#pthon

[solspuren]

python

並列化したいなと、試行錯誤したけども

エラー出まくりで

エクセルが並列化に対応してなくて断念。

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Pthon Challenge #4 - Tropesmash

Arthur’s complaining before he opens his eyes. About the repugnance of the sun, Merlin’s stomp-happy entrance, the flimsiness of the curtains, Merlin’s loud, grotesque breathing. That’s as far as he makes it down the list before he’s sitting up, fighting with heavy eyelids so his insults might be more accurate. He blinks stupidly, gawping as his manservant moves about. “Merlin, what are you wearing?”

He’s dressed… wrong. His shirt is beige, and there’s no neckerchief. He’s probably been ensorcelled. Which would be just like Merlin, to waste Arthur’s entire day because he’s too much of a wee-brain to notice when a sorcerer comes calling.

Merlin’s brow furrows, like he doesn’t even notice anything off. Dollop head. He glances down, like the dunce he is. “It’s a shirt,” he says slowly, likely because he’s confused by it. Then his expression goes a bit sly. “You’re wearing one, too.” He pretends to marvel over it. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Arthur’s not sure why Merlin’s being so purposefully dense about this. He uses the same (he now realizes mocking) slow tone with Merlin. “It’s not red. Or blue. Therefore it can’t be yours.”

The tips of Merlin’s ears flush a dark shade of red.

“You’re blushing,” Arthur says, dumbfounded. Realizing that can only mean: “It isn’t your shirt.”

Merlin hunches his shoulders, murmurs under his breath, “Is there anything else you require, sire?”

Arthur glares at the shirt. It’s almost familiar somehow, loose around Merlin’s neck so it shows off his clavicle and a hare too long on the arms. It tugs at his memory but he can’t drag it out. He motions to the hangings, says, “The curtains, if you please, Merlin. They’re a state.”

Merlin sighs, stumbles over his own feet to Arthur’s side. Arthur waits until he’s distracted, picks up the candle burning low on his night table and lights the sleeve of the beige monstrosity on fire in a fit of pique.

Merlin yelps, puts the flame out with the heavy curtain and blinks wide eyes at him. “That was intentional,” he accuses.

That was insanity, is what that was, but who was Merlin to stomp into his chambers, with his loud and grotesque breathing, in another man’s shirt? It was… unseemly. Arthur sniffs. “Why would I sully another man’s shirt? Stop talking nonsense, Merlin.”

+

Arthur glances at Merlin from under his fringe as his goblet’s refilled. He’s in a foul mood but not for any reason Arthur can suss out. He seems to be over having not-his-shirt ruined, thankfully. Having his manservant furious with him is much more trouble than it’s worth. Arthur takes a deep swallow and his eyes flit to the floor as he lowers his cup.

“Those aren’t your boots,” he says, stymied.

Merlin looks down too. He frowns, as though he’s only just noticed, and flexes his toes. “One of them is,” he points out happily.

“Dressing in the dark, Merlin?” Arthur asks tightly.

That infuriating flush is back. Arthur knocks his wine onto Merlin’s boots.

+

Over the next two weeks, Merlin shows up with a belt Arthur’s never seen before. (Arthur inadvertently catches his knife in it and rends it in two.) A leather cuff around his wrist. (Arthur asks to see it and accidentally drops it in the lake.) Purple socks that Arthur knows Merlin would never own. (He mistakenly uses them to stoke the fire.)

It’s really no one’s fault but Merlin’s and this man’s. If he wanted to keep his wardrobe, he wouldn’t be giving half of it away. Arthur can hardly be held responsible for what disasters befall a klutz like Merlin.

It’s not as though it’s intentional. Or malicious.

+

He’s been keeping on guard with Merlin. Looking out for him, nothing more. This man is clearly trying to barter his way into Merlin’s good graces, for what nefarious purposes Arthur can’t yet know. After weeks of following Merlin, he’s finally sneaking away from Gaius’… to go to the tavern.

Arthur frowns, sneaking inside with his hood low only to find Merlin’s nowhere to be found. Not at a table or tucked away but perhaps… upstairs, in a room?

Arthur eases up the stairs and nearly recoils from the sight that greets him. His knight—Sir Gwaine has Merlin pressed up against the wall, hand in his breeches, familiar red neckerchief tied around Gwaine’s wrist, beaming smile on his mouth that Merlin kisses away—

Arthur’s blood boils, eyes narrowing. One thing is certain: he has not yet begun to fight.