(no subject)
Arthur turned for the twentieth time in the space of a minute and finally decided to give up on sleep altogether. The moon was shining too brightly through the lattice of his window and the creak of late-working footsteps made too much noise to ignore. When he shifted to his front the mattress brushed against a particularly uncomfortable spot and oh yeah... there was that too. Too alert; too uncomfortable; too hard. On every previous night before this one he would have been able to solve that particular problem easily. There was a reason that three of the most nubile maids in the castle occupied rooms on the Prince’s floor; the arrangements were nothing if not conveniently discreet. And if all else failed, if perhaps the maids seemed a little...disinclined (never anything to do with Arthur, of course) or if the prince sometimes preferred not to bother them, he always had his trusty right hand to fall back on. But tonight, things were different.
“Arthur.”
He shivered. He threw the blankets off and huffed a sigh into the broken quiet. There was no real need to stand and check underneath the bed (for the third time) because he was certain he’d imagined the voice again, but he did it anyway. All was clear, obviously.
Settling back between the sheets, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. He used some of the restless energy to wish away the question “what is wrong with me!?” because he knew that if he dwelt on it he’d have to kiss sleep goodbye for a long, long time. It was creepy, that was the safest way to label last night’s encounter. Not curious, not amusing, not... arousing. Eugh.
“What is wrong with me!?”
There, he said it. And there he held his breath, waiting for someone to answer him back, waiting for a voice, or a cough, or even a shuffle, but nothing came; the room remained the creaks and the light and the silence in between. He pictured clearly Merlin’s face, the smile that prompted the relief he never thought he’d feel, where was the irritation? And then the answers that prompted the embarrassment: “I never left,” dear god! But why had Arthur cared? What did it matter if Merlin had listened to it all... his anguish over his father (there had been no tears, none whatsoever! And if Merlin had heard something that sounded like tears, well, that was his own misunderstanding) his awkward conversation with Gwen, his later frustration into his fist and the pillow beneath his nails. There he stopped his trail of thought, because the hardness was really uncomfortable enough already, he needn’t make it worse.
“Dear god, Merlin,” he groaned, clutching at his face and smothering the noise into his mattress.
“Arthur?”
Shit.
“What are you doing here?!” The prince jumped, trying to stand but tangling his feet so fast that the linen fell from the bed and pulled him with it.
Thankfully Merlin didn’t come any closer; the insensitive clot-pole (yes, Arthur had become rather fond of the word) was doubled over laughing where he stood.
“Er,” he croaked, grinning, “you called for me, sire?”
“I did no such thing.” It was difficult to appear intimidating with a self-made bump on your forehead. Arthur straightened and brushed himself off; trying not to think about how easily the boy had heard him.
Merlin looked around the room.
“What’s the matter, did you have a nightmare?”
That grin, Arthur’s hand itched to smack it right off.
“Just get out, Merlin.”
“You sure? You don’t need me to stay and hold your hand?”
Arthur advanced at that, and Merlin took a step back.
“Oh, I’ve got better use for your hand,” said the prince, still stepping forwards when abruptly Merlin stopped and raised his eyebrows.
Boy had that come out wrong. He coughed and rephrased, trying to use the words “muck out the stables”, but it somehow must have come out worse because Merlin actually reddened and looked away.
How had this happened? A year ago the prince had been fine; every night he went to bed thinking about slaying dragons and laying busty damsels, and then a few months ago he had started to bed alone, and then a few weeks ago he had had to decidedly not think about Merlin. But now, all it took was a couple of nights of being rudely awoken by said manservant and quicker than you can say clot-pole he’s hovering above the boy half-naked, making innuendos.
“Um,” Merlin spoke; sliding swiftly to the side, “so is there nothing you need me for, then?”
Was Arthur seeing things or was that a twinkle in the boy’s eye? Whatever it had been, the moonlight swallowed it up all too quickly.
“No,” the prince sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “nothing. Just leave.”
This time, when he climbed between the sheets, his hardness worse than ever, he made a resolution. Tomorrow this would stop, he had clearly been bedding alone for too long. It was time to visit Maria. And if she happened to be the tallest maid with the blackest hair and gangliest limbs, well, who was to question the prince’s taste? Only himself, and on that thought he groaned again, realising finally what was wrong with him.