If he's honest with himself, Arthur really doesn't think he can even pick out the most bizarre bit of this whole bizarre feast—maybe the bit where Merlin's actually, for the first time in his ugly-and-ripped-up-clothes life, dressed up like an actual Court Sorcerer, with the silken blue cloak and the nice boots with the shiny buckles and everything, even if poor Guinevere did have to practically wrestle him into it, and even if he obstinately refused to part with that godawful red scarf. Or maybe it's the bit where there is an extremely famous and scarily powerful sorceress in this hall right now, at this very table, at the King's Table, with a golden goblet of rich red wine in her hand, and a wide, red-lipstick smile on her face and not so much as a single hint of murderous intent in her soft, pretty brown eyes.

Or maybe it's the bit where there is an extremely famous and scarily powerful sorceress in this hall right now and she is doing her damn best to flirt with Merlin.

No, no, really, honestly, it sounds like a joke, and yeah, actually, Arthur would give up his sword if only that would make it a joke—yes, he'd toss away the sword the Great Lizard of Fate and Destiny puffed a bit of breath on, the sword that is, apparently, a Really Big Deal, the sword that is, apparently, so special and important and magical, Merlin just had to stuff it in a big rock for ages—except this isn't actually a joke.

There is an actual human woman trying to flirt with Merlin.

It sounds like a joke.

It is not.

This extremely famous and scarily powerful sorceress—Lady Tuilelaith, see, look, Merlin, Arthur can remember and say her name—has tried so hard all night, from the moment she stepped into the hall and got her first look at Merlin, to win him over.

And Merlin, in one of his all-too-common feats of incredible idiocy, has not even noticed.

Now, to be perfectly fair to the oblivious, magical dollophead, romance always is a bit of a tricky thing. Arthur knows that, he does, really—the early days of his own courtship with Guinevere, at his side right now, in the queen's seat, were certainly awkward and uncertain enough to teach him that little lesson—but, honestly, he's not sure if the Lady Tuilelaith can even be more obvious now.

She's twirled her long, curly hair around her finger. She's laughed out loud at absolutely everything Merlin's said tonight, even the really ridiculous stuff, and she's gushed on and on and on about his magic, and oh, goodness, Emrys, your power is truly beautiful, truly amazing, just extraordinary, and, for God's sake, enough is enough! She fed him a bite off the pastry on her plate with her own damned fork!

And Merlin! Hasn't! Even! Noticed!

Arthur wonders if he could, maybe, very discreetly stab Merlin in the thigh with the bread knife, or if Lady Tuilelaith would see it.

Well, Lady Tuilelaith hasn't taken her eyes off the magical idiot for a single moment since she met him tonight. So. Yes. She would probably see.

Unfortunate.

But Guinevere, oh, of course, Guinevere, absolutely beams over at Merlin and the poor, persistent Lady Tuilelaith with a big, bright smile. "Cute," she whispers, to Arthur, over the rim of her own golden goblet, "aren't they?"

"Cute?" Arthur huffs. Of course. Of course that's what Guinevere thinks. That's always what Guinevere thinks. She's wanted to get Merlin married off ever since she heard his last love is dead at the bottom of a magic lake. "Guinevere, he's completely clueless. It's painful. I've got secondhand embarrassment for that poor woman."

Guinevere doesn't laugh, but her dark eyes crinkle up at the edges like when she wants to laugh but knows better. "Well," she takes a small, dainty sip of her wine, "she could stand to be a bit less subtle about it."

"Less subtle?" Arthur squawks. Too loudly. He knows it's too loudly, because Gwaine actually pulls his face out of his mead long enough to look 'round at them. Arthur flushes, and drops his voice back down to a low whisper. "What do you want her to do? Take up a quill and write up a marriage proposal to Merlin on her face?"

Guinevere's eyes crinkle up again. "You just have to sort of spell it out with him. I mean, for God's sake, he didn't get it even when I kissed him—"

"You kissed Merlin?!"

All right, now that one was definitely too loud, because Elyan and Percival and Leon all look up, too—thank God Merlin and the Lady Tuilelaith are too far down the table to hear, except Arthur's not sure he has it in himself to care right now if they did hear, because apparently, Guinevere kissed Merlin? No, no, no, that is absolutely not true, that is not a thing that happened, ever, no chance, no way, he just—he just didn't hear it right, that's all. The wine must be getting to him.

"Oh," Guinevere waves a dismissive hand, and shrugs her bare brown shoulders, with a soft rustle of heavy, red velvet, "it was nothing, honestly. It's been so long now, I suppose I just forgot to tell you."

Oh, God. Arthur did hear it right. Oh, Jesus Christ, he's not ready for this. He is not ready for this. "Let me—let me get this straight," he sits up a bit straighter in his seat, and drops his fork back in his plate—he's not even going to pretend to eat any longer, "you had a snog with Merlin? That Merlin? Down there?" He jerks his chin at the idiot at the end of the table.

Guinevere's lips twitch. "It wasn't 'a snog', Arthur, it was one kiss—"

"But it was with Merlin!"

