Gwaine trots up to the stands, reaching up to take the fluttering fabric from Morgana’s extended hand. She smirks down at him, saying something Arthur can’t hear from where he stands at the edge of the field, but which makes Gwaine laugh, head thrown back, hair lustrous in the sun. Arthur watches as he ties the bright silk around his arm, a burst of emerald against his mail.
“Alright,” Merlin says, stepping in close to strap Arthur’s vambrace in place, head bent low over the fastenings. Arthur’s eyes catch on the red of his neckerchief, gloved hands clenching and unclenching, a similar process going on in his stomach. “I think you’re ready.”
His gaze flicks up, and Arthur swallows. He wants to ask, but doesn’t know how.
“Right,” he says instead, and climbs into the saddle.
He rides out. Arm bare.
Favour @merthurmicrofic {141 words}
