@contumelae
Arthur's hands are like ice under his lips, all skin stretched over bone, knuckles like mountains against the gentle taper of his fingers. He holds them lightly, loose enough that he could pull them away if he chose--this is not something he wishes to force upon his king, not when their relationship seems so tender to the touch in the first place.
But it's a balm to his heart, to touch skin to skin, to place his mouth against the hand that curled around Excalibur and claimed it with virtue, long before he himself held it and shied from his responsibilities.
"I sincerely hope you enjoy kiss day, your majesty," he says into Arthur's fingers, never once raising his eyes. He lets the hand go and bows his head, ever obsequious, ever minding his courtly manners.
