Chapter Text
Arthur Pendragon had never been touched by anyone in his entire royal life.
Never by Camelot’s commoners, who would have been charged with treason—or, if they were lucky, merely beaten down by his personal escort—whenever he ventured into the Lower Town. Never by the castle staff, who always bowed deeply and maintained an invisible barrier between themselves and the Prince. Never by the nobles, who adhered strictly to courtly protocol in the presence of royalty. And certainly never by his father—when he was alive—who looked at him with disappointment, reserve, or, at best, quiet contentment.
Occasionally, Arthur took what little comfort he could from the firm, congratulating punches of his knights during training, but even those were rare and somehow felt forced.
No, Arthur had never been touched.
Not until Merlin came to Camelot.
The idiot had no understanding of royal etiquette or manners and often ran his mouth without thinking, speaking out of turn in the most infuriatingly casual way. While everyone else was walking on eggshells around Arthur, Merlin was downright insulting, rude, and provocatively challenging in a way that was not at all fascinating, or endearing for that matter. In truth, if Arthur kept him as his manservant, it was only out of pity, really. Yes, he pitied the man who seemed to land in trouble at every turn.
Aside from his constant, inappropriate remarks, it became glaringly clear from the very first day that Merlin was completely oblivious to the fact that touching the Prince was an outrage, a breach of decorum so severe that it could never be overlooked. Where others kept their distance, careful not to even brush against Arthur in public, Merlin acted as if personal space didn’t exist, his casual disregard for such boundaries both infuriating and, in some strange way, unsettlingly refreshing.
The first time Merlin lay a hand on him was before a tournament. It wouldn't have been of consequence for anybody else, but for Arthur—for Arthur it was. He remembers the faint rustling of the tent flaps swaying gently in the morning breeze, the smell of dirt and smoke from the preparations, and Merlin's small puffs of air down his neck as he adjusted his armor. Arthur was mentally preparing for the challenges ahead, nervous to impress his father, when he felt a warm palm resting on his shoulder, slightly squeezing.
"Good luck out there," Merlin whispered.
Arthur flinched, snapping his eyes to Merlin's slender and calloused fingers on him. It only lasted a few seconds—three at most—but to Arthur, it lasted an eternity. His breath caught in his throat, and the warmth of touch confused him—because it felt real, and comforting, and good, as if everything was going to be okay. Before that moment, he never really had given much thought about it, but now that he knew what he had been missing, he found himself craving it—more than he ever had before.
Overwhelmed, Arthur quickly deflected the unexpected intimacy by straightening up and clearing his throat. He felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment as Merlin pulled his hand away.
"I don't need luck," Arthur said, putting on his helmet, earning an eye roll from his manservant.
"Arrogant prat," Arthur swears he heard Merlin mutter under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sire," Merlin shrugged, handing him his sword.
Arthur made sure to bump into him as he exited the tent—more to make a point than to establish contact with his body again, he told himself.
~ * ~
Ever since, Arthur sought any excuse to touch Merlin—a light knock to the back of his head whenever he was being impertinent, a ruffle of his hair before leaving his chambers in the morning, a fleeting brush of fingertips whenever Merlin handed him his newly filled cup. They were small, innocent gestures, but they felt natural—and somehow fitting, given the growing admiration Arthur had for the servant.
Because no matter how disrespectful Merlin was, time and time again, he proved himself to be devoted, kind, extremely loyal, and brave.
Arthur remembers the horror coiling in his gut when he witnessed Merlin willingly drink from his cup and collapse in front of the entire court, sacrificing himself to save Arthur’s life. He remembers how pale Merlin looked when they heaved his body onto the physician's table, faintly hearing frantic page flipping and Gaius’ hurried muttering in the background. He remembers the disdain in Uther's voice when he forbade him from going after the flower that could cure the poison and save Merlin’s life. He remembers running back as fast as he could, leaping from his horse and skipping four stairs at a time to give Gaius what Merlin so desperately needed. He remembers the outrage that burned within him when he was arrested and the loathing that tore through him when Uther crushed the flower in front of him.
He also remembers the hope Gwen brought with his supper, and carried away when she was dismissed, the precious ingredient hidden in the discarded tray.
Let it not be too late. Please. Please. I would do anything. Please, let it not be too late.
