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The first time Arthur truly acknowledged the feeling, it was indirectly because of Leon.
They were travelling back from a brief diplomatic meeting and Leon had been methodically stretching and flexing his shoulder all night as they made camp, his mouth tight, but otherwise giving no indication of discomfort. It was an old injury that bothered him on occasion. He had been subtle, but it was Arthur’s duty to know when something was wrong with one of his men. So, Arthur noticed.
And, despite appearances to the contrary, Merlin noticed what Arthur noticed, although Arthur suspected it was at least partly so he could use it to needle him. This time, though...
“I’ve got a salve,” Merlin said, digging through his bag and producing a small jar triumphantly in Leon’s direction. Merlin strode to Leon’s side, gesturing meaningfully.
Before long, Leon had slipped his arm out of his shirt and Merlin was pressing his long fingers against the exposed skin. Merlin probed carefully in the dip of Leon's muscles and along the ridge of his shoulder, speaking softly as he went.
Arthur swallowed the protest threatening to claw up his throat at the sight. Why shouldn’t his men provide one another with relief from the discomforts of the road, of training, of living the kind of life they were dedicated to living? After all, there was more to developing and maintaining an elite group of fighters than martial training alone. Knights fought better when they knew the men fighting by their side at a more personal level. Giving them the space to build connections to one another was invaluable. He knew this firsthand, having seen the transformation of his knights as a fighting unit over the years. Trust and closeness off the battlefield fostered more cohesion on one.
He knew this. So why did his throat feel tight at the thought? Had Merlin not proven that he was every bit as deserving of building the same bonds as the rest of them? Hadn’t he proved his loyalty to Camelot? To all of them? And Leon surely deserved a respite from whatever discomfort he was experiencing after his years of loyal service, if that was something Merlin could provide.
Percival brushed past Arthur, briefly blocking the light and heat of the fire as well as Arthur's view of Leon as he passed. He nodded at Arthur respectfully, but did not touch him. He did not rest a hand on his shoulder or clap him on the back.
Leon's head was bent forward slightly now, his eyes closed as Merlin tended to him.
Arthur’s skin thrummed with the echoes of physical proximity to another person: at the knowledge of the intentional distance at which he held himself. Since he had left childhood behind, there had been little purpose or occasion for gentle contact. Mostly touch was painful, borne of a lifetime of violence and duty. The crack of a weapon against his shield or his armor was scarcely the same as being pounded on the back by one of the knights or friendly horseplay with his servant, but it was also not far from it. There was an inherent violence in so many of his interactions.
Being cared for when he was unwell was gentler, although there was little enjoyment to be felt when recovering from illness or injury. The calculated interactions between nobles at court, such as formal greetings or dancing, were softer and certainly noteworthy in their own way, but carried a different cold weight of duty and propriety. Not that he had done much of that recently, either.
Arthur frowned, trying to remember the last time he had reached out to someone without violence: contact that was stripped down to its simplest form, just to touch. Was it to Merlin, perhaps? Arthur tried to recall the interactions of the last few days. He had run his hand through Merlin’s dark hair, making it stand on end as Merlin had ducked away from him, complaining. Or perhaps it had been when he'd gripped Merlin’s shoulder after the other man had said something that gave him pause. All too often, he realized with a clench of his stomach, those interactions were violent as well. There was a certain safety in holding that space; if he kept comfort at a distance, there was no chance of feeling the raw edge ripping him open with the loss of it.
He stripped off his gloves and studied his hands: calloused and rough. He couldn't remember a time before they had been so.
Merlin, of course, touched Arthur every day: helping him dress or smoothing a fold from his collar. He might pass him a letter, their hands brushing lightly. He regularly had to pull him bodily from bed when Arthur didn’t want to get up. Although they could be soft, even those interactions regularly contained a different form of violence, requisite by the very structure and distance Arthur himself established and maintained. The thought carved a hollow spot inside Arthur's chest. Maybe that was why he felt disoriented: seeing Merlin turn his gentle hands on someone else.
Although Arthur busied himself elsewhere that night, he kept finding his gaze drawn back across the camp to Leon and the others. Every person around the campfire besides Merlin was a knight, but they didn’t treat him like a servant. They openly saw one another as equals— friends. Something that Arthur himself could never truly be with any of them.
And he couldn’t help the way something in him ached at the familiarity, at their companionship, and at the light of the campfire glittering like citrine in Merlin’s eyes as he laughed.
