swallows, clamping down on Arthur’s fingers both in reassurance and to stop them from literally making him go out of his mind. 

“I’m sure she would’ve.”

Silence stretches between them, the uncomfortable tension from before swept away by unexpected intimacy. Merlin feels vaguely scrubbed raw, despite the fact that Arthur had been the one to lay himself bare. He wonders if Arthur feels the same. 

Arthur’s hold on his hand tightens, his voice barely more than a murmur when he says, “I’m glad you’re here, Merlin.”

Merlin’s breath falters, his heart stuttering hopelessly. He doesn’t mean it, Merlin thinks fervently, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the sight of Arthur bathed in starlight.

But still Merlin holds on to Arthur’s hand; a futile effort to tether himself to reality.

He feels Arthur before he sees him, his furnace of a body pressed against Merlin’s own, his familiar scent filling Merlin’s every breath.

Despite the heat and slight sweatiness of it all, Merlin’s first instinct is to curl closer. Silken hair is tickling him and Merlin scrunches up his nose, then nuzzles in anyway, all but rubbing his face against the soft nape of Arthur’s neck.

His scent is stronger there, mixed in with the vague fruitiness of his posh shampoo. Beneath him, Arthur shivers, then presses back in a subtle, rolling motion that has both Merlin’s breath and hips hitching, the snug fit of Arthur’s perfect arse transforming Merlin’s idle morning-wood into something far more focused and altogether impossible to ignore.

It’s also, Merlin realises as the sleepy fog around him rapidly clears, a far too coordinated movement for someone supposedly still asleep.

Realising that he’s currently pressing his hard dick into the very hot, and very irresistible dip of Arthur’s arsecheeks, Merlin hastily scrambles away. Mouth desert-dry and heart hammering wildly, Merlin looks at Arthur, but finds his eyes still closed.

Even so, Merlin can tell from the tense set of his shoulders moving with not-quite even breaths, and the faint flush of his cheeks that Arthur isn’t asleep. How long had he been awake? Lying there with Merlin’s hard-on snugged up against him?

And gods, Arthur must be hard too. No matter the authenticity of his feelings, his body won’t know the difference. If Merlin is feeling desperate, it’s nothing compared to what Arthur must be going through. In a sudden flash, Merlin remembers the first vague, weirdly charged conversation with Gaius, how Arthur had awkwardly skirted the subject.

I noticed some…cravings, Arthur’s voice echoes back from the memory. He’d meant this, of course he had, Merlin had just been too tired and clueless to realise the full breadth of the implication. And when Gaius had asked Arthur if those cravings were directed at a specific person Arthur had looked at Merlin.

Fuck, but he’d been oblivious.

And now all he can think of is Arthur, in this very bed, hard and aching for Merlin. 

It’s wrong, Merlin knows that, he knows, because Arthur doesn’t want him, not truly. But still, all Merlin can think about is forgetting everything else and just lying back down, of rucking up that bloody sleep shirt and putting his mouth all over that gorgeous back. Touch him everywhere to find out exactly how his fingers fit into every dip, curve around muscle and bone until Arthur’s body is covered in nothing but Merlin’s invisible fingerprints.

Merlin’s magic twists hungrily, eager to burst forth, to wrap around Arthur, sink inside him and keep him close-

He jerks back, mortified, stumbling from the bed and bolting for the bathroom. Inside, he slumps face-first against the locked door, weak-kneed and still painfully hard.

Biting back a groan, Merlin unceremoniously shoves his hand past the loose waistband of his sleep-joggers. He tries not to let his thoughts wander, to concentrate on nothing but the familiar feeling of his own hand.

Instead, he keeps on returning to the moment he’d woken up and felt the perfect way Arthur had fit against him. The smell of his sleep-warm skin, the silky-softness of his hair, the hungry, precise grind of his hips.

Merlin bites back a moan, buries his face in the crook of his arm as his hand speeds up to a rough, almost punishing rhythm. He thinks about how Arthur is just beyond this door, now alone in a bed of silk sheets. Is he rubbing against them now, slow and decadent? Or is he as desperate as Merlin, hand tight on his dick, knowing Merlin is doing the exact same thing a mere few feet away?

Merlin wishes he could hear him, wants to catch every little sound with his mouth, kiss him until they’re both dizzy with it. He wants to know if Arthur’s dick gets wet when he’s turned on, if he likes it fast or slow. He wants Arthur’s weight on him, then turn them over so he can grind him into the sheets until he begs.

“I want you to come on me,” Merlin imagines Arthur murmuring, moaning the words into his ear, those strong thighs clamping down around his waist to lock them together, trapping their weeping dicks between their sweat-slicked bodies. 

Merlin whimpers a breathless “Fuck”, has to wrench his face from the crook of his elbow to suck in a series of sobbing breaths.

In his head, Arthur is panting just as wildly. He’d bite at Merlin’s lip, lick into his mouth, then command him in that infuriating, insanely arrogant voice of his to, “Come for me. Now, Merlin.”

And Merlin would, and he does, coating his fingers and that fucking bathroom door, the cry of Arthur’s name muffled in the harsh clamp of teeth around the back of his hand.

They’re good at pretending nothing happened. So good, in fact, that Merlin almost believes it himself, if it weren’t for the weird, almost static sensation that’s been growing between them since Merlin sheepishly crept out of the bathroom this morning after a much-needed shower.

Then again, that feeling had been growing just fine even before Merlin had a furious wank in the Prince’s bathroom, the reddened indent of his teeth still stark against the back of his hand.

Merlin tugs at his sleeve, wishing he could use magic to heal it. Unfortunately, Merlin has never been all that great with healing spells. Not only that, but they require a disproportional amount of energy and despite everything, the thought of being trapped in the Palace without access to his magic makes Merlin squirm with anxiety.

“Will you stop fidgeting,” Arthur snaps.

They’d come to Arthur’s study straight after a stilted breakfast, quietly taking their respectful places. Since then, Arthur had been deeply engrossed at his holo-station, typing and violently back-spacing in equal intervals, while Merlin has been trying and failing to concentrate on yet another scan from an ancient, dusty tome.

“I’m not fidgeting!” he protests, knowing how ridiculous it sounds as he fidgets some more.

Arthur glares and at any other time, Merlin would probably have taken the unspoken invitation for a good, old row. But he’s still feeling a little raw and there’s something in the tense line of Arthur’s shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched even harder than usual, and Merlin finds himself softening instead. Arthur is clearly wound tight. Had Merlin been wrong? Had Arthur not taken the opportunity to get off this morning after all?

And why is Merlin so determined to give himself another raging hard-on by letting his thoughts go straight down the rabbit hole of debauchery again?

Biting his lip, Merlin tries his best to push all of that away and instead of antagonising, he goes for a milder tone.

“I’m not the one using their holo-station as a punching bag,” he says drily. “What’s got you so worked up, anyway?”

At first, Merlin is sure Arthur’s going to bite his head off, but his irritation smoothes out abruptly on a sigh.

“It’s this fucking speech.”

“Speech?”

“I have to ‘say a few words’-” Arthur rolls his eyes. “At the opening of the new children’s hospital.”

“Don’t you have people who write that shit for you?”

Arthur grimaces. “I’d rather not sound like a complete buffoon. At least fucking up my own speech still makes me sound like myself.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Merlin casts his pad aside and rounds Arthur’s desk-monstrosity. “Let me see.”

