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The afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass window, casting a golden beam that crossed the royal bed like a bridge of light. Arthur was lying on his stomach, chin resting on his crossed hands, feet swinging lazily in the air as he flipped through the Iliad. The book's cover was worn — he had read it so many times that some pages threatened to come loose.
Merlin was stretched out beside him, or rather, stretched out over the sunbeam, like a cat that had found the exact spot of warmth in the house. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow, and he looked like the very picture of laziness.
"Merlin."
"Hmm."
"We need to have a serious talk now."
"You never talk seriously, Arthur."
"Yes I do."
"Like when?"
Arthur closed the book with a thud, making Merlin blink one eye open.
"Like now."
Merlin sighed, turning his head to face him. The sunbeam fell directly on his face, highlighting the freckles on his nose, the line of his jaw, the lazy curve of his lips.
"Fine. What's so serious it can't wait for me to finish my nap?"
Arthur hesitated. For a moment, Merlin saw something rare on his face — an uncertainty, almost a shyness. Then the prince — king, Merlin corrected himself mentally, king — looked away at the book in his hands.
"What should we call each other now that we're together for real?"
The silence stretched. Merlin blinked.
"...Huh?"
"Nicknames," Arthur said, as if it were obvious. "Nobles have nicknames for their... their... partners. Gwen calls me 'Artie' and I call her 'my queen,' but we're not really a couple, not in the way that matters, I mean. What I'm trying to say is that I can't just keep calling you 'Merlin' forever, right?"
"Why not?"
"Because..." Arthur paused. "I don't know. Just because."
Merlin sat up, pulling the sunbeam with him — or at least it seemed that way, the way the light danced in his dark hair. He crossed his legs, rested his elbows on his knees, and tilted his head with an expression of genuine curiosity.
"You've spent the last ten years calling me 'Merlin,' 'idiot,' 'walking disaster,' and 'the worst excuse for a servant Camelot has ever seen.' Why change now?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately. His fingers drummed on the book's cover.
"Because now it's different."
"What's different?"
"You know what."
Merlin did. The magic. The revelation. The night in the tower, when Arthur thanked him for everything, even without knowing everything. The marriage proposal that wasn't really a marriage proposal. The "I love you" whispered in the darkness.
"You don't have to change if you don't want to," Merlin said, his voice softer. "I don't mind."
"I know you don't." Arthur finally looked at him. "But I want to be able to be affectionate sometimes too."
The silence returned, but now it was lighter. Merlin shrugged, a slow, lazy movement.
"I've never thought of calling you anything other than 'clotpole' or 'my king,'" he teased, the corner of his mouth curving.
Arthur rolled his eyes — but he was smiling. "I'm being serious, Merlin."
"I'm being serious too. 'Clotpole' is an affectionate nickname."
"Clotpole isn't a word, and even if it were, it would mean 'idiot.'"
"Exactly. Affectionate nickname."
Arthur threw the pillow at Merlin, who dodged it laughing. The pillow hit the floor with a dull thud. No one moved to pick it up.
"Fine," Arthur sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "What do you think of 'darling'?"
They both grimaced at the same time.
"No," they said in unison.
"Sounds... cheesy," Merlin finished.
"Cheesy and fake," Arthur agreed. "Doesn't suit us."
"It would suit you if you were a poet or a French knight."
"Have you ever met a French knight?"
"I've met a few. On that trip we took south. They were all very polite and very... 'mon amour,' 'ma chérie'... Made me nauseous."
Arthur laughed — a short, surprised laugh that lit up his face. "You're terrible."
"I'm a realist."
"Really?"
"It's my charm."
Arthur shook his head, but didn't disagree. He was silent for a moment, thinking.
"Merls?"
Merlin made such an exaggerated face that Arthur regretted it before he'd even finished pronouncing it.
"No."
"Why not?"
"The knights call me that. Gwaine made it up. I don't want you to call me what they call me." He rolled his eyes. "You have to be more creative, sire."
"More creative," Arthur repeated, as if the word were a riddle.
Arthur fell silent. His fingers drummed on the mattress.
"Give me a hint. What should I call you?"
