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“And then my father said…” Arthur trails off with an exasperated sigh, lips quirking into an almost pout that could tip into either anger or amusement. Amusement wins. “But you don’t want to hear all that. C’mon here.”
Merlin could have said that he did want to hear, needed to hear, but Arthur has already pulled him onto his lap and is unlacing the ties on his breeches. Merlin turns his head into Arthur’s neck and squirms a little against the hardness pressing into his buttocks.
Three years. As a lover Arthur is skilled and enthusiastic – attending to Merlin’s needs with the same thoroughness with which he undertakes any task from training the knights to cataloguing the supplies of grain stacked high in the storerooms in preparation for winter. Merlin thinks ahead to hot breath on his back, oil-coated fingers stretching him wide, and that relentless burning push that even now he has to fight against resisting, and hopes that it will be over quickly and he can get back to questioning Arthur about the council meeting. He strips them both with quick efficiency and closes his eyes as the prince sucks warm, wet kisses against his skin.
“I love you.” Arthur gasps, the blue of his eyes a thin rim almost lost in black. “I would do anything for you.”
“I know,” says Merlin.
One day Arthur will be king. When that day comes Merlin will ask him to lift the ban on magic and the hints and whispers of power he feels around Camelot, in the handshake of a market trader or the brush of an arm in a crowd, will no longer have to be hidden. Then he will be free. He imagines touching, loving, merging with someone like himself and shivers with pleasure.
Arthur watches with uncomprehending satisfaction, arranges Merlin more comfortably on his chest and draws the blanket over them both against the winter chill.
“Anything you want, Merlin, just ask and it will be yours.”