Arthur obediently leans back as Merlin bends down, bracing himself on the edge of the polished wood as he skims the slightly stilted, but endearingly sincere lines.

“So?” Arthur prompts, and Merlin knows him well enough by now to hear the trace of nervousness beneath the haughtiness.

“It’s a bit stiff,” Merlin says honestly, sweeping his finger over the holo-pad to move the cursor. “But not bad. We can definitely work with that. Here, scoot back a bit-”

Arthur obliges and Merlin doesn’t think as he folds himself onto Arthur’s lap, hands already on the touch-keys and brain buzzing with possibilities of improvement. He’s tweaked three and written another two sentences before he’s even aware of what he’s done. His hands still above the keys.

Mouth dry, Merlin swallows convulsively, thinks about apologising even though he finds himself not sorry in the least. He almost does it all the same, but then Arthur’s hands are on his hips, warm and hesitant. When Merlin doesn’t protest, his touch firms, turns into something deliberate. Something wanting - and wanted.

Licking his lips, Merlin forces his breathing to calm and his fingers to resume their work.

This isn’t a big deal, Merlin tells himself firmly, even as Arthur’s arms slowly snake around his waist. I’ve sat in Will and Gwaine’s laps a hundred times.

Only that this is neither Will nor Gwaine, and the way Arthur feels underneath him and sets his body alight is whole solar systems away from the casual touches of his friends.

Swallowing hard, Merlin forces his attention back to the screen.

“There,” Merlin declares finally, overly-bright. Because they’re going to ignore the tension and move past it. “All done. You want to have a look?”

But Arthur is silent, the press of his fingers edged in desperation. Merlin can feel as much as hear him clearing his throat.

“In a minute. Can you-” Arthur breaks off, his breath a little uneven. “Can we just stay? Like this? Just for a bit.”

He doesn’t say Please, he doesn’t have to. Merlin can sense his need and finds that there’s little he wouldn’t give him. Slowly, he covers Arthur’s hands with his own, their fingers sliding together with frightening familiarity.

“Of course.”

Arthur’s head drops to Merlin’s shoulder, his forehead hot even through the layer of fabric between them. 

“Thank you.”

Merlin would like to say it gets better, but it really doesn’t.

No matter how many times he falls back on his endless mantra over the following three weeks, it does nothing to clear the ever-muddying waters. There’s simply no amount of logic that could possibly battle being in such close quarters all the time. Sharing someone’s bed is bound to create at least a base level of intimacy, especially when said bed sharing usually starts with them holding hands only to end with their bodies entwined by the time Merlin wakes in the morning. 

There’ll be awkward boners, Merlin’s flight to the bathroom. He’ll have a guilty wank, pretend he’s not thinking of Arthur, or the fact that Arthur is probably doing the exact same thing on the other side of the door. That his magic isn’t begging for Merlin to let it obliterate said door so that Merlin can see, or better yet, fall back into bed and just touch him.

Which is also around the time he comes all over himself in the most unsatisfying way.

And, really, if that’s all it was, Merlin could deal with it. Yes, fine, he’s never been so sexually frustrated in his life, but all that…it doesn’t really mean anything. Sure, it’s a bit uncomfortable and a lot annoying, his dick might be a little sore and his thoughts both scattered and obsessively clinging to the gutter, but things like these don’t dig deep. They float on the surface, souring his mood, before eventually fading away.

But this is an altogether different beast. One that digs its claws in, gouging Merlin’s heart until all the things he’s so desperately trying to bury bleed out and leave him aching and hollow.

It’s not real, Merlin thinks when his gaze snags on Arthur’s across a room and Arthur’s eyes deepen and his mouth softens, the corner lifting just that tiny, involuntary bit.

It’s not real, Merlin doesn’t say to Gwaine when, on one of his and Arthur’s fake coffee dates, he drags Merlin away and corners him in the staff room until Merlin spills the whole story in a rush, carefully wrapped in layers of indignant denial.

I know it’s not real, Arthur told him at the club, and, each night, lying sleepless under a fake sky and seduced by fake feelings, Merlin wonders if Arthur has been repeating the same mantra in his head. 

He wonders if either of them actually believes it.

The flash of the cameras hasn’t become any less obnoxious. 

At least Merlin no longer freezes like a woodland animal in the headlights. He obediently smiles and waves, his other hand held in Arthur’s own as they make their way swiftly towards the grand entrance of the The Avalon.

Unlike the nightclub, the atmosphere of the gala oozes snootiness. The ballroom is huge and already incredibly crowded. Most of the centre is taken up by a glimmering dance floor, a small orchestra seated at the furthest edge of it. They’re real musicians, of course - humans, not droids - who no doubt charged an arm and a leg for bringing their antique-looking instruments to the gig.

Dark-clad waiting staff expertly wind their way in-between glitzy guests, who all seem to be following the same electric colour-scheme and a penchant for excessive jewellery covering them from their hairline all the way to the hem of their dresses and frocks.

Merlin would honestly trade it all in for a club full of drunk, grinding celebrities.

“If we put all of them on a ship do you think it’d just sink to the bottom?” Merlin murmurs as Arthur hands him a tall flute of aggressively bubbling champagne. “What with everyone wearing their weight in gold and diamonds.”

Arthur snorts into his own glass, his lips barely touching the liquid inside without taking a sip. Merlin can’t imagine getting through the experience without the welcome numbness of alcohol.

Reflexively, Merlin’s eyes seek out the Knights stationed along the walls with other security personnel, eyes flickering over the room and fingers going to their ear pieces every so often. It’s just one more thing on a long list of things Merlin resents about the whole business.

“Arthur! Merlin!” Elena exclaims happily, swooping in to press an enthusiastic smooch to their cheeks.

Mithian, ever the more sedate one, air-kisses Arthur’s cheekbone, then squeezes Merlin’s arm with a smile.

It’s a relief to see that both of them went easy on the jewellery, Elena matching his choice in comfortable footwear, if in a more glamorous way.

She grins and punches his arm - and what is it with people wanting to hit him all the time?

“Love the shoes,” she says.

Merlin grimaces. “My best mate basically forces me to wear them everywhere now. He’s trademarked the design. Apparently I’ve made him rich.”

Elena laughs so hard she ends up snorting champagne from her nose. Merlin chuckles and hands her a napkin. Mithian rolls her eyes good-naturedly and wraps an arm around her.

“Fuck,” Arthur mutters. “I see the Dowager Duchess of Cornwall. I’d best go say hello. Be right back.”

Discarding his still full glass on a passing waiter’s tray, Arthur slips past Merlin, giving a gentle squeeze to the nape of his neck in parting. 

Watching Arthur’s retreating back, Merlin touches the still tingling spot, the ghost of Arthur’s fingers lingering.

“So, tell us more about that friend of yours,” Elena prompts, eyes bright with humour.

So Merlin does, regaling them with some of the highlights of his friendship with Will, all the while feeling incredibly vindicated in being the one to share embarrassing stories for once. 

They’re occasionally interrupted by people wanting to trade vapid smalltalk with Elena and Mithian, all of them eyeing Merlin surreptitiously. He sticks to stiff nods and tight smiles, wanting nothing than to be as far away from here as possible.

The latest such interloper seems even more determined than the others, full of oily smiles and cringeworthy compliments. Tuning them out, Merlin grabs another glass from a passing waiter and subtly checks his phone. 

