Drinking Days with Arthur and Merlin
based off of deanpendragon's post which can be found here.
~~~
It’s always Merlin’s fault. The knights had decided to head down to the tavern for a few drinks after a long day, and Merlin had tagged along like he always did; after all, they needed someone to keep the drinks flowing. Arthur had just been minding his own business, participating just the right amount in the usual banter with the rest of the knights when Merlin had decided to make some silly remark(something about being able to stop a dragon? Yeah, right) and Arthur had choked on his mead laughing.
“God, you say some of the stupidest things,” Arthur had said once he could breathe again, after Leon had pounded him on the back.
Merlin had simply raised an eyebrow at him, unamused. “My apologies, sire,” he’d said snidely. "I’ll remember to not to speak when you’re doing two things at once; I know how hard it is for you to walk and talk at the same time.”
There’s a collective sound of laughter that rises from the knights behind him, which stops as soon as Arthur turns around and pins them all with a glare that would have made Uther proud.
“Merlin, you idiot, have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” he’d demanded, sipping at his drink, “I’m your prince, and I will not be spoken to that way by my manservant.”
Merlin stayed suspiciously silent, just staring at Arthur eyes all wide and doe-like. Arthur had raised his arms expectantly at the boy, and gestured at him with a hand.
“Well?” he’d asked in a tone that suggested he thought Merlin was a fool, or simple, or both. “Aren’t you going to say something snarky?”
The dark-haired had blinked innocently, dark lashes fluttering on high cheekbones. “Hm? Oh, yes, of course, sire, I was just waiting for you to finish drinking. We all know you can’t handle your liquor.” He’d leaned forward and stage-whispered in a conspiratorial manner, but it’d been loud enough for the knights to hear it, which cued another round of sniggering.
“Look who’s talking!” Arthur had exclaimed with cheeks red from the unwanted attention, jumping to his feet and knocking over his pint. Which, really, was counterproductive when you thought about it, because it made a rather loud clatter as the cup hit the floor, causing the eyes of the other patrons to land on him. The red deepened, and Arthur had slapped an open palm down on the table to distract from his flaming face, and demanded that Merlin take his words back. Merlin, obviously, refused.
“Constance!” called Arthur, gesturing to the barmaid, “bring out some more drinks; put it on my tab. I don’t care how many, just enough for me to drink my blithering idiot of a manservant under the table.”
Constance had smiled at him and winked. “I’ll fetch them straight away, sire,” she’d said, and her skirts had swished as she dashed off to bring him back his alcohol.
“Arthur, you really don’t want to do this,” said Merlin, but the beginnings of a smile had already begun to play on his lips. “You know you’re going to lose, right? And I’m not dragging you back up to bed when you’re passed out on the floor, you hear?”
“Don’t start something you can’t win, Merlin.” The red had faded from his cheeks, and Arthur had been cocky, with his usual arrogance having returned.
The knights had cheered loudly and thumped each other on the back as Constance arrived with a platter topped with drinks, and all other noise had been swallowed in the wake of their raucous whooping. It had continued as Merlin and Arthur clinked and began to chug the contents of their first glasses to the sound of Percival’s crowing and Gwaine already placing bets with the other patrons of the tavern.
Five and three-quarter mugs of mead later, Merlin and Arthur are still slowly making their ways to the bottom of their glasses, and the knights have grown bored with them. Percival and Leon are nursing their pints, Gwaine has withdrawn his money from the bets on the grounds that ‘those arses won’t be done for another hundred years’, and Elyan has started a card game with the rest of the knights.
“Trust Arthur and Merlin to make a drinking competition dull,” says Gwaine, and throws down a set of winning cards. “Ha. My hand."
Percival groans. “Dumb luck,” he tells Gwaine. “Honestly, I’m not surprised."
“Are they always like this?” Lancelot asks, glancing at the two men, still mumbling drunken threats at each other. “Shouldn’t we - I don’t know - help them? Stop them?”
“Nah,” says Ewan. “They’re better off this way.”
“Stupidly drunk?”
