Kink Me! #19

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Re: their sound shall reach the stars (1b/??)

[anonymous]

Arthur scoffed, shrugging the lingering tension off like a cloak. “All right then, what’s had you slaving away all day?” he asked, popping a piece of meat into his mouth with a satisfied “hah” expression, knowing full well that Merlin had to have been exaggerating -- they both knew by now that Merlin’s standards of “a hard day’s work” were somewhat different than those of the usual (competent) servants.

He was not disappointed when the flush strewn across Merlin’s face seemed to only redouble. “Well,” he spluttered, carelessly leaning against Arthur’s bedpost (and really, only Merlin could manage to lean impertinently). “I scrubbed the floors,” he then crowed, clutching to a seeming lifeline, “so I’d thank you to stay indoors as long as possible, if you please --”
“And if I don’t?” Arthur couldn’t help grumbling. Something was inherently wrong (and yet it happened all too often) about Merlin telling him what he should and shouldn’t do.

“-- as it takes ages to scrub them, and I’d really like to put off doing it again for as long as possible, even if that’s probably not likely as you manage to get everything impossibly dirty,” Merlin rambled, continuing on as if he hadn’t heard Arthur’s mutter. “But I also cleaned your robes for the feast tomorrow night. And you managed to get wine on the sleeve again, so that took longer than I’d --”

“Merlin?”

Merlin’s spiel dropped off. “Er. Arthur?”

Arthur could feel the beginnings of a horrid headache coming on. “When I asked if you were slaving about all day, I didn’t really expect you to give me a blow-by-blow recount,” he moaned. Between the Lady Evelyn (if she was even old enough to be considered a Lady), his father, and his prattling manservant, he’d be lucky to go the week without killing someone. He gave up the rest of his lunch as a lost cause and instead moved towards the oh-so-inviting bed, flopping onto it with a gluttonous sigh.

As usual, Merlin wasn’t happy with whatever Arthur wanted to do. “Wh- Arthur! I just finished making that! Fluffed the pillows and everything.”

Arthur let a long-suffering sigh out before he grabbed one of the pillows and tossed it at Merlin, feeling inordinately pleased at the squawk his manservant let out as it met his shoulder. “Well?” he said, looking at Merlin with an expectant grin. “I’d hate to deny you the joy of fluffing my pillows.”

Merlin was looking at him with the familiar combination of frustration, exasperation, and amusement. So Arthur probably should have expected it when Merlin threw the pillow back at him with a surprising amount of force and a “prat”.

He hadn’t expected that one toss of a pillow would result in all-out war, however.

Several minutes and many annihilated pillows later, they were interrupted by a knock to the door. Before Arthur could so much as think, Merlin leapt from the edge of the bed (and how did he get there?) was at the door in a flash, opening it to reveal a page. The obviously-prepared words on the page’s lips died as they gave way to an ‘o’ of surprise, and Arthur took a moment to view the scene from his eyes. Merlin was at the door, red from exertion and laughter, two feathers sticking out of his mussed hair in a way that seemed to defy all rules of science, Arthur was kneeling on the bed, the battered remains of a pillow dangling uselessly from his fists, and the entire room seemed to be coated in feathers. The flush on the back of his neck seemed to feel less like from the antics of prior moments and more like embarrassment at getting caught doing something that would have been more endearing had he been many, many years younger.

The page visibly recollected himself and said in an admirably serious tone, “Sire, the King requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”

Arthur hastily hid the pillow sack behind his back, feeling like he was seven and caught smuggling a dozen honeyed pastries from the kitchens again. “Of course,” he said, attempting to sound as calm and princely as possible. If Merlin’s pinched lips and barely-contained mirth were anything to go by, Arthur was failing. Miserably.