He finds a message from Gwen, updating him on the situation with Elyan, who’d recently lost his job and been evicted from the flat that had come with it. Gwen had first told him about it during his and Arthur’s last visit at the Grind. Merlin’s been trying to help come up with solutions ever since, but so far all three of them have come up empty. 

Guilt twists his insides at the fact that he’s currently surrounded by people whose clothes cost more than his friends’ yearly salaries. No matter how resigned he’s become over his current role, Merlin will never fit in here.

He’s only just sent his response when Elena grips his arm.

“Oh, fairy holes. What’s she doing here?”

Alarmed, Merlin looks up and follows Elena’s gaze, which is trained on Arthur, standing even more rigidly than usual. The bedecked Dowager Duchess from before has disappeared, in her place is now a petite blond woman who is batting her eyelashes.

“Who’s that?” Merlin asks, careful to keep his voice down.

Behind them, Mithian and the oily tosser are still locked in conversation, entirely oblivious. Elena hooks her arm through Merlin’s to give them an excuse to be closer.

“That’s Lady Vivian,” she tells him quietly. “Daughter to the Duke of Dyfed. He and His Majesty are old mates.”

Merlin watches the woman coyly twist a lock of her hair around her finger and something in his stomach tightens.

“Poor Arthur,” Elena continues. “He can’t stand her, but the King and Duke have been trying to get them to marry for years. They’ve been throwing them together since they were kids.”

The unnamed thing in Merlin’s stomach turns into something vicious and ugly. Some of his reaction must’ve shown on his face, because Elena gives him a sympathetic look and squeezes his arm probably a little tighter than intended.

His only comfort is that Elena seems to be right; Arthur looks as though he would rather be anywhere else. The sight leeches away some of the bitterness, replaced by a surge of protectiveness. 

Decision made, Merlin empties his glass and puts it aside, then straightens his jacket.

“I better go rescue my boyfriend,” he says wryly.

The word sits a little too comfortably on his lips, but Merlin ignores it. Elena grins widely and Merlin dances out of the way of another playful punch. Her laugh follows him as he goes.

Merlin quickly finds that the waiting staff must have a whole section of their training dedicated solely to dodging and weaving around posh guests. The fact that everyone here seems to consider themselves the most important means that no one is willing to move out of anyone’s way.

It would be funny if it weren’t so annoying.

“-really couldn’t believe it, Arthur, when I heard. You slumming it like this!” Vivian is saying just when Merlin finally comes into listening range.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s talking about. Arthur looks as though he wishes he could incinerate her with the force of his glare. Merlin feels an instant, unexpected warmth at seeing him so ready to leap to Merlin’s defence.

Any lingering doubts of his right to come to Arthur’s aid disappear. Without another moment’s hesitation, he moulds himself to Arthur’s side; the gesture unapologetic in its possessiveness.

“There you are,” Merlin says, his voice coming out low and intimate.

Arthur opens to him like a flower, his body turning towards Merlin, his arm wrapping around him to pull him even closer. Arthur’s fingers curl tenderly at the nape of his neck, re-awakening the skin to his touch. Merlin feels the resulting shiver all the way to his bones.

“There you are,” Arthur returns quietly, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe. “I thought you might’ve abandoned me.”

And they’re only pretending, so Merlin doesn’t let himself think before he responds.

“Never.”

This close, Arthur’s eyes are very blue and Merlin finds himself weirdly captivated by his pale lashes. There really isn’t anything about Arthur that isn’t golden, Merlin thinks. He’s almost surprised when instead of annoyed bitterness, now there’s only a warm ache unfurling within his chest.

Arthur gazes back at him, unblinking, his warm breath brushing Merlin’s lips like a phantom kiss.

Vivian clears her throat, shrill and obnoxious.

He feels more than hears Arthur’s sigh and Merlin only barely manages to mask his annoyance as he takes a page from Arthur’s handbook of royals and eyes her cooly. 

“And who’s that?” he asks Arthur, making sure to sound as though he doesn’t care one way or another. “Friend of yours?”

As expected, the fact that Merlin seems not to know who she is riles Vivian better than any insult, her artfully rosied cheeks flushing into something dark and blotchy in irritation.

Arthur doesn’t confirm or deny, instead going for a neutral, “This is Lady Vivian.”

Merlin makes no move to extricate himself from Arthur.

“Hello.”

Vivian goes even blotchier. “You’re to address me as my Lady, you peasant.”

He feels Arthur going rigid at his side, drawn tauter than a bowstring. Merlin runs a soothing palm along his spine.

“Well, this peasant is here to steal away his boyfriend, so if you’ll excuse us.”

Vivian turns indignant eyes and a pouty mouth at Arthur.

“Arthur, you can’t go yet! You’re supposed to ask me to dance!”

“Sorry,” Arthur says coolly. “I already promised Merlin the next one. And all the ones after that.”

Vivian looks as though Arthur slapped her and Merlin almost feels a little sorry for her, until he remembers that this is the person who accused Arthur of ‘slumming’ and called Merlin a peasant to his face. He doesn’t bother fighting the urge to give Vivian a smug grin as Arthur leads him away.

It’s only when they’re halfway across the room, drawing dangerously close to the dance floor that Arthur’s words register.

“Maybe now’s the time I should tell you that I can’t actually dance any of your fancy dances,” Merlin murmurs, causing Arthur to stop and turn to look at him in surprise.

“And by fancy dances you mean…?”

Merlin rolls his eyes and tilts his head where a few steps away couples are stiffly circling each other in a poised and sedate fox-trot.

“You know, ballroom and all that stuff.”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur looks amused rather than irritated.

“You said you can’t dance fancy dances, that means you can dance something.”

Merlin shrugs. “I grew up in a tiny village. My mum taught me all the country dances she knows pretty much as soon as I could walk.”

There’s a gleam in Arthur’s eye and Merlin wonders whether he should be alarmed by it.

“Well, that’s easily fixed, then. Wait here.”

“Arthur, what-”

But Arthur’s already gone.

Pushing to his tip-toes, Merlin tries to keep track of his broad-shouldered form and golden head. He watches Arthur make his way towards the small stage where the musicians have just finished with their dull fox-trot number.

Arthur addresses the conductor, who at first displays the familiar signs of being starstruck in the presence of a royal. But as Arthur keeps talking, the conductor starts looking increasingly scandalised.

Merlin bites at his lips.

Leaving the disapproving conductor, Merlin then watches Arthur round up his Knights alongside Elena, Mithian and a rather horrified looking George.

With the lull in music, the ballroom’s dance floor is slowly being abandoned by slightly bewildered guests.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks when Arthur is back.

He takes Merlin’s hand and tugs him towards the dance floor.

“I promised you a dance, didn’t I?”

“But-”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur smirks. “I promise you’ll know this one.”

George materialises next to them, eyes wide and expression even more pinched than usual.

“Your Highness, I really don’t think-”

“You do know this dance, don’t you, George?” Arthur cuts him off pleasantly.

George looks a little faint. “Yes, but, sire-”

Arthur claps him on the shoulder, then does the same to Lance who takes his position across from George.

The first few familiar notes of Shepherd and Shepherdess sound across the ballroom’s dance floor and Merlin’s jaw drops. He looks around in alarm, seeing several heads turn towards the musicians in clear bewilderment.