He saw Merlin in the court physician's quarters the next morning, looking awful—but alive. A rush of sheer relief and happiness coursed through Arthur at the sight, his hands itching to reach for him, but couldn’t. Because it wouldn’t be appropriate. Because Merlin was just his manservant. And because princes do not embrace their manservants. No matter how pink their high cheekbones were, how blue their eyes sparkled, or how messy their dark curls looked.
That's why, after ensuring Merlin was okay, Arthur pivoted on his feet to leave.
"Arthur?"
Arthur paused at the door, slowly turning to face him. Merlin's gaze was soft, his expression sincere, almost vulnerable.
"Thank you."
The words hit Arthur like a wave, and his heart melted in a way he hadn't expected.
"You too," Arthur answered, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite name.
He made his escape quickly after that, the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but he didn't dare to linger.
~ * ~
The second time Merlin touched him was a week after that. Arthur stormed into his chambers, fists clenched in frustration, the sting of the king's scolding still sharp in his mind. His father had gone on and on—how Arthur was unworthy of the crown, how much more he needed to learn before he was ready, how being feared was more important than being loved by his people, and how, one day, Arthur would understand.
Failure. Failure. Failure.
The word echoed relentlessly in his mind, each repetition a weight on his chest, suffocating him. He pounded the door shut behind him and began pacing, the frustration boiling over, his thoughts a mess of self-doubt and anger.
"Arthur?"
The prince startled. Merlin was folding a white sheet near the open closet—likely to be put away—and watching him with a frown. Had he been there when Arthur entered? Didn't matter. Arthur was still torn apart by his inner turmoil, the king's words still swirling in his mind like sharp blades. He grunted, resuming his pacing around the room, needing to calm himself.
"Is everything okay?" Came Merlin's careful voice.
Okay? Nothing was okay. Everything was wrong. Wrong. With him. With his king. With his father. Everything was wrong. How on earth would anything be ever okay?
Arthur felt his throat thightening, a bitter chuckle escaping his mouth, rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach, as an awful truth spilled out of his mouth, strangled: "I'm never going to be good enough for him! I can try, and try, and try, but it will never be enough! I can’t—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his breath shallow and his eyes stinging.
Not now.
He needed to sit. He needed—
"Here."
He heard the scrape of the wooden chair on the floor before a gentle hand guided him into it. The contact was light but warm, soothing amidst the storm of his emotions. Without thinking, Arthur covered Merlin's hand with his own, surprised by the softness of his skin under his palm. Arthur struggled to steady his breathing, holding back white hot tears with his whole body, trembling with the effort. Then, Merlin’s thumb gently began to knead the muscles at his collarbone, sending a shiver down Arthur’s spine. And, against all odds, the Prince began to relax.
"Breathe," Merlin instructed softly. "Come on, in. And out. Do it with me, Arthur. In?"
Arthur squeezed Merlin's hand to ground himself and inhaled deeply through his nose, another shudder passing through him, pulse thundering in his veins.
"And out."
Arthur exhaled slowly, focusing on the softness of Merlin's fingers under his own.
"In?"
He swallowed another deeper breath. Merlin smelled of dust, forest, and the faint spices from the physician's quarters. He felt his heart slowing, and the tightness in his chest easing.
"And out."
As he exhaled again, Arthur let his head rest against Merlin's arm, letting go of his anger, his frustration, his fears. They were still there, lingering at the edges of his mind, but he figured he didn’t have to worry about them right then.
He waited for Merlin’s next instruction, but it never came. Instead, he felt hesitant fingers threading through his hair, nearly drawing a moan from his lips. They moved in slow, repetitive arcs around his ear—soothing, and comforting. Arthur sighed, sinking into it, having nothing else to remotely compare it to. To be cared for, to be vulnerable, to be anchored in the moment by tender touches—it was the best sensation in the world. He wondered why Merlin always presented himself so femininely, while Arthur had been taught that such behavior was improper, something to be ashamed of as a man.
Yet Merlin never seemed to care. He always appeared confident in his gestures, unbothered by his open displays of affection. Arthur wondered if it was because Merlin had been raised by a woman—his mother, Hunith. She had seemed very kind, warm, the sort of mother who loved her only son fiercely, who probably hugged him and kissed his cheeks as often as she could. Growing up in this particular environment, in a home where tenderness was given freely, how could Merlin see it as anything but natural?
