franticsga

Title:  Not in the Room
Author:  franticsga
Warnings:  G, pre-slash.
Description:  He was Prince Arthur of Camelot, not Prince Arthur, Despoiler of Shite Manservants.



Arthur Pendragon considered himself an extraordinarily perceptive man.  He was a hunter and a prince besides, and had to be aware in a way that ordinary men had the privilege of neglecting.  He could not afford to miss even the smallest thing.  Especially since, he was discovering, the smallest thing was generally the one that went pear-shaped.

There were some things, however, that were clearly meant to be beneath his notice.  Chamber pots, for example.  He tried never to think of them.  The rushes on his floors--those were very easy to ignore unless they were being swept over his feet.  This happened more often than not, when it was Merlin doing the sweeping.

He couldn't prevent the glare he cast at his (completely, totally shite) servant.  Servants, now, servants should be beneath a prince's notice.  A good servant was silent and humble in his duties, thinking only of his master's comfort, deferring in every instance.

A good servant, he thought irritably as he kicked the rushes at Merlin, had no thought outside his master.  Merlin's face was as preoccupied as it ever was, no change there.  Arthur half-suspected Merlin actually counted the minutes until he was free of Arthur's quarters, which was simply beyond the pale.  If Merlin only knew how many men would give a buttock to be his manservant, he fumed. 

"Must you?" Merlin sighed as Arthur kicked more of the dried herbs in his path.  Only three weeks ago it would have been accompanied by a responding kick, but Arthur suddenly realized that all the fight had gone out of him.  Of course- that was why Arthur was so bored.  Merlin was like a bloody cow lately, moping around chewing his cud. 

"I haven't killed any mystical creatures recently," he began, observing how Merlin had begun to absently dust his own boot.

"Right, you've just managed to refrain from attacking vicious unicorns," Merlin replied.  His lips quirked in that way Arthur watched for when he should have been listening to the nobles making their declarations.  Whilst Sir Carthogen, second son of Lord Aldous, was proclaiming that on the third Sabbath the feast would be held at Fallsworth Castle, Arthur would look to Merlin, at his lively mirthful face.  Merlin would imitate Sir Carthogen--chest out, arse back, legs bowed, nose in the air--until Arthur huffed unwilling, unprincely laughter.  When Merlin succeeded, his smile with its mad dimples everywhere would be the warm follow-up to the stiff punch of whisky that his company sometimes was.

"So why do you look as though I have done?" he wondered, picking at the loose gold thread in his tunic.

"I do not!  I'm fine," Merlin protested, so quickly his voice cracked.  

"Yes, I can see your attention is undivided," Arthur agreed, nodding toward the hearth where the rug was merrily ablaze along with the tinder.

"Oh!" Merlin exclaimed, hastily stomping it out.  He bent close to examine the damage.  "You can hardly tell.  Well, mostly.  It's a bit noticeable, here where the crest is.  Was.  Ehm."

"Your attempts to kill me are becoming more blatant," Arthur remarked mildly.  Now that he had noticed it he couldn't see how it had escaped his eye, this glumness in his normally cheerful servant.

Merlin sat on the bed, drooping with what Arthur thought was undue theatricality.  "I'm sorry," he said in a small voice.  "I am distracted."

"You don't say."  This was one of those things that should be beneath his notice.  Asking a servant about his day was quite bloody ridiculous.  But faced with the sudden rueful curve of Merlin's lips, Arthur found himself asking anyway.  "How hard can your life possibly be?"

Merlin flopped back on Arthur's (unmade, he felt it should be noted) bed.  "It's as if you've never seen the state of your own quarters.  How do you manage to get cherry pits on the ceilings?"

"I don't even know how you know what a cherry is," Arthur interrupted, feeling that he had lost control of the conversation somewhere along the way.  "Look.  Merlin.  What exactly about your life is so difficult that you want to set me on fire?"

Merlin sat up, all downcast eyes and dejected chin.  "You'll laugh.  Forever."

"You're right.  I will.  But ask yourself, Merlin: who else can you tell?" Arthur asked, immediately holding up a hand before Merlin could reply.  "That was meant to be a rhetorical question.  Let me rephrase that--who else has the power to fix it?"