~~~
The second time it was because of Gwaine.
They were only three days away from Camelot and Gwaine had worked himself hard that day, having helped Percival clear the road of a fallen tree, and his bravado that night was well-deserved.
“Do you have more of that salve, Merlin?” Gwaine asked, stretching his arms dramatically and grinning sidelong at Merlin. Arthur could see Merlin’s eye roll from the back of his head.
“Yes, but not for you.” Merlin shot back. “It takes ages to prepare. I’m not wasting it because your muscles are sore from doing actual work.”
But Merlin’s actions belied his dismissive words as he rose from Arthur’s side to stand behind Gwaine.
“Ah, pretty please? I’ll beg if you’d like.” Gwaine drawled, looking up through his eyelashes at Merlin. Gwaine’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and Merlin cuffed him too-lightly on the back of his head.
Arthur forced himself to look away, his breath too loud in his own ears as Merlin plucked at Gwaine’s shirt.
“You could ask nicely, you know.”
In his traitorous peripheral vision, Arthur saw Gwaine toss his shirt to the side and groan indulgently as Merlin’s hands pressed into the muscles of his upper back. The fire was hot before them, burning Arthur’s face. He studied the arrangement of bedrolls, thinking about how close they were to one another, grouped at the optimal distance from the center of camp.
“You’re a wonder.” Gwaine said, voice rough and indecent and sounding far too much like there was something different taking place.
“I’ve been working with the Court Physician for years, you know.” Merlin said, laughing. “I’m bound to have picked up a few things.”
Even with the murmur of their voices, the rasp of skin against skin was too loud and the camp too quiet. Merlin verbally needled Gwaine a bit more. That they were close friends was no surprise; they had been through much together. That was… that was good. There was something pure and sweet and honest in their interactions.
The hollow feeling in Arthur’s chest yawned wider and his skin ached for something he wouldn’t let himself consider.
Arthur stood up to check on the horses, grateful for the coolness of the night against his over-warm face. Grateful for the sounds of the forest just beyond the reach of the firelight, masking the sounds back at the center of camp. Grateful that he could stroke Llamrei's velvet nose without cause or pretense.
She pressed her nose back into the curve of Arthur's bare palm and the hollow inside of him ached, brittle and cracked.
~~~
Two weeks later, it was Elyan.
He had dislocated his shoulder when he was thrown from his horse during a short hunting trip. Although Merlin and Percival had maneuvered his joint back into place without difficulty, his muscles were still protesting. Merlin presented a different salve that evening, working it into Elyan’s shoulder, upper arm, and back with care. The two spoke quietly together, Merlin explaining how the salve would bring down inflammation and aid in healing. Elyan brought his uninjured arm to his chest in a casual salute.
It was a good thing; it was incredibly valuable to have men with a wide variety of skills close at hand. He appreciated Merlin's growing expertise in medicine for their well being and Arthur had no problem with Merlin and the knights being friends— being closer than allies of mere circumstance and convenience. Arthur was glad of it.
Of course he was.
But something about that familiarity, the way the knights had grown closer to Merlin as well as one another— the ease with which they interacted— made Arthur feel unsettled and so very alone, like he was missing something important. There was a time when having Merlin by his side had set Arthur apart in a different way than his rank and status. There had been a time when Arthur and Merlin were at the front of the column as they rode and when they stood together before every new challenge. But something had shifted without Arthur noticing. Arthur felt closer to his men than ever, and yet it felt as though he was seeing them all from a great distance and the details were blurred together, impossible to make out.
He considered the soreness in his own muscles. It was proof of the strength of his body. Its resilience. But instead of feeling satisfaction at the evidence of exertion, he just felt restless.
Somewhat experimentally, he tried reaching out more warmly to his knights after that: a clap on the shoulder, a pat on the back. He left his gloves aside and touched with his hands. He helped Leon with a stuck fastening. He clasped forearms with Elyan as he inquired after his recovering shoulder.
But that wasn’t it, exactly. It did something to soothe the yawning hollow inside of him, but it wasn't enough. And he was dismayed to find he wasn’t even surprised.
Arthur put it out of his mind. It wasn’t until Merlin adjusted Arthur's gambeson with his steady practical hands, smoothing the material unnecessarily across Arthur's chest and causing something hot and fluid to yank at Arthur's stomach, that he began to realize what precisely he was avoiding considering.
