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Arthur knows what princes are supposed to be; he's heard all the ballads, seen all the tapestries.
Princes are supposed to be strong, handsome and good with a sword. (Check, check and check, naturally.)
Princes are supposed to be brave, go on quests and slay dragons. (Been there, done that, purchased the embroidered doublet. Well. He doesn't actually recall the slaying part, remembers coming round from unconsciousness to Merlin spinning him a line and no dragon in sight, but he's sure it still counts. And if anybody in Camelot ever hears the beat of giant wings or spots strange footprints in that clearing just outside the castle, they know better than to mention it within his hearing.)
Princes are supposed to rescue maidens and clasp them in their manly arms.
And, well, this is the bit Arthur has trouble with. There was that time he rescued Gwen, but that was more of a group effort, so to speak. And it wasn't his manly arms she decided to wilt into. After a week or so's wounded pride, Arthur had decided he didn't mind over much. He wonders whether rescuing maidens might not need to be taken literally – he does, after all, regularly strive to defend the people of Camelot, many of whom happen to be maidens.
The thing is. The thing is, secretly, what he really pines for is a pair of manly arms wrapped around him. Not because he has any desire to start fainting like a maiden (he gets knocked unconscious embarrassingly often as it is). But just to be held, sometimes... well, it would be nice, that's all.
Lately, though, it's turned from a wistful fancy to something which dominates his waking thoughts (and to be honest, quite a few of his sleeping ones as well). And he can't pretend he hasn't got a specific pair of nicely shaped arms in mind.
It's not his fault that Merlin has taken to wearing shorter sleeves in the warmer weather. Or that the regular sword practice in which he insists his manservant participates have made his muscles more well defined. Or that he's always there, in Arthur's weakest moments, casting Arthur looks that very much suggest that he wouldn't mind doing a bit of clasping if it would make Arthur feel better. (And it would, it really would.) Only it just isn't something princes are supposed to want.
Fortunately, Merlin has never cared too much for the rules. In the end he takes matters into his own hands.
Literally.
Arthur discovers that being pinned against the wall and held down on the bed is even better than he'd imagined. And when he wakes, wrapped tenderly in the very arms he's spent all this time fantasising about, he doesn't feel any less of a prince, any less of a man. And when Merlin whispers fiercely in his ear about what a good king he will be, still holding him tightly, Arthur feels he could rule not just Camelot but the world.