Arthur might as well be a dream, Merlin thinks.
He's beautiful in that godlike way that only blond, blue eyed prats could be. His broad shoulders, his skin, his lips, his arrogant, melodious voice – every part of him was stupidly wonderful.
"I hate you." Merlin sighed, staring down at the sleeping prince.
"I hate you too," Arthur mumbled back, shifting in bed. He opened his eyes lazily, and took his time stretching his long, muscular arms before finally sitting up.
Merlin glared.
Arthur acknowledged the brunet's hostility with a smile. "And a lovely morning to you too, Merlin." He chuckled. His servant, not amused, ignored his remark and headed to the window, pulling apart the curtains so that the sun rays flared through the glass. Then he turned around and took a deep breath.
Arthur's half nudity in the morning was never a calming sight. It gave him butterflies and made his heart race stupidly, and he was almost always worthy of the "what are you doing, idiot?" or "quit staring, moron" or "get to work, imbecile" that came his way. He couldn't help himself. He felt as if his insides were being attacked by magical winged creatures – as if dragons were at war in his abdomen.
Arthur sighed. "Don't just stand there, Merlin." He commented, drowsiness still evident in his voice. He dragged himself out of bed then stood staring back at Merlin, until a cruel smile played on his lips. "Are you going to get me dressed, or what?"
"Yes, Sire," Merlin responded sarcastically. Really, a sleepy, nonchalant, handsome prince was the last thing he needed this early in the morning. He ignored the blond nonetheless and gathered the appropriate garments from Arthur's closet, then marched to the prat with intent.
Merlin dressed Arthur with purposeful fingers that didn't linger at skin, and he didn't trace Arthur's body with his eyes yearningly. His gaze never strayed and he never imagined his lips on the small of Arthur's back, on the crease of his neck, on his rosy cheeks.
..Well, at least he tried not to.
"Merlin?" Arthur pestered, turning around so that the brunet could do up his sleeves. He sounded curious when he asked, "what's distracting you?" and there was no hint of the hunger he felt in his voice.
Arthur was always good at hiding things. He hid Merlin's favorite fruits so he could give them to him personally, hid flowers he picked up from the field to place in Merlin's room, hid his smile when Merlin did that quirky thing with his ears, hid the faintness in his heart and the queasiness in his stomach when Merlin laughed. He was, above all, a skilled liar, and so he made sure that every time he said "idiot" instead of "lover", "buffoon instead of "beautiful" or "girl's petticoat" instead of "mine", Merlin had no clue.
Despite his talents, Arthur lacked one gift: the ability to lie to himself. He could not, for the life of him, forget the fact that he loved. Love was as much a part of him as his loyalty, his pride, his crown. He was bound to it unconditionally, with neither exceptions nor mercy. Merlin was the first thing on his mind upon awakening, the last thing before retirement, and all the space in between. He consumed him like a welling fire, sometimes silent and contained, sometimes mighty and unforgiving, but no matter the extent it was always there. And although Arthur knew full well that he was enslaved to it, he had no complaints. He knew deep down that there was no one person more worthy of his worship.
That morning, while Merlin dressed Arthur with nimble fingers that pressed against his skin like a sorcerer's beautiful spell, Arthur bit tightly on his lips to refrain from saying thing's he'd later regret. He held back from thoughts like I love you and hold me and be mine, in favor of a simple word: "idiot."