“Arthur’s got a hero complex,” Bedivere explains, “he’d not appreciate it if we were to step in right now.” He peeks over his shoulder, as if assessing the damage. “Eh, give them another ten or so minutes, when he’s a tad bit more out of it.”
Lancelot looks incredulously at the knights, sitting around a table and casually playing cards, none of them seeming the least bit perturbed that the crown prince of Camelot is lying slouched over in his seat in a growing pool of his own drool, muttering drunkenly at his manservant.
Owain, clearly sensing Lancelot’s discomfort and confusion, leans over to pat him soundly on the shoulder. “Look, mate, you’re still new around these parts,” he says, “but this is normal. Look at them, they’re fine.”
True to form, when Lancelot twists in his seat, he sees that Merlin is holding a nearly empty mug upside down over his mouth, messily shaking the last few drops out into his mouth, and Arthur has finished his mead, spinning the glass in circles on the tabletop.
“I told you I’d win,” he tells Merlin in a not-so-lucid tone of voice. “I always win. I’m Arthur.”
“You’re clotpole,” retorts Merlin in the same voice. He sets down his now empty glass and makes a grab at a fresh one on the platter on the arm of a passing barmaid. She smiles politely, a closed, tight-lipped smile, dodges his flailing arm and proceeds back to the kitchens. “I didn’t lose; don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid,” says Arthur, sound like a child. “You’re stupid. Why are you so stupid?"
Merlin is silent for a long period of time, and when Arthur speaks again, he sounds remorseful.
“I di’n’t mean it, Merlin,” he admits sorrowfully, and bangs his head on the table. “You’re not stupid, just daft. I sorry.”
“Tha’s not a proper apology,” Merlin accuses, equally as contrite. His wrist reaches out and flicks Arthur’s cup laying on its side, and makes a disappointed noise when he sees that its contents are gone. “You’re terrible at sorry’s.”
Arthur scoffs. “You’re my servant, you’re lucky you get any apology at all."
“You don’ even like me,” Merlin complains, loudly and suddenly, and sweeps the empty glass off the table. It shatters on the stone, the second piece of broken crockery on Arthur’s part tonight. Constance looks disparagingly at the shards on the ground, then shoots an imploring look at the knights. Leon mouths an awkward “We’re sorry” on behalf of their prince, and tells her to put it on Arthur’s tab.
“I like you sometimes,” Arthur is telling Merlin in a voice that suggests that this is a sizable feat(which it is). “I like you when you do as I tell you."
“So, never,” says Merlin, sounding accusatory.
“And who’s fault is that?” the prince mutters into the table’s worn tabletop.
“I bet,” begins Merlin, raising his head with much difficulty and pointing a finger vaguely in the direction of Arthur’s head, “that you can’ even name one thing abou' me that you like. After all the things I do for you, saving your stupid arse and fighting dragons…” He stops to flail his arms around for emphasis. “…and you can’ even call me a friend! Ungrateful prat."
“Not a prat,” Arthur says, sluggish and slow, and there’s a dull pause where neither of them says anything. Lancelot is beginning to think that both of them have drifted off into a drunken slumber when Arthur props his chin up on the table, bleary-eyed.
“I sort of like your neckerchiefs,” he admits, quite without shame. “Th' red one especially.”
Merlin looks up from wiping his mouth on said red scarf, and Arthur makes a disgusted face at him. “You’re ruining it,” he informs his manservant.
“You always said you hated my neckerchiefs,” Merlin protests suspiciously. “You always said they were stupid.”
“Yes!” The blond-haired man sounds incredibly frustrated as he agrees, and he thumps his forehead on the table again. “Because they hide your amazing collarbones!”
Merlin goes as scarlet as his scarf, and pushes himself to a somewhat upright position, balancing his chin in one hand and pointing with the other. “Well, then, I win, because I get to see your amazing collarbones because you don’ wear neckerchiefs!”
Arthur reaches across the table and attempts to clap Merlin on the shoulder, but his arm isn’t long enough, so he settles for patting the section of the table in front of him. “You are a good friend, Merlin,” he tells him. “You are…a duckling.”
“E’sscuse me?” slurs his manservant. “Did - “ he pauses to shake his head free of an alcohol-induced hallucination, “di’ you just call me a duck?”
