Arthur doesnât 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 toâwell. He slaps his knightsâ 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, heâs had servants to dress him since before he could lift a sword, but theyâve always known their place. Always careful, deferential. Never eye to eye.
âUp you get, you giantâfuckingâ lumpâ!â
Itâs 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. âWhatâs that, on your face?â A warm, calloused hand, checkingâskin on skin, eye to eye. âOh, I see, just your big fat mouth as usual, no cause for alarm.â The dimple pokes Merlinâs cheek as his fingers poke Arthurâs sides.
It should sate his hunger; instead, it reinvents it.
touch @merthurmicrofic {200 words}