When they returned to Camelot, he told himself, then he would have time to think on it further.
But after they had returned, it turned to after this next council meeting and then after this delegation departs. And before he knew it, a week of carefully polite touches had passed. There was always something more pressing on the horizon and Arthur still couldn't bear to think of it directly.
~~~
Next it was Percival. Sort of.
Barely a fortnight after making it back to Camelot in one piece, Percival took a particularly wicked hit at training, and Arthur sent him to be assessed by Merlin, who was watching from nearby. Merlin straightened his posture at Percival's approach.
Quite without intending it to, Arthur's mind crept closer to that something he had been avoiding considering like a wolf stalking its prey.
Perhaps it had been there for ages, this easiness between Merlin and the knights, Arthur reflected, something inside of him weighing heavily with the thought. Perhaps he had just been too occupied with other things to notice. But no— that kind of rapport took time to build, as with anything. The easy physicality had surely developed gradually, building on their shared history. After standing together through adversity, there was no reason they wouldn't openly share comfort and companionship.
Even outside of their shared history, Merlin was frustratingly likable to people of all social standings and his friendships were earned— he was clever and observant and considerate. He deserved friends who appreciated his skills and his humor and his kindness and his loyalty.
And the knights certainly weren't taking advantage of Merlin. They didn't take him away from any other duties or ask him to do anything outside of his skill set. In fact, Merlin genuinely seemed to enjoy their interactions, sometimes both playful and professional at once. Arthur tried not to watch Merlin’s fingers prodding meticulously against Percival’s arm.
“It’ll be a wicked bruise,” he heard Merlin say with an audible smirk. “But I reckon you’ll live.”
“All right, you lot, back in line!” Arthur bellowed, when he couldn't take it anymore.
He pushed them all hard the rest of training, but none so hard as himself. The brutal physicality made the hollowness dissipate just a little.
Once he had released the others, Arthur set off, desperate to outpace his thoughts. He felt twitchy and hot and it felt good to walk.
Merlin fell into step alongside him.
“Is everything all right?”
“Perfect,” Arthur said.
He didn’t have anything useful to say and Merlin didn’t press for anything more. And, for a time, Arthur was able to put it out of his mind.
Until a few days later when they met up with Lancelot outside of town.
The patrol Lancelot was leading had been delayed by an infestation of wyverns and to ensure the next patrol could be properly briefed, Arthur had set a rendezvous point for the two groups.
It had been no more gruelling a day than was typical— a day of travel for the fresh patrol and two weeks saddle weary for the other— but they were all grateful to rest and break bread together when the night grew dark.
Their business was concluded by the time they had finished eating and the men fell easily into badinage.
And Arthur could not help but observe how free Merlin was with Lancelot. Their ease of existing in the same space was different from how Merlin was with the others. They had hugged expansively; Lancelot pulled Merlin in close, rubbing his arms gently and patting him on the back. Merlin’s grin took over his whole face, eyes crinkled and joyful and dimples flashing.
Lancelot didn’t take off his shirt, but Merlin still ended up kneading his shoulder from the side, laughing at something he’d said as they sat together by the fire. Lancelot hadn’t asked for his touch; as with Leon, this time it had been Merlin’s to offer. And the hollow in Arthur's chest ached.
But there was no particular hurt to soothe in Lancelot’s bearing. No injury to examine. No excuse to touch except for their desire to do so. And as the night wore on, Merlin wound an arm around Lancelot’s waist, pulling him closer to his side to mutter something in his ear, and Lancelot slung his own arm across Merlin’s shoulders. It felt like there was a band of iron constricting Arthur's chest and his throat grew tighter, stifling his breathing.
The banter and easy camaraderie would likely raise the spirits of those nearby, but Arthur could scarcely hear what was being said. Although the fire and atmosphere before them was warm, Arthur felt chilled.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, before he’d realized he had opened his mouth. He had spoken quietly, but his voice cut across the chatter and ambient sounds of the forest and camp with no difficulty. Even his voice held violence, trained and shaped from youth to be giving orders during battle. The silence in the wake of his word was a blow to the cheer of the camp. The hollow in his chest yawned wider with the silence.
“Duty calls,” said Merlin regretfully to the others, extracting himself from Lancelot and pressing a hand to his friend’s shoulder before striding over. His grin faded.
“What is it?” Merlin asked. His eyes darted over Arthur, looking for something amiss.