Merlin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved. Slowly, like a predator in no hurry — or like a cat that had finally decided its owner's lap was an interesting place. He slid out of the sunbeam, across the covers, until his shoulders were level with Arthur's and his arms were on either side of the king's head.
Arthur held his breath.
"What..."
"Shhh," Merlin whispered, and the word was a caress. He leaned in, just enough for his lips to brush Arthur's. A ghost of a touch, a promise.
"Future husband," Merlin said, his voice low, his eyes gleaming. "Sounds perfect to me."
The blush spread up Arthur's neck like fire through dry grass. His ears were red. His cheeks were red. Even the tip of his nose seemed flushed.
"Merlin..."
"Yes, my king?"
"Shut up."
Merlin laughed — low, that laugh that vibrated in his chest and made Arthur tremble. He leaned in further, burying his face in Arthur's shoulder, his lips brushing the skin exposed by the wide collar of his shirt.
"You're blushing," Merlin murmured against his neck.
"I'm embarrassed."
"Of what?"
"Of you."
"I didn't do anything."
"You're cheesy, it just makes me feel secondhand embarrassment for you."
Merlin laughed again — and then his lips began to move. A kiss on the shoulder. Another on the neck. Another, longer, on the curve of his jaw.
"I love your moans," Merlin teased, his mouth now at Arthur's ear. "Maybe I should call you 'Sexy'."
"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur managed to say, but his voice came out breathless, compromising any attempt at authority.
"Temptation," Merlin repeated, trying out the word. "My fire. My passion."
Arthur moaned — low, involuntary, and Merlin smiled against his skin.
"My treasure," Merlin continued, his lips moving down Arthur's neck, finding his collarbone. "My love."
"Merlin..."
"My guilty pleasure."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're trembling."
Arthur was. His whole body trembled — not from cold, not from fear. From anticipation. From desire. From so many years held back, so many years denied, finally finding release.
Merlin kissed his chest — through the thin linen of his shirt, then directly on the skin, as his fingers found the buttons and undid them one by one. Merlin's mouth was hot, wet, and Arthur arched his back, his fingers threading into the dark hair.
"Damn it, Merlin..."
"Shhh. I'm busy."
Merlin devoted himself to the task with the same concentration he gave to a difficult potion — or a dangerous spell. Lips, teeth, tongue. He marked Arthur's chest, his neck, his shoulders. Purple hickeys blooming like dark flowers under pale skin.
Arthur was panting now. Eyes closed, head thrown back, fingers gripping Merlin's shoulders with a force bordering on pain.
"I should call you insatiable," Arthur managed to say, his voice breaking mid-sentence. "We just finished... how can you already be..."
Merlin lifted his head. His eyes were golden — not from magic, but from desire. His tongue slowly passed over his lips.
"Ah, you're just far too irresistible, my king."
Arthur tried to say something — a witty retort, an insult, anything to restore his dignity. Instead, what came out was a muffled moan when Merlin leaned in and licked his neck, from top to bottom, in a slow, deliberate movement.
"Merlin..."
"My king."
"You are..."
"Yours."
The word hung in the air, simple and absolute.
Arthur opened his eyes. He met Merlin's eyes — now blue, now human, but still shining with that intensity that disarmed him.
"Mine," Arthur repeated, testing the word. "Mine."
Merlin purred contentedly and smiled. That silly, unarmed smile that made Arthur forget he was the most powerful magical being of the age.
"Yours."
They kissed. Not with urgency, but with tranquility.
When they parted, Arthur was lying on top of Merlin, his face buried in his chest, his breathing finally calming down.
"We still haven't decided on the nicknames," Arthur murmured, his eyes already closed.
Merlin ran his fingers through the blond hair.
"We don't have to decide today."
"What if I never decide?"
"Then you'll call me 'Merlin' forever. And I'll call you 'Arthur.' Or 'my king.' Or 'idiot.' Or whatever else comes to mind."
Arthur laughed — low, sleepy, satisfied.
"You're an idiot. I don't know why I still bother trying to talk to you."
"I'm your idiot."
"Yes, my idiot," Arthur repeated, his voice already slurred with sleep. "My dragon."
Merlin smiled against the blond hair.
"My king."
The afternoon sun continued to stream through the window, painting the room in golden hues. The Iliad now lay on the floor. And in the bed, two men slept embraced, at peace.