"It's not fair. Merlin should know this is something that's on the table."

"This is not something that's on the table, thank you."

"You have to tell Merlin this is something that's on the table, all right? You can't just not. It's not fair to him to make him—"

"This is not something that's on the table!" Arthur bursts out. "For God's sake, Gwaine!" He rakes a hand roughly through his own tangled hair, the tips of his fingers catching in all the clumps and knots he doesn't care to comb out anymore. "This isn't something that's even anywhere near the table! This—this is on the floor," he stamps lightly at the old stones under his boots for emphasis, "under the table! And it's about to get snapped up and swallowed by the hound, so I'll thank you to leave off now."

"It should be on the table," Gwaine says, stubbornly, and God, the man makes everything sound so simple, doesn't he, so easy, like Arthur can just walk right up to Merlin and say it, just stride up and ask him the question, like it's something small, something insignificant and unimportant, something that doesn't matter, something that won't turn the kingdom and also all of Albion and maybe even the entire world on its head in the span of three seconds if Merlin got it in his idiot head to say yes.

"It's not on the table," Arthur says, as firmly yet calmly as he can manage. "It's never going to be on the table. That's final, Gwaine, and I suggest you make your peace with it."

"Sire, if I may," Leon says, "I think Sir Gwaine is raising a rather strong point here."

Damn it. Arthur really trusted Leon to come through for him on this one.

"Ha! See!" Gwaine jabs a finger triumphantly at Leon. "See! Even Leon's on my side!"

"No," Leon says, very quickly, "no, I am absolutely not."

"Well," Elyan says, heavily, like he stands on the verge of great personal sacrifice, "I am. This time, at least," he adds hastily. "I still don't think the castle courtyard needs a six-foot-tall keg in place of the fountain."

Gwaine slumps back against the wall in defeat. "One day, that's gonna catch on." He takes a swig from his silver flask.

Percival pats Gwaine consolingly on the shoulder, and also nearly knocks him out the window.

"Look," Elyan shifts from one foot to the other, fingers curled lightly round the sword at his hip, as always, "maybe if you just asked Merlin, straight-out—"

"Ask Merlin," Arthur scoffs. He really did expect far better from Elyan, if he's being honest with himself. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't need to ask him! He doesn't want it! I don't know if any of you lot have noticed, but Merlin's not exactly shy about speaking up when he—"

"No, Princess," Gwaine snaps the words from his mouth like sharpened knives, "you don't want it. That's what this." He pushes off the wall with the palm of his hand. "You don't want it. You don't want Merlin to have it, so you won't let him have it, you won't even give him the option—"

"That's not it!" Arthur snaps right back, even as something deep in the bottom of his stomach pulls taut and twists up tight inside him—what would he do if he asked and Merlin said yes, what would he do if Merlin wanted this, what would he do if Merlin actually—if Merlin really did want—?

"Yeah? So why don't you just ask Merlin—?!"

"Ask me what?"

Everyone jumps when Merlin slips through the door—like a shadow, Arthur thinks, and why can't he ever be bothered to move that quietly in the mornings?—and Gwaine startles so badly, he spills a bit of mead from his flask on the back of his hand. He frowns contemplatively at his own dripping, black-gloved fingers a moment or two before he brings his hand to his open mouth and licks off the falling drops.

"Please don't ever make me see that again," Leon says, in a very pained sort of voice.

"Oh, so sorry to offend your delicate knightly sensibilities, but this is good mead right here! You're mad if you think I'm about to waste—"

"Ask me what?" Merlin says again, and sets down Arthur's dinner tray, deliberately loudly, in the center of the table. He glares round at the lot of them with narrowed blue eyes. "What's going on?"

"Fine," Arthur huffs, because he can feel Gwaine's eyes boring into him, and he knows he'll not get a moment of peace until he's bitten the bolt and just—just done it, already, "fine! All right! That's it! You win! You lot win! Aren't you proud of yourselves!" He looks, pointedly, at Gwaine before he finally wheels round to face Merlin—please don't say yes, he thinks, with a desperate lurch of the stomach, please don't say yes, please don't look at me and tell me this is something you want, I don't know what I'll do with myself if this is something you want—

"Do you want to be a knight?" he asks Merlin.

Merlin's mouth falls open. He blinks owlishly at Arthur from across the table.

—don't say yes, don't say yes, don't say you want this, I don't want you to want this, I need you here, I need you—

Merlin laughs.

Loudly.

The sound echoes a hundred thousand times off all the walls, bouncing like a child's ball off the rough, uneven stones, like a few dozen Merlins are all laughing at once. And he laughs so hard, he almost falls over onto the floor and he actually has to grab onto the edge of the table just to keep to his feet, and his chest heaves, hard, like he's just sprinted through the whole castle, and he has to stop and scrub tears out of his eyes.

Well. Merlin certainly doesn't have to laugh like that. Not like the idea is really that ridiculous. Still. Arthur's not the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth, or anything like that.

"See?" He turns back to the knights. "I said. Didn't I? I told you lot. I told you lot he'd say no." The tight pressure in his chest, like iron bands around his lungs, eases off a little, when he says it. Merlin doesn't want it. Merlin really doesn't want it.

"Not so fast, Princess," Gwaine steps up, "he didn't say no."

"That's because he hasn't the breath to say it with!"

"It doesn't count as a no if he doesn't say no," Percival interjects, in his slow, deep voice.

"Oh, come on!" Arthur looks to Leon.

Leon makes a little face, and shakes his head. "Sorry, Sire," he says, "I'm with the rest on this one."

"Still not hearin' a no," Gwaine says, smugly, and takes another swallow of mead.

"Oh, for God's sake," Arthur says, "with the way the idiot's going on, it could be hours before he says—!"

"Arthur," Merlin half-wheezes out the words, "Arthur, tell me, why on earth would I want to be a knight?"

"What's wrong with being a knight?" Arthur huffs, a little bit offended now.

"Early morning training," Percival says, but sort of under his breath, like no one's supposed to hear.

"Patrol duty," Elyan adds.

"A prissy little princess yelling at you for hours." Gwaine drains the last of his flask.

Merlin pulls a pained sort of face. "It's—it's boring."

"Boring," Arthur says. Really. He should have known. His own fault, if he thinks about it. "That's it, then. You have the chance to be a part of the most noble army the world has ever known, and you turn it down because it's boring."

"Council meetings," Merlin says.

Scattered little sounds of assent jump from one to another in the knot of knights at Arthur's back.

"And," Merlin blinks, innocently, up at Arthur, "well, I just—" he grimaces, "—sorry, I just really don't think I'm thick enough."

And then he takes off running.

"Merlin—!"

"—oy—!"

"—too far, mate—!"

"—get back here—!"

Notes: Merlin Will Never Stop Dragging The knights And That's Just The Tea was too long of a title