And, for the first time, Arthur truly questioned what was so wrong about that.
Arthur let his eyes drift shut. He shouldn’t be doing this—sitting here, melting into his servant’s touch like a cat seeking warmth—but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Not when it felt like his entire body had been wrung tight for years, and only now, under Merlin’s hands, was he beginning to unravel.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth barely reaching them. Outside, the castle had long since quieted for the night, leaving only the distant sound of armored footsteps patrolling the corridors. And here, in the sanctuary of his chambers, Arthur let himself be cared for—no expectations, no duty, no fears, just this.
"Arthur?" Merlin's voice was quiet.
Arthur hummed in response, tilting his head to rub more forcefully onto Merlin's nails, the gentle scratch too delightful to bring himself to care.
Then, suddenly, the motion stopped.
Arthur frowned at the loss, his scalp prickling where Merlin's fingers had stilled.
"Should I draw you a bath, sire?"
Sire.
The word struck him like an ice-cold slap, jolting him into action. He immediately shifted in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him as he pulled away from Merlin's hands as though they had burnt him. He caught a glimpse of the hurt in Merlin's gaze when he sprung to his feet, turning away from him, and he hated the ping of guilt that twisted in his chest.
He didn’t know why it stung so much, but it did.
"No, it's all right, leave me."
"But—"
"I said. Leave. Me." His tone was firmer this time, colder, though they did nothing to quell the unease building in his chest.
He couldn’t look at Merlin. Not like this. It had only been a moment of weakness, a mistake—a shameful slip of control. It wouldn't happen again. Because Merlin was his manservant, and Arthur was a Prince. Gods, what would his father think if— Arthur dragged a hand down his face. No. It would never happen again.
"Good night, sire," Arthur didn't miss the spite Merlin put in pronouncing his title before he heard the heavy door creak open and slam behind him.
~ * ~
During the days following this incident, Merlin made sure to do his job with unsettling perfection—hands always behind his back, looking down whenever in Arthur's presence with those annoying damn long dark eyelashes, and speaking the strict minimum necessary, with respect, while repeating his title as much as he possibly could. An exemplary manservant. Fit for a prince.
Arthur fucking hated every second of it.
Each time Merlin bowed his head or muttered "Your Highness" with that stiff formality, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. The warmth that had once thrived between them, the casual familiarity, was gone. Replaced by distance. And it was suffocating. Arthur couldn't stand how cold and empty the air had become when Merlin was around, how the weight of propriety seemed to crush all their interactions. He wanted to lash out, to break the silence, to undo the rift, but every time he opened his mouth, the words got stuck in his throat.
It was his fault. He knew that. But damn it, why did it have to feel like this? Merlin was still there, still loyal, still fighting to help him—yet the barrier between them had never been higher.
Every glance he stole at Merlin, every fleeting moment when their eyes might accidentally meet, left Arthur aching, frustrated, and lost.
Arthur lasted two whole days before he finally snapped in the middle of Merlin's meticulous listing during breakfast, hands banging on the table: "Would you just stop that?!"
Merlin flinched but still didn't meet his eyes, his hands tightening around the scroll he was holding.
"You don't want to hear the rest of today's tasks, sire?"
"No! This. Stop this," Arthur pleaded, gesturing angrily at Merlin's stiff posture. "You calling me 'sire', and, and—"
"What would you like me to call you, sire?"
Arthur grunted in frustration. "You know damn well that's not what I meant! It's just— You, with your manners, and your bows and—"
Merlin remained silent, lowering the scroll, waiting patiently for him to finish with an unreadable expression on his face. Arthur swallowed hard, cursing himself because he was terrible at apologies. But, because he was desperate, he decided to try anyway.
"Look, I know I overstepped your boundaries, and I shouldn't have abused my condition like I did, and I swear on my honor, you won't have to ever be this uncomfortable as long as I—"
"Overstepped?" Merlin interrupted, snapping his blue eyes to Arthur's, brows furrowed, searching his face.
Arthur froze, caught off guard by the intensity of Merlin's gaze, but continued anyway: "Yes, Merlin, you shouldn't feel obligated to do anything you—"
"I didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Feel obligated," Merlin clarified steadily. "I didn't."