“Yes, I did,” Arthur informs him, “because you’re a duck. I decree it by the Royal Seal-Stamp thingy of Camelot that you are a duckling and I shall protect you always.”
“Pffffbbtt.” Merlin makes a rude spitting noise with his mouth. “I’m always the one saving your royal arse, arse. You couldn’t last a day wi'out me.”
“Could, too."
“Liar.”
“Don’t call your prince a liar!”
“Apologies, Prince Liar. Sire. I meant sire."
The two men stare at each other for half a second, while Arthur’s hazy mind tries to process Merlin’s use of ‘sire’; Merlin only ever uses the word ironically, and then they both burst into giggles, collapsing over the table in hiccoughing, burping messes. When they finally calm down, Merlin and Arthur are wearing the same dopey-looking, pleased expression on their faces.
“You wouldn't look good in neckerchiefs,” Merlin comments thoughtfully, “so you don't wear them. Come to think of it, you don’t wear a shirt either, whenever you can help it.”
Arthur looks like he’s been suddenly punched in the stomach, or like he’s just learned the secrets of the universe. “Why am I still wearing my shirt?” he mumbles, and begins struggling to remove his clothing, but his arms get tangled and then Arthur’s shirt is over his head and stuck, and that’s when Leon decides that right about now is when he should probably step in to help. (Merlin’s always useless when presented with a topless Arthur.)
“Alright, men, I think we’re done for tonight,” he tells the rest of the knights, and pushes back his chair. “Let’s take those two back up to bed, they’ll be feeling like shite tomorrow.”
The men begin to clear up the cards, with only faint protests from Pellinore(“But I’d almost won that round!”).
“Percival, do you think you can try to sober Merlin up a little before you take him back to his quarters?” Leon says. “And Gwaine,” he makes a helpless noise, "for God’s sake, come help me put Your Royal Highness’s shirt back on.”
With much struggle and collective efforts from both Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot, Arthur remains fully dressed and lives to see another day without the public scandal of stripping down to his pants in a public tavern.
“And this is normal?” asks Lancelot dubiously. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, completely,” assures Leon, as he drops Constance an extra coin in tips and waves goodbye to the rest of the barmaids. “You’ll come to understand it in time.”
“I’m sure,” murmurs Lancelot.
As they exit the tavern, Percival has Merlin swung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and Gwaine is carrying the prince in his arms like a fainted bride. Arthur is already beginning to stir again, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like a sleepy child. Merlin doesn’t look much better, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his face all scrunched up.
“What are you both doing?” Leon demands the knights fretfully. “Percival, you can’t carry him like that, he’ll vomit.”
“I’m fine,” Merlin pitches in, still upside down, and still slurring.
“Gwaine,” continues Leon, ignoring Merlin, "you know Arthur would put you in the damn stocks if you let people see you carrying him like a bloody princess!”
“I’m no’ a princess, Merlin’s a princess,” the prince mumbles helpfully. “He’s my princess.”
“Of course, sire,” Leon is quick to agree over Merlin’s, “Oi, I heard that, you clotpole.”
Gwaine is possibly the only of the knights who could do something as affectionate as ruffle Arthur’s hair playfully, which he does just then. “Let’s get you up to bed now, yeah, Majesty?” he says, irritatingly cheerful. “We’ll have Percival take Merlin here - “ he jerks a finger back at the boy in question, who waves a hand from over Percival’s shoulder, “ - back to Gaius’s quarters where he’ll be taken care of. Sound good?”
Arthur just throws his head back and makes a loud inarticulate sound into the night air.
“Well, that’s that.” Gwaine nods his head at the rest of the knights in farewell and sets off in the direction of the prince’s quarters, adjusting Arthur in his arms. Arthur groans again as he’s shifted and he moans, “But my priiiinnnncessss,” and gestures vaguely at Percival’s retreating back.
“I MISS YOU ALREADY ARTHUR,” shouts Merlin from over Percival’s shoulder, voice muffled by a few layers of clothing.
“I BID THEE FAREWELL, DEAR MAIDEN,” Arthur yells back.
