Chapter Text
It shouldn't be a surprise, really, if the knights think punching each other in the arm is a viable and efficient way of cheering each other up, that they also think insulting each other is a perfectly good way to show affection. Insults are compliments, threats are reassurances, and actual bodily harm is considered good manners or at the very least the mark of genuine companionship. Basically, take everything Merlin's ever been taught about how you actually treat the people you care about and flip it on its head, because stars know that if any one of these men actually behave as though being nice won't incinerate them, the world will actually end.
Alright, maybe he's being a bit harsh.
But he's had a long few days saving the entirety of Camelot all by his-own-bloody-self, he's entitled to throw a bit of a fit when he gets shoved too harshly into the side of the stable under the guise of 'friendly greetings.' And it's not like the knights are doing it on purpose—except when they are, which they absolutely do, they have days where it seems like they all passed around a note that says today's one of those days, boys, make Merlin's life a living hell for no reason other than our enjoyment! He swears he's going to invent some kind of spell that lets him know when those days are so he can sit himself in Gaius's chambers and just stay there for all eternity. Or at least until they shake themselves out of it.
And fine, it's not as though he's never known softer kindness from them. Percival shoves and claps and punches, but he's also helped Merlin with the heavier chores and—not that Merlin would ever admit this—carried him when he's overexerted himself to somewhere safer. Elyan is an older brother, and older bother if he commiserates with Gwen, but he's not all bad when he's being protective or complimentary. Gwaine is…Gwaine, which means he commits himself wholeheartedly to whatever he's doing, be that teasing Merlin until his face is about to explode or making sure he's calming down when something really bad happens. Lancelot—listen, the main problem with Lancelot is that he keeps making this sly little face that's all you could stop us, Merlin, you could, but will you? As if he doesn't know damn well that it would go very badly if he actually did do anything. Leon is secretly a menace because he sees everything. And Arthur…
Well. Arthur's Arthur.
Look, the point is that Merlin knows he's being dramatic sometimes, really, he's self-aware enough to admit it, but sometimes…
Sometimes it feels like he's not being dramatic enough.
It's definitely one of those days. One of those days where he walks down to the courtyard with Arthur and all the knights are grinning up at them and he knows, he just knows that today he's going to be teased and pushed around and have pranks and jokes played on him every chance they get. Admittedly, with the amount of courtly stress the kingdom has been under, it's the same reason why they're going on this hunt in the first place; to give them all a break from the pressures of being in the citadel, to let them actually have a chance to relax without worrying about courtesy or diplomacy or any of that nonsense. It makes sense, Merlin's oddly grateful for the chance they have…
He just wishes he weren't about to be the chew toy for it, you see?
It starts almost as soon as they leave the walls of the city behind.
"Merlin," Gwaine calls and Merlin's shoulders immediately tense, "when's the last time you actually caught something on one of these?"
No. No, absolutely not. I am not engaging. "The last hunt we went on was three months ago."
"That's not what he asked," Percival says—oh, he's also starting early, "he asked when you caught something."
"Does a cold count?" Elyan asks and the knights start laughing. Merlin just adjusts his reins and his horse nickers.
"Come on," Gwaine cajoles when the first wave of laughter dies down, "do you want us to show you how it's done?"
"I've tried teaching him since he first arrived," Arthur calls out, "he's utterly useless at it. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was forgetting everything on purpose."
"Well, with how much he has to remember to keep Princess satisfied, then—" Gwaine grins— "maybe it's a good thing he doesn't know how to hunt."
What does that even mean?
"Don't worry, Merlin," Elyan says with false sympathy as he brings his horse alongside, "we didn't bring you out here because you're good at hunting."
"That's right," Percival agrees, "best thing you can use on a fine hunt is a fine flush hound."
Despite all his instincts that tell him not to feed whatever mood they're in, his curiosity takes over. "What's a flush hound?"
He hears Arthur groan and Elyan snorts, and oddly enough, it's Leon who clears his throat and says: "A flush hound pushes the game out into the open where the hunters can see it."