A sudden understanding passed between them, one that Arthur wasn’t prepared for. A mix of relief and something dangerously close to hope began to seep into his chest, warm and unfamiliar. He was utterly clueless about where to go from there.
"You didn't?" he repeated dumbly.
Merlin's eyes softened as he shook his head in the faintest of motions.
"Is that... Arthur, is this what you've been sulking over for two whole days?"
Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his cheeks flushing as he glanced away.
"I wouldn't call it 'sulking'..." he muttered.
Merlin snorted, a sound that felt so natural, so real. Arthur hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that.
"You're such a royal idiot."
"Careful, Merlin, I could throw you to the stocks for such impudence."
Arthur found himself fighting the urge to grin, the warmth spreading through him at the familiar sound of Merlin's laughter echoing in the room.
"Yeah, right."
And just like that, the tension that had been suffocating him seemed to lift, as if it had never been there at all. For the first time in days, everything felt… normal again.
~ * ~
They fell back into their dynamic. It was comfortable and familiar. With time, Arthur realized why he first thought of Merlin as feminine. It was his dedication in tending to him, the shape of his delicate fingers and slender figure.
But slowly, he noticed how wrong he had been, because Merlin's features—though not strong or broad—were angular and defined. Sure, he had silky dark curls, and long fluttering eyelashes, but his cheekbones, his chin and his neck—when not hidden by that gods-awful neckerchief—were sharp, almost giving him an ethereal beauty others might find appealing.
Whenever Merlin prepared him a bath, his sleeves were rolled up, uncovering surprisingly toned forearms with milky pale skin, and Arthur's gaze always kept on drifting to them.
And whenever Merlin's eyes didn't sparkle with malice, and his expression was focused, his lips were plump and a mesmerizing shade of pink in contrast to his skin, always appearing so soft, and so warm.
Not unlike a woman's.
But Merlin wasn’t a woman—he was something more, with a grace and elegance that made him far more captivating and pleasant to behold, all while retaining distinctly masculine features.
Not that it was something Arthur lusted over. Or thought about. Or noticed at all, anyway.
~ * ~
Once, Arthur decided he needed to escape Uther’s crushing sermons and relentless insistence on duty. Just for a day. Or even a few hours. He would have gone hunting, but this type of activity always required too many people, too many dogs, and far too many screeching trumpets. All Arthur wanted was some peace and quiet. And he had the perfect solution in mind.
"A picnic?" Merlin repeated, dumbfounded. "You want to have a picnic? Alone?"
"Of course not, Merlin, don't be stupid."
Arthur was riffling through his wardrobe, searching for the perfect attire. Nothing too scratchy or tight. One by one, rejected options ended up strewn across the floor, much to the palpable growing exasperation of Merlin, who stood by with his arms crossed, watching the mess unfold.
"You're coming with me," Arthur declared, finally landing on his favorite red shirt.
"Excuse me?"
"Who would carry the food, blankets and pillows?"
"Oh, gods, I don't know. Off the top of my head, I would have to say—a horse?!"
Arthur scoffed, putting on his shirt without his servant's help. "A horse can't serve me wine while I enjoy the view of the lake, can it, Merlin?"
Merlin groaned. "Unbelievable. You’re making me lug half the castle’s pantry up a hill so you can lounge around in the middle of the day, like some spoiled arrogant prince—oh wait."
Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning. "Glad you understand. Now hurry up. I want to be gone before my father realizes I’ve escaped my royal obligations."
"You haven't told the king?!"
Arthur shrugged. "You're more than welcome to do so in my place, Merlin."
"Right, so he'd have me pilloried like last time," Merlin muttered under his breath as he trudged toward the door nonetheless. "If I trip and fall into the lake with all your precious wine, I hope you know it’ll be entirely your fault."
Arthur followed, smug as ever. "It certainly wouldn't be a first."
They met in the stables fifteen minutes later. Merlin looked ridiculous with his oversized backpack—holding a basket in one hand, and rolled-up beddings in the other, cheeks scarlet from exertion, and a nice flush dusting the tip of his protruding ears, which always caught the light in the most interesting way while adding to the charm and harmony of his face.
"What? Do I have something on my face?" Merlin asked, setting the bundles on the back of his saddle to wipe an invisible stain on his forehead.
Arthur quickly focused his attention back to his horse, cheeks burning up. "No, nothing."