#drunk!arthur

Arthur made a distraught little noise upon recognising his visitor. Just that. A brief, wet, squelching whine that was almost instantly quelled.

"Arthur? What…" Merlin immediately closed the door behind him and discreetly released the tendrils of his magic far and wide to find answers. It found none. None but the drunken prince, hugging his tabletop like a drowning man. "Arthur, what are you doing?"

"M'thinkin," he mumbled thickly. "P'ondering. C'ontemplating. Mmmulling."

"Oh boy," Merlin said under his breath. "Care to share the fruit of your reflection, Sire?" he asked lightly as he placed an unassuming and, hopefully, nonthreatening hand over the very pretty flagon of exotic wine that the envoy from Byzantium had brought amongst the cartload of presents for King Uther and his court. A potent brew, apparently.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur muttered, his heated cheek still very firmly stuck to the table. "Thought you were having a little… chat with Lord Whatsisface?"

"Lord Julian?"

"Lord Julian Fucking Apollo Coriolan," Arthur corrected pettily.

"Ah." Huh. "Is his middle name really Apollo?" It would've been justified, because there was no denying the man in question was excruciatingly handsome. And rather statuesque in build.

A dark, drunken (and very rude) curse was Arthur's only reply.

"I was actually discussing the use of a remedy that might help Gaius with his bad cold. It turns out His Lordship is very knowledgeable in cures and restoratives."

"Oh His Lordship, eh?"

"Ye-es, he has travelled extensively and been able to study the practices of many a place," Merlin said, quietly going about tidying bits and pieces around the room. "He has collected many herbs and roots and he has some scrolls he thinks I should look at. He promised to show me a few things tomorrow."

A wet snort spilled from Arthur as he pushed himself to a slightly more dignified sitting position, that almost overbalanced into a tumble from his stately seat.

"Oh he wants to show you his thing for sure," the prince muttered, a bitter twist to his sullen mouth.

Ah. Alright. This was new.

"I very much doubt it," Merlin said patiently as he reached to take the sloshing goblet from Arthur's hand. "I think we've had enough of that very nice Byzantine wine, Sire."

"No-o," Arthur whined as he cradled the goblet against his chest and glared at Merlin's whereabouts. Gods, how much of the stuff had he imbibed?

And more importantly, why?

Arthur was always so cautious around drink. He drank with his fellow knights, partook in banquets, toasted merrily with everyone as the situation required, but Merlin knew that he was prudent with his intake. As the heir to the throne and the son of his exacting father, he had been trained in the underestimated yet critical art of engaging in diplomatic libations. In fact, one of the first things Merlin had been taught as manservant and cupbearer to the prince was how to pour his drinks and mix his wine with the right amount of water (an amount which was definitely more than Merlin himself would find enjoyable).

And yet here, one whiff of Arthur's breath told Merlin that the spiced wine had been consumed hardly (if at all) diluted.

"Go away," Arthur sulked, still cuddling his cup. "Leave me to my inoss… my interss… my introshpection."

Merlin stifled a smile at the fractious yet oddly adorable prince. A tipsy Arthur was a rare sight indeed. Merlin reached out a hand and placed the back of his fingers over Arthur's brow, just to make sure no fever was involved.

"Leave me be," the prince said in a small voice, eyes now brimming with untold emotions and conflicted dampness.

"I just want to make sure you're all right," Merlin informed him as he finally managed to gently pry the cup from the clumsy but grabby hands. "I think you should retire to bed, my Lord."

"And I think you should fuck off, Merlin," Arthur groused as Merlin laboriously hauled him to his feet.

"I most certainly will. As soon as we've put you into bed."

Something undetermined (but no doubt derogatory) was mumbled.

"Come on. That's right," Merlin encouraged. Then, "Nonono— Gods, why did you have to drink yourself into a stupor?" he griped as the prince sagged unhelpfully in his arms.

"You like him," Arthur hissed accusingly.

"And who are we talking about now?"

"Fffucking Apollo."

"Ah," Merlin replied eloquently as he staggered under the limp, disarticulated weight of his prince.

"What does he have that I don't?"

"What?"

"I'm taller than him."