He opens his mouth to ask why exactly he would be good at that when his horse steps on a rock wrong and he nearly falls off as he crashes into a nearby tree branch, making a wild grab for the saddle as a chorus of birds take off screeching into the sky. A lurch in his stomach and a mortifying yelp accompany the guffawing and cackling of the knights as his horse struggles to right itself and he emerges from the tangle of twigs and leaves with scratches all the way down his cheeks and arms.
"See," Gwaine crows triumphantly, "where else are we going to find a natural talent like that?"
Merlin ducks his head under the guise of making sure his horse is alright, running his hand over her face and neck that he can reach. Her mane rubs coarsely against his fingertips as he tries to swallow the pang of hurt as they keep laughing. His horse nickers back a moment later and he makes himself sit upright.
"Well, then if I'm so good at it," he says, "then it's a wonder you've not had much success over the last few hunts."
"Don't be so sure of yourself," and suddenly there's the familiar condescending voice from Arthur, "just because you've got some natural talent doesn't mean you don't have room for improvement."
"After all, it's as much about making sure you're in the right place as it is about making a fool of yourself."
"And we all know you're excellent at that."
And they're laughing again. Merlin's hands tighten on the reins. Is it just him, or are their barbs a little extra pointed today? Has he done something recently? He doesn't think so; he's just been, oh, saving the kingdom, like usual. Half out of reflex, half out of desperation, he glances over at Lancelot.
Come on, just—give me something. Say something, make a joke at one of them instead.
But no, Lancelot smiles wider and motions for him to turn around. Merlin does—
And almost runs face-first into another tree branch that Arthur 'happened' to pull back to swing in Merlin's direction. He just manages to dodge it, only receiving another swipe to the cheek.
"Careful," Arthur fake-scolds, "I know you're eager to show off, Merlin, but there's a time and a place. Don't know if you remember that about hunting."
"Maybe running into all those tree branches makes it difficult," Elyan suggests, and yes, there they go, laughing again.
It's not that funny.
Luckily or unluckily for Merlin, he's not quite sure which, they actually do find some game to hunt. Or rather, they find something they think they can hunt, and they start to actually behave like men who are on a hunt, not young and rude boys out to poke fun at someone who's supposed to be their friend. Grateful for the reprieve, Merlin quietly steers his horse to the back of the group, where him and his loud, rambunctious self won't be a distraction. Leon passes him one of the spare saddlebags and the reins of his horse, silently sliding off and into a crouched stance. Merlin fastens the reins to his saddle and lets the other horse draw up alongside, patting its neck.
But perhaps he's spoken too soon about them behaving like men rather than boys, because as soon as all the other knights see Leon doing the cool thing of hunting on foot rather than on horseback, they all immediately slide off their horses and start leading them towards Merlin, who is still on a horse and very much does not have the capability to suddenly be in charge of several horses.
"What are you—"
"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur hisses, frowning at him until he slides off his horse too, "now stay here and stay quiet. Now's not the time for you to be flushing anything."
"Don't pout," Gwaine says when Merlin opens his mouth to protest very reasonably, thank you, he is not pouting, "I'm sure you'll get your chance soon enough."
"They're close," Elyan whispers before Merlin can ask just how, exactly, he's supposed to keep all the horses organized and follow them and keep quiet all at once, "I can hear about…three sets of footsteps."
"Deer?"
"Most likely."
"We'll have venison for dinner, then."
Merlin's heart sinks when he realizes just how long of an evening this is going to be.
He gives up fairly quickly—alright, immediately on staying with them. Instead, he and the horses make a very suitable area for themselves in one of the larger clearings. He loosens their saddles and takes the bits from their mouths so they can have a bite to eat. He makes sure to check his horse's hoof; that rock must've hurt quite a bit, better to make sure it isn't stuck in there, after all. The leaves rustle cheerily overhead as a gust of wind blows through. The scent of fresh, clean water comes with it—there must be a river of some sorts nearby. That might be nice for them, some fresh water to drink. Best not stray too far from here, though, not when who knows where the 'hunters' are eventually going to end up.
He sits down near one of the tree trunks and is just on the verge of making himself comfortable when all of a sudden, something crashes out of the brush to his right and he has just enough time to scramble to his feet before the deer falls down dead in front of him.
