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He collapses onto Arthur’s heaving, sweaty chest, presses his face into his shoulder. With a thought, Merlin unties the bindings around Arthur’s wrists, then he starts, realizing too late that he shouldn’t have done that. Fortunately, Arthur is still basking in the residual pleasure, eyes closed, limbs relaxed, shivering every minute or so. He looks debauched and painfully beautiful and so very vulnerable. Merlin wonders if Arthur has let anyone else see him so unguarded - if he would allow Merlin to see him like this if he had any idea how he looked. Somehow, he doesn’t think so.
When he meets Arthur’s eyes, he finds him watching, his expression soft and open. He smiles lazily at Merlin and in that moment he’s not the crown prince of Camelot, a man bound by duty and obligation, with the weight of destiny already heavy upon his shoulders. He’s just Arthur, and he’s everything that Merlin wants.
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