The King's quarters in Camelot usually looked neat and orderly. Sure, maybe it could use a sweep or sometimes the desk was strewn with papers, but generally speaking it was clean.
That morning, it rather looked like a bomb had gone off.
Clothing was everywhere—on the bed, the floor, the table, draped over the chairs—two trunks lay open near the foot of the bed, while the wardrobe was open and the insides were a complete mess. Meanwhile, in the center of the room, a contest of wills was in progress.
Simply put, Arthur thought that Merlin, now that he was officially Prince Consort, needed to update his wardrobe. And, possibly, burn his previous articles of clothing. Merlin saw it differently.
"I don't see any reason to change," Merlin argued. "I'm still practically your manservant, what with getting you dressed in the morning and all. And besides, I'd look ridiculous."
"You won't look ridiculous, you'll look dignified and like you are actually wearing the clothes that fit your station," Arthur replied. "You don't see me wearing the same two neckerchiefs every day."
"Yeah, that's because you like wearing your cape and vests, that way you can make a grand entrance," Merlin grumbled. "They're not comfortable, Arthur. I like my clothes!"
"What kind of impression will it give the court—and visiting nobles—if I let my husband dress like that?"
"It will give the impression that you want to live, because if you put me in that ridiculous suit I'm going to poison your chicken."
"Merlin."
"Arthur."
They glared at each other for a good minute, and then decided to settle the dispute like all logical, loving couples.
"First one to scream loses."
One hour and a set of ruined bedsheets later, Merlin won, and continued to wear whatever he pleased.
Including the neckerchiefs.