Merlin is fiddling about with crossbows and swords in the armoury when he hears them—a set of footsteps approaching the door. His back straightens automatically as he stares nervously at it, a little excited; it's probably Rowan. Rowan, Sir Leon's squire, with the blond hair and the eyes that Merlin can pretend look just like Arthur's, Rowan who keeps looking hopefully over at Merlin during drill and servants' dinner. Merlin wouldn't say no to a bit of fooling about with the man; hadn't said no, actually, when he had approached Merlin after drill that afternoon and suggested a round of 'sword polishing' together in the evening.

The door creaks open. Merlin smiles, expecting Rowan, only to be dramatically disappointed.

"Aren't you happy to see me," Arthur says, sneering at him, closing the door and leaning against it.

"I'd just wanted one half-hour where I didn't have to see your mug, sire," Merlin mutters, picking up a rag and listlessly wiping down the wooden table in front of him, knocking against all the arrows and quivers on the surface.

Arthur's sneer widens. "What are you even doing in here?"

"Nothing," Merlin lies. "I misplaced some of your armour as well as your shield, so I came in here to see if I could find them."

"Really, now." Arthur crosses his arms. "I remember wearing it all up to my chambers a few hours ago. Also remember you helping me out of it then making some excuse to fuck off."

"Ah. I recall now. I'm hopeless as ever, eh?" Merlin grins sheepishly (falsely) at him and drops the rag back onto the table, lacing his fingers behind his back.

"Yeah," Arthur says, looking mightily unimpressed. "Come on, now. Time for dinner." He turns to leave, but Merlin hesitates. Rowan might still come, and the thought of coming off with someone else instead of by his own hand is just too appealing to abandon.

"Oh, erm, weren't you s'posed to dine with the king and Lady Morgana tonight? And those guests from Bayard's kingdom?"

Arthur stops short and fixes Merlin with an incredulous stare. "Yes, and?"

"I, I was just thinking I'd get a head-start on the armour polishing here. You know, so I can go early to bed. Would that be okay with you, sire?"

"You," Arthur says slowly. "Actually want to polish my cuisses and my chainmail and even the helmet you love to call my 'stink reservoir'."

"I'm just trying to be a better servant," Merlin offers weakly, when Arthur crosses his arms.

"They're all up in my chambers anyway, Merlin. Out with it," Arthur snaps. "What's wrong?"

"Does something have to be wrong for me to be here, Arthur?" Merlin says, faux-indignant, hoping to annoy Arthur into leaving. "I just... really like the armoury. I want to be here a while longer."

Arthur exhales, noisily enough that it unsettles Merlin and makes him give up.

"Okay, fine," he mutters. Arthur snorts triumphantly and comes over to stand in front of Merlin, staring right into Merlin's eyes and pinning him to the spot. Merlin continues, "There might... be someone involved."

"Explain," Arthur says, triumph bleeding away to be replaced by strange coolness. Merlin sighs inwardly. Arthur's disappointed, angry again. Every time Arthur stares at him icily like this, Merlin has to wheedle him back into a good mood.

"So, Rowan," Merlin says, swaying a bit on the balls of his feet. "Rowan and I had planned to meet here at this time for a spot of, erm..."

"Yes?"

"Sword polishing," Merlin says, then cringes. It sounds as awful out loud as it had in his head.

"Sword polishing," Arthur repeats, even colder now.

"Yes."

"What does it entail, pray tell?"

"You know what I'm talking about, you prat. You're just fucking with me."

"I really don't," Arthur says, and Merlin makes the egregious mistake of believing him.

"Well, we were going to snog for a bit," he starts. Arthur looks positively furious, as if any minute now he's going to launch into an I don't pay you to dally with my knights, Merlin rant, clip Merlin round the ear, and banish him to the stocks.

But Merlin's saved from that terrible fate by a second set of footsteps outside the door.

Both his head and Arthur's whip towards the entrance. Merlin swallows. Maybe there's a miracle in the offing and he'll get to have it off with Rowan despite the disaster that's just occurred. Maybe—oh, no. Arthur just caught the optimism on Merlin's face and went from furious to thunderous. What's Arthur have against Merlin having a good time, hm?

