Arthur doesn’t know if his mother ever held him.
His father has not, will not. On rare days, Arthur is gifted a grip to his shoulder: tight, heavy. Always with that crushing, crippling shame. The weight of his own disappointment.
Arthur tries to—well. He slaps his knights’ shoulders, light, quick. Sometimes even a rallying punch to an arm, closed fist, gloved fist. Never skin on skin.
He is not slapped back. Untouchable, always, on the tourney field and off.
Of course, he’s had servants to dress him since before he could lift a sword, but they’ve always known their place. Always careful, deferential. Never eye to eye.
“Up you get, you giant—fucking— lump—!”
It’s like hot steel, shock skewering his belly deep, each time Merlin touches him. Grabs him. Moves him bodily. Pushes him out of bed, shoves him into tunic and hose.
Fussing, always fussing, careless, full of care. “What’s that, on your face?” A warm, calloused hand, checking—skin on skin, eye to eye. “Oh, I see, just your big fat mouth as usual, no cause for alarm.” The dimple pokes Merlin’s cheek as his fingers poke Arthur’s sides.
It should sate his hunger; instead, it reinvents it.
touch @merthurmicrofic {200 words}
@andromaex your tags brought me great joy to read 😂💗 thank you