“I AM NO MAIDEN ARTHUR.”
“STOP ARGUING WITH YOUR PRINCE.”
“IDIOT.”
“MERLIN, THAT IS MY LINE.”
“Gwaine, don’t you dare drop the crown prince of Camelot!” (This comes from Leon, who, like the rest of the knights, is trying to suppress his laughter. Spoiler: they can’t.)
“Percival, if you let go of Merlin from that height you’re going to give the boy a concussion."
Percival is only human, but he manages not to let Merlin’s head touch the ground as he falls to his knees, practically cackling as Merlin and Arthur yell insulting endearments(or is it endearing insults?) at each other across the town square.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU COULD BE SUCH A SPOILED PRAT.”
“YOU’RE FORGETTING YOUR PLACE, PEASANT."
“EXCUSE ME WHAT WAS THAT?”
“DON’T YOU PRETEND THAT YOU DIDN’T HEAR ME MERLIN, I KNOW YOU HEARD THAT, WITH YOUR STUPID, ENORMOUS, ADORABLE EARS."
“Percival, stop laughing, oh my God, you’re going to kill him.”
Percival requires the help of three other knights to get back on his feet, stumbling off into the direction of the physician’s quarters.
Arthur’s shouts skitter to a complete halt, as if he’d been gagged, and Gwaine yells a few seconds later, “It’s okay, he’s not dead; he just passed out!” before heading back to the prince’s chambers.
“That certainly was eventful,” Lancelot says, watching Gwaine disappear into the night.
Leon waves a tired hand, dismissing the thought. “Stick around for our next visit to the tavern,” he tells the man, “it’ll probably happen again.”
“You mean it’s happened before?”
“Oh, a variation of this happens almost every time,” says Leon, nodding sagely. “The night usually ends with the two of them doing this aggressive flirting thing. The rest of the knights and I think it’s some sort of bizarre mating ritual. Best not dwell too long on it, mate."
And Leon claps his friend soundly on the shoulder, guiding him and the other knights off to their camp, where sleep awaits them, and any other strange gayness is saved for their next great drinking adventure.
~~~
It’s always Merlin’s fault. The knights had decided to head down to the tavern for a few drinks after a long day, and Merlin had tagged along like he always did; after all, they needed someone to keep the drinks flowing. Arthur had just been minding his own business, participating just the right amount in the usual banter with the rest of the knights when Merlin had decided to make some silly remark(something about being able to stop a dragon? Yeah, right) and Arthur had choked on his mead laughing.
“God, you say some of the stupidest things,” Arthur had said once he could breathe again, after Leon had pounded him on the back.
Merlin had simply raised an eyebrow at him, unamused. “My apologies, sire,” he’d said snidely. "I’ll remember to not to speak when you’re doing two things at once; I know how hard it is for you to walk and talk at the same time.”
There’s a collective sound of laughter that rises from the knights behind him, which stops as soon as Arthur turns around and pins them all with a glare that would have made Uther proud.
“Merlin, you idiot, have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” he’d demanded, sipping at his drink, “I’m your prince, and I will not be spoken to that way by my manservant.”
Merlin stayed suspiciously silent, just staring at Arthur eyes all wide and doe-like. Arthur had raised his arms expectantly at the boy, and gestured at him with a hand.
“Well?” he’d asked in a tone that suggested he thought Merlin was a fool, or simple, or both. “Aren’t you going to say something snarky?”
The dark-haired had blinked innocently, dark lashes fluttering on high cheekbones. “Hm? Oh, yes, of course, sire, I was just waiting for you to finish drinking. We all know you can’t handle your liquor.” He’d leaned forward and stage-whispered in a conspiratorial manner, but it’d been loud enough for the knights to hear it, which cued another round of sniggering.
“Look who’s talking!” Arthur had exclaimed with cheeks red from the unwanted attention, jumping to his feet and knocking over his pint. Which, really, was counterproductive when you thought about it, because it made a rather loud clatter as the cup hit the floor, causing the eyes of the other patrons to land on him. The red deepened, and Arthur had slapped an open palm down on the table to distract from his flaming face, and demanded that Merlin take his words back. Merlin, obviously, refused.
