Note: a fill for a prompt at kinksofcamelot on LJ (do check it out and leave prompts/fills there :D). Do let me know what you thought!

Arthur rarely complains.

Oh, he can never shut up about Merlin. Merlin this, Merlin that, Merlin's late refilling my goblet, Merlin can't even tame his hair, Merlin carries my armour the wrong way, Merlin smiles stupidly, Merlin—ahem. Yes, when it comes to Merlin and his drawbacks, Arthur can go on all day. But never about the things that matter (and there isn't one right way to hold a vambrace, regardless of what Arthur says).

Arthur doesn't complain about his father expecting him to solve all of Camelot's border problems with a sword. Arthur doesn't grumble about being paraded about like a particularly delectable sweetmeat in front of slavering noblewomen and visiting princesses. Arthur doesn't say a word when he has to spend hours and hours in sweltering heat, being roasted alive in his armour drilling his knights. Merlin wishes Arthur would unburden himself on him; to be trusted by Arthur is something he so dearly lusts for, but Arthur just scowls and waves Merlin off and probably throws a tantrum alone in his room like the five-year-old brat Merlin's always known he is.

Merlin gazes into the distance and sighs like a lovelorn maiden on those rare occasions Arthur has every reason to vent but sends Merlin away. Gaius usually slaps him round the head and brings him back to his senses, but the sentiment stands; and Merlin makes up for Arthur anyway by unloading all his own problems on the court physician, who owing to his age and affection can't run away or vengefully lace Merlin's porridge with purgatives.

Still—it hurts every piece of Merlin to see Arthur suffer silently.

Like this morning, first day of Merlin's second winter in Camelot, when he walked into Arthur's chambers with a pot of tea and his favourite breads (and cheeses and fruits because Merlin can be a doting mother sometimes) and saw Arthur shivering in his sleep despite the weight of two thick quilts on him. Merlin knows unmarried nobles (and crusty, lonely souls like Uther) usually employ people to join them in their beds during cold, wintery... winters; two is better than one, ergo, the body heat of two is better than the body heat of one, and whatnot. However, in his one and something years of service, Merlin has yet to see someone gracing Arthur's mattress with their presence. It's not as if Arthur's allergic to other people (that time he sneezed into Merlin's neck was on purpose and not because Merlin's hair smelled like dandelions—it smelled very nice, thank you, and Arthur's a poncey git who can't handle Merlin's sweat), so Merlin can't figure out at all why Arthur wouldn't invite some lovely woman (or man, Merlin (hopes Arthur) isn't fussy) to share warmth with him.

Merlin watches it happen for three more mornings before he breaks. Merlin had always, always bothered his mother in Ealdor following puppies and goat kids and the occasional fawn around, petting them and forgetting he was supposed to fetch something/ convey a message/ be useful, so when Arthur looks and sniffles like a cantankerous kitten every time he wakes up, Merlin's heart swells and bursts and he pouts endearingly all day in sympathetic misery ("You're upsetting my knights," Arthur says, frowning. "Go be sad somewhere else.").

Arthur would probably murder Merlin thrice if he crept in while Arthur was awake, so Merlin resolves to shake himself out of his cot at midnight, risk being arrested by the gormless guards Uther stations in the corridors, and then with just a little bit of treasonous jiggery-pokery slide into Arthur's bed and prove to Arthur the advantages of (Merlin) a bed-warmer.

Merlin could spell the quilts to be warmer and leave Arthur alone, yes. Does he want to? Absolutely not. Rationality has no place in the mental vanguard of lovelorn maidens, irrespective of how many times Gaius reddens his palm smacking said maidens back to reality.

The fourth night, Merlin makes his move. Luck is on his side. The corridors are empty (Merlin might have a word with Arthur about his slacking charges) and the door to Arthur's chambers opens with just a thought.

The antechamber isn't very big, so Merlin (and the extra blanket he brought along) sneak into Arthur's bedroom in seconds.

…The moonlight's illuminating Arthur's face and shoulders very well. Too well. Merlin notes with chagrin that he ought to have tired himself out more during the day, because there is no fucking way he's going to be able to nod off in peace if Arthur's sleeping shirtless (in winter, what a fucking idiot, but the gods bless him for giving Merlin manifest reason to harass him like this), looking like that even with his mouth lolling open in an aborted snore.

Merlin goes around to the far side of the bed—Arthur made his preference for sleeping on the left all too clear those damp patrol nights in the forests; Merlin won't even sleep on the left side of his own cot without harking back to Arthur's "Merlin. Idiot. Moron. Pisspot. How many times do I have to tell you? Move. Move!" and shuffling over. He lifts the covers gingerly, no need to disturb Arthur… too much, and pushes his spelt-toasty blanket in as a precautionary measure against the heat seeping out from the gap he created.