“You didn’t,” Merlin says, turning back to Arthur with wide eyes. “How do you even know this dance?”

Arthur’s smirk widens. “The Crown Prince’s education is very extensive, Merlin.”

The realisation hits like a sledgehammer.

He did this for me, Merlin thinks dumbly. All this is-

“Hurry up, Mithie,” Elena urges, already bouncing on the spot.

“Hang on!” Mithian laughs, struggling to take off her earrings and the somewhat ornate combs protruding from her artful hairdo. “Give me a second!”

It’s a wise decision, really, seeing as country dances are notorious for their vigorous hopping about. Part of why posh people see them as vulgar, Merlin supposes.

Finally freed of her bulkiest accessories, Mithian takes her place across from Elena, who has no doubt already scandalised half the room by using the slit in her dress to tie it into a sort of mini-skirt in order not to get tangled in it.

Leon and Percy are the last to take their place in the formation and Merlin can’t help but be amused at the varying levels of enthusiasm coming from the group.

Having finished their short warm-up, the musicians restart the song. The pace it starts off as is deceptively sedate, as they circle each other, moving apart and coming back together. And then the music truly kicks in and they’re off. 

Laughing stupidly they break and reform lines, change partners and join sweaty hands as they hop around wildly, trying to keep track of which direction they’re supposed to go and who they’re supposed to do it with.

It’s clear that some of them have more experience than others with this type of dancing.

George looks perpetually torn between general mortification and what Merlin thinks must be horror at the fact that he actually seems to be enjoying himself. Leon keeps sucking in his cheeks to hide the size of his grin, and calm, quiet Lance turns out to be one of the most vigorous of the group alongside Elena. Merlin suspects it might have to do with growing up a country boy himself.

Soon, Elena is whooping, Mithian and Percy are hooting with laughter as they mess up the direction. It makes all of them stumble together in an undignified bundle of limbs, before Merlin shouts out the right direction and gets them back into rhythm, trying not to stumble with how hard he himself is laughing.

And then there’s Arthur, golden and uninhibited, for once utterly unbridled of the constraints of decorum and so beautiful it hurts Merlin to look at him.

And as they twist and twirl, parting only to be reunited, Merlin thinks that when all this is over, when he has to go back to his regular life, this is what he’ll remember.

The light catching in Arthur’s hair as he throws his head back in a laugh, the feel of his hands as they grab Merlin’s own, warm and tight as though he never wants to let go. And his eyes, bright and hungry and only ever for Merlin.

PRINCE ARTHUR GAMBOLS THROUGH GALA; CAMELOT’S PRINCE CONDUCTS COUNTRY FAIR; HOP AND SWAP: PRINCE AND FRIENDS DOMINATE DANCE FLOOR-

“Crown Prince Prances With Country Consort,” Merlin reads out loud. “Well, at least they didn’t call me a peasant.”

Arthur groans. “Father’s going to kill me!”

He’s barely touched a thing on the breakfast table, instead swiping through increasingly outrageous headlines and what seems to be a moment by moment recap of last night.

What’s more, the fun and abandon ended up being contagious, which is why the m-graphs and holos show not only their merry group, but a good portion of guests who hadn’t been so uptight after all. Many of them had followed Mithian’s example to discard heavy jewellery in favour for more unrestrained and comfortable movement. Even the snooty musicians had perked up in the end, no doubt invigorated by the atmosphere and the happy country songs.

Grimacing, Arthur finally flicks away the articles and discards his pad.

Merlin proceeds to watch him poke listlessly at his toast as guilt niggles at him. He looks down at his own abandoned slice. 

Last night had been fun, more than that, it had been brilliant and Merlin can’t bring himself to regret any of it. Still, he can’t help but think he’s failed Arthur somehow. After all, there’s no way Arthur would’ve done what he did if it weren’t for the enchantment. Especially not for Merlin.

He sighs and rubs at his forehead.

“Headache?” Arthur asks quietly.

Merlin moves his rubbing to one of his throbbing temples. “Yeah, I shouldn’t have had more than one glass, that stuff is lethal.”

Arthur closes a warm hand around Merlin’s wrist. “C’mon.”

Merlin frowns a little, but lets himself be led to the couch and gently pushed down on it. Grabbing his shoulders, Arthur coaxes Merlin to face away from him and, after Merlin complies, starts to knead careful, ever-tightening circles from the dip of Merlin’s shoulders to the nape of his neck.

Merlin groans, head falling forward as Arthur finds the base of his skull where tension has gathered like a brewing storm cloud.

“Fuck,” Merlin moans, not even caring how obscene he sounds. “Where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Morgana.” Arthur’s thumbs follow expertly along the top of his spine, framing it firmly, then rubbing across it in more gentle circles. Merlin barely even registers the words through the delicious haze of pain-pleasure. “I used to have really bad migraines when I was younger.”

Merlin carefully rolls his shoulders, whimpering when Arthur’s hands follow and gently dig between his shoulder blades. He slumps forward with the slight pressure, bracing himself against the soft upholstery as he pushes back into Arthur’s touch.

Arthur’s thumbs return to the nape of his neck, but this time there’s hardly any pressure. Slowly, they follow the path of Merlin’s hairline, then dip past where skin meets hair. Merlin shudders, erupting in goosebumps as he bites back another helpless noise.

And just like that, the atmosphere around them shifts, the currents of the tide turning, flooding Merlin in a wave of hunger and longing so strong his vision blurs with it.

He feels weak, his arms trembling where they’re still braced against the cushions, but Arthur’s grip is as warm and strong as ever and Merlin is terrified when he realises that he feels safe here; safe in Arthur’s hands. Safe with Arthur.

 “I love your neck, you know?” Arthur murmurs, fingers gliding up to curl gently in Merlin’s hair, then back down to brush against his skin. “It’s beautiful.”

Merlin feels like an exposed nerve, raw and vulnerable. His ribs are the cage to the wild beast that is his heart, clawing and clamouring at its confines, as though it wants nothing more than to leap forth and fall at Arthur’s feet.

“Arthur,” Merlin rasps, just to feel the way his lips and tongue wrap around the shape of Arthur’s name.

Arthur shifts, his grip tighter, his body closer. Hot breath caresses the over-sensitised nape of Merlin’s neck, the proximity of Arthur’s lips to his skin leaving him instantly, achingly hard.

Merlin bites down on a moan, but the resulting sound ends up painfully hungry all the same. His dick weeps and throbs, unwilling to go ignored even a moment longer.

There’s nothing, in all his life, that Merlin has wanted more than to turn around this very moment, to climb on and into Arthur, to taste his lips and brand the shape of them against his own mouth so that once learned, he’d remember it always.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again breathlessly, because right now it’s the only word he knows.

Arthur’s fingers slip past the neckline of Merlin’s t-shirt, idly dipping into the hills and valleys of Merlin’s spine.

“So soft,” he murmurs, voice gravelly. Then, even lower, “I just want to touch you. All the time.”

He says it like it’s a confession, as though he couldn’t have kept it in for even a moment longer. And something about it, about that thought and Arthur’s tone, finally penetrates the haze of helpless desire clinging to Merlin’s mind, dragging him kicking and screaming back to the harshness of reality.

Arthur doesn’t want this.

The sting of tears is sharp and sudden and Merlin chokes down a mortifying sound, throat burning as he fights it down. Still, something must’ve escaped all the same, because abruptly, Arthur stills.

