Silly Boys

[maja_li]

Title: Silly Boys
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: rather cracky around the edges, medieval anachronism (alas, I am no scholar of the period)
Word count: ~1100
Summary: The Feast of Fools lives up to its name, in lovely fashion.
Disclaimer: These conceptions of Merlin&co. belong to the BBC etc. Not me.
A/N: Written for this week's awdt prompt, If only we had a penguin.




"Merlin. This is entirely unacceptable."

Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, fixed his manservant with a withering glare, arms crossed under the disheveled bodice of his gown. "I refuse to attend the Feast of Fools looking like a debauched, two-penny—"

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" Merlin interrupted, gripping his hair in both hands. "It's not my fault you got the Maiden's piece in your cake! It wasn't even your cake, it was mine, and you stole it!"

"That's hardly relevant," Arthur sniffed. "Now come over here and lace me up properly."

"…yes, Your Highness."

* * *

It was, Merlin had to admit later, a half-hearted effort even for him. Commandeered from Morgana because the color didn't suit Gwen, the royal blue satin should (according to the girls, at least) have looked stunning against Arthur's golden skin and gleaming hair. And there were moments—the curve of his jaw when he turned his head, an accidental flash of wrist as he lifted his goblet—that made Merlin's breath catch in his throat. But then Arthur would shrug his roll his shoulders in discomfort, or make some obscene gesture at one of his knights, and Merlin would be reminded just how awkward and out of place the ideas of Arthur and dress were together.

Even when he walked a pace or two, passed from group to group so they could all enjoy their "Maiden's" company…Arthur had been trained from birth to move with the power and authority of his father's station, and had the natural arrogance to back it up besides. In those swirling, voluminous skirts, it was only the grace of a lifetime at court that kept him from toppling face-first into the currant subtlety.

Brrrrrt! Brrrt brr brr Brrrt brr brr BRRRRRRT!

A squeaky and painfully off-key fanfare heralded that arrival of the Fool herself: none other than Gwen, all but lost within the folds of her enormous faux-ermine cloak, her chain of office pressed into service as a belt to hold it together and her crown looking as though it might slide down over her ears at any moment. She processed gravely across the Great Hall, to where the Fool King sat in Uther's chair at the head table. His crown of wildflowers was already wilting, strung out around his neck as he lurched to his feet and toasted her with thoroughly inebriated merriment.

"Hail to the Fool!" he cried, sloshing mulled wine across his tunic.

"The Fool"! The court echoed him enthusiastically. Gwen accepted their salute with aplomb—and the turned around and gave the Fool King a sharp jab in his round belly with her gold-foil scepter.

"Right, then, off you go!" she said mock-sternly, as the court laughed to see the Fool King bowing and scraping out of her way. "I am the Fool, and I have come! Let the true Feast begin!" And then she grabbed a handful of baked apple mash off the nearest trencher and splatted it squarely into the Fool King's face.

There was a loud whoop from the corner—Morgana?!—and the battle was joined. Merlin scrambled to avoid getting splattered too thoroughly, manfully resisting the urge to pick up one of the subtleties with his magic and drop it squarely on Arthur's head. Arthur—foremost knight of Camelot, reigning tournament champion, scourge of clumsy and unmartial manservants—who had been backed up against a table, flushed and fruit-spattered, by a group of serving boys. He struggled with the folds of his dress as he tried in vain to retaliate; the boys, decked out in their masters's finery for the evening, seemed to take a perverse pleasure in watching their hapless prince.

The again, most of them had been used for sparring practice before Merlin came along. Arthur probably deserved it.

"Merlin!" Arthur had spotted him watching, it seemed, for he gathered himself and made a rush against the line of his foes. He broke through—barely—and flung himself at Merlin, all wide-eyes and reddened lips. "Get me out of here! Please!"

And Merlin's magic responded.

* * *

"Ugh…" Merlin sat up with a groan, bright sun burning against his eyes. The ground lurched and shifted beneath his hands, startling him into panicked wakefulness—

Sand?

"What on earth have you done now, Merlin?" Arthur's exasperated inquiry—ah, good, that at least was familiar—cam from somewhere off to his left. "Where are we?"

"No idea," Merlin replied absently, squinting as he peered around the expanse of white beach and lapping waves, and then, as his self-preservation instincts suddenly kicked in, "What do you mean, what did I do?!"

"I'm not complaining, mind you." Arthur wandered over, kicking at his skirts, to plop himself down next to Merlin. "I did order you to remove me from that…ridiculous situation, after all."

"I didn't do anything! Not at all! Really!" Merlin protested, waving his hands frantically at Arthur. "It must have been…an evil wizard."

Arthur looked at him and blinked slowly.

"An evil wizard.

"Yes! You know, the sort we run into every other week? Clearly he planned to seek vengeance on your father by kidnapping you at the height of the Feast."

"And you came along because—"

"Um. You were touching me? I don't know, I don't know anything about magic," Merlin added hastily. Arthur just nodded at him, smirking mysteriously.

"And what do you propose we do now?"

"Erm…"

"I'll just wait until you figure it out, shall I? Don't hurt yourself thinking too hard." And with that, Arthur rucked up his skirts, pulled down his bodice, and stretched out full length on the sand. "Ahhh. That's better. Though I do wish I had something to keep the sun out of my eyes—"

A pair of lenses, like the ones Merlin had seen Gaius wear, but opaque and nearly black, was suddenly perched on Arthur's nose.

"—and a nice, cold drink—"

An enormous glass of something white and alcoholic-looking popped into existence beside Arthur's elbow. It had a large, swirly straw in it and a miniature sword skewering chunks of fruit. The words piña colada swam into Merlin's mind and then evaporated.

"—and a lovely companion to keep me entertained." He glanced over the tops of his lenses at Merlin, and grinned. "Well, I suppose you'll have to do."

Merlin scowled, and briefly considered flinging some sand at him before deciding it was too much trouble. Instead, he lay down beside Arthur and heaved a—strangely contented—sigh.

"If only we had a penguin."

"What's a penguin?"

"It's a…huh. I'm not sure. The thought just suited.''

"Well, I'd prefer some massage oil. And a Speedo for you."

"A what?"

"Dunno. The thought just suited."

-fin-