Title: The Physics of Friction
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur
Summary: Merlin should stop sliding in the Great Hall in his stocking feet. Or maybe Arthur should show him how it’s done.
Word Count: 589
Camelot_drabble Prompt: pt 455: friction
Author's Notes: unbetaed,
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Merlin couldn’t help it if the throne room floor was polished and a bit slippery. Someone had been a little too enthusiastic with the wax, and well, socks were made for sliding, right?
Of course, Merlin made sure no one was around. After all, he could just imagine the cabbagehead heaping on another thousand chores just for spite if Merlin were caught desecrating the hallowed halls of Camelot. Besides, he was polishing the floors with his stocking feet. Giving it a little extra shine.
Running as fast as he could, getting up some momentum and then gliding down the throne room, giving it his all, he was buggered when a voice rang out, “That was pathetic.”
Arthur was looking a bit constipated, all princely prat, as he sauntered over to Merlin and gave him a shove. “You are doing it all wrong.”
Momentum be damned, Merlin cartwheeled back, slipping on the waxed floor, and crashed to the ground. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his tailbone as he scrambled back up, although not without a bit of difficulty since the floor was almost as slippery as winter’s ice. He glared at the clotpole. “I suppose you could do better, you arse?” Merlin looked Arthur up and down a moment, humming a little. “Although I suppose with a wind at your back, your fat head would help you sail along.”
“What are you on about?” Arthur started tugging Merlin toward the front of the hall. Pulling off his boots, Arthur gave Merlin a grin. “I’m going to show you how it’s done. Properly with momentum and strategy. And then the loser—you, will admit that I’m the best at everything and not give me any backtalk for a week.”
“A week? That’s not possible. A day at most… and while we are betting, if I win, you give me the day off.” Merlin grinned at him, raising his eyebrows in challenge.
Arthur scowled at him a moment, looking like he couldn’t believe his ears. Finally, he said, “Well, since I’ve been doing this since I was a small child, I’ll take that bet.”
With that, they lined up next to each other, then Arthur counted down, “Three… two… hey….”
But Merlin was already off, running like the wind, then sliding for all he was worth. Arthur wasn’t far behind, whooping it up as if he were having fun.
As Arthur moved past—Merlin’s momentum was just a bit off, Merlin thought about using magic to push ahead, but the grin on Arthur’s face gave him pause. He hadn’t seen Arthur so carefree in a long, long time, and he wasn’t about to ruin it now.
Instead, he just let it go, coming to a stop a foot away from Arthur.
Of course, the clotpole was crowing about it, hopping around, his arms in the air, pumping out his victory.
Merlin glared at him. “Two out of three?”
For a moment, Merlin thought he would just chastise him for being a poor loser, but then Arthur got that smirky look, calculating and mischievous. “How about six out of ten?”
So that’s how it was. Grinning, Merlin said, “You’re on.”
Before Merlin could say, “Three… two… hey,” Arthur was already running down the hall, sliding as if his life depended on it.
And if the next day there were complaints of the Great Hall floor being too well-polished as if someone had come along and buffed it until it was gleaming and slick as ice, well, Arthur didn’t mention it and neither did Merlin.