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Arthur’s eyes were following him.
He could tell: he, Merlin, from across the raucous hall. Arthur’s eyes were following him.
The belltower strikes midnight. Dimly, Merlin thinks to wonder at who could be up there, at this hour. Is it even midnight?
The noble sitting nearest to Merlin coughs.
Or is it earlier, later, and some drunken teenager decided to climb the tower to the bell? It isn’t improbable. Merlin thinks: were he not serving wine at the feast, he’d do it himself. Servants often nab clandestine mugs of ale from the kitchen during events like these, and Merlin is no exception. He glances around for Gwen, searching for a friend, and finds her red-cheeked and giggling. He watches as Morgana pulls out the chair next to her, offering it to Gwen. Good lord, it must really be midnight.
The noble coughs louder, leaning over to elbow Merlin in the side. Oh, right. Merlin refills his glass, feeling like he’s made of rubber and river, and catches Arthur’s eye again. Good lord.
The noble sits back in his seat, satisfied. Merlin foolishly begins to make his way over to Arthur. He’s moving before he notices himself moving, really; he tries to be more subtle about it, tries to slow his footsteps, pretends he’s walking on a tightrope. He looks upwards, eyeing his target, and his target is eyeing him back: eyes very dark and narrow and maybe laughing at his not-so-subtle attempt at subtlety. Merlin looks to Gwen, again for some sort of camaraderie here, and finds her seated and toying with Morgana’s hair. Her hands braid each strand comfortably.
No one is looking.
Good lord.
Merlin turns himself, swiftly, back towards Arthur and finds himself met with promising eyes. Entreating. Eyes that say, hurry up Merlin, aren’t you seeing this? Aren’t you seeing our opportunity?
Merlin sees it then, the chair next to Arthur’s. One of Uther’s friends must have retired for the night, along with the king himself.
Merlin reaches Arthur, finally, and leans into him, meant to whisper into his ear. He was going to say something sensible, something aptly feast-like about Arthur’s drink or meal but ends up just saying “Hello there,” his face sort of bashing into Arthur’s head.
Arthur smiles, huffs out a breath of air; before Merlin can move away Arthur crooks his head into Merlin’s ear, brushing his mouth against Merlin’s cheek in the process.
“…” Arthur says. Or, Arthur says something coherent. Merlin just can’t think of it; his cheek is hot where Arthur’s mouth was, his ear is hot where Arthur’s mouth is, his body is hot from the ale, his mind is hot from the thoughts he’s having.
Arthur pulls away slightly when Merlin fails to respond, squinting at him. Oops. A chair scrapes against the floor and suddenly there’s an arm around his shoulder, a strength pressing him down into the empty seat. If Merlin’s face wasn’t red before, it certainly must be now. He dimly registers Arthur sitting down, again, scooting closer.
“How does that feel?” Arthur asks in a low, low register, right in Merlin’s ear.
Their chairs are next to each other. Merlin, all comfortable in his seat, knocks his head against Arthur’s. He feels Arthur turn his head, smile into his hair.
The Great Hall is void of anyone over the age of forty, now. Those strong enough to make it this late at night are so far from sober that they might still be here in the morning. Arthur’s hand creeps up to settle on the top of Merlin’s head, effectively putting his arm across Merlin’s shoulders. It’s a strange position, and Merlin internally giggles: he feels like a stallion being pet, or a chess piece being toyed with. Merlin, helpful, twists his head to lick Arthur’s arm. Arthur clicks his tongue, his hand slaps Merlin lightly on the forehead before he lets his arm drape naturally.
They watch the movements of the court like this, leaning on each other.
Gwen rises, suddenly, and then so does Morgana. Merlin watches in rapture. He doubts anyone else cares, except maybe Arthur: the room is full of comings and goings right now, and no one sitting is ever seated for long. But Merlin knows what this means. He doesn’t look at Arthur but his body is consciously aware of Arthur in this moment. He notices how Arthur seems to hold his breath, then releases when he’s certain that Gwen and Morgana are leaving; when it’s certain that they are leaving the feast together. At the last moment, Gwen glances back at Merlin, gaze charged. He feels Arthur stiffen, as a witness.
Gwen is gone, then; through the doorway and up the stairs and probably straight into Morgana’s chambers. Merlin gets the message.
He straightens, intending to propose the idea to Arthur right then and there. Arthur opens his mouth.
“Arthur, I-“
“Merl-“
They stop. Arthur blinks, then looks at him intently. Searching for confirmation. Merlin holds his gaze and reaches for Arthur’s glass. Brings it to his own mouth. Drains it. He licks his lips and Arthur’s eyes are shut tight now, his cheeks red.
“Arthur, le-“
“Yeah.”
“-Let’s go.”
The same weight that pushed him into the chair is now lifting him up, that same arm around his shoulders is pushing him towards the door. He’s always loved how Arthur manhandles him. Arthur’s neck is right there, he wants to lick it, but Arthur’s gaze says not now, those deep blue eyes, just a few minutes. They leave the hall in a dream.