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"Fine," said Arthur in a measured tone—one that betrayed no sentiment whatsoever, as there was no sentiment to betray in the first place. "Give me your shirt."
On the opposite side of the horse, Merlin blinked slowly. "My—what?"
Arthur answered Merlin's confusion with a brilliant display of theatrics, gaping and looking around in disbelief. Saying it once had been unpleasant enough; now he was being forced to endure the ordeal all over again.
"Are you deaf, stupid, or both?" Arthur asked. It was the kind of question that needed no answer—clearly, Merlin was both, and arguably several other things. "Give. Me. Your. Shirt," Arthur repeated, as if addressing a difficult toddler. "So I can change."
"Um." Merlin considered it for a moment. "I'd rather not," he decided at last, as though he had any real say in the matter. Pushing back the migraine pressing urgently behind his eyes, he resumed working on the stubborn clasp of the bridle.
"Merlin. Don't make me say it again."
From a safe distance, the knights watched the scene in uneasy silence—all wishing to be anywhere else or, where that wasn't possible, for the merciful relief of death. It had been a perfectly fine day up until then: the sun was high and blazing, the birds chirped merrily on the tree branches, and the walls of Camelot gleamed on the horizon, promising peace a mere half-day away.
Arthur, on the other hand, seemed far more keen on the warpath. At a loss for any more dignified alternatives, and having long since forsaken his age and rank, he lunged forward, attempting to wrestle the tunic off Merlin over the horse's back.
The little skirmish achieved precisely nothing, as was to be expected—its only results were Arthur's face turning red, the knights glancing awkwardly at each other, and the horse loudly protesting his role as battleground for such childish quarrel.
"Ouch." Merlin frowned, readjusting the shirt on his shoulders, where Arthur's finger had tried to claim it by force. "You can never ask nicely."
"See, that's the thing," Arthur said through clenched teeth. "I shouldn't even have to ask."
The risible cause of such chaos—i.e. Arthur's tunic—was plastered to his body, thoroughly drenched, and leaving him looking less like a a proud leader of men and more like a soggy little pup.
He tried to swat Merlin on the head, but Merlin, having already predicted the move, neatly dodged it. Arthur's cheeks turned an even darker shade of red, and for an instant Merlin could have sworn he saw smoke puffing out of his nostrils.
Somewhere behind them, Leon's voice rose tentatively. "Sire—my Lord, perhaps you could do with mine—"
"Don't." The prince held up his hand in a princely manner, which is to say very dismissively, and kept his eyes on his servant. "He's the one who caused this. He has to give me the shirt."
Leon sighed and nodded, the outcome all too predictable. He ran all the mental calculations, estimating how long this would take based on the usual factors—such as the Prince's degree of humiliation, Merlin's current propensity for anarchy, their daily disposition towards one another, and how long it had been since their last solid meal.
Needless to say, the odds were not in their favour, and it seemed they'd be here for a while.
As it was foreseen, the back-and-forth dragged on, and soon the knights ran out of natural elements to contemplate with grave interest, and had to find a new preoccupation with the state of their belts, or swords, or the point of their boots.
In another fit of anger, Arthur leapt round the horse, while Merlin set off in the opposite direction—so that, for a couple of laps, they were chasing each other like boys, limbs flying messily every which way.
As Merlin halted to avoid a bite from the horse—who had clearly had enough of their nonsense, and was in such a position to express it violently—Arthur finally caught up with his target. In a breath, they were both on the ground: Arthur on top of Merlin, struggling to haul the tunic off his shoulders.
"Stop!" Merlin protested weakly.
"I just wanted you to provide me with some water, you utter disgrace." Arthur redoubled his effort, as if his entire life depended on it. "One would expect such a powerful sorcerer not to fumble a spell that simple."
"Wait, wait!" Merlin squirmed, trying to buck Arthur off. Somehow, he managed to get hold of Arthur's wrists. "I did this with magic, right? I can fix it with it—with magic."
Arthur stilled, and the air went suddenly dead. He had not, in fact, even considered the possibility, and was now left looking entirely stupid. Having a reputation to uphold—and not even a simple one—he tried to quickly come up with a plausible reason as to why Merlin's magic wouldn't do, but Merlin removing his shirt, on the other hand, would.
"You—you'd just mess it up again!" he barked, and felt incredibly proud of himself.
Seeing that there was nothing for it, Merlin went slack and gave up on his struggle. He lay limp with resignation as Arthur pulled the tunic off his torso and over his head, and remained equally limp and resigned when Arthur's own shirt landed on his face with a wet plop. Nonetheless, he found enough fight left in him to tell Arthur what he thought about him, in vivid details.
After rolling around in the grass for the better part of a morning, Merlin's tunic was now almost as soaked as Arthur's. The prince hardly seemed to care, caught up he was in the high of his victory.
He was still straddling Merlin, tugging his prize into place and looking triumphant, when Gwaine spoke.
"What about your breeches?"
Everyone in the clearing turned towards him horrified.
Arthur, the most horrified of them all, opened and closed his mouth. "What about my—what do you mean?"
"They're wet, too," Gwaine offered as a matter of fact, waving in their general direction. "I was just wondering—why change the shirt and not the breeches, when they're just as wet, Sire?"
Arthur's face went from pink, to red, to a feverish quality of purple. "I will throw you in the stocks." He jabbed a finger at Gwaine in what was meant to be a threatening warning—but given the current circumstances, it only looked hysterical.
"Alright," Gwaine shrugged. "Although I think Merlin would gladly—"
His sentence was cut short by an elbow landing squarely on his flank, knocking the wind out of him. And that was the tale of how the noble Sir Percival saved Gwaine's life by almost breaking one of his ribs.
Arthur looked down at Merlin, panic-stricken, and finally seemed to notice how he'd been sitting on his servant's lap for longer than was adequate—especially with his servant lying on the soft green grass with his chest spectacularly naked. With a couple of small, embarrassed coughs, he scrambled to his feet, deliberately avoiding the unreadable look on Merlin's face.
"Let's just—move on," he muttered, his body feeling suddenly too big for his new shirt.
The knights nodded in unison, and though they knew the quest was likely hopeless, they seemed all determined to at least try.
Hopefully, they could all forget about this—that is, until the next time.