"Uh… I don't think—"

"And I'm a better warrior than him."

"I guess he would— whups, sorry," Merlin said as Arthur collapsed face first onto the bed. "Are you alright there, Sire?"

"He's nothing special," the pickled prince muttered into the pillow.

"Well, he's a Byzantine envoy and he's travelled a long way to meet you and your father," Merlin argued as he rolled the prat right side up.

"Yeah, because I'm special. Not him."

Merlin quashed a smile at the childish remark. He was going to have so much fun tomorrow reminding Arthur just what a rambling, drunken arse he had made of himself. He was going to have months of teasing material by the time Arthur fell asleep tonight.

"His eyes look like puddle water," the prince then noted, a satisfied but wobbly smirk on his flushed features as Merlin peeled him out of his tunic.

"Do they? They seemed grey-green to me."

"Zactly! Dreary colour. Terrible colour."

"I thought they were rather nice, intelligent eyes," Merlin prattled perversely as he wrestled the boots off Arthur's feet.

"Of course you would, wouldn't you?" Followed by a string of mutterings casting aspersions on Merlin's mental acuity, powers of observation and rampant lust for some reason.

Meanwhile, Merlin went on undressing Arthur. Then he fondly arranged the pillows behind him, feeling the heat and affronted misery coming off his inebriated prince. Sometimes, he found the amount of love he carried for Arthur was unfair. Sometimes… Well, sometimes he just felt blessed to be able to stand by his side and take care of him in all matters big and small. He would obviously rather rip his own tongue out than admit it out loud, but he could no more deny the sweet ache of his feelings than he could grow feathers and fly.

Probably. He'd never tried.

He was at this familiar and dreadfully tender point in his thoughts, tucking Arthur in for the night as he went, when the prince, who apparently had been following his own chaotic train of plastered thoughts suddenly grabbed his face and drew him up close.

Almost close enough to kiss.

Merlin was about to make light of the uncomfortably delicious situation, but Arthur's gaze was a little wild and oddly entreating.

"Don't go with him," Arthur breathed, voice hoarse yet commanding. "I'm… I mean, my… That is, I really… My eyes are blue," he eventually managed on a desperate splutter.

"So they are," Merlin replied gently, daring to touch a hand to Arthur's heated cheek. "And a very pretty blue, too. The prettiest in the land." Which was, alas, deplorably true as far as Merlin was concerned. Arthur's eyes were blue flecked with constellations of azure and ultramarine. He could lose himself in those eyes. He already had.

"And I'm blonder than him," Arthur went on, fingertips absently doing obscene things to Merlin's sense of duty and honour.

"You are," Merlin promised softly.

"Don't go to bed with him. Please."

Al-right.

"I wouldn't," he promised.

Especially as Lord Julian was clearly enamoured with his aide Nicodemus who also happened to be a powerful mage and a gifted seer. It was on Nicodemus' impulse that they had made the long and fraught journey to Camelot — to meet the foretold Once and Future King and confer with the 'Great Emrys'.

"I promise you Lord Julian has no designs on my virtue," Merlin murmured to the lovely but woefully shitfaced prat.

"That's what you think! He's no fool, he can see how pretty you are. How nice and… crafty… and funny…" Arthur's warm, spicy breath ghosted over him, intoxicating to Merlin in a way that had nothing to do with how much wine the prince had imbibed. "The truest friend and companion a man could desire." Then an upset frown creased his brow. "He can't have that. He can't have you," Arthur insisted, his hands awkwardly possessive on either side of Merlin's face, squishing his cheeks with loving fervour. Then Arthur seemed to run out of momentum, and he leaned his forehead against Merlin's. "Just…Tell him you're mine," he said weakly.

Oh the delightful pain that wrung Merlin's heart at those words. If only. If only he dared.

"I am yours," he agreed on a murmur. "I'm your manservant, aren't I?"

"Yes," Arthur said quietly, a mess of emotions brewed in the too-shiny blue eyes. "Yes, you are." Then with more intensity, "Sometimes it feels like that's not enough."