Arthur just stared at him for a moment, uncertain what he had been thinking in calling him over before his mouth answered for him.
“Do you have that muscle salve?”
“Oh! Of course. I’ll just...” Merlin tripped over nothing on the way to his bag, but caught his balance before falling. One of the knights called out a joke, but Arthur couldn’t hear anything but Merlin over the roaring in his ears.
Then Merlin was standing in front of him holding the little jar and studying Arthur. Both of them stood with their hands outstretched, not quite touching. Merlin's hand was bare.
“Do you want me to—”
“No.” Arthur replied sharply, flexing his hand open. “Just leave it with me.”
Merlin placed the jar in Arthur's gloved hand, fingers dragging ever so lightly against his leather-clad palm as he pulled away.
At the look on Merlin’s face, Arthur added a belated “thank you,” and dismissed him with a wave. His hand clenched around the jar to blot out the faint sensation Merlin's fingers had left in their wake.
He tried not to scowl as Merlin made his way back to the others. His muscles were fine, although now that he held the muscle salve he realized his shoulder was aching a little.
Momentarily, he considered baring himself by the campfire, his men within easy view, but the thought tasted like ash on his tongue. His men could share space and exchange touch freely, but he could not. Instead, he stood, tucking one glove into his belt. He pulled back until he was enrobed in shadow and accompanied by the rustling of leaves in the wind on the periphery of camp. Letting out a huff of breath, he opened the jar, took a bit of the salve onto his finger, and rubbed it across the top of his shoulder, shoving the neck of his tunic aside awkwardly to get to the skin.
It would have been easy to call Merlin over, to ask for him to spread the salve over his shoulder where Arthur could not easily reach. It would have been entirely reasonable to ask his manservant for assistance, to draw him away from his friends and their casual intimacy.
Instead, Arthur pressed the salve harder into his own skin. It felt warm, tingly and medicinal, and the ache in his muscle eased a bit.
The ache in his chest did not.
From the other side of the camp, Merlin tried to catch his gaze, but Arthur kept his eyes resolutely elsewhere. Feeling foolish and inexplicably bereft, he closed the jar again.
Arthur had known before he asked that the salve wasn't what he had wanted. He hoped it wasn’t obvious to anyone else.
Neither he nor Merlin mentioned it until they had returned to Camelot.
~~~
Back in Arthur’s chambers, alone together for the first time in days, Merlin eased Arthur’s jacket from his shoulders, his fingers brushing no more than necessary, the picture of professionalism. It grated on Arthur.
“Is your shoulder feeling better?” Merlin asked.
Arthur fought the urge to roll his shoulders in response.
“Yes, it’s fine. I—” shouldn’t have wasted, he didn’t say, shouldn’t have asked you to—. “It’s fine.”
He glared unseeing at the wall before him.
Merlin’s touch was so light he almost didn’t feel it. Gently, Merlin’s hand brushed from Arthur’s neck along the seam of his tunic.
Clearing his throat, Merlin pinched the garment and lifted it up, helping Arthur undress. Like he always did.
Merlin inhaled as though to speak, but Arthur opened his mouth, desperate to stop him from saying anything.
“I’m glad you’re getting on well with the knights.”
When Merlin did not reply, the silence between them full of something Arthur wasn't ready for either of them to think about, he added “it’s good to have that kind of rapport. You're— good with them. They’re lucky to have you.”
“Was that a compliment?” Merlin said, his voice a little thready. He folded Arthur’s dirty laundry with uncharacteristic care, head bent to conceal his face.
Arthur scoffed. “Don’t get used to it.”
He shucked off the rest of his travel clothes and climbed into the waiting tub without looking at Merlin. The water was as warm as a caress. He wanted to sink into it and float away. To dissolve into nothing. To let the water seep into the empty hollow inside of him until he sunk to the bottom, numb to all his surroundings.
Neither of them said anything for a long while. Arthur doused himself without mercy. He washed first his hair and then began on his skin with more violence than necessary, feeling the weight of Merlin’s eyes on him—trying not to imagine it was Merlin's hands on him instead of his own.
He should dismiss him.
He should scrub himself raw. He should sit alone, letting the cold cracks and fissures that had grown in his chest fill with soapy water. It would even help, for a time, before it all drained away again, perhaps leaving him cracked open wider than before.
He choked with the thought of how desperately he didn’t want that.
Behind him, Merlin unstuck his mouth with a click.