Arthur rolls over to face Merlin and pulls the blanket to himself in a textile hug. Merlin immediately regrets he hadn't slid in first.

He quietly removes his boots and socks (well, they stank and what if Arthur really is allergic to Merlin's worse scents) and his coat and tunic after a moment of indecent thought, and settles into the right side of the bed, tucking the ends of the unbelievably soft quilts into his side and willing his meagre body heat to jump to Arthur.

His heart stops as Arthur opens his eyes and blinks blearily at him.

He doesn't seem angry. Merlin's sure the frown's just because of his confusion. Also the blinking. And the wry set to his mouth.

"I'm not a fool, you know," Arthur mutters, after a frozen minute in which both stare at each other—Arthur impassively, Merlin in terror.

"Could've fooled me," Merlin says and laughs nervously.

"C'mere," Arthur says, reaching for him. He grabs Merlin's forearms and drags him over to his side of the bed.

"Arthur?" Merlin squeaks, as Arthur's arms securely wrap around Merlin's back.

Arthur hums, already closing his eyes.

"Arthur," Merlin hisses.

Arthur reluctantly blinks at Merlin again.

"You're all right with this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You—you—"

"Merlin, shut up," Arthur mumbles, and falls back into a slumber Merlin isn't sure he can wake Arthur from again.

He gives up on trying to make sense of Arthur's reaction ("I'm an open book, you're just quite thick," Arthur had said one day as he'd handed Merlin a tankard of Camelot's strongest ale, another day as he'd presented Merlin a silk shawl for Hunith, yet another day as he'd given Merlin a hammer and anvil for Guinevere and two bucketfuls of rare plants for Gaius), and lets sleep claim him.

Merlin jerks awake and keeps his eyes closed.

So warm. So comfortable. So very blissful. Never had his cot—ah, right. Fuck.

He cracks an eyelid open and unsticks his forehead from Arthur's pectoral to peer up at Arthur's amused face.

"Let's have you, lazy daisy," Arthur says, lips twitching.

"…Arthur?" Merlin says weakly. "You don't mind?"

Arthur laughs, and as he shudders, Merlin is made pleasantly aware of the way Arthur's wrapped around him. It's not undesirable at all. And Merlin's quite delighted Arthur isn't shoving him off, because he (would be heartbroken) had done this for Arthur's sake, after all.

"No, I don't mind," Arthur says, grinning widely and looking down at Merlin with a surprisingly soft expression.

"Really? Even though I'm practically plastered to you and can feel every inch of you, every single inch?" Merlin can't quite bring himself to say 'hardness'; that's not really a boundary he wants to cross when there is every chance that Arthur might change his mind and banish him back to Ealdor.

Arthur's smile fades a little. "Well, in that case—" he says, and breaks off to try and separate himself from Merlin, but Merlin is not. Having. That. He hooks his legs around Arthur's thighs and pulls him close again.

"I never said I minded, either," Merlin says patronisingly because that unfailingly riles Arthur up and distracts him from Merlin's nth fuck-up of the day.

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, and then puts it to another use.

"I'd given up when you didn't respond to my courting you, but I'm glad—very, very glad—that you're here, Merlin," he says when Merlin pulls away to breathe.

"When were you courting me?"

Arthur licks Merlin's lips and shakes his head. "All the nobility begging for my hand in marriage, and I have the dismal luck to fall in love with my idiot of a manservant."

"Hey!"

"Would you do me the honour of warming my bed for the foreseeable future?"

"Summers, too? Are you sure? It'll get really sweaty and hot in here."

"That's true," Arthur muses, nosing Merlin's hair absent-mindedly and proving Merlin's he'd-sneezed-deliberately-that-day theory.

Merlin hurries to add, "That's going to happen either way, though, so yes, I'd love to join you, Arthur." The leer on Arthur's face matches Merlin's, who winks knowingly at Arthur and wiggles suggestively against him a bit (Arthur snorts and buries his face in Merlin's hair to hide it, fooling no one).

"I'm in love with you, too, by the way," Merlin says into Arthur's neck. "If that's of import."

"It isn't," Arthur says, making no attempt to put any distance between the two of them, instead stroking Merlin's back with inattentive fondness. "I don't care at all about that. Not a whit! My heart isn't whole again or anything. But I do care that you haven't brought us breakfast yet, and my armour's sitting unpolished, and you forgot to mend my purple tunic, and I couldn't even move because you woke up late, you lazy, darling clod, and—"

Merlin groans loudly and shoves Arthur off the bed, a lovelorn maiden no more.