"Oh you want me to be your friend, now?" Merlin teased lightly, resorting to this old joke to shield them both from the bluntness of Arthur's cup-induced delusions of frankness

"You are my friend," Arthur announced, seemingly dredging up the admission from the innermost sanctum of his proud soul. "It's not right. And it's not what I want. But it's the truth."

Gods, could the clotpole be anymore sweetly hurtful?

"And I want you… to want to be by my side," the lost prince spelled out laboriously.

"Well, you know me. I'm apparently the self-sacrificing type," Merlin tried with a little smile. "And I have nowhere else I need to be."

"So… do you promise to always be mine?" The gleam of desperate longing in Arthur's wine-earnest eyes was gouging Merlin's heart out of his chest.

And Merlin saved himself with the only defence at his disposal — pained humour.

"Only if you promise to be mine in return?" was all he had the nerve to say.

Arthur closed his eyes, sighed a long tired breath. He released Merlin and leaned back against the pillows, seemingly exhausted.

Well, there was Merlin's answer. And here was his lacerated, shivering heart kindly handed back to him, a little worse for wear.

He let himself sit on the edge of the mattress for a moment — to recover from the ordeal.

He was about to get to his feet, when Arthur's hand found one of his wrists and held it, forcing him to stay. Anchoring him like nothing else could. Arthur then slowly brought Merlin's captive hand towards his own cheek.

"If I had a choice… If I didn't already belong to Camelot… There is nothing I would want more than to be yours," he vowed, soft and broken.

Merlin was speechless.

And Arthur forged on.

"If I wasn't…" The princely forefinger drew a wobbly loop in the air "…who I am. If we were not so…" The forefinger now waved back and forth unsteadily "…unequal." Arthur blinked and wet his lips unsurely. "Would you have me?" he asked on a poignant croak.

Yes. A thousand times yes.

The answer and the feeling caught painfully in Merlin's chest.

"I… I think we should…" The rest of the reasonable words momentarily died on his lips as Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the palm of Merlin's hand. A hand made rough and callused by the daily toil of a serving boy. And here were the prince's lips seeking to meekly brush against the base of Merlin's thumb. The soft, intimate gesture, so full of promise and longing, was too much to bear for Merlin. "I think we should keep this discussion for tomorrow morning," he said in a breathless rush. "When you're well-rested and sober. Sire."

Merlin then gently, very delicately, retrieved his hand from the sweetest trap ever.

"I have upset you," Arthur observed despondently. "You only ever give me 'sires' and 'my lords' when I've upset you."

"You know me too well, Your Highness."

Arthur gave a tired, damp snort. "Now you're just mocking me."

"I wouldn't dare." Said with an easy quirk of the lips. And there, just like that, Merlin had brought them back on a more familiar and more passable path. The one he walked every day, in thoughts simultaneously one step ahead and one step behind the man he loved, but never abreast.

Arthur rolled onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position as his eyes blurrily followed Merlin through the motions of closing down their day. Putting away the warming pan, making sure the chamber pot was clean and within reach, folding Arthur's still-warm clothes, patting the covers, snuffing out the candles. Letting the echoes of the incriminating, too-tender words die out, swallowed by the silk and velvet trappings of Arthur's power and status. All the little things to reset the clockwork of their improper, bristly and at times wildly intimate friendship.

Tomorrow would be another day. Merlin would do his best to forget he'd witnessed the longing because such notions were simply too fraught to entertain.

"I might hold you to it, you know?" Arthur's voice was raspy and drawling, tangled as it was in wine and sleep. "Tomorrow morning. You and I, having that long-overdue discussion."

"Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight. Merlin."

“Sir Gilli, it’s a honor to have you here.” Arthur declared. “But before we go inside, I’d like you to meet my s- Court Sorcerer, Merlin.” Gilli stuck out a hand politely in Merlin’s direction. Merlin, however, was too far away to reach it, seeing as he was currently frozen in place three steps above the delegation.

“Merlin,” Arthur muttered. He prodded Merlin in the side, causing him to stumble forward. He would’ve fallen headfirst into Gilli, had it not been for Arthur grabbing a rather rough handful of Merlin’s tunic.

“...Hi,” Merlin said lamely, his heart racing.