"—and, anyway, the whole thing was a complete waste because he never even kissed me back," she ends, all in a rush, a bit pink in the face, and she hastily drains the last of her wine.

Arthur makes a face. "You wanted him to kiss you back?"

"Oh, yeah," Elyan pipes up, "that's right, you never told Arthur about your thing with Merlin, did you?"

"For the last time, Elyan," Guinevere rolls her eyes, but her cheeks still look a bit red, "Merlin and I did not have 'a thing'. Merlin and I never had 'a thing'."

"It sounds an awful lot like you had 'a thing'." Arthur points out. Calmly.

"Come on!" Guinevere slams her empty goblet down on the table. "Yes, I liked Merlin, rather a lot, actually, when I first met him, but I'm married now! To you! I love you now! Does that sound like we had 'a thing' to you?"

"But," Arthur blinks, "why on earth did you like him to start with?"

Guinevere looks like she would happily cut off her right arm with Arthur's dull bread knife if she could only get a bit more wine in exchange, but Arthur's certainly not going to let her off the hook now. She can't just drop boulders like I kissed Merlin and I liked Merlin a lot when I first met him without explaining herself!

"Perhaps because the first day I ever met him, I met him because he stood up to a bully? And got punished for it?"

Oh. Yes. All right. Arthur walked right into that one. He can admit it.

"And," Guinevere lifts her chin a bit, "because he was always so kind to me, even back then, when I was only a servant, and he's brave. And he's got a good sense of humor. And it certainly doesn't hurt that he happens to be very handsome, too."

Very handsome? Christ in heaven, maybe all that wine is getting to Arthur. Oh, God. He hopes.

"Oh, yeah," Gwaine lets out a low whistle, and actually puts down his mead, "yeah, I hear that. Goddamn. Handsome. That's tame, Gwen, have you seen that man?"

Oh, God, oh, God, this is not the wine, is it? This is actually a thing that is happening. Death would honestly be kinder. "We're all talking about the same Merlin here, right?" Because Arthur has to be absolutely sure. If it's not the wine, well, obviously, there's another sorcerer servant called Merlin in the castle. That's it. That's got to be it. Right? "The skinny little broomstick down there? Ugly scarf? Big ears? Rubbish with a sword?"

Guinevere's mouth drops open. "What? His ears are cute!"

"You could land a dragon on those things!"

"They're cute!"

"They're enormous!"

"All right, all right, but," Gwaine holds up a hand, and leans up a little in his seat, "his smile could kill me, and I'd say thank you. All agreed?"

Percival nods earnestly.

"Wait, wait," Arthur rubs at his temple—the usual once-a-day Merlin headache, and Merlin himself hasn't even brought it on, "you're telling me all three of you—" he jabs a finger at Guinevere, at Gwaine, at Percival, "—and Merlin—" he flicks a glance down the long table at the clotpole, still wrapped up in the Lady Tuilelaith, "—and the idiot's never even picked up on it?"

Guinevere gives a small, sad shake of her dark curly head. "Never."

Percival goes a bit red and hastily stuffs a bread roll in his mouth.

"No luck." Gwaine lets out a deep sigh and leans back. "You give him a room full of candles and roses and a hot, naked man in his bed and he just thinks you're—"

Percival chokes over his bread roll.

"What?" Elyan whips his head around to look at Gwaine, his dark eyes wide as saucers. "You sprawled naked in Merlin's bed?!"

"Oh, God," Arthur drops his head into his hands, "oh, God, please tell me you're joking, Sir Gwaine, please tell me this is a joke—"

"Who did you hire to play the 'hot, naked man'?"

Gwaine chucks his last, uneaten bite of apple tart at Guinevere.

"All right, all right, no, how—?" Elyan holds up a hand. "How did Merlin not cotton on? After he found you naked in his bed? With all the roses and the candles?"

Arthur lifts his face out of his hands. Now that Elyan's raised the question, he actually sort of wants to know.

The great, shameless Sir Gwaine flushes bright red. "He thought I was drunk."

Leon arches a ginger-blond brow. "Were you?"

The great, shameless Sir Gwaine goes even redder. "No! And I said that! Like, a hundred times! But Merlin just kept going on and on about it! Said he would never 'take advantage' while I was 'compromised'!" He snatches up his mead and takes an enormous swallow. "I mean, how much clearer could I make it? I was naked in his bed!"

If only Arthur had some soap to scrub out his mind, because he would honestly and truly much rather be dead than live the rest of his life with naked Gwaine sprawled in Merlin's bed in his brain. Or with Guinevere snogging Merlin in his brain. God. He takes a very desperate sip of his own wine. "Am I honestly the only one at this table who has not batted my lashes at Merlin?!"

There is a long stretch of silence.

Too long.

Without a single word, Guinevere reaches out, plucks Arthur's goblet from his hand, and drinks down the last of his wine, too.

Notes: literally the entire premise of this was 'wouldn't it be fucking hilarious if Arthur got his once-a-day Merlin headache because someone other than Merlin is talking about Merlin' and here we are