“Constance!” called Arthur, gesturing to the barmaid, “bring out some more drinks; put it on my tab. I don’t care how many, just enough for me to drink my blithering idiot of a manservant under the table.”
Constance had smiled at him and winked. “I’ll fetch them straight away, sire,” she’d said, and her skirts had swished as she dashed off to bring him back his alcohol.
“Arthur, you really don’t want to do this,” said Merlin, but the beginnings of a smile had already begun to play on his lips. “You know you’re going to lose, right? And I’m not dragging you back up to bed when you’re passed out on the floor, you hear?”
“Don’t start something you can’t win, Merlin.” The red had faded from his cheeks, and Arthur had been cocky, with his usual arrogance having returned.
The knights had cheered loudly and thumped each other on the back as Constance arrived with a platter topped with drinks, and all other noise had been swallowed in the wake of their raucous whooping. It had continued as Merlin and Arthur clinked and began to chug the contents of their first glasses to the sound of Percival’s crowing and Gwaine already placing bets with the other patrons of the tavern.
Five and three-quarter mugs of mead later, Merlin and Arthur are still slowly making their ways to the bottom of their glasses, and the knights have grown bored with them. Percival and Leon are nursing their pints, Gwaine has withdrawn his money from the bets on the grounds that ‘those arses won’t be done for another hundred years’, and Elyan has started a card game with the rest of the knights.
“Trust Arthur and Merlin to make a drinking competition dull,” says Gwaine, and throws down a set of winning cards. “Ha. My hand."
Percival groans. “Dumb luck,” he tells Gwaine. “Honestly, I’m not surprised."
“Are they always like this?” Lancelot asks, glancing at the two men, still mumbling drunken threats at each other. “Shouldn’t we - I don’t know - help them? Stop them?”
“Nah,” says Ewan. “They’re better off this way.”
“Stupidly drunk?”
“Arthur’s got a hero complex,” Bedivere explains, “he’d not appreciate it if we were to step in right now.” He peeks over his shoulder, as if assessing the damage. “Eh, give them another ten or so minutes, when he’s a tad bit more out of it.”
Lancelot looks incredulously at the knights, sitting around a table and casually playing cards, none of them seeming the least bit perturbed that the crown prince of Camelot is lying slouched over in his seat in a growing pool of his own drool, muttering drunkenly at his manservant.
Owain, clearly sensing Lancelot’s discomfort and confusion, leans over to pat him soundly on the shoulder. “Look, mate, you’re still new around these parts,” he says, “but this is normal. Look at them, they’re fine.”
True to form, when Lancelot twists in his seat, he sees that Merlin is holding a nearly empty mug upside down over his mouth, messily shaking the last few drops out into his mouth, and Arthur has finished his mead, spinning the glass in circles on the tabletop.
“I told you I’d win,” he tells Merlin in a not-so-lucid tone of voice. “I always win. I’m Arthur.”
“You’re clotpole,” retorts Merlin in the same voice. He sets down his now empty glass and makes a grab at a fresh one on the platter on the arm of a passing barmaid. She smiles politely, a closed, tight-lipped smile, dodges his flailing arm and proceeds back to the kitchens. “I didn’t lose; don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid,” says Arthur, sound like a child. “You’re stupid. Why are you so stupid?"
Merlin is silent for a long period of time, and when Arthur speaks again, he sounds remorseful.
“I di’n’t mean it, Merlin,” he admits sorrowfully, and bangs his head on the table. “You’re not stupid, just daft. I sorry.”
“Tha’s not a proper apology,” Merlin accuses, equally as contrite. His wrist reaches out and flicks Arthur’s cup laying on its side, and makes a disappointed noise when he sees that its contents are gone. “You’re terrible at sorry’s.”
Arthur scoffs. “You’re my servant, you’re lucky you get any apology at all."
“You don’ even like me,” Merlin complains, loudly and suddenly, and sweeps the empty glass off the table. It shatters on the stone, the second piece of broken crockery on Arthur’s part tonight. Constance looks disparagingly at the shards on the ground, then shoots an imploring look at the knights. Leon mouths an awkward “We’re sorry” on behalf of their prince, and tells her to put it on Arthur’s tab.