He took Gilli’s hand, desperately trying to read the expression in his eyes, but found it utterly impossible. The only hint of familiarity he managed to deduce was the familiar feel of the magic ring which remained on Gilli’s finger after all these years.

“Alright then,” Arthur steered Merlin around and led the way into the castle, the only indication of his frustration being an exasperated sigh. Merlin thought this meeting was going just about as well as he expected.

The party made their way to the Great Hall, now tastefully decorated in the Pendragon colours, a feast laid out on the tables.

“Tonight, you are Camelot’s honored guests.” Arthur gestured warmly to the room. “So please, rest from your journey and enjoy yourselves. Serious talks can wait until tomorrow.” The delegation nodded their heads thankfully, a few of them immediately heading toward the trays of cheese and salted meat that were laid out. Nobles, knights, and peasants alike started to trickle into the hall. Merlin was undistracted by the grandeur of the feast, his gaze firmly focused on the delegates. He didn’t immediately recognize any other faces, although one woman wore the unmistakable markings of a Druid.

“Come on, Merlin, let’s go,” Arthur nudged Merlin’s shoulder, forcing him forward and interrupting his assessment. It could have been him just being paranoid, but Merlin swore he felt eyes watching him from within the crowd.

It was only when the feast officially started that Merlin truly began to feel nervous. He was seated next to Arthur, Gwen having been charmed away to sit with two enamoured delegates. Gilli was seated on the other side of Arthur, and he was definitely staring at Merlin.

“Gilli, forgive me, how long has it been since we last saw each other?” Arthur questioned.

“Hm… I believe it’s been nearly four years, my lord’ Gilli responded, following a pause for deliberation, “Not since the Decennial Tournament.”

“Ah yes, you almost defeated my-  father, if I recall correctly.”

Merlin was relieved to hear that Arthur only left a momentary pause between ‘my’ and ‘father’ this time. Ever since the ban on magic was lifted, Arthur had a hard time talking about Uther, as if he hated to be reminded that the same man who’d loved and raised him had committed such terrible acts against innocent people. It had made for some horribly awkward moments for the both of them, but this time, he just breezed right through.

“I don’t suppose that had anything to do with that?” Arthur asked, pointing to the ring on Gilli’s finger, his tone far more threatening than he intended.

Gilli only nodded with a small smile. “I was just a boy then. A young, foolish boy.” He looked up to Merlin as he said it, a peculiar expression across his features. But now I am older and wiser, and my trials have only made my true path clearer. Here in this delegation is exactly the place where I am supposed to be.”

Arthur grinned, his suspicion seemingly reeceded. “Camelot couldn’t be happier about these trade talks. They are a historic first step in the diplomacy of magical kingdoms.”

“Of course.” Gilli took a long drink of his wine, facing Merlin, “I’m glad to see you finally getting the respect you deserve, Merlin.”

Merlin almost choked on his food in an attempt to think up an explanation for such a remark.

“The respect he deserves?” Arthur asked with a perplexed expression. His head swiveled back and forth from Gilli to Merlin.

“I helped Gilli when he was injured in the tournament, my lord!” Merlin bellowed desperately, causing everyone close by to wince. “What can I say, sire,” he continued hastily, “when you heal someone from an infected knife wound, you do earn a certain degree of admiration. That, and the fact that I had to deal with a great prat like you all day long. Hell, I should’ve had a feast in my honor just for that.”

Arthur stared at Merlin for a few moments, bewildered, opting to laugh at his friend rather than question Merlin’s sudden “speech”; whether this leniency came from intoxication or good mood, Merlin wasn’t sure. He didn’t usually laugh after Merlin called him a prat in front of important people. At this point, though, Merlin didn’t really care about the reason. He just stared diligently at Gilli’s face and willed him to agree with his story.

“Yes, my lord. Merlin is quite the wizard,” Gilli responded without breaking eye contact with his fellow sorcerer, an unreadable expression on his face, “With his hands, that is.”

“Oh, I’ve imagined.” said Arthur dreamily. Merlin choked loudly on his drink.

“I mean, I’d imagine!” Arthur corrected quickly.

It was definitely the wine.

