In the Cold Light of Morning
fandom: Merlin
rating: PG
word count: 1k
category: slash, pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin
characters: Arthur Pendragon, Merlin
genre: modern au, fluff, established relationship, domestic, winter, holiday fic
warnings: none
disclaimer: Don't own anything, don't make money from this, you know the drill.
summa Merlin wakes up to the first snow of the year.
also on AO3
a/n: don't let the tags fool you, it's literally a thousand words of mood and ambient and setting and stuff idek what i was thinking
the title is from a placebo song
feedback is always appreciated ^^
In the Cold Light of Morning
Merlin doesn't feel like opening his eyes. He's been awake, or aware at least, for some time already, and he doesn't exactly want to go back to sleep, but he doesn't want to be fully awake just yet either; he's quite enjoying this state between sleep and alertness, between dream and reality, the floating feeling it gives him. His thoughts are a scattered mess of half-formed sentences and blurry images and a distant melody that reminds him of something just out of reach of his sleepy mind.
It's the morning after Christmas, or, well, by now it's probably early noon. Merlin can still feel the effect of Morgana's party from last night in the not-really-there-anymore headache and the soreness that's settled into his muscles. He feels like his body is made of melted metal, heavy but soft at the same time, impossible to move.
Not that he really wants to move. He's warm and cozy where he is. There's a crispness in the air characteristic of winter, a kind of freshness that he can breathe in, but the room itself is pleasantly warm, neither too hot nor too cold against Merlin's bare back. The blanket draped over his lower half is soft against his naked body and Arthur's body warmth is seeping into him, spreading a pleasant heat through him that has little to do with the actual temperature.
The way Merlin is lying, his head on Arthur's chest, his hand resting right over Arthur's chest, he can feel the rhythm of Arthur's heart beating, the depth of his breaths and it soothes him, makes him even more reluctant to move. His legs are tangled with Arthur's and Arthur's arm is curled around his waist; Merlin's not sure he could separate himself from Arthur now if he tried.
The room is perfectly still and quiet, it's just him and Arthur there and they're sleeping, the noise from the traffic down in the streets does not reach Arthur's penthouse and there's no neighbours to disturb the peace; Merlin imagines he could probably hear the snow fall.
If it were actually falling. Their Christmas was less white and more concrete grey, soaked in rain, yes, but without a single snowflake. Merlin half-remembers drunkenly complaining about the lack of snow and suggesting spilling flour over the street to replace it last night. Memories of last night, of celebrating with his friends, who have basically become his family now, bring a smile to his face.
Slowly, he blinks his eyes open. It's as difficult as if his eyelids were actually glued together. He rubs his face into the inside of Arthur's arm, then runs his hand over his face. Arthur makes a noise of protest and tightens his hold on Merlin's waist. Merlin smiles, turns his head again to kiss the inside of Arthur's arm.
“Shleap,” Arthur mumbles, nosing along Merlin's hairline before planting a kiss to Merlin's forehead and burying his nose in his hair. Merlin just hums non-committally in response, letting Arthur go back to dreamland, but not joining him.
He's facing the tall windows of their bedroom, the ones that he insisted not be covered with blinds or curtains so he could get the natural light for when he painted in here (some of the best pieces of his career were born on mornings just like this one, when he painted with a mug of tea in his hand, barely looking at the canvas in front of him, too busy drinking in the way sunlight played over Arthur's chest, his eyes glued to the pliant, sleeping form on the bed, a curve of a smile on Arthur's face; no matter how hard he tried to recreate that atmosphere, those emotions in any of his other paintings, nothing ever compared to the peace and warmth of the works he did while still half-asleep and in his pyjamas, his unwitting model hogging the covers an arm's length away), but more and more, he finds himself staring out of the windows just for the sake of the breath-taking view of London and the skies above it.
The sky looks like it's covered with cotton balls in different shades of grey, the backdrop that does not lend itself to easily seeing the snowflakes drifting downwards, but Merlin's eyes, trained to spot details from years of practice, catch them, the small, fluffy balls slowly passing by the window. At first they are so rare that Merlin can count them as they fall, but soon enough, they pick up the pace and there's more and more of them coasting on the wind or maybe just floating aimlessly.
He watches the first snow of that year, mesmerized. Nature is a constant inspiration to him, something he can always turn to, something he could never get tired of observing, but it's a rare occasion when he gets to lie comfortably in his warm bed, held close by the man he loves, and just watch, for no reason other than the pleasure he gets from it, the snow above London.
He runs his hand absently over Arthur's chest, his fingers tangling in the light, soft hairs there. He pulls them, just the tiniest bit, just to hear Arthur grumble something indistinguishable, to see the fleeting expression on his face, to feel the hand on his hip squeeze. He loves that he knows exactly how to play Arthur to get the reactions he wants, loves it even more that Arthur had the perseverance to learn the same about him.
He lifts his head, kisses Arthur's chest, runs his nose up to the side of Arthur's neck, kisses there as well, breathes in the smell he knows so well, kisses again. Arthur lets out a quiet moan that is barely more then a breath; Merlin kisses under his jaw. He lets his lips linger, feeling the soft skin, just the barest hint of a stubble. Arthur doesn't wake up and Merlin relishes in Arthur's instinctive reaction to get the closer evident in the way Arthur's hand flexes over Merlin's bare hip, Arthur's legs hold Merlin's foot captive even tighter, the fact that Arthur turns just the slightest bit toward him.