"Would you look at that," comes Percival's voice from very far away, "it's almost like he knew where it would run."
Merlin can't tear his eyes away from the deer on the ground, not until one of the horses snuffles and nudges his arm. Then he lifts one hand to blindly pat its face and turns to look at the knights who spill triumphantly into the clearing.
"Wonder of wonders," Arthur says, coming up to clap him on the shoulder, "maybe you aren't completely useless after all."
The words lodge in some soft part of Merlin's chest and he clenches his jaw. "You didn't have to kill it."
"It's a hunt, Merlin," Arthur says slowly, as though he's talking to a child, "that's what a hunt is for."
"It wasn't hurting anyone."
"It's a deer," he scoffs, "it's not going to do much of anything except run into things."
"Not true," Gwaine says from where he's already carving the poor thing, "it'll fill our bellies tonight and that is a worthy cause if I've ever heard one."
"You'd consider anything a worthy cause if it got you bread and wine," Lancelot points out and they all start laughing again. The horse snuffles his hand again and he turns away, patting its nose and sparing one more thought for the deer, who at the very least was put out of its misery quickly.
If he thought it would be over when they started to camp for the night, he was terribly and miserably wrong.
First he wasn't moving fast enough. Then he was doing it wrong. Then he wasn't doing enough. Then there were things he kept forgetting. Then they noticed he wasn't talking very much and he was too soft-hearted, mourning for a stupid deer. Arthur's favorite insult of girl's petticoat made an appearance, followed by Gwaine's infamous innuendoes of—oh, who bloody cares, it's not like he's paying much attention at this point.
Maybe it's the fact that they've all not let off steam for too long. Maybe Merlin's been too busy saving Camelot and his tolerance of them has worn low. Maybe they're all in an especially cruel mood today and they don't realize it. Maybe Merlin's just worn himself a little too ragged and this thing that's supposed to be their chance to all relax just isn't how Merlin would choose to do that at all.
Whatever the reason, the armor that Merlin thought he had against the knights has abandoned him. Every word, every look, every laugh hits him like an arrow or a punch, lodging deep in his flesh and hurting. It doesn't matter where he goes, what he does, even when he gives into his cowardly instincts—Arthur's already called him a coward at least half a dozen times in the last ten minutes, he might as well give in and be a coward—and hides behind one of the horses, he still can't escape from it. His body truly starts to ache, starts to flush and burn and he's too hot and he's too cold and he's angry, so angry, because they're hurting him and they don't care, they just don't care.
There comes a point where enough is enough.
"Say, Merlin—" Percival tugs his sleeve a little too hard and Merlin has to steady himself before he falls over— "whoa! Easy!"
"It's a wonder we didn't mistake you for the deer," Elyan jokes, "you're wobbling around like you don't know what your legs are for."
He didn't mean it like this, but Merlin's mind fills with smoke and the sound of blades clashing over a rising chant of burn the sorcerer and he flinches. Hard.
"Be nice to him," Lancelot scolds, and Merlin's heart leaps with hope— "you know fawns are the most skittish of all."
His hands tighten until his knuckles turn white and he sets his jaw, determined to put all the bowls down and sit and actually rest for once. He manages to make it halfway across the campsite and almost to the fire to bend down and—
"Maybe you should train with us a bit more," Percival suggests, "then you could keep up more often."
Merlin doesn't even need to turn around to know that Arthur's sitting up with a fiendish grin on his face.
"Oh, he hasn't told you? I'm surprised, I would've thought they would have by now."
"Told me what?"
Not a damn thing, you prat, now shut the hell up.
"Merlin used to be Princess's training dummy," Gwaine says helpfully, and how the hell does he know about it and he hasn't told Percival? "Used to wear the padding, the helmet, everything but the straw. Bet that suited you better than the armor did, ey, Merlin?"
Merlin doesn't say anything.
"I'd have preferred a proper training dummy," Arthur snorts, and there comes the rustling of leaves as he must lean back, "at least it wouldn't have flinched every time I so much as raised my sword."