“I like you sometimes,” Arthur is telling Merlin in a voice that suggests that this is a sizable feat(which it is). “I like you when you do as I tell you."
“So, never,” says Merlin, sounding accusatory.
“And who’s fault is that?” the prince mutters into the table’s worn tabletop.
“I bet,” begins Merlin, raising his head with much difficulty and pointing a finger vaguely in the direction of Arthur’s head, “that you can’ even name one thing abou' me that you like. After all the things I do for you, saving your stupid arse and fighting dragons…” He stops to flail his arms around for emphasis. “…and you can’ even call me a friend! Ungrateful prat."
“Not a prat,” Arthur says, sluggish and slow, and there’s a dull pause where neither of them says anything. Lancelot is beginning to think that both of them have drifted off into a drunken slumber when Arthur props his chin up on the table, bleary-eyed.
“I sort of like your neckerchiefs,” he admits, quite without shame. “Th' red one especially.”
Merlin looks up from wiping his mouth on said red scarf, and Arthur makes a disgusted face at him. “You’re ruining it,” he informs his manservant.
“You always said you hated my neckerchiefs,” Merlin protests suspiciously. “You always said they were stupid.”
“Yes!” The blond-haired man sounds incredibly frustrated as he agrees, and he thumps his forehead on the table again. “Because they hide your amazing collarbones!”
Merlin goes as scarlet as his scarf, and pushes himself to a somewhat upright position, balancing his chin in one hand and pointing with the other. “Well, then, I win, because I get to see your amazing collarbones because you don’ wear neckerchiefs!”
Arthur reaches across the table and attempts to clap Merlin on the shoulder, but his arm isn’t long enough, so he settles for patting the section of the table in front of him. “You are a good friend, Merlin,” he tells him. “You are…a duckling.”
“E’sscuse me?” slurs his manservant. “Did - “ he pauses to shake his head free of an alcohol-induced hallucination, “di’ you just call me a duck?”
“Yes, I did,” Arthur informs him, “because you’re a duck. I decree it by the Royal Seal-Stamp thingy of Camelot that you are a duckling and I shall protect you always.”
“Pffffbbtt.” Merlin makes a rude spitting noise with his mouth. “I’m always the one saving your royal arse, arse. You couldn’t last a day wi'out me.”
“Could, too."
“Liar.”
“Don’t call your prince a liar!”
“Apologies, Prince Liar. Sire. I meant sire."
The two men stare at each other for half a second, while Arthur’s hazy mind tries to process Merlin’s use of ‘sire’; Merlin only ever uses the word ironically, and then they both burst into giggles, collapsing over the table in hiccoughing, burping messes. When they finally calm down, Merlin and Arthur are wearing the same dopey-looking, pleased expression on their faces.
“You wouldn't look good in neckerchiefs,” Merlin comments thoughtfully, “so you don't wear them. Come to think of it, you don’t wear a shirt either, whenever you can help it.”
Arthur looks like he’s been suddenly punched in the stomach, or like he’s just learned the secrets of the universe. “Why am I still wearing my shirt?” he mumbles, and begins struggling to remove his clothing, but his arms get tangled and then Arthur’s shirt is over his head and stuck, and that’s when Leon decides that right about now is when he should probably step in to help. (Merlin’s always useless when presented with a topless Arthur.)
“Alright, men, I think we’re done for tonight,” he tells the rest of the knights, and pushes back his chair. “Let’s take those two back up to bed, they’ll be feeling like shite tomorrow.”
The men begin to clear up the cards, with only faint protests from Pellinore(“But I’d almost won that round!”).
“Percival, do you think you can try to sober Merlin up a little before you take him back to his quarters?” Leon says. “And Gwaine,” he makes a helpless noise, "for God’s sake, come help me put Your Royal Highness’s shirt back on.”
With much struggle and collective efforts from both Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot, Arthur remains fully dressed and lives to see another day without the public scandal of stripping down to his pants in a public tavern.
