Bún Bò

Arthur’s world goes screeching to a stop.

“That would be you,” Gwaine provides unhelpfully. “Best pucker up, Princess.”

Arthur’s gaze drops to Merlin, in all his froggish glory. Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing that Arthur isn’t horrified at the prospect of kissing Merlin, even like this— which Arthur shouldn’t want to do anyway, because Merlin is an idiot who trips over his own two feet and thinks that he’s been sneaky hiding his magic and calls Arthur names on a daily basis.

“Surely,” Arthur says, looking perhaps a little desperately at the knights, “the sorceress meant that he just needed to be kissed by someone. Not… a prince.”

Even though Arthur spends an almost pathetic amount of time thinking about kissing Merlin, he can’t just lean over and plant one on him. Merlin has never given any indication that he wants to be kissed by Arthur, and it would feel like taking advantage. He doesn’t want to do that to Merlin.

(And there’s a fear, circling about in his head like some sort of ominous bird, that if Arthur kisses Merlin, even for something as innocent as this, Merlin will suddenly realize that Arthur doesn’t quite think of him solely as a friend and will want nothing to do with him. Arthur doesn’t know what he would do, if Merlin left. He’s not sure that he could take it.)

“Alas!” Gwaine presses a hand over his heart dramatically, ignoring the violent slashing gestures Elyan is making and Leon’s oh fuck. “I gave it a valiant effort, but despite my charms—“

Arthur sees red. Or, rather, his mind presents him first with an image of Gwaine kissing his mucus-covered amphibian of a manservant, and then, with an image of Gwaine kissing a very human Merin. The jealousy is nearly blinding, and before Arthur is fully aware of it, he’s advancing on Leon.

“Give me Merlin.”

Leon hands Merlin over without a word.

Merlin shuffles about awkwardly in Arthur’s grasp, somehow managing to look both deeply annoyed and horribly trusting as he looks up at him. It’s easy to picture the expression that he would be wearing if he were human– and that gives Arthur some satisfaction, because surely Gwaine doesn’t know Merlin well enough for that.

Except, Gwaine looks like the cat that got the cream, and that only emboldens Arthur’s recklessness. Before he can think about it, he’s pressing his lips to Merlin’s froggy forehead, and–

There’s a flash of light, and then Merlin, his Merlin, in all his gawkish, gangly glory is standing before him.

Arthur’s lips are still warm against his forehead, and his first thought is, oh. So that’s how it feels, and then the rest of his brain catches up. He jerks back.

For a moment, everything is very, very still. Arthur can feel his face flushing, any quips to diffuse the situation catching in his throat.

Merlin is looking at him with an expression that’s almost disarmed. The tips of his ears are steadily turning pink, and if Arthur weren’t trying to remember how to breathe, he’d find it utterly endearing.

The knights, of course, are no help. They just stand there awkwardly, content to let Arthur suffer. Traitors.

In the end, Merlin is the one to break the silence.

“I think my feet are still webbed,” he blurts out, and Arthur stares at him. He fidgets a bit, blush deepening. “That is— we should probably— you know— properly.”

Arthur’s brain is slow to respond. Merlin wants Arthur to kiss him properly. On the lips? Is that what he means by properly? Why would Merlin want Arthur to–?

Oh, Arthur realizes. The revelation nearly plows him over. Merlin cares for Arthur, perhaps the same way Arthur does for him, and he wants to be able to kiss Arthur, too.

Merlin, it seems, has taken Arthur’s dumbstruck expression as a no, and begins quickly backpedaling, “Or not, and you can just condemn me to a life of webbed feet and I’ll be even more clumsy and I already am and probably trip over something and die—“

Arthur grabs the collar of Merlin’s jacket and pulls him close, sending their mouths crashing together.

Despite the force with which it starts, once Merlin realizes what’s happening and begins to reciprocate, they both seem to melt into it. It’s familiar in a way Arthur never would have expected for a fist kiss— but of course it is. He knows Merlin better than anyone, and in turn, is known by Merlin better than anyone. How could it not be like coming home?

When they pull apart, Arthur’s heart is thudding against his ribcage. He feels alive in a new, vibrant way. It’s as though the very blood in his veins is singing.

Across from him, there is gold fading from Merlin’s eyes. If Arthur cared to look, he’s sure that he’d find proof of what must have been accidental magic somewhere in the room, but he cares more about how stunning Merlin is like this, flushed and looking at him like that.

Arthur wants to kiss him again.

“I think your tongue might still be a bit froggish,” he says, a bit breathlessly. “We should… investigate that.”

“Absolutely,” Merlin agrees, nodding.

“Oh, god,” Leon says.

“What, you’re not staying for the show?” Gwaine asks.

“That’s disgusting, Gwaine,” Elyan says.

Arthur thinks that the knights start to file out, Gwaine probably complaining and making lewd comments the whole way, but he’s not really sure. He’s too busy confirming that while Merlin’s tongue is, in fact, not particularly frog-like, he can do really interesting things with it that make Arthur go weak in the knees.