I was brand new to Camelot. I'd come to see one of my kind get executed on my first day. You had tried to kill me already and I had saved your life. You swung swords at me and I didn't know what to do.
"But hand to hand, surely," Percival says, "that must have been better?"
"Oh, no, I know this one," Elyan says, and how does he—Gwen. Gwen must have told him— "what was it, three times in as many minutes that he ended up face-first into a cowpie?"
"I can't take credit for all of them—"
"But you will."
"No, no, some credit must go to Merlin for being the clumsiest sod I've ever laid eyes on."
He flinches again and the bowls clatter to the ground.
"See?"
That does it.
Without bothering to pick up the pot, he stoops down and picks up the bowls, fumbling around to free his horse from its tether and walking off. The knights' laughter rings in the trees behind him as he ventures further and further away from the light of the campfire. The wind stings the open cuts on his face and arms. His horse brushes against him. He keeps going, not caring that the shadows start to gather around his feet as they pick their way toward the river.
He remembers those first days. Those days where it felt like Arthur was always on the verge of having him arrested, or having him thrown out for no reason, or something. Where every time he ventured outside it felt like it was punishment for something he'd done, when swords and maces and spears would be flung at him without regard for the fact that he was a living, breathing person with feelings and that he would be hurt, and then he'd go stumbling off to Gaius still hearing the clangs and wobbling from the impact and then Gaius would laugh at him too. Why was everyone always laughing at him?
They laughed at him when Arthur decided that he needed to be trained 'for his own good' too. Never mind that he could do far more impressive things and far more effective things than swing a bloody sword, no, Arthur dressed him up in that stupid bloody armor and had all the knights and squires have a go at him. He'd been pushed to the ground, hit, punched, kicked, pinned, humiliated and every time there was Arthur, either looking incredibly disappointed or trying and failing to hide a smirk. Then he'd tell him to get up so they could go again.
They reach the river.
His horse nickers gently, pulling the lead through Merlin's hands to stretch its neck down for a long drink. Merlin looks at the bowls piled haphazardly in his other hand and slowly sets them down on a nearby rock before he sinks to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and setting his chin atop them to watch the water. Some of the last of the sunlight still sparkles off its ripples as it flows downstream.
See? This, this, this is all he wanted. He wanted to go and be in the woods and just breathe. Just watch the water, listen to the sound of the breeze, not to murder some animal that wasn't doing anything and make a loud ruckus and all of that. He didn't want to be surrounded by insults and laughter, he just—he just—
Oh, Merlin realizes faintly as the horse turns to bump its damp nose against his hand, I'm crying.
Of course, as soon as he realizes that, he starts to sniffle in earnest, his nose quickly making a mess of his trousers as his horse snuffles at his hand. He shuffles a little closer, leaning against its side, as it goes back to drinking. He closes his eyes and turns his face into the warmth. He ignores the slight sting against the still-open cuts.
Why had they been so cruel today? Was he—he wasn't that useless and clumsy, was he? He never tries to be, he just—it just happens sometimes, it's not as though he can keep complete control over himself all the time, not when he has to work so hard to constantly keep his magic in and hidden and unseen and it's hard, it's just hard sometimes and it's not fair. It's not fair that they get to prance around and make nuisances of themselves and when he doesn't do anything, they insult him for it. It's not fair that they get to poke fun at him all the time for things that he has no control over. It's not fair that they get to pick the things to do and he just has to go along with it.
And it's especially not fair that they don't notice how much they really, actually hurt him.
Perhaps that's the worst part of all of this, he decides as he sniffles again, it's that he doesn't think they realize how hurtful some of the things they say actually are. He doesn't have the same sort of hurt-people's-feelings-and-get-away-with-it that they do, he doesn't have this I'm-going-to-be-mean-on-purpose instinct. He doesn't have the ability that they all have to trade blows and take it and laugh it off. He spits back at them because he can't do anything else sometimes, and then he's beaten down again. He knows he's not a knight, he knows he's just a servant but they don't—do they have to make him feel like he's less when there's no one else around too?
It hurts. Everything hurts.