“And this is normal?” asks Lancelot dubiously. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, completely,” assures Leon, as he drops Constance an extra coin in tips and waves goodbye to the rest of the barmaids. “You’ll come to understand it in time.”
“I’m sure,” murmurs Lancelot.
As they exit the tavern, Percival has Merlin swung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and Gwaine is carrying the prince in his arms like a fainted bride. Arthur is already beginning to stir again, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like a sleepy child. Merlin doesn’t look much better, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his face all scrunched up.
“What are you both doing?” Leon demands the knights fretfully. “Percival, you can’t carry him like that, he’ll vomit.”
“I’m fine,” Merlin pitches in, still upside down, and still slurring.
“Gwaine,” continues Leon, ignoring Merlin, "you know Arthur would put you in the damn stocks if you let people see you carrying him like a bloody princess!”
“I’m no’ a princess, Merlin’s a princess,” the prince mumbles helpfully. “He’s my princess.”
“Of course, sire,” Leon is quick to agree over Merlin’s, “Oi, I heard that, you clotpole.”
Gwaine is possibly the only of the knights who could do something as affectionate as ruffle Arthur’s hair playfully, which he does just then. “Let’s get you up to bed now, yeah, Majesty?” he says, irritatingly cheerful. “We’ll have Percival take Merlin here - “ he jerks a finger back at the boy in question, who waves a hand from over Percival’s shoulder, “ - back to Gaius’s quarters where he’ll be taken care of. Sound good?”
Arthur just throws his head back and makes a loud inarticulate sound into the night air.
“Well, that’s that.” Gwaine nods his head at the rest of the knights in farewell and sets off in the direction of the prince’s quarters, adjusting Arthur in his arms. Arthur groans again as he’s shifted and he moans, “But my priiiinnnncessss,” and gestures vaguely at Percival’s retreating back.
“I MISS YOU ALREADY ARTHUR,” shouts Merlin from over Percival’s shoulder, voice muffled by a few layers of clothing.
“I BID THEE FAREWELL, DEAR MAIDEN,” Arthur yells back.
“I AM NO MAIDEN ARTHUR.”
“STOP ARGUING WITH YOUR PRINCE.”
“IDIOT.”
“MERLIN, THAT IS MY LINE.”
“Gwaine, don’t you dare drop the crown prince of Camelot!” (This comes from Leon, who, like the rest of the knights, is trying to suppress his laughter. Spoiler: they can’t.)
“Percival, if you let go of Merlin from that height you’re going to give the boy a concussion."
Percival is only human, but he manages not to let Merlin’s head touch the ground as he falls to his knees, practically cackling as Merlin and Arthur yell insulting endearments(or is it endearing insults?) at each other across the town square.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU COULD BE SUCH A SPOILED PRAT.”
“YOU’RE FORGETTING YOUR PLACE, PEASANT."
“EXCUSE ME WHAT WAS THAT?”
“DON’T YOU PRETEND THAT YOU DIDN’T HEAR ME MERLIN, I KNOW YOU HEARD THAT, WITH YOUR STUPID, ENORMOUS, ADORABLE EARS."
“Percival, stop laughing, oh my God, you’re going to kill him.”
Percival requires the help of three other knights to get back on his feet, stumbling off into the direction of the physician’s quarters.
Arthur’s shouts skitter to a complete halt, as if he’d been gagged, and Gwaine yells a few seconds later, “It’s okay, he’s not dead; he just passed out!” before heading back to the prince’s chambers.
“That certainly was eventful,” Lancelot says, watching Gwaine disappear into the night.
Leon waves a tired hand, dismissing the thought. “Stick around for our next visit to the tavern,” he tells the man, “it’ll probably happen again.”
“You mean it’s happened before?”
“Oh, a variation of this happens almost every time,” says Leon, nodding sagely. “The night usually ends with the two of them doing this aggressive flirting thing. The rest of the knights and I think it’s some sort of bizarre mating ritual. Best not dwell too long on it, mate."
And Leon claps his friend soundly on the shoulder, guiding him and the other knights off to their camp, where sleep awaits them, and any other strange gayness is saved for their next great drinking adventure.