“Merlin,” Arthur says and maybe he does it for the same reasons that Merlin had, only that it doesn’t matter. None of this matters, because Arthur doesn’t mean it. Not really. “Are you alright?”

Swallowing the taste of salt and bitterness, Merlin rubs the hem of his sleeve across his eyes.

“Yes.” Merlin forces as much cheer into his voice as he can. “I feel much better now. Thank you.”

He stands hastily on wobbly legs, his dick slightly calmer, but still over-sensitised from the intense rush of arousal of only a few moments ago.

“Are you sure-” Arthur starts, but Merlin cuts in quickly.

“Of course!” He forces himself to turn and grin painfully wide. “I just remembered we still need to do your blood test.”

Predictably, Arthur’s face shutters at the mention of his health.

“Yes,” he says stiffly. “Of course.”

“I’ll just get the haemoscope,” Merlin says hastily, already fleeing. “Be right back.”

The salty taste of unshed tears follows him all the way to the bedroom, but he refuses to let them fall.

Merlin knows the instant that he sees Gaius’ face that something’s wrong. He hates that face. Nothing good has ever come from that face.

“Oh, no,” Merlin says. “I don’t want to hear this, do I?”

Gaius sighs. “I wish I had better news, Merlin.”

Merlin feels himself pale in alarm, still shaken up and vulnerable from the events of this morning. Kilgharrah, perched on an ugly, faux-antique lamp, shoots Merlin a concerned look.

“It’s not Arthur, is it?” Merlin asks, uncaring how fearful it sounds. “I mean, he’s not getting worse, is he?”

Kilgharrah bridges the small distance with a few flaps of his wings, his weight a familiar comfort as he lands on Merlin’s shoulder.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Gaius reassures him quickly, his tone mild. “Prince Arthur’s situation is stable, though I do agree with your assessment that this might make him more susceptible to compulsion. However, at present that is the lesser evil - we don’t want to strain his body any further than it already has been. In fact-” Gaius dithers, looking a little pinched. “I would suggest that small indulgences might help keep things…under control.”

Kilgharrah snorts and Merlin sends him a quick glare, even as slow mortification sets in as all the possible implications of ‘small indulgences’ flash through Merlin’s mind.

“You can’t mean-”

Gaius holds up a hand. “I trust you to set appropriate boundaries and not take advantage. I do believe His Highness has been in excellent care so far.”

Seems Gaius has more confidence in Merlin’s self control than Merlin himself.

“That’s not all, is it? There’s more, I can tell.”

“I’m afraid so, my boy.” Gaius leans slightly forward on his folded arms. “With the spell stabilised, and less erratic results, I’ve finally been able to identify what was used on the Prince. The potion is called Sentes Amor.”

Merlin frowns, exchanging a quick look with Kilgharrah and finding him equally mystified.

“Never heard of it.”

Which by itself is rather alarming, considering the amount of time and variety of research he binged after that fateful day at the Grind. Then again, he hadn’t come across any 3-point spells period. Love spells were 2-point for a reason, in that in most cases the agent is meant to be the focus of the receptor, thus closing the circuit.

“I would imagine not,” Gaius says. “The ingredients are extremely rare and the brewing process lengthy and complicated. Not only that, but the incantation requires a great deal of power.”

“But it can be broken?”

“Yes.” 

But Gaius doesn’t look any less grave and the dread pooling in Merlin’s gut churns uncomfortably.

“Merlin,” Gaius says, tone heavy and solemn. “The only known antidote to Sentes Amor is for the stabiliser to break through the induced emotions by returning them genuinely by bestowing True Love’s Kiss.”

Churning dread abruptly turns to nausea. Merlin stares at Gaius, wishing for all the world that he’d misheard, or at the very least, misunderstood.

“Are you really saying what I think you’re saying?” Merlin asks faintly. “You’re telling me the only way to break the enchantment is for me to fall in love with Arthur?”

Gaius sighs and slowly nods.

Merlin’s vision swims for a moment as the world tilts around him.

“That can’t be the only way, Gaius, it can’t! There must be something else we can do!”

Gaius shakes his head, naked sympathy shining from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

And Merlin can do nothing, nothing at all as realisation sinks into him bit by agonising bit. He thinks, a little hysterically, of all the desperate, useless efforts to shield his heart. What a fucking joke.

In the end it’s all been for nothing, because now Merlin knows that to save Arthur, he’ll have to break himself first.

The harsh artificial lighting does nothing to take away from Arthur’s magnificence.

Merlin still remembers the first time he’d imagined him like this; sweat-damp hair, grin as sharp as the edge of his sword. He thinks about that now, about how his imagination had been nothing but an overexposed m-graph, nothing at all like the sight in front of him. 

Next to Arthur, everyone else looks washed out, their opacity reduced and blended into the background. But Arthur has been brought right to the top layer - his outline gilded and the contrast and sharpness set to ‘high’.

Merlin regrets coming down here now. He’d taken pity on a harried George, agreeing to personally drag Arthur away from his toys because he’s running late with his bi-weekly meeting with Sophia.

And who can blame him, Merlin thinks.

For all his usual punctuality, Arthur has no problem utilising lateness to make a point. In this case, Merlin knows, it’s that he doesn’t give a toss about the statistics of his social media accounts and which current brands, music or entertainment are supposedly his favourite at the moment.

A sharp clash of swords draws Merlin’s attention back to the training field, where Arthur has just skilfully parried Lance’s attack.

“C’mon, Lancelot, you’re not beating a carpet!” Arthur shouts gleefully, charging forward with a powerful thrust and briefly unbalancing a laughing Lance.

Merlin bites back a smile, even as he as his amusement flickers and fizzles out. There really hasn’t been cause for much lightheartedness over the past few days, Gaius’ devastating revelation bearing down on him like a wall-closing trap.

If there was ever a time in Merlin’s life where he longed for a pause button, the ability to simply stop time for a while to just process, it’s now.

No matter how hard he tries to get his thoughts in order, to line everything up calmly and try to come up with some kind of plan going forward he just gets lost in emotionalism. His mind seems to have turned into a vortex, sucking up any attempt at detached rationality.

At night, all Merlin thinks about is turning over in Arthur’s arms, gently waking him up just so he can cry on him. To have Arthur comfort him as he confesses all the things he’s been trying to keep buried. For Arthur to kiss him, hold him, tell him that everything’s going to be alright.

But Merlin can’t do that. He can’t do anything. All he can do is stay silent and endure. Step aside and let Arthur obliterate the last, flimsy barriers Merlin has so desperately been clinging to in the hope of protecting himself.

He returns his gaze Arthur. He should be used to the sight by now, but of course Arthur defies him in this, too. Only becomes more beautiful every time Merlin looks at him.

The walls close in a little further.

“Merlin.” Leon materialises at his side, making Merlin jump. “Are you here for Arthur? He’ll be happy to see you.”

“Oh, no,” Merlin blurts impulsively. 

Suddenly facing Arthur in this state, with Merlin quietly coming apart at the seams and Arthur all dishevelled and breathless-

Merlin can’t, not right now, not like this.

“I’ve got to dash, actually. I just came to pass on a message from George,” Merlin goes on, forcing a rueful smile. “Could you just tell Arthur that he’s running late for his meeting with Sophia?”

