When morning eventually breaks, it's gentle light drifting through the curtains and the faint song of the lark easing through the window. Merlin wakes slowly; he has a brief moment of confusion at finding himself in the large, soft bed, and then sees Arthur's bare back beside him and remembers everything. He sits up carefully, doing his best not to dislodge the heavy blankets from around the prince and failing.
Arthur rolls over and his eyes crack open, and he's sharp and clean and angular and just lies there, staring up at Merlin. The warlock gets the feeling that he's never going to see Arthur more open and complacent than in that moment, but he stilldoesn't know what's going on in the other boy's head – he probably never will, not completely, but he'd like to think that he's making some headway.
When he's beginning to think that Arthur's fallen asleep again – his eyes have drifted shut and his breathing has deepened – a warm hand reaches out and touches his hip, fingers rough and calloused, awkward. But they're gentle, too, so very gentle; and Merlin can't help but settle himself back down.
Arthur's hand is trapped under his hip now, and it must be painful for him, but he doesn't complain; he manoeuvres his arm right underneath the warlock and winding itself around his back, pulling Merlin's chest flush against the his side. Merlin's hand is resting on Arthur's stomach before he's actually thought of moving. It feels natural. It shouldn't.
Arthur's eyes are almost open again but he's still only half-awake, and he turns his head to the side and kisses the young warlock's forehead. Merlin tilts his head up, and there's really no need for explanations because Arthur seems to understand instinctively what he wants and presses their lips together, simple and affectionate and lingering.
Merlin pushes his cheek into Arthur's collar bone and it digs in a little bit, and he closes his eyes, and his mouth begins to curl upward.
Morning can wait for them.
**