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Arthur has long since accepted he'd never get enough of the little sound Merlin makes when Arthur threads his fingers through the silky strands of his hair. It’s almost like a purr, but louder, yet softer. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds Arthur’s ever heard. And he’s the one who caused it.
With Merlin’s head propped on his chest, snuggling into the warmth of Arthur’s body, the King finds himself struggling not to answer in a similar fashion. The feeling of Merlin’s hair slipping through the web of his fingers is incredibly soothing. Even more so ever since Merlin started growing it out. It’s hard to tell if it’s intentional - maybe Merlin had figured out just how much Arthur enjoys himself - or if Merlin simply can’t be bothered. Whichever it is, Arthur is loving it.
It’s nearly impossible to remember a time they weren’t like this. But Arthur does remember.
He still remembers the time when his fear was stronger than the call of his heart. When his duty took precedence over anything else.
He remembers the time when learning of Merlin’s magic felt like losing everything, but ended up being everything Arthur’s ever wanted.
He will always remember the time when fear tried to push him away from what he yearned for and he didn’t let it.
Arthur does remember, and while the recollection is the furthest thing from pleasant, it’s also necessary. He will never take any of this for granted.
He can’t even be irritated by the uncomfortable stiffness in his neck and the throbbing ache in his lower back. Merlin’s bed is the crappiest thing Arthur’s ever slept - or laid - on. Sleeping on rocks seems preferable to this. Arthur should really do something about it.
Except he can’t bring himself to do any of it. He could always remain in his chambers, ask Merlin to join him in a proper bed. And he’s said so, and Merlin’s done so many times. But most nights, they spend like this, curled on Merlin’s sorry excuse for a bed, wrapped around each other. And Arthur knows it’s because of him.
He doesn’t know why he craves to be surrounded by everything that’s Merlin - he just does. Even if his toes are freezing and threatening to fall off because Merlin simply can’t have a bloody fireplace.
Maybe it’s because here, laying down on Merlin’s crappy bed, with Merlin’s warm body pressed against his, Merlin’s scent enveloping him like a cocoon, listening to Merlin’s even breathing as he sags into his embrace, a book of spells open in Merlin’s hands, written in a language Arthur can’t read - it’s the safest Arthur’s ever felt. Even if he’s sharing the bed with the most powerful sorcerer ever known.
Here, Arthur isn’t a king. He isn't a leader. He doesn’t have the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. He isn’t the Once and Future King Merlin’s prophecy speaks of.
Here, he is a friend. Here, he is a lover.
Here, he’s just Arthur.
He would never say that outloud, of course, the vulnerability of such admission more than Arthur can handle. But judging by Merlin's knowing gaze as he peers up at Arthur, abandoning the book so he can press a soft kiss to his jaw, Arthur thinks Merlin might know anyway. He’s always been able to read Arthur like one of his magical books. The thought is as scary as it’s comforting.
And because here, in this moment, he’s just Arthur, and Merlin is just Merlin, he swallows his pride and cups Merlin’s face in his palm.
Merlin smiles at him, earnest and beautiful, looking at Arthur like he’s the centre of his world. There’s a strange, pleasurable ache in Arthur’s chest, burning brighter than the sun. His thumb brushes the smooth skin of Merlin’s cheek, Merlin’s eyes fluttering shut and his wide smile transforming into something softer, almost timid. He’s wonderful, and lovely, and the most beautiful thing Arthur’s ever seen. And in this moment, Arthur wants nothing more than to know what that smile tastes like.
He still takes his time peppering kisses all over Merlin’s face before he reaches his lips, memorizing Merlin’s soft intake of breath as he does so.
It tastes like home.