There’s a small frown between Leon’s brows, but Merlin doesn’t want to think about what it could mean. For a moment, Merlin is terrified that Leon might say something, anything that might hint at Merlin’s flighty behaviour, or wanting news about Arthur’s condition. But then Leon’s expression smoothes back into calm neutrality and he nods.

“Of course. I’ll let Arthur know.”

Merlin’s brittle smile is in danger of crumbling, but he keeps it in place through sheer force of will.

“Thanks, Leon.”

Leon nods, then speaks up just as Merlin is about to turn away.

“Oh and, Merlin, before you go, I thought you’d like to know there’s someone at the shooting range who wants to say hi.”

“Uhm, thanks?”

Leon gives him a small, enigmatic smile, leaving Merlin bewildered as he retraces his steps towards the ascender. The shooting range is one floor up in what Merlin calls the ‘secret service’ basement. It must be every action flick director’s dream set. He idly wonders what King Uther would do if anyone ever dared ask if they could use it as a film location and snickers a little.

Scanning his bracelet on the panel in the ascender, Merlin presses -1 on the touchpad and is soundlessly carried upwards. The shooting range is busy, it always is at this time because everyone avoids it when Arthur and the Knights do their obligatory practice every other morning. 

While no less skilled, Arthur isn’t particularly passionate about phasers. He prefers hitting things. Anyone can press a button, Arthur had told him once when he asked. It’s a coward’s weapon. In close combat you have to rely on speed and skill. You have to face your opponent, get close to them, not simply hide behind a rock and hope for the best.

Sometimes Merlin thinks Arthur might’ve been born in the wrong century.

“Merlin!”

Merlin’s head snaps up. Despite Leon’s mysterious words, he hadn’t really expected to meet someone he knows down here. He squints at the happily waving figure, force-field dropped to allow himself to be heard.

“Elyan?” Merlin’s eyes widen in realisation and he picks up his step, even more bewildered than before as he finally reaches him. “What are you doing here?”

Elyan’s grin is blinding and he yanks Merlin in for a brief, back-thumping hug. Over his shoulder, Merlin sees Percy, who’s leaning against the wall with a small smile. He gives Merlin a wave of his own. Buried as he’s been in his own head, Merlin hadn’t even realised that Percy had been missing from Arthur’s group.

They break apart.

“It’s good to see you, mate!” Elyan says, still grinning, giving Merlin a little, enthusiastic shake.

Merlin grins back, genuinely happy to see him, if still confused by his presence. Then he realises what Elyan’s wearing. Elyan follows his gaze and winks, sweeping a hand along his body, presenting his uniform.

“You like?”

Merlin’s still staring, not quite comprehending what’s in front of him.

“You’re in Arthur’s personal guard? Since when?”

Elyan laughs, clearly pleased to have taken Merlin by surprise. 

“This is my first day, actually. Apparently Lance heard about my situation from Gwen, so he recommended me for the job.”

As much as Merlin believes Lance to be someone to jump at the chance to help a friend, he somehow doubts he had anything to do with this. Pushing away the complicated feeling inside his chest, Merlin drags up a smile and draws Elyan into another quick hug.

“That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!”

“I still can’t quite believe it, honestly,” Elyan says, then gently shoves Merlin’s shoulder. “And you! I can’t believe you live here. It all just happened so fast.” He sobers slightly, dark eyes turning intent as he gives Merlin a searching look. “Gwen is worried about you, you know? She told me to keep an eye on you.”

Merlin makes a show of rolling his eyes even as an unhappy feeling twists his gut.

“Everything’s fine,” he lies easily, forcing a little huff of a laugh.

Elyan doesn’t look entirely appeased, but he doesn’t press further, simply claps a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gives him a brief squeeze.

“Well, you know where to find me if you need anything.”

Merlin’s lips quirk with more sincerity this time. “Thanks, Elyan. And congratulations again. You’ll do great.”

By the time Arthur stalks in hours later, the late afternoon sun is low in the sky and has painted long shadows on the walls and floor. Merlin, legs hooked over the couch’s armrest and pad gone dark and forgotten on his chest, startles and cranes his neck. He can’t remember when he last moved.

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding,” Arthur says, coming to stand at Merlin’s side and looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

Merlin lets his head fall back onto the couch, staring up at Arthur from a weird, almost upside-down angle.

“I’m not hiding,” he protests indignantly, even though that’s exactly what he’s been doing.

“Is that why you couldn’t even stick around this morning to say hello?”

Merlin doesn’t squirm. Just.

“I had things to do…”

Arthur gives him a pointed look, raising his eyebrows at Merlin’s still reclined position.

“I was studying!” Merlin snaps, giving a lame little flap with his pad. He’s not entirely sure why he feels the sudden need to defend himself. He deflates slightly beneath Arthur’s steady stare. “I saw Elyan. At the shooting range. Thank you, for helping him.”

Arthur licks his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. His references were impeccable, there was no reason why I shouldn’t give him a chance.”

And Merlin’s stupid heart stutters and trips, spilling helpless affection until he thinks he must be overflowing.

“Thank you,” he says again, softly.

Arthur clears his throat and looks away. It’s only now that the light shifts along the planes of his face that Merlin notices that he looks pale and tired in a way he hasn’t ever since Merlin started sharing his bed.

Merlin frowns, concerned. “Arthur, are you feeling okay?”

Arthur presses his lips together. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

“What, why?”

Arthur looks at him steadily and then he’s suddenly right there, one hand braced on the back of the couch while the fingers of the other alight gently on Merlin’s brow.

“It’s this frown here,” Arthur murmurs, thumb smoothing along the crease of Merlin’s brow. 

It’s such an innocent spot, but Arthur’s touch is hot, his caress lingering intimately. And all Merlin can think of is the way Arthur’s fingers had felt at the nape of his neck when Arthur had told him I love your neck and I want to touch you all the time.

Merlin swallows and turns his head, moving out of reach as he clumsily struggles into an upright position. Because if he has to go another minute with Arthur above him, he might actually go insane.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says, sharper than intended.

Arthur rears back a little, unhappiness in the line of his mouth. “Seriously, I haven’t seen you smile these past three days.”

Bitterness pools on Merlin’s tongue, brimming over before he can swallow it down.

“I’m not sure there’s a great deal to smile about.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, expression wounded. It stabs uncomfortably at Merlin’s heart.

He sighs, contrite. “Arthur-”

But Arthur is pulling back, turning away and putting distance between them.

“You should get changed. We’re having dinner with my father tonight.”

Merlin blanches. “What? You mean I have to be there?”

Arthur glares at him. “I’d bring my other fake boyfriend, but he’s otherwise engaged tonight so you’ll have to do.”

The weird throb of jealousy is utterly unexpected and Merlin has the sudden urge to bang his head against the closest wall. Could he get any more pathetic?

Frowning and pissed off with himself and the phantom of a non-existent second boyfriend, he watches Arthur disappear into the bedroom.

Like the rest of the Palace, the dining hall is done in a pseudo-medieval style, vaulted ceilings and all, and more of those bloody stained glass windows. Merlin can’t help but see the irony, thinking it rather poetic that the lack of view to the outside world is like a physical manifestation of Uther’s narrow-minded bigotry.

“I thought this room is supposed to be only for close friends and family,” Merlin says, feeling uncomfortable in the yawning space.

