Arthur does not speak to Merlin for a week after finding out, and by “not speaking,” I mean, “not speaking in the most immature way possible.” At breakfast, when Merlin forgets the sausages, he hints at the utter lack of elongated greasy meat on his platter by staring into space for ten minutes and then by tipping the plate to the floor. Before practice, when Merlin pulls the straps a little too tight, Arthur grunts various animal noises into the mirror and flexes his shoulders with great distress before Merlin rolls his eyes and loosens the buckles. At dinner, when the King—yes, King—discovers a spot of mud still sticking to his boots, he stalks outside, dumps a bucket of water onto the dirt, muddles around, and then stomps straight into Merlin’s room.
“What is his problem!” Merlin later screams, but Gwaine is too drunk to give any sort of conscious advice.
Finally, at the end of the week, when Gaius has left for another herb collection trip, Arthur bursts into Merlin’s room (with clean boots).
“Merlin!” the King barks.
“What,” Merlin grumbles from under the covers.
“Merlin!”
“What?!” Merlin shouts, now flipping over with eyes wide open.
“…. you’re a dragonlord, aren’t you?” Arthur so sagely deducts.
“… you’re brilliant, aren’t you.”
“Well, I have a dragon in dire need of taming,” the King sneers.
“I told you, for the last time, Sir Percival’s biceps don’t qualify as—”
Arthur drops his trousers.
Merlin snaps his mouth shut.
A pregnant pause rolls through Merlin’s room.
“And by dragon,” Arthur exclaims brightly, “I actually mean, my—”
“—yes, I know, your—”
“—penis.”
“—penis.”
