The sun shines, bright and golden, over Camelot, its light reflecting off Arthur -in all his bright-and-shininess- with such intensity that Merlin has to squint just to look at him. Not for the first time he curses the lustrous polished silver of Arthur's armour and sword and wishes he hadn't been so thorough in his chores. As his blurred, watering eyes try to focus on his master, Merlin wonders how on earth Arthur gets his hair to shine so blindingly.
The day is warm, the heat dry and unrelenting and the gentle breeze does little to cool Merlin's armour clad frame. A merciful cloud drifts slowly past the sun, allowing Merlin the use of his eyes for long enough to see the jab of Arthur's sword in his direction. He dodges the blow with none of the grace and finesse the young prince has been trying, so earnestly, to teach him; but with a move Arthur has dubbed 'Falling on your stupid arse….again'. One might call it Merlin's signature move.
He lay on the grass, spread-eagled, panting and greatly appreciating the reprieve from having to move. Arthur stands above him, tall and imposing and silhouetted by the sun behind his annoyingly golden head. He smirks and says something snarky as he twirls his sword around in an impressive manner, something Merlin only ever attempts when he is alone.
A flash of creamy flesh appears between the worn brown leather glove and bright red sleeve of his tunic as Arthur rolls his wrist and Merlin is instantly transfixed. The prince's voice rumbles forth once again, something cocky and commanding, but Merlin cannot bring himself to connect his ears to his brain. Every ounce of his brainpower is being used to process the sight before him. Hell. He never knew a person's wrist could be so erotic. A person's wrist shouldn't be allowed to be that erotic!
Arthur rolls his eyes as he berates Merlin for being too incompetent to even stand up on his own. Transferring his sword to his left hand, he extends his right to the man on the ground. Merlin's blue eyes widen as the alluring patch of flesh nears his face and, before he even realises it's happening, his tongue darts out to lap at the tantalising segment of skin visible where Arthur's sleeve doesn't quite meet his glove.
The salty, sweaty taste of Arthur's skin brings reality rushing back and they both freeze, wide eyed and stunned by Merlin's impulsive actions. Merlin drops Arthur's wrist and tries to remember grasping it in the first place.
Tense moments pass and the stunned silence slowly turns awkward and uncomfortable. Arthur clears his throat and Merlin finally gathers the braincells to stumble to his feet.
Arthur's mouth opens, closes and opens once more.
"Merlin," his face is blank, impassive and Merlin doesn't know what to make of it. His tone is just as useful.
Words that refused to surface moments ago now come rushing forth with all the unstoppable force of a tidal wave. Merlin watches helplessly, like a stranger in his own body, as he rambles on without actually saying anything.
"Arthur-I mean sire. I…I'm sorry….I don-….I didn't-…I-..Err."
"Merlin," this time his voice is strong, dismissive, slightly reprimanding and Merlin clings to the normalcy of it. Arthur's expression however, remains completely closed off and Merlin realises that the prince hasn't thrown up his barriers this hard or fast since they met.
The realisation stings him a little and he doesn't think he can stand to be around Arthur any longer. He mumbles something that may have been a request to be dismissed for the rest of the day but does not wait for the answer before he turns and walks away; trying not to run from the stoic prince he leaves behind him.
Arthur stands there, still, for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes before he finally looks down at his wrist.
Callused fingers brush over moist skin and a tiny smile creeps past the prince's indifferent façade. But the smile is short lived and is reduced to a frown as Arthur wonders what Merlin's momentary lapse could mean.