"Merlin," comes Rowan's voice from outside, accompanied by muffled banging on the wood. "You in there, mate?"

Merlin opens his mouth to answer. And can't, because Arthur takes a single step closer to him and effectively squeezes all the breath from Merlin's lungs.

He's the reason Merlin even agreed to meet Rowan, really, and it's just unfair that neither is he wanted by Arthur that way nor does he get to neck with someone who looks like him.

"Merlin," says Rowan again, trying the door now. It jams. Merlin considers looking down and committing treason to dislodge whatever obstruction was keeping the door from opening, when Arthur quietly places a key, clearly to the armoury, on the table behind him.

Merlin's heartbeat speeds up. Was Arthur planning to murder him?

Rowan leaves, or at least that's what Merlin guesses from the footsteps fading away. His shoulders droop.

"Thanks, Arthur," he says dully, reaching around Arthur for the key. "I swear I'll never make a pass at anyone ever again and always follow you around like an eager puppy jumping to be in your service."

"You're the one that propositioned him?" Arthur asks, jolted out of his silence. He grasps Merlin's wrist to stop him from getting at the key. A shiver runs down Merlin's spine. Arthur's touching him! Arthur, who always bends away whenever Merlin's dressing or undressing him, Arthur, who looks constipated whenever Merlin's checking him for wounds and bruises or massaging the feeling back into his legs. Arthur's skin against Merlin's—it might almost make up for the Rowan failure. Almost.

"Not really," Merlin says, thrilled at the contact but still quite surly. "I just said yes when he did."

"I see," Arthur says, clipped. His eyes hold no emotion in them. "My apologies."

"I already know you're an ass, it's all right," Merlin answers, wriggling his hand out of Arthur's and patting him on the shoulder, genial like a friend.

"I ought to make up for it."

Arthur what now.

"You were going to, what was it? Snog?"

Merlin stares wide-eyed at Arthur. He doesn't look like he's gone mad.

"Yeah," Merlin ventures. "But you don't need to do a thing about—"

Arthur steps close again. His hair's ruffled and the sweat from the drill's made it messier, though Merlin bets if he touched Arthur's hair it wouldn't be any less soft and silky-smooth than usual. He bets if he ran his fingers through it, it'd feel amazing. Up close, Arthur's eyelashes are a darker gold than his hair, Merlin observes. No less thick and lush, though. Arthur's probably the prettiest prat in the five kingdoms—

Then Arthur kisses him on the mouth, not even close to tentative, and Merlin's knees nearly give out because Arthur just kissed him on the mouth.

Arthur catches him before he actually collapses to the floor. "Merlin, you idiot—"

"You," Merlin says, a tiny bit in disbelief.

Arthur flushes but doesn't falter. "I did. Better me than Rowan, don't you think," he spits, then drags Merlin over to the door and pins him against it with his body. Merlin gasps before Arthur kisses him again, hard and unyielding.

"I don't," Merlin begins, confused, intending to say I don't understand, I thought you hated me, but the colour drains from Arthur's face.

"You'd rather have that squire over me?"

"What," Merlin says flatly, brought back to reality.

And Arthur breathes out shakily and kisses Merlin again.

There is nothing methodical about Arthur's kisses. Nothing careful, or considerate, or precise. Arthur's holding Merlin's face in his hands and kissing Merlin as if he's never done anything like this before, wildly, desperately, peppering Merlin's lips, the corners of his mouth, his chin, his Cupid's bow with scorching kisses that really threaten to do away with the integrity of Merlin's limbs.

Merlin can only clutch Arthur's wrists and kiss back, sloppy and messy. It's... he can't, he really can't believe he's, it's, it's Arthur, Arthur's mouth on his, Arthur lapping at Merlin's already-wet lips like Merlin is a confection. He's forgotten how to breathe, and opens his mouth and Arthur snatches the remaining breath from his lungs. He licks deep into Merlin's mouth, slowing down with each taste, letting Merlin suck on his tongue for a few moments before he withdraws and nuzzles the side of Merlin's face and goes for his lips again.

