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The morning sun was still shy, filtered through the thick curtains that barely let any light in. The king's chamber smelled of candle wax, polished wood, and something warmer — the scent of two people who had slept embraced all night.
Arthur woke slowly. Not the way Merlin woke him — with shouting and open curtains and sunlight stabbing his eyes — but the way he himself chose to wake on those rare days when there was no hurry, no meetings, no boring nobles waiting to suck away his patience.
He stretched, arms raised above his head, his whole body lengthening like a lazy cat. A low moan escaped his lips.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.
From across the room, Merlin stopped arranging the tray. His back was to the bed, but Arthur saw his shoulders relax — as if he'd been holding his breath and only now allowed himself to exhale.
"Good morning, my king." Merlin turned, and the tray was already ready: fresh bread, strawberry jam — Arthur's favorite — a bowl of fruit, and a steaming teapot. "I brought breakfast."
Arthur sat up slowly, the sheets slipping to his waist. He stretched again — a second time, for pure pleasure — and his arms rose, muscles lengthening, hands open as if they could touch the ceiling.
"You're the king's consort, Merlin," he said, and the phrase still sounded strange in his mouth, even after all those months. "You don't have to bring me breakfast anymore."
Merlin smiled. The tray remained on the table; now what mattered was the path to the bed.
He approached with slow steps, his bare feet brushing the cold stone floor. He stopped by the bed and with one hand lifted Arthur's face upward. He leaned down until his lips met Arthur's in a good-morning kiss — soft and lingering.
"I enjoy serving you, sire," Merlin murmured against Arthur's mouth, and the word "sire" came out like a caress, an echo of other times, when he was just an insolent servant. "It's my greatest pleasure to take care of you."
Arthur smiled — that shy smile he tried to hide but never could, which always appeared at the corners of his mouth when Merlin said something that disarmed him. He accepted more little kisses — because Merlin wasn't willing to stop at just one, and Arthur wasn't willing to ask him to stop.
"You seem in a good mood today," Merlin observed, pulling back just enough for their noses to touch. "Did you have good dreams?"
Arthur nodded. He stood up in a fluid movement — the sheets slipped away completely, and he stood chest to chest with Merlin, his skin still warm from sleep, his golden hair tousled like an improvised crown.
"I dreamed about you."
Merlin's eyes gleamed — that color that sometimes changed, that sometimes was blue and sometimes was gold, and which now was a little bit of both.
"And what was the dream like?" he asked, his voice low, curious.
Arthur shrugged. He used the movement to turn and walk to the table, his strong, broad back catching the morning light that was finally beginning to filter through the curtains. He picked up a grape. Bit into it. Chewed slowly.
"I don't know. I don't remember."
Merlin stood still by the bed, arms crossed, head tilted slightly. He was absorbing the image — Arthur's back, his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine, the bite and scratch marks that hadn't yet fully healed. His hands itched to touch.
"Then how do you know you dreamed about me?" he asked, confused, finally tearing his gaze away from his king's backside.
Arthur turned his head, the grape still between his fingers. He looked peaceful — more peaceful than Merlin had ever seen him, even on those rare days without war.
"Because I woke up smiling."
The silence that followed was brief — but it was enough. Merlin felt the heat rise up his neck, to his cheeks, to his ears. He opened his mouth to say something — a witty retort, a provocation, anything to restore his composure — but no sound came out.
Instead, he let out an embarrassed groan and threw himself onto the bed.
Face down, arms spread wide, face buried in the pillow that still held the warmth of Arthur's body. A muffled moan escaped — not of pain, not of frustration, but of pure, absolute, unmistakable shyness.
Arthur laughed.
It was a loose, carefree laugh that echoed through the room like a bird that had finally learned to fly.
"Merlin," he called, still laughing. "Merlin, look at me."
"No."
"Are you blushing?"
"No."
"Yes you are, your ears are red."
"They are not."
"They are, I can see them from here."
Merlin buried his face deeper into the pillow. Arthur laughed again — a louder, freer laugh — and abandoned the grapes on the table. He walked back to the bed, sat down beside Merlin's stretched-out body, and ran his hand through the dark hair, brushing it away from his forehead.
"You're ridiculous," Merlin murmured, his voice muffled.
"Am I?" Arthur teased, his fingers still stroking the soft strands. "Who was it that threw himself on the bed like a blushing maiden just because the king said he woke up smiling because of him?"
"Shut up."
"It was you, Merlin."
Merlin turned his head just enough to peek at Arthur with one eye. He was red. From the tips of his ears to his collar. His eyes gleamed — not from magic, but from a happiness so pure it seemed to hurt.
"You can't just... say things like that," Merlin murmured.
"What things?"
"Those things. That you woke up smiling. Because of me."
"But it was true."
"That doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. You're the most important person in my life. Everything about you matters."
Merlin groaned again and buried his face in the pillow. Arthur laughed — that laugh he kept only for Merlin, the laugh no one else heard, that wasn't the king's or the warrior's, but a man's who had finally allowed himself to be happy.
"You're an idiot," Merlin said, his voice still muffled.
"And you adore me for it."
Merlin didn't deny it. He lifted his head just enough to look at Arthur, and his eyes were moist — not from sadness, but from a gratitude so vast it didn't fit in his chest.
"Yes," he said, his voice lower. "I adore you."
The kiss that came after was different from the good-morning kisses. It was slower, deeper, more like a promise than a greeting. Arthur leaned over Merlin, his hands planted on either side of his head, and kissed him as if he had all the time in the world — and perhaps he did. Perhaps, after so many years, after so many wars, after so many secrets, they finally deserved a little time.
When they parted, Arthur was lying beside Merlin, his head resting on his shoulder, their legs intertwined. The breakfast tray sat forgotten on the table. Neither of them cared.
"You know," Arthur murmured, his eyes already closed, "I should do this more often."
"Do what?"
"Talk about dreaming of you. I do it every day, but I never say anything because I always forget to mention it. But now that I know you turn red when I talk about it, I'm going to say it every day."
Merlin laughed — low, the laughter vibrating in his chest. His hand found Arthur's blond hair and began to stroke it, slowly.
"You're terrible."
"And you adore me for it."
Merlin didn't answer. He just kissed the top of Arthur's head and closed his eyes.
The breakfast tray remained untouched. The kingdom could wait. In that moment, in that bed, in that shared silence, only the two of them existed, and only they mattered.