“I dunno how you ever get clean. You’re hopeless. Give me that.”
He snatched the soap from Arthur’s hand as though it was a weapon Arthur was likely to hurt himself with and dipped both of his own in the water at Arthur’s side, sending tiny eddies swirling across the surface to tickle Arthur’s side. Arthur froze.
Merlin’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Arthur wondered vaguely when that had happened and averted his eyes, as though Merlin was the one laid bare.
A moment of held breath and then finally— finally— the smooth slide of soap across his skin. The solid bar was a barrier between them, but he could feel the curl of Merlin’s fingers holding the soap in place as he drew circles across the nape of Arthur’s neck and down, down.
Arthur did not shiver or tense. He did not relax. He sat very still, just feeling it. It was too soft, too smooth, like the wind. It was as much painful as soothing to his raw, needy skin.
He tingled. He needed it to stop at once. He wanted more. He was parched. He could barely think.
“Could you bring me water?”
Merlin paused and then stood without a word, rinsing his hands again in the water by Arthur’s side. Arthur relaxed slightly, but then Merlin was back crowding into his space, a cup in front of Arthur’s nose. He took it with a splash and drank greedily.
Merlin grabbed the soap again.
“Egregious misuse of water,” Merlin said, voice hoarse. “Guzzling water, surrounded by water. The poor water.”
“You’re thirsty,” Arthur blurted out accusingly, turning to look at Merlin for the first time in far too long.
Merlin was incredibly close, perched on the stool above Arthur with his forearms bare and hands lathered once more with soap and held aloft towards Arthur's skin. Water dripped down his elbows, delicate soap bubbles trailing down with it. Arthur was close enough to see that there was travel dust gathered in the creases by his nose and on his cheeks. He could see every dark eyelash. He could see the weariness in his wide blue eyes.
“You’re an idiot.” Merlin frowned at him fondly, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
Arthur had the mad thought that he should bring the cup to Merlin’s lips, to tilt the remaining water forward and watch him drink it, to cup his jaw and feel his throat move as he swallowed it down. Or to splash Merlin with it instead, turning it over his head and watching the water run down his face leaving streaks through the dust that gilded his cheeks. He wanted to grab the soap back and rub it onto Merlin’s face, taking off the grime of their most recent travel with his own hands, washing him clean as Merlin was doing for him.
Merlin would sputter and duck away yelling at him, he was sure of it. It wouldn’t be gentle. It wouldn’t be what he wanted. What he ached for.
You're an idiot.
“Maybe I am.” Arthur turned back around quickly without doing any of them, discarding the cup with a clang.
Merlin hesitated and then carefully placed his hands on Arthur’s back.
“Let’s finish up so I can get your dinner.”
And then— then it was everything.
Merlin’s hands were gentle at first, working the soap across his back, but then he pressed harder, into the meat of him. It was violence and gentleness together and it made Arthur want to sob with relief.
He shuddered instead and Merlin didn’t stop.
Arthur could feel the calluses on Merlin’s hands through the slide of the soap, softened in the warm water; he could feel the wiry strength in his arms as Merlin held him in place with one hand to push deeper into his muscle with the bar of soap in the other. The brush and grip of skin against his made lightning flash along his nerves. He could feel it all the way from his scalp to his toes. He wanted to arch his back like a cat, pressing back into Merlin's touch, but with increasingly great effort, he held himself still. He forced his breath to remain steady as the heady glow of sensation— of touch— seeped into his lungs, urging them to speed up or cease functioning altogether.
Merlin set the bar of soap aside and ran his fingers through the lather that he had formed on Arthur's back, spreading it back and forth, up and down— and now there was no barrier except for propriety and the thin film of soap making the contact slippery between Merlin's broad palms and Arthur's skin. And that touch flowed into that persistent hollowness within him, gurgling and desperate.
When Merlin’s fingers pressed into the muscle on either side of his spine, something harsh in Arthur’s chest made a noise without his consent. Merlin didn’t comment on it except to press there again, longer—pressing where Arthur’s couldn’t reach. It hurt exquisitely and something embedded deep relinquished its hooks from within him. It was both tension and release at once.
As Merlin's hands went up to Arthur’s neck the touch grew softer and Arthur shuddered again. His hands stroked along his neck and up to his hair. Arthur held his breath to stop any more unintended noises as he felt fingernails against his scalp. His head fell back helplessly, seeking more. Merlin obliged, combing his fingers through Arthur's wet hair, fingers pressing, pressing, into his scalp. Arthur's mind had gone fuzzy, dissolved into the soapy water and warm press of skin.