Merlin chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment, braced firmly against the bed with his long legs splayed.  In addition to his supreme powers of observation, Arthur had discipline above and beyond that of a normal man's.  It came with the noble blood.  Therefore, he didn't allow himself to think about rising from his chair to stand between those legs, or to wonder what Merlin would do if he stroked his thumb over the fine fragile sweep just under that place on his neck where his hair curled.  He couldn't afford such an indulgence, and moreover, it was silly.  He was Prince Arthur of Camelot, not Prince Arthur, Despoiler of Shite Manservants. 

"All right, I just," Merlin began, his face turning a very fetching shade of pink.  "Don't think I'm stupid--right, I know, you already think I'm stupid--but this is a bad time of year for my mum and I'm kind of--I miss her.  I'd like to see her.  Even though it's the worst time for it."

Arthur stood and went to his window.  He supposed this wasn't wholly unexpected.  Merlin and his mother were very close, and Christmas would begin shortly.  Camelot had a feast for every night, with clans coming from lands far away to celebrate.  Arthur would need a servant to assist him with the details--his etiquette, his robes, memorizing names and titles, practicing his languages.  Without someone to help him, he thought he might actually go mad.

As well, he thought, he wanted Merlin around, just- just for himself.  He'd never been fond of winter before.  It meant cold rides with his men, chilblains, frozen bollocks, days where he felt he'd never see the sun.  Merlin loved winter.  He ran through the forest with his clumsy boots crunching the iced-over leaves like the overgrown puppy Arthur thought he was.  He stoked the fire high in Arthur's room and the two of them would stay awake and toast things, Merlin's bare toes tucked tight against Arthur's.  They played Go until Merlin smiled at Arthur sleepily and his head drooped onto his chair--usually around the time Arthur thought he might be ahead, although they had yet to ever declare a winner. 

Some nights Merlin fell asleep by the fire, wrapped in furs until all that was visible was a tuft of black hair.  Most nights he went back to his own quarters.  Arthur did not allow himself to request that Merlin stay with him, even on the nights before he performed in a tournament.  They had shared bedding during hunts before, Arthur reveling in the whisky-warm shield of Merlin sprawled along his back, but he knew better than to tempt himself any further than that.  It was that discipline bit again.  Princely.  Camelot...y.

He turned away from the window.  Merlin was resigned, knowing he was not going to get to see his mother until well after Christmas.  He wasn't even really asking to go, and for that, Arthur thought, he felt like granting his wish just to spite them both.

"Help me with this feast tonight, and you may go to Ealdor tomorrow," he said finally.  He could borrow one of the other servants for a bit.  It might be nice to actually have a servant who knew how to do things instead of bumbling himself into the stocks twice a week.  It was going to be--well, rather dull, that was all.

Merlin shot up, his face alight.  "Are you sure?  Won't you need me?"

He flapped his hand.  "Yes, well.  I've been told there are men who would give their left buttock to be my manservant, so I'll at least get some good service."

"Fantastic!" Merlin hooted, and came round the other side of the bed, limbs flailing like the idiot that Arthur was sometimes convinced he really was.  He threw his arms around Arthur's midsection, heedless of what was in the way (such as Arthur's elbows) and squeezed tight, tight, tightest. 

Arthur gave himself a small Christmas present; he allowed himself to rest his cheek atop Merlin's head, just for a moment, his nose against one of Merlin's daft ears.  He pulled away before Merlin could even think to notice, easily breaking his bony grip.  "Getting a bit free and easy with the royal body, are we Merlin?" he murmured, reaching out to flick the same ear.  Merlin rubbed it, too joyful to care he was being teased.  His face was wreathed in smiles and that rather stupid-looking dimple in the left corner of his mouth was out, which meant he was really happy.

"Thank you," he breathed.  "You won't regret it.  I'll be really good tonight, you've no idea, and I'll be back before you know it."

"Take your time.  It'll give Barnabus a chance to clean my chambers properly," Arthur called after him, but Merlin was already gone, off to tell Gaius no doubt.

Arthur turned back to the window, adding to the ever-growing list of things that had to remain beneath his notice.


The title is from Neopolitan Dreams by Lisa Mitchell, which I could not stop listening to while I wrote this, simply based on this lovely video by Mouse.