Merlin runs his lips down Arthur's neck, all the way to the hollow of his throat, to the juts of his collarbones, smiling the whole time. He nestles his head back on Arthur's chest, lets his fingers play a random tune over the piano of Arthur's skin and watches the snow fall quietly.
rating: PG
word count: 1k
category: slash, pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin
characters: Arthur Pendragon, Merlin
genre: modern au, fluff, established relationship, domestic, winter, holiday fic
warnings: none
disclaimer: Don't own anything, don't make money from this, you know the drill.
summa Merlin wakes up to the first snow of the year.
also on AO3
a/n: don't let the tags fool you, it's literally a thousand words of mood and ambient and setting and stuff idek what i was thinking
the title is from a placebo song
feedback is always appreciated ^^
In the Cold Light of Morning
Merlin doesn't feel like opening his eyes. He's been awake, or aware at least, for some time already, and he doesn't exactly want to go back to sleep, but he doesn't want to be fully awake just yet either; he's quite enjoying this state between sleep and alertness, between dream and reality, the floating feeling it gives him. His thoughts are a scattered mess of half-formed sentences and blurry images and a distant melody that reminds him of something just out of reach of his sleepy mind.
It's the morning after Christmas, or, well, by now it's probably early noon. Merlin can still feel the effect of Morgana's party from last night in the not-really-there-anymore headache and the soreness that's settled into his muscles. He feels like his body is made of melted metal, heavy but soft at the same time, impossible to move.
Not that he really wants to move. He's warm and cozy where he is. There's a crispness in the air characteristic of winter, a kind of freshness that he can breathe in, but the room itself is pleasantly warm, neither too hot nor too cold against Merlin's bare back. The blanket draped over his lower half is soft against his naked body and Arthur's body warmth is seeping into him, spreading a pleasant heat through him that has little to do with the actual temperature.
The way Merlin is lying, his head on Arthur's chest, his hand resting right over Arthur's chest, he can feel the rhythm of Arthur's heart beating, the depth of his breaths and it soothes him, makes him even more reluctant to move. His legs are tangled with Arthur's and Arthur's arm is curled around his waist; Merlin's not sure he could separate himself from Arthur now if he tried.
The room is perfectly still and quiet, it's just him and Arthur there and they're sleeping, the noise from the traffic down in the streets does not reach Arthur's penthouse and there's no neighbours to disturb the peace; Merlin imagines he could probably hear the snow fall.
If it were actually falling. Their Christmas was less white and more concrete grey, soaked in rain, yes, but without a single snowflake. Merlin half-remembers drunkenly complaining about the lack of snow and suggesting spilling flour over the street to replace it last night. Memories of last night, of celebrating with his friends, who have basically become his family now, bring a smile to his face.
Slowly, he blinks his eyes open. It's as difficult as if his eyelids were actually glued together. He rubs his face into the inside of Arthur's arm, then runs his hand over his face. Arthur makes a noise of protest and tightens his hold on Merlin's waist. Merlin smiles, turns his head again to kiss the inside of Arthur's arm.
“Shleap,” Arthur mumbles, nosing along Merlin's hairline before planting a kiss to Merlin's forehead and burying his nose in his hair. Merlin just hums non-committally in response, letting Arthur go back to dreamland, but not joining him.
He's facing the tall windows of their bedroom, the ones that he insisted not be covered with blinds or curtains so he could get the natural light for when he painted in here (some of the best pieces of his career were born on mornings just like this one, when he painted with a mug of tea in his hand, barely looking at the canvas in front of him, too busy drinking in the way sunlight played over Arthur's chest, his eyes glued to the pliant, sleeping form on the bed, a curve of a smile on Arthur's face; no matter how hard he tried to recreate that atmosphere, those emotions in any of his other paintings, nothing ever compared to the peace and warmth of the works he did while still half-asleep and in his pyjamas, his unwitting model hogging the covers an arm's length away), but more and more, he finds himself staring out of the windows just for the sake of the breath-taking view of London and the skies above it.
The sky looks like it's covered with cotton balls in different shades of grey, the backdrop that does not lend itself to easily seeing the snowflakes drifting downwards, but Merlin's eyes, trained to spot details from years of practice, catch them, the small, fluffy balls slowly passing by the window. At first they are so rare that Merlin can count them as they fall, but soon enough, they pick up the pace and there's more and more of them coasting on the wind or maybe just floating aimlessly.
He watches the first snow of that year, mesmerized. Nature is a constant inspiration to him, something he can always turn to, something he could never get tired of observing, but it's a rare occasion when he gets to lie comfortably in his warm bed, held close by the man he loves, and just watch, for no reason other than the pleasure he gets from it, the snow above London.
He runs his hand absently over Arthur's chest, his fingers tangling in the light, soft hairs there. He pulls them, just the tiniest bit, just to hear Arthur grumble something indistinguishable, to see the fleeting expression on his face, to feel the hand on his hip squeeze. He loves that he knows exactly how to play Arthur to get the reactions he wants, loves it even more that Arthur had the perseverance to learn the same about him.
He lifts his head, kisses Arthur's chest, runs his nose up to the side of Arthur's neck, kisses there as well, breathes in the smell he knows so well, kisses again. Arthur lets out a quiet moan that is barely more then a breath; Merlin kisses under his jaw. He lets his lips linger, feeling the soft skin, just the barest hint of a stubble. Arthur doesn't wake up and Merlin relishes in Arthur's instinctive reaction to get the closer evident in the way Arthur's hand flexes over Merlin's bare hip, Arthur's legs hold Merlin's foot captive even tighter, the fact that Arthur turns just the slightest bit toward him.
Merlin runs his lips down Arthur's neck, all the way to the hollow of his throat, to the juts of his collarbones, smiling the whole time. He nestles his head back on Arthur's chest, lets his fingers play a random tune over the piano of Arthur's skin and watches the snow fall quietly.