Merlin liked Drunk Arthur more and more as the night went on. He seemed determined to veer off official topics, which Merlin considered in the danger zone, with present company, and instead onto outrageous stories of his adventures. At one point in the night, he and Gwaine, swapping haphazardly between sentences (read: drunkenly yelling), told the story of their first pub fight together.

By the time Merlin had hauled a stumbling Arthur (still swearing that he was not even a little bit drunk) to his chambers and made his way to his own, he was so exhausted he had no time to think about Gilli or what his presence could mean for his secret. His worry only returned when he was awoken by a sharp rapping on his bedroom door.

“What is it?” he groaned, light streamed mercilessly through his window, as he used a pillow to cover his eyes.

“It’s me, Merlin. Gilli.”

Well, that was one way to wake up. Merlin scrambled out of bed and wrenched open the door. “Erm, come in, then,” he stepped aside to allow him in. Gilli entered slowly, taking in his surroundings, including the magic books piled high in plain sight.

“I had quite the time last night, Merlin.” he circled around the room, his eyes scanning like a predator searching for prey. Merlin didn’t like that.

“I especially enjoyed reminiscing. Strange, isn’t it, how your mind remembers things differently?” Gilli postulated. Any hint of malice in his tone was hidden behind his warm expression. “Almost like it can invent something completely contrary from what truly happened?” Gilli finished nonchalantly, staring at his ringed finger.

Merlin shifted uneasily. “I’m sorry I had to do that, Gilli, but Arthur doesn’t know-”

“That you’re a natural sorcerer. Born of magic.” Gilli suggested, his warm expression vanishing.

“Yes.”

“Last time we talked, Merlin, we talked of betraying our kind. Of cowardice and nobility.” Merlin nodded nervously; his throat was so dry he could barely swallow.

“There is nothing noble about hiding who you are. Not when you could so easily tell the truth.” Gilli sounded disappointed, looking at Merlin as one would look at a fallen hero.

“It’s more complicated than that!” Merlin responded angrily. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course, what would I know? I’m just the representative for Caerleon. Your ally, not to mention the largest producer of magical goods in the Five Kingdoms. The first kingdom, I might remind you, to voice its opposition to the persecution of sorcerers. What could I possibly know about the ramifications of legalizing magic?”

“Gilli, please.” Merlin begged.

“No!” Gilli shouted, grabbing him roughly by the tunic.

“The last time we met, you were so sure that you knew everything about being a sorcerer. So sanctimonious! So righteous! And look who’s still ashamed. Look who’s still hiding when everyone else is out of the closet.” Gilli released Merlin’s tunic with a disgusted expression, letting him stumble backward on his own.

Recovering his footing, Merlin took a long breath, willing the tears of either anger or shame to fade away. “I serve my king, and I serve him well. The rest is none of your concern.”

“Well,” Gilli objected, a dark energy bubbling in his eyes, “That’s not entirely true, for I serve my monarch well, too.”

Merlin hung his head. “What do you want from me, Gilli?” he asked quietly.

“It’s not what I want from you, Merlin. It’s what I want from Camelot.” He responded. A wicked smile played across Gilli’s face, and Merlin was reminded of watching him drive a sword through his opponent mercilessly in the Decennial Tournament all those years ago. He felt like the opponent.

“The trade deal.” Merlin realized with a defeated tone.

“The trade deal, indeed!” Gilli’s tone dripped with bitter satisfaction. “It’s simple, Merlin, very simple indeed. You simply accept our first offer of trade, and no one has to know your dirty little secret.” Gilli smiled triumphantly.

Merlin scoffed. “You can’t expect to just name a price, Gilli! Arthur won’t just accept any whatever you say; he isn’t an idiot!”

“Well, you’ll just have to make him see reason, Merlin, as Court Sorcerer.” Gilli laughed smugly as he walked towards the door, turning back one last time. “That is, of course, unless you’re ready to come out.”

With that, he left, shutting the door with a resounding thud. Merlin collapsed back onto his bed, overcome with emotion.

Arthur had entrusted him with this position. Entrusted him with this delegation. And no matter what Merlin told Gilli, he knew Arthur would take Merlin’s word for whatever he said about the trade deal.