“It is,” Arthur says curtly.

Merlin glances at Arthur, guilty for having brushed him off like that before, but terrified of letting on how torn up he really is about it all. He wonders, once again, what Arthur is thinking and regrets not having at least tried to clear the air between them before having to sit down to dinner with King Uther bloody Pendragon.

Facing ahead once more, Merlin dubiously eyes the polished length of the dining room table, the three settings at the very end looking as though they’d got lost. Someone clearly must have a very different idea of what constitutes ‘close friends and family’, considering this table must fit at least a hundred people.

He follows Arthur to his seat, finding to his relief that he’ll be sat next to Arthur instead of across from him, putting him between Merlin and the King.

“Arthur,” Merlin starts, having absolutely no idea how to finish.

He finds himself pinned by Arthur’s gaze, tongue stuck uselessly to the roof of his too-dry mouth and swamped with the intense urge to just touch him. He doesn’t want any more words between them, true or otherwise, apart from maybe one - Merlin’s name, the shape of it on Arthur’s lips as Merlin finally claims them for himself.

The door at the far end of the hall swishes open, slicing through the loaded atmosphere. At the sight of Uther Pendragon, closer and far more real than Merlin had ever expected, any warmth within him curdles and goes abruptly cold.

“Ah, you’re on time,” are the King’s first words.

He isn’t a particularly tall man, but he moves like someone used to big spaces and there’s something about his presence that fills the room to capacity. But unlike Arthur, whose presence is like warm sunlight banishing shadows, King Uther’s is like a blanket made of steel, sharp and suffocating. 

The King takes his seat at the head and if Merlin had ever thought Arthur arrogant and aloof, it’s nothing compared to the look of frosty contempt that the King is gifting him with right now.

“Emrys, is it,” he says, dripping derision.

It’s not a question, but Merlin nods anyway, then, at Arthur’s discreet and none-too-gentle nudge hastily adds, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Like his early days at the Palace, the situation is reminiscent of his school years, being addressed by his surname and looked down on for all his social failings.

The King reaches for his napkin just as the door opens and a line of servants, each carrying a different dish or beverage, comes marching in with soldier-like precision. Merlin hastily follows the example, fiddling with his own napkin and spreading it across his lap.

“It’s good to finally meet my son’s wayward companion.” King Uther shoots a pointed look at Arthur, who twitches but, Merlin notes with admiration, doesn’t squirm. The King returns his unsmiling gaze to Merlin. “Catrina tells me you’re a student.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Merlin leans back to make room for one of the servants, glad for the reprieve. He takes his time choosing something from the platter and serving himself. “At Camelot University.” 

He plans to leave it at that, because surely the King already knows all there is to know about the bloke who’s supposedly dating his son. But the King clearly has other ideas. 

“Magical Theory?”

Next to him, Arthur takes a deep sip of his water glass. Merlin has a feeling he’d prefer it to be the wine.

Merlin wavers only briefly, before reaching for the wine himself. Maybe he can drink for them both.

Throat freshly lubricated and feeling like a broken record, he repeats, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He does his best to keep his tone neutral, though can’t quite keep his teeth from grinding. He can tell the King is trying to rattle him, make him cower. Too bad such things have never worked on Merlin.

The servants back off, half of them departing while the other half takes up position against the wall, ready to be called upon. Despite having grown used to the staff’s presence over the past weeks, it’s still a little unnerving and does little to settle the jumpy tendrils of Merlin’s magic.

He steels himself for the next round, but it seems that King Uther is conducting some kind of tactical retreat, his next words directed at Arthur. Somehow, instead of feeling like a reprieve, it only makes Merlin’s nerves grow tauter.

“I trust the preparations for the parade are well underway?”

The King’s words almost sound like a challenge, his cold eyes daring Arthur to deliver disappointing news, to show the slightest weakness to be pounced upon.

But Arthur doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash, years of practice in the firm set of his shoulders, an expression of steely detachment effortlessly in place.

“Yes, Father,” Arthur says, deftly cutting into a potato. 

Merlin’s never seen anyone eat with this level of neatness before. It’s something he noticed early on about Arthur, how he never opens his mouth too wide, how he somehow manages to only dirty a small circle at the very centre of his plate, leaving the rest untouched.

Looking at the King’s plate, Merlin finds it looking more like his own than Arthur’s and wonders now more than ever who taught Arthur all these little things. Who’d sat with him and showed him how to tie his laces? To button his coat?

“-certain you’re up to the task?” the King is saying as Merlin tunes back in. “Catrina has voiced her concern to me at your dismissal of her suggestions.”

Arthur visibly grits his teeth. “Catrina’s suggestions included an aerial performance and the hiring of live peacocks.”

Merlin only barely manages to bite back a snort.

“The people expect a spectacle, Arthur.” King Uther’s voice is full of edges and hidden traps. Merlin shudders to think what might happen if one were to slip up and get caught. “Extravagance is key.”

“Extravagance doesn’t mean abandoning all sense of taste and overspending,” Arthur says tightly. “No one will care if we’re short a few fireworks. Instead, we’re going to donate the leftover budget to the free school-meal programme.”

The King looks anything but pleased. “Don’t you think there’s been enough of that during your own birthday celebrations?”

Arthur’s grip on the silverware is white-knuckled, his food almost entirely untouched.

“Some of these charities were founded by Mother,” Arthur says, voice deceptively steady. “I’d have hoped you’d see the merit in cultivating them.”

King Uther waves a dismissive hand. “Your mother was a bleeding heart, a gentle soul. But handing out free gifts to vagrants will just make them get used to it and they’ll never put in the work to get anywhere in life.”

Arthur very carefully puts down his cutlery.

“They’re all our subjects and we’re responsible for them.” His voice is quiet, but made steely with conviction. It makes something hot and fierce surge within Merlin’s chest. Arthur continues, bright and fervent. “Be they unfortunate souls or criminals, it’s our duty to care for them, especially them, because often they are proof that we have failed somewhere.”

Pride explodes in Merlin’s chest, burning along his veins until he’s alight with it, until he has to battle the ridiculous urge to sink to his knees and swear fealty.

“What is this nonsense, Arthur?” There is thunder on King Uther’s brow. “I do believe you’re getting a little too comfortable making eyes at the cameras and wasting energy and resources on your pet projects. You’re the future King of these lands and it isn’t a king’s duty to organise charity galas and hold hands with dirt-smeared orphans. It’s the Queen’s responsibility, or in this case, your future Queen.” He glances disdainfully at Merlin, adding begrudgingly. “Or Consort.”

Merlin glares back defiantly, finding it increasingly hard to swallow down the words burning on his tongue.

“After making such a spectacle of yourself at the Avalon I assume you’re serious about your choice in…partner.” King Uther once more glares down his nose at Merlin, who tilts his chin in defiance. The King scowls, then bestows the same on Arthur. “I would suggest making Emrys here familiar with the duties of a future Consort. I have no doubt he will need all the help he can get, considering his…humble origins.”

Merlin fears he might be leaving permanent grooves in his tongue from his teeth. Beside him Arthur sits up a little straighter - if that’s even possible.

“I hardly think Merlin is ready to-” Arthur starts, but is promptly cut across by the King.

“Maybe he’d like to help organise Camelot University’s magical display?” King Uther turns his unforgiving gaze on Merlin. “Have you volunteered for it before, Emrys? I understand that you hold the highest level in magic use.”

