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Arthur secretly enjoys moments like these, when he’s the first one to wake. When Merlin is still sleeping soundly next to him, mouth agape and drool dripping out of his cheek. He wants to lean in, to press his lips against Merlin’s. He wants to run his hand through the mess of black hair and hear Merlin say his name.
Instead, he watched him sleep, and feels the steady rise and fall of his chest where his hand lies on top of it. Feeling every inhale and exhale as if it were his own. Every day, he’s in love with Merlin, and every day he somehow falls deeper in love with the Warlock. The way he smiles while watching Arthur train with the knights. His laughter over an intimate dinner when Arthur accidentally says something funny. The way his brow furrows in concentration while he’s working on a new spell. The way his eyes go wide when Aithusa accidentally sets something on fire. The way he makes eye contact with Arthur when foreign dignitaries backs are turned, and he makes a face that has Arthur holding back his laughter.
Arthur could go on, could count every freckle upon his body and every star in the sky and would still find endless ways that he’d fall in love more.
And when Merlin finally stirs, blue eyes opening to the world, to Arthur, and he wants to say something, to quip at him for waking first, he doesn’t let him. Instead, Arthur closes the miniscule distance between them and kisses Merlin’s lips. He doesn’t give Merlin the satisfaction to fire off whatever colorful comment he had readied on his tongue. Instead, he covers his body with his own and whispers his love against his skin.