Eventually, Merlin pulled away. He rinsed the soap from Arthur's body with his hands, cupping the water carefully and letting it wash the soap and grime and gentle touches down and away into the bathwater.
The contact ceased. The quiet trickle of water draining from Arthur's body was the only sound until Merlin spoke with that periodic solemnity of his.
"I would do anything you ask, you know."
Arthur did know. It was an incontrovertible truth and a monumental lie.
Part of him was tempted to laugh. Merlin didn't do half of what Arthur told him to do. But he knew Merlin would do a great deal for him if he truly asked. At the same time, Arthur wanted to scream, knowing he could never ask for his help filling that persistent, clawing emptiness inside of him. It wasn't in him to ask for this.
"Sometimes it's nice when I don't have to."
He didn't turn to look at Merlin and Merlin didn't say anything in response. He handed Arthur a sheet to dry with and excused himself to get dinner. And with his departure, that clawing emptiness yawned wider once more.
By the time he'd dressed and Merlin had returned, Arthur knew for certain what he wanted— what his skin ached for. He knew he could ask for it and Merlin would undoubtedly accommodate his request. He also knew his voice contained the violence of command. The possibility of coercion weighed down his tongue.
When Merlin set the tray down on the table and stepped away, Arthur followed him.
"You're still dirty," Arthur took up one of the cloths he had dried himself with, dipping it exaggeratedly in the still-warm water and wringing it out again.
"I haven't had time to wash up. I've been taking care of you." Merlin made a valiant attempt at an insulting tone, but it didn't ring true. His eyes tracked Arthur's movements carefully.
Arthur stepped in and brought the cloth slowly to Merlin's face. Merlin looked at him, eyes pinched and puzzled and cautious.
Carefully, delicately, Arthur pressed the cloth to Merlin's cheek and ran it across the curve of his cheekbone. When he didn't shy away, Arthur moved to the other side. He cleaned the dirt from Merlin's nose, from under his eyes, from his forehead, from his jaw, from his ears and Merlin didn't move at all except to shift to grant Arthur easier access to his skin. And then Arthur shed the barrier of the fabric entirely and took Merlin's chin gently in one hand. Merlin inhaled sharply, but still didn't withdraw or turn aside.
Arthur studied his face in the firelight. Merlin's lips were dry and his tongue darted out to wet them. His eyes were fierce and questioning as Arthur assessed him.
"Arthur. Is there anything else you need?"
Need?
"No." Arthur curled his fingers away from Merlin's chin against his own palm and ran the backs of his fingers up the steep curve of Merlin's jaw. The day's stubble rasped against his bare fingers.
"Then wh—"
Merlin cut himself off as Arthur curled his hand around the back of his neck, tipping Merlin's head forward. Merlin followed his hand obediently, breaking eye contact and tilting slightly closer.
Arthur brushed his lips gently against the high jut of the cheek he had guided towards him.
"Thank you," he said against Merlin's skin, trying to convey a thousand things at once without saying them. Thank you for understanding. Thank you for reaching out when I could not ask for it.
Merlin pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes again and nodded solemnly. His neck was hot against Arthur's hand. His stomach flipped and he swallowed, suddenly unsure whether he had lingered too long, pushed too far.
He squeezed the nape of Merlin's neck once more and released him, stepping away to sit at the table where Merlin had left the food.
"The rest of the night is your own," he said, studying the plate before him without seeing it. "I'm sure you have much to do."
After a moment, he heard Merlin flop down into the chair next to him. Long fingers brushed against Arthur's on the plate, taking the bread from his hand and tearing it in half before pressing it back into his palm. Arthur looked up to find Merlin smiling crookedly as he chewed on the other, slightly larger, portion.
"Nah, I think I'll stay here a bit. Food's better."
Huffing a laugh, Arthur tousled Merlin's hair and bit into his own bread.
And as Arthur's free hand drifted away from his hair, Merlin's arm came up to catch it, pressing Arthur's forearm lightly into the table between them and laying his own atop it, fingers brushing gently at the delicate skin of Arthur's wrist below his tunic — an acknowledgement, Arthur thought, that he did understand. And the ache in Arthur's chest eased a little more with every moment.