This little plot bunny attacked me upon seeing Colin Morgan with shorter hair (and adorably stubbled, I might add) in a video from some Merlin event. Lovely, lovely thing he is. Anyway, not here to ramble on about those things, but to tell a story. Namely, one slashy little tale about Arthur and his control issues. Ah hah, we love him for it, don't we?

Warning: Slash. And fluffy like a cloud on a bright blue skied summer day. Really, I should advise you to turn back now.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to the BBC or something like that.

The Musings of one Arthur Pendragon on a Particularly Intriguing Haircut

Without knocking, Merlin entered the prince's chambers, carrying the usual breakfast platter of meats and cheeses. Arthur lay sprawled under the thick white covers of his bed, his mouth hung open and drool clearly running down his cheek.

"Arthur," Merlin called out, and the prince merely twitched.

"Arthur, it's breakfast."

But Arthur was not having it.

Merlin set the tray down on Arthur's large mahogany desk and approached the bed. It was almost funny how sweet Arthur looked in his sleep: blonde hair tousled, eyes shut, pale lashes resting on flushed cheeks.

"Arthur," Merlin repeated, and the prince swatted in his general direction, uttering a groan in protest.

Muttering a barely audible 'prat…', Merlin's eyes glowed gold and a feather slid out from the cover on the bed, moving through the air and tickling Arthur on the nose. It took a few seconds of scratching blindly at his face for Arthur to, disgruntled, blink open sleepy eyes and sit up slowly, by which time Merlin was back by the desk, grinning at the Prince in a strangely mischievous way.

"Mornin'," Merlin chortled cheerfully, "I've got breakfast."

Arthur just grumbled, making a move to get out of bed. Then he paused, frozen with one long leg over the side.

"Your hair," Arthur said, his eyes fixated on Merlin.

Merlin put a hand to his head self-consciously. "What?"

"You've cut it." Arthur's voice sounded very near to disbelief, "You've cut your hair."

"Well, yes, you see it does grow, so occasionally when it gets too long you do this thing called-"

"But it wasn't too long." As soon as the words left his lips, Arthur cursed himself. That was supposed to stay in his head. Finishing the task of leaving his bed, Arthur followed up by casually inquiring as to whether or not Merlin had drawn up a bath.

Merlin shook his head slightly, passing the comment off as a casualty of Arthur's early morning haze.

"Yah," he answered, motioning toward the open door, through which a steaming tub could be seen. "It's even warm, I think."

"It had better be," Arthur threw over his shoulder as he neared the bath, "Now go muck out my stables, will you? I'd like them done sometime before sundown, if you please."

That night Arthur was to attend a banquet for the newest guest to Camelot: the ruler of some far-off kingdom, with whom Uther hoped to gain alliance, no doubt. At these things Arthur was always to play the perfect son: polite, charismatic, intelligent, strong. However, this night his mind was elsewhere. Specifically on one so-called manservant. Of course, Merlin had chosen to stand directly on the other side of the hall (to chat all night with Guinevere, Arthur was certain, if not to deliberately torture him) so that each time Arthur lifted his eyes from his supper, all he could see was Merlin and that cursed haircut.

Arthur had liked Merlin's hair the way it was. He liked how it came down over his pale forehead, always looking a little bit ruffled, like he'd just woken up. He liked the way it curled about the tops of his ears and around the front, onto his face just below the cheekbone. He adored the color – it was black (or at least always looked so) and contradicted perfectly the servant's irritatingly bright temperament. It was so smooth and shiny and looked like (mind you Arthur wasn't saying he wanted to do this, particularly) if one were to run a hand through it might feel like pure silk.

Arthur glowered at his servant, who leaned over to speak into Gwen's ear.

His hair was now so short it hardly even covered his forehead at all, and didn't even reach the tops of his ears, let alone curl about them. The tuft which came around his cheek had been snipped clean off and was now a measly few hairs, hardly enough to merit the name sideburn. It was cut so close to his head that it scarcely looked black any longer, and instead took on a sort of dull brown hue, like a dirt road or a dusty old wooden bookshelf. Arthur thought that if he tried to run his hands through it now – that is, if someone did – it would feel more like petting a dog's head than touching strands of pure silk.

Growing angrier by the second, when Uther's new buddy asked him good-naturedly if the servants at Camelot were as proficient as their King made them out to be, Arthur snapped (quite loudly) that of course they weren't, when they cut their hair all the bloody time! He then pushed himself up from the table and furiously stomped out of the hall, oblivious to the strange looks following him, including the strangest of all, which just so happened to be Merlin's.

When Merlin arrived at Arthur's chambers that night, he was quite resolved to find out just what was the matter with the crown prince. He entered to the startling sight of a sword swung dangerously close to his face and staggered backward into the door. Arthur was practicing, it would seem, and made no indication that he had noticed Merlin's close call with the sharp end of his weapon. Instead, his back to Merlin, he continued to swing his sword around, thrusting and jabbing at interludes and generally looking far more graceful than any man has the right to.

Swallowing, all too conscious of the blade Arthur held, Merlin spoke.

"Arthur-"

"That's Prince Arthur, or Sire, or My Lord. Take your pick." Arthur interrupted, not even pausing as he nearly stabbed right through his stained glass window.

Merlin rolled his eyes and relaxed a notch. "Sire," he said, his usual bite quite apparent, "I'd really like to know – is there something wrong with me cutting my hair?"

At this, Arthur froze. With a surprising (and somewhat unsettling) amount of serenity, he turned, laid his sword on his desk, and strode up to Merlin, far too close for the servant to feel any smidge of comfort.

"Because," Merlin plowed on, "I'm pretty sure what I do with my own head is my choice." And then he added the terrible words: "And isn't any of your business."

A smile lit of Arthur's face – one that might have been taken as amusement if not for Merlin's trained and discerning eye, which recognized it for exactly what it was: frighteningly sadistic. Arthur took another step forward, to which Merlin tried to take one back, but found he was already up against the door. No more than a few inches away, Arthur stared down at him as if he were looking at a bug ready to be squashed.

"You're my servant." Arthur started, and though it was quite clearly a statement, Merlin felt the need to nod. "So technically, it's my head. Therefore, what happens to it," Arthur reasoned, using carefully calculated logic, "is my choice."

At this, Merlin could only gape; eyes wide and mouth open in disbelief that the Prince would really go there.

Arthur stared down at the pitiful looking creature beneath him: blue eyes bright and wet and wide, lips parted just so, cheeks tinged a saturated pink. If he just had his old hair, Arthur thought miserably, the picture would be perfect. Even as it was, the servant brought Arthur just a centimeter too close to the edge and, without warning, he teetered and fell.

Arthur kissed Merlin, hard, on the mouth. He could have sworn the servant actually whimpered before melting beneath him like putty. Arthur's hands moved immediately to run over the offending locks, his teeth playing over Merlin's bottom lip. The Prince hated to be wrong and thus would never admit it, not even to himself, but they were actually rather soft and pleasant and there was a strange, but not entirely unwelcome excitement in the masculine feel of the short, fuzzy cut. Still…

Arthur pulled back and, seemingly deep in thought, ran his fingertips through the short hairs above Merlin's ears.

"I need something to grab onto," Arthur said finally, and the boy beneath him blushed thoroughly and adorably at the thought.

"So no cutting your hair again. That's an order."

Merlin, swallowing hard, could only nod.

I apologize wholeheartedly for the unbearable fluff of it all. Despite that, I hope you enjoyed. Review? :3