Maybe he should just stay here. Here, by the river, where the sunset was soft and golden and the horse was firm and solid and the air smelled slightly sweet, like flowers that had just past their prime. No one would be mean to him here, no one would shame him for being upset, he could cry and it would be alright if he did that. He's been accused of being far more than just clumsy and useless today, after all, he might as well indulge the parts of him they would gladly spear and roast over the campfire.
He flinches at his own metaphor, startling the horse slightly until it rubs its nose against his hand again. He fumbles to pat it carefully in silent apology and it lets out a worried noise, nosing at his head too. He sniffles and lets it nibble his hair, its breath warming the top of his head until it grows bored and goes to drink again. He keeps his hand on its leg, stroking the strong muscle with his fingers. Out of habit, he finds himself picking out little bits of twig and brush, cleaning the worst of the detritus away with quick little motions as the horse shifts its weight back and forth. He finds a slightly rough patch and scruffs at it with his fingernails until the horse's coat is smooth again. It snorts in thanks.
See, he thinks again, what's so bad about this? Why is it so bad to be kind in an uncomplicated way? Why can't you just be kind for the sake of being kind, without having to disguise it?
Should he have swatted the horse and mocked it for its matted coat? Should he have shoved it this way and that in lieu of a proper grooming? Should he have laughed at it when it stumbled and hurt its leg on a rock it couldn't have seen before it was already too late? What purpose did any of that serve? Why would he want to make it seem like he would only hurt the horse when all he wanted to do was be kind?
With a courage he does not feel, he closes his eyes and wraps his arms back around himself, trying to find the scared, hurt horse in his own chest and reach out to it too.
Why are you being unkind to me, that part of him sniffles, why are you hurting me? What did I do to deserve being hurt by you? Why are you taking pleasure in hurting me?
I don't know, says another part, I don't know.
Make it stop. I don't like this, it hurts. You're hurting me. Please, make it stop.
A rock clatters behind him.
In an instant, he whirls around, trying to see what managed to sneak up on him, but in his haste he overbalances and is about to fall into the river—
A hand grabs the front of his tunic, catching him before he drenches himself. Panting, Merlin stares up at Leon, who looks just as surprised as he, his hand still fisted in the thin material of Merlin's front. He raises his other hand, palm open in a signal of sincerity, before he slowly reaches forward and tugs Merlin back to safety.
"Are you alright?"
The fear of falling into the river dwindles, swiftly replaced by a growing anger at being caught off guard again, at almost falling in and needing to be saved, and at himself for not noticing Leon's approach. He twists Leon's hand none-too-gently out of his tunic, setting his jaw and deliberately turning away. "Thanks."
Leon gives a non-committal hum. For a moment, Merlin thinks he's going to leave, or at the very least, do whatever it was that he was going to do when he came here that wasn't cause-and-prevent-Merlin-falling-in-river, but then the still-dirty bowls are being moved further away and Leon is crouching next to him on the bank of the river. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him take something from a pouch on his belt, remove his gloves and dip something in the river.
When callused hands reach for him, he contemplates pulling away, saying no, even snapping at them—if they're going to insist he's a hound, he'll damn well act like one—but before he can decide what to do, the dry warmth of Leon's hand is turning his chin and then something soft and damp is dabbing over the cuts on his face. With the soft and steady patience that only he has, Leon tends to the open wounds without saying a word, his free hand gentle on Merlin's chin and shoulders to hold him in the right place to reach all of the right places without straining either of them. He keeps his eyes on his hands as he works, the smallest wrinkle between his brows the only indicator that something's upsetting him. Is he upset? Why is he here? Merlin hasn't been gone that long, has he?
The cloth rubs too harshly against one of the cuts and Merlin flinches, a quiet whimper emerging into the still air. Immediately he wants to claw it back into his throat, but Leon doesn't smirk, doesn't tease, doesn't do any of that. Instead he takes the cloth away and leans closer, blowing cool air over the raw and reddened skin until the ache is soothed. The tenderness of the gesture causes tears to spring to the corner of his eyes and to his absolute horror, he sniffles.