Merlin's hands slip from Arthur's arms and wrap around Arthur's waist, pulling him even closer so Merlin can forget there's anything apart from Arthur in his world, can... can revel in this headiness, the intoxicating smell of Arthur's sweat and the soapy fragrance from cleaning his face and neck and hands in the wash basin while Merlin was here waiting for some insignificant boy to fool around with—

"Breathe," Arthur mutters, pulling away (Merlin's arms fly to Arthur's shoulders so he can't go too far, he won't let Arthur go, not if this is his only chance) and panting into Merlin's neck. Merlin takes one shuddering breath, two, three, his fingers sneaking into Arthur's hair (just as silken as Merlin had thought it'd be) and combing through it.

Arthur moans as Merlin reaches the crown of his head, and Merlin stares at him, wide-eyed.

"...Arthur?" he asks.

Arthur, breathing heavily, looks down and doesn't answer. His thumb trails across the edge of Merlin's upper lip, coming to rest at the corner, dipping in briefly—and Merlin can't help it, he'll take whatever he's given. He turns his head and pulls Arthur's thumb in, sucking and savouring it, the ridge of Arthur's nail hard against the tip of his tongue.

Arthur snaps up to look at Merlin, just as wide-eyed, a little panicked—Merlin locks eyes with him and, oh gods he's really about to do this, he lets his lips fall open slightly so he can make it messy, the obscene slurping growing in volume in the emptiness of the armoury.

"Merlin," Arthur sighs, as if he's in pain now. Merlin lets Arthur's hand drop, wetting a trail down Merlin's chin on the way. Arthur instantly draws his thumb into his own mouth and laps up all of Merlin's saliva and it should be disgusting but Merlin can only tremble and feel the strength draining from his limbs as he takes in the sight of Arthur's puckered lips, glistening and rose-pink and a tiny bit swollen from the kissing—

"Dinner?" Merlin asks breathily, slumped against the door. "Don't you have to go?"

Arthur smiles a little, winding his arms around Merlin's lower back (Merlin strokes Arthur's jaw, feeling day-old stubble rasp against his fingertips and send sparks of fire across his entire body). He leans in, gently resting his forehead on Merlin's, and whispers,

"Fuck dinner."

So Merlin has to kiss him, he just has to. Arthur kisses back with a low moan, catching Merlin's lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently. Merlin squirms against him, lightheaded and dizzy as he repeatedly reminds himself that—oh, Arthur just tilted his head to deepen the kiss, and the filthy smacking sounds are making Merlin go faint and hot around the collar—reminds himself that it's the man he's adored, it's the prince he's cherished forever who's currently... pulling away, a thin thread of wet connecting them that he breaks with a peck.

"The squire?" he mumbles against Merlin's mouth. "Did you pretend, did you imagine it was him? His face, his body, his hair?"

Merlin almost breaks into hysterical laughter.

"Arthur," he says, grinning into the kiss. "He looked like you."

He catches the moment Arthur twigs; the dull gleam in Arthur's eyes brightens to a dazzle.

"You," Arthur huffs, mouthing at Merlin's neck. "You utter tart. Couldn't've said something earlier, could you?"

Merlin does laugh, then. "I'd believed you detested the very thought of me."

"I did. I do. A single touch from you distracts me for days. You won't let me sleep, you've stolen away my hunger, you won't let me breathe..."

"Make you trip over your own feet during drill," Merlin continues, "Take away your vocabulary just when Uther's questioning you, accidentally lose your best jacket on purpose..."

Arthur drags him into a tight, tight hug. "Gods, Merlin, don't ever let me find you waiting for someone else again," he whispers.

"I've only ever waited for you," Merlin sighs. "Though that doesn't make a lick of sense."

"No," Arthur agrees. "But it somehow does, regardless."

"Mind going back to the kissing, then? We've ages to talk and now that I know how you taste, I quite miss it already."

Arthur laughs, and the genuine smile on his face is the shine of a thousand suns to Merlin.

"Yes, my lord," Arthur says, leaning towards Merlin in acquiescence.