I.

What if we rewrite the stars?

Say you were made to be mine

The weather isn't uncharacteristic of Camelot in the summer but something feels a little different about today. Under his fingertips, his cheek is warm. If it has nothing to do with the sun, well, it's his little secret. His steps bounce lightly off the grass as he makes his way across the training field - should he be successful in hiding his cheeks, the lightness of his gait in a dead giveaway. He's closer than appropriate and the knights are still on the field but, happily, his fingers whisper down the bumped bridge of his prince's nose. Arthur reels back slightly, looking more surprised than uncomfortable before he can stop himself. He blinks a bit before looking away, his mouth set in that ridiculous pout. Then both their cheeks are pink and neither of them are willing to own up to the why. Gwaine - of course it's Gwaine - jeers from across the training field and the colour on their cheeks heightens.

"You were brilliant," Merlin says, trying his best to keep the awkwardness at bay. He's already collecting Arthur's sword and helmet, handing over a full waterskin and making a swift inventory of the bits of armour that have been damaged during training. Bloody knights…

Arthur's face is initially a picture of shy but pleasant surprise under the praise then, seeming to remember who he is, it morphs into a casual smugness. "Don't sound so surprised, Merlin, I have been trained to kill since birth."

With a huff, "You can't just say thank you, can you?"

With an equally huffy huff, "What? Allowing you to keep your job isn't thanks enough, is it?"

With a scoff, "If that's what you call thanks, you've got a lot to learn about gratitude."

They glare silently at each other then look away, Merlin busying himself with sheathing the sword and Arthur with the waterskin. There's no real malice in the glares, there never is. Leon jogs up to them, his boyishly floppy hair at such odds with the severe look on his face. He and Arthur get caught in a conversation that Merlin doesn't bother with. Gwaine decides it's time to distract him, anyway. He tries his best to finish up what he's doing while Gwaine tries his best before Arthur could end his conversation with Leon and start on him about being lazy. He's leaned up, having a laugh at the knight's antics when an empty water skin slaps against the back of his head.

"Ow!" He says pointedly, rounding on Arthur's deadpan face.

"It's not like you have a job, Merlin. Come along."

Gwaine rolls his eyes and mutters something before clapping him firmly on his shoulder and walking away. Arthur calls him again as he's bending to grab up the water skin. "Oh I'm coming, you insufferable dollophead!"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that!"

"Is that so? I SAID…" He could care less about Arthur's punishment, to be honest. "...I'M COMING, YOU INSUFFERABLE DOLLOPHEAD!"

As he passes him, Leon shakes his head, slowly bringing his hand up to cover his face. Arthur rounds on him as he nears, a glint most wicked in his eyes. He can't lie, it makes his heart skip a bit at how boyish it makes him look. He's fond of these moments when Arthur doesn't look like he's got a stick up his arse, even if it's at his expense. No one questions it anymore, his absolute lack of regard for Arthur's station - when Uther isn't around. Merlin grins widely at his prince, careless in his fondness, confident in the knowledge that Arthur will forget some of his anger in the awkwardness he'll feel in the face of such expressions of affection. Merlin, better than anyone else, knows Arthur's buttons and presses them mercilessly. Cheerily, "Here I am!"

The prince shakes his head, mildly dazed before smacking Merlin upside his head and stalking off, calling "Today, Merlin!" behind him.

As Merlin prattles on through the surprisingly empty corridors, he tries not to think too hard about the softness around Arthur's eyes when he looks across at him or the gentle quirk at the corner of his lips. He pretends that he doesn't notice the way Arthur's eyes would follow his hands or fall to his lips. He trips a couple times in his efforts not to notice and, each time, the prince's hand is there on his elbow, steadying him without any hesitation. Does Arthur realize the ease with which he puts his hand on him? His attention is caught each time by the firmer press of Arthur's ring. It would be ridiculous to entertain such things. Utterly ridiculous. So he doesn't think too much about it. He thinks, instead, how nice it feels to be heard, to be seen. Even if he's just mouthing off about nothing important.

Morgana passes them in a flurry of silk and sequins just outside Arthur's door and, suddenly, the spell is broken. When he stumbles into a post nearby while talking, Arthur rolls his eyes and pushes his doors open savagely. "For goodness sake Merlin… what on Earth am I supposed to do with you?"

"Giving me a day off wouldn't hurt," he muttered with a grimace, stomping in after the other. He snatches and apple out of the bowl after he drops Arthur's sword on the table, making quick work of it and maintaining brazen eye contact with the displeased prince. The small smirk as he chews refuses to be hidden. He doesn't have to admit that he gets a kick out of sassing the prince beyond the point of reason. It's understood. Literally by everyone.

When Arthur flings the pitcher off the table at his head - he barely manages to throw his arms up in time to block it - he gives up the game and gets to work. Waving the whetstone he'd just picked up in a vaguely threatening manner, "If you kill me, who else is going to run after your sorry arse, you miserable prat?!"

"Literally anyone else, I pray."