Leon pulls the cloth away but his other hand remains, thumb carefully stroking the unblemished skin of Merlin's right cheek. He lays the cloth carefully over one of his gloves before he looks back and uses his other hand to ruffle Merlin's hair just above his ear.
"I'm sorry," he says gently, "I should have realized."
A lump appears in his throat and he does his best to glare. Leon takes it, because he's a stupid kind bastard sometimes and Merlin is weak, and when Leon opens his arms and says come here in the softest, gentlest voice in the world, Merlin doesn't bother to fight it and buries his stupid sniffling nose into the crook of Leon's neck and lets the knight wrap him up in a cuddle, his stupid cape wrapped around him too like a blanket.
"There, now," Leon murmurs, one hand still scratching lightly at his scalp, "there you are…forgive me, Merlin, I didn't realize they were hurting you so much. That we were hurting you so much."
"Why are you so mean to me," he mumbles, half into, half over Leon's shoulder, not caring that he sounds like a child, "why are you always so mean?"
"I don't know," the knight confesses and Merlin just huddles further into his hold. "I'm sorry."
"It hurts, you know, when you all say those things. And when you hit me. And throw things at me."
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you so mean," he sobs, making a fist and weakly hitting Leon's shoulder, "why— why?"
Leon just tightens his grip, turning to bury his own nose in Merlin's hair, and Merlin sobs again. He's being unfair, he knows; Leon isn't the only one to blame in this situation, and in fact, might be the least to blame, but Leon is the only one here and Merlin is angry, angry, so angry.
As if he can hear it, Leon shifts, putting his mouth to Merlin's ear. "Go on, Merlin, it's alright."
"But I don't want to," he grits out, "I don't want to hurt you. I know what that's like, it hurts, it doesn't feel good, I just—you just—I just want it to stop!"
"It'll stop," Leon says immediately, "it's over, now, Merlin, I swear to you. No more of this, I swear."
"It hurts, L-Leon, it—it really hurts."
"Shh, shh, I know, Merlin…hush, now, please, try and breath a bit slower." The knight's chest expands and contracts slowly, exaggerated breaths filling the small clearing. "There…in…and out…in…and out…that's it, shh, just like that."
Slowly, Merlin manages to calm the worst of his anger and tears, the whole mess unspooling as Leon keeps rubbing his back, soft words in his ears. He buries his nose in his neck again. This part, this part of the knights he's never taken for granted, this tenderness that he's only able to get when he's visibly upset. When he manages to voice that thought, Leon goes still for a moment, before a quiet and terrible sigh leaves his lips.
"I have failed, then," he says lowly, "more terribly than I could ever have feared, if you do not know how deeply I care for you."
"W-what?"
Leon pulls back, then, just enough for Merlin to see his face. "You are a dear friend of mine, Merlin, and it is an honor to serve with you. Ever since the day you arrived and saved the Prince's life—hush, shh, none of that, now," he soothes when Merlin panics, "your secret is safe with me, I swear upon my honor and my life. I mean every word that I say, Merlin, you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege of knowing, and more than that, you are a dear friend. If I have not made that clear to you, that is no one's fault but my own."
"You'll make me cry," Merlin accuses, even though he's already crying.
Leon smiles, but it's a kind smile. "Come, then, shed your tears. I will tend to you."
Well, with an invitation like that, how can Merlin say no?
When he's cried himself out—and made a mess of Leon's cloak, which the man doesn't even let him apologize for—Leon ruffles his hair and takes off his cloak, wrapping it over his shoulders and cleaning the bowls while the horse snuffles at Merlin's shoulders. The cry exhausted the part of him that could protest, and so he watches in the quiet dusk as Leon finishes the last bowl and stands, offering a hand.
"They'll worry," he says softly when Merlin hesitates, "and then they'll all come looking for us together."
He doesn't want that. But neither does he want to lose this, whatever this is, whatever he's found with Leon on the banks of the river. As if he'd spoken the thought out loud, Leon cups his elbow through the cloak, thumb rubbing back and forth until Merlin nods and gets to his feet, going to give Leon his cloak back.
"Keep it, if you want it."
"They'll laugh at me."