The trap couldn’t be more obvious if it started metaphorically flashing rainbow lights and singing about its intentions to ensnare Merlin and maul him to death. He refuses to back down.

“I haven’t. Sire. Volunteered, that is.”

The trap flashes a little harder, sings a little louder.

“And why is that?”

“Because I disagree with the principle of it.”

“Do you indeed,” the King says softly, danger dripping from every syllable. “Political, I see. A supporter of the Druid party, I take it?”

Merlin grits his teeth. “I am.”

“So you’re telling me you agree with the dangerous propaganda that miscreant Iseldir spouts, which has already led to unrests in all of Albion?”

Merlin is prepared to tell him exactly what he thinks about Iseldir and the Druid party, that they’re the only ones with any power standing up for the MU population, that without them to push back against the hostile anti-magic environment, the rebels would have probably flattened the capitol by now.

But before he can say any of it, Arthur cuts in.

“This is hardly the time, Father.” His voice is calm, but Merlin can practically feel the tension radiating off him. “Merlin is our guest, it’s hardly polite to bombard him with politics over the dinner table.”

“If Merlin wishes to have a place at your side and, by extension, the Royal Family, he will have to put aside some of his idealistic views, and learn the meaning of diplomacy.” King Uther’s eyes bore into him like blades. “Do you believe yourself capable of that, Emrys?”

“It would seem that I am, Your Majesty,” Merlin grits out, thinking, Or I would already have polished the table with your insufferable mug.

Beneath the table, Arthur’s hand closes around his thigh, and squeezes.

“Good. You see, Emrys, political interest is commendable, but young people such as yourself are impressionable and their passion can so easily lead them astray.” He means Mordred, Merlin realises, feeling a hysterical laugh bubbling up somewhere in his too-dry throat. Of course the King would go there. “But there’s no need to bring up such ugliness. After all, you still serve your King, don’t you, Emrys?”

You’re not my King, Merlin wants to yell at him. Never have, and never will be!

He swallows it. Barely. But he has no doubt his eyes are saying everything that his lips aren’t. Arthur’s grip on him tightens.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he lies solemnly.

But whatever game King Uther is playing, he seems satisfied for the moment.

“Excellent,” he says, smiling a cold smile that never once reaches his eyes. “Now, how about some dessert.”

Merlin’s honestly surprised Arthur’s jaw hasn’t cracked yet from the force of the pressure. He’s anticipating the spectacular derailing of Arthur’s temper as soon as they’re alone, but the door to Arthur’s room swishes closed behind them and everything seems to freeze.

Arthur is still and silent, the fury permeating the air around him so potent that Merlin’s skin prickles with it. His magic squirms unhappily within his chest, desperate to burst out and make it better, to find the source of Arthur’s ire and obliterate it.

“I apologise,” Arthur says finally - stiff, formal and impossibly distant. “For my father.”

Merlin shakes his head, takes a cautious step closer.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” he says softly, meaning it.

He’s unsure if Arthur even heard him.

“He’s testing you,” Arthur continues woodenly. “Trying to make a point. He wants to frighten you so you cave and run off and he can go back to shoving Vivian in my face every chance he gets.”

What kind of father, Merlin wonders, could possibly stand making his child this unhappy.

“I’m not frightened,” Merlin says quietly.

Finally, Arthur moves, his glare so intense it sears Merlin unexpectedly.

“Yes, I can see that,” Arthur snaps. “Maybe next time we can find a line between ‘not frightened’ and ‘borderline treason’.”

Despite all his best intentions, Merlin cannot help the answering rush of anger, still feeling poked raw by King Uther’s unrelenting prodding.

“It’s not my fault that everyone here takes one look at my bracelet and immediately thinks I’m a rebel! How stupid do they think I am? Why would I bother being here in the first place if that was the case?”

Arthur makes a vague, sweeping gesture.

“You could be a spy.”

Merlin’s stomach drops, hurt lancing at his heart.

“Oh? Thought about it, have you?”

But Arthur only glares at him again. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin, I didn’t mean it like that.”

And Merlin takes up the lance and pokes it even deeper into the already bleeding wound.

“How did you mean it, then?” he asks, voice hard.

Arthur whirls on him, cheeks faintly flushed and eyes alight with cold fury.

“Don’t you dare turn this around on me!” It’s almost a bellow, certainly louder than his usual tightly controlled outbursts. “We both know that I trust you a whole lot more than you’ve ever trusted me!”

This, Merlin hadn’t expected.

“What are you talking about?”

Arthur laughs. It’s a dark, hollow sound that tears right through Merlin’s chest.

“You must really think me a fool. Do you think I don’t notice the way you look at me? Like some…science experiment gone wrong? All you do is prick my finger and take my sodding temperature! ‘Poor Prince Arthur, doomed to be my lovesick lapdog until I can finally get rid of him again’.”

Merlin stares, utterly aghast and violently reminded of that night at the club, where the dam had burst and Arthur had exploded with all the things he’d evidently kept bottled inside. Is that how it’s always going to be, Merlin wonders dumbly.

“That’s not- How can you think-” Merlin rubs a rough hand through his hair. “You think this is a walk in the park for me? I forget, sometimes, you know? And then I have to remind myself that you’re not-”

He breaks off, hating every way that sentence could end. Arthur’s expression darkens, his eyes turning flinty as his jaw firms. Merlin has now known him long enough to recognise that the exchange is plunging south. Rapidly.

“Not what,” Arthur prompts sharply. “In my right mind? Able to make my own decisions?”

“Well you’re not!” Merlin bursts out, fury apparently alive and well. “You’re under the influence of a very powerful enchantment, Arthur! You said it yourself, you know it’s not real but it feels that way to you. You’re not in a position to make decisions on your clarity of mind! I have to second-guess everything you say, I need to be careful not to-”

“Because you know everything, don’t you?!” Arthur cuts across him in a shout. “You’ve studied, you’ve read some books, and suddenly you’re an expert!”

Merlin wants to fucking scream.

“That’s not-!”

But Arthur bulldozes across him once more.

“You have no fucking idea what it is I’m feeling, Merlin! Real or otherwise! You’re just here, being patronising and humouring me.” Arthur sneers a little, voice like cracked ice over a sea of hurt. “You’ve been very good at that, by the way. Very convincing. Appeasing the invalid with an impeccable bedside manner! You just hold my hand and let me spill my guts. And I feel like an idiot because it’s been almost two months and I still have no fucking idea what goes on in that head of yours! But it’s okay, isn’t it, you just need to close your eyes and give me a bit of a cuddle to keep me from going round the bend or keel over.”

“It’s not- You must know that-” Merlin tastes the tears already, feels them burning his eyes, ready to spill over. “Arthur, I care about you.”

Arthur laughs and it’s the same, hollow sound as before.

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Would be a bit inconvenient, after all, if the Crown Prince dropped dead from a magical attack. The Druids could kiss their seat on the Council goodbye and where would that leave you?”

His tears feel hot against what must be utterly bloodless cheeks.

“You don’t mean that,” Merlin whispers.

But Arthur isn’t looking at him, his back to Merlin even as he covers his eyes with a visibly shaking hand.

“Just go,” Arthur says dully. “Get out of my sight.”

Merlin presses the hem of his sleeve over his mouth, biting down into the fabric to stifle a sob, and goes.