"They won't," he says with remarkable confidence, only to acquiesce when Merlin raises a doubtful eyebrow, taking it back. "If you decide you want it again, it's yours."
Part of him wants to take him up on the offer as soon as they start to hear the voices from camp again, to hide underneath it and not have to show his face until next morning, but the horse calls out to its friends and the voices hush. He stops, lingering just out of sight, before Leon rests a hand on his back and silently encourages him forwards. He emerges from the tree line, already bracing himself for whatever comes flying at him, when—
"Oh, sweetheart, what's happened?"
That…that can't be Arthur. That soft voice and worried tone can't be the same man who just delighted in dictating Merlin's humiliation not three hours earlier, it can't be.
"Merlin," the voice says again, and it certainly looks like Arthur scrambling up and over to him, reaching out to cup his face, "oh, you poor thing, look how hurt you are…is this from that tree?"
Merlin nods dumbly and Arthur sweeps his thumb across his cheek. "You've been crying, does it hurt very badly?"
"No."
"You don't have to lie," he chides, but it's gentle, why is it gentle? "You can tell me."
"We've got extra salve," Elyan says, already going for one of the saddlebags, "here, come over by the fire."
"There's another portion still here," Percival adds, "if you're still hungry."
"Give him a moment," Lancelot says, standing too, "he looks a bit overwhelmed."
"Wh-what—" Merlin staggers and Leon and Arthur both surge to catch him— "what's happening?"
"Come sit," Gwaine says, already clearing a spot and shuffling a bedroll close to the fire, "you look like you're about to fall over. Leon can handle the horse and the dishes."
Sure enough, Arthur's hands take Leon's place as he guides Merlin carefully over to the bedroll, sitting him down and immediately taking a position at his elbow. He strokes his thumb over Merlin's jaw as he examines the scratches, before looking back up at him properly.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?"
Merlin still has whiplash from the difference between the knight before he left and the knights now, thank you very much. He swallows around the lump in his throat and mumbles something about being mean and insulting and whatever they're doing now, and Arthur's face crumbles.
"Oh, sweetheart, you know we don't mean it, don't you?"
"We never do," Lancelot says immediately, "it's only supposed to be fun."
"How is being mean to each other fun?"
"Merlin's right," Gwaine says before anyone can try and explain, "it's only fun if everyone's in on it. And Merlin wasn't in on it, that means we stop."
"What happened," Merlin blurts out, "when I left, you were all more than happy to laugh at me being humiliated or otherwise, and now you're all being nice and calling me sweetheart, what happened?"
The campsite grows quiet. He looks around. None of them seem willing to meet his eyes, save for Leon, who just gives him a reassuring nod. He's about to open his mouth and ask again when Arthur speaks.
"I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm so sorry. I didn't—I…I never mean it. I never mean it."
Merlin swallows. "Then why do you do it?"
Arthur shrugs helplessly. "It's…it's what they all do. What we all do."
The knights make vague noises of agreement but Arthur reaches out for him again.
"But we'll stop now. I promise," he says when Merlin looks at him doubtfully, "we'll—we'll put a stop to it. At least between us, and definitely with you. You're Merlin, we never want to hurt you."
"You promise?"
"Yes." Something that could be mischief flickers across his expression and he leans closer. "And I'm the only one who gets to call you sweetheart."
"What happened to being nice?" Merlin yelps as he starts blushing furiously.
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't know it would make you do that."
Merlin closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down. When he opens them again, he sees Arthur staring at him like a worried puppy and he sighs. "You don't…you don't have to stop everything. Just—will you stop if I tell you to?"
"Yes," he says immediately, and the rest of them join in, "of course, the moment you say."
"Thanks." Arthur's hand passes over his shoulders and he grins. "Besides, you were the one who couldn't speak after the barmaid smiled at you."
"Merlin!"
"Wait, Princess did what?"
"You've been holding out on us, Merlin, tell us!"
"Oi! Show some respect for your King!"
"Oh, is that what the barmaids are calling it these days?"
Merlin laughs as Arthur hucks a spoon at Gwaine and Leon comes to sit next to him, offering a warm side to lean against. Perhaps they really are capable of acting nice after all.