Title: I watch him
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur
Summary: I watch him. And he has no idea and he never will.
Word Count: 440
Camelot_drabble Prompt: pt 445: Unaware
Author's Notes: unbetaed
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
I watch him. Late at night stoking the fire, turning down my bed, prattling endlessly about the least little thing. I watch him, his blue eyes shining in the firelight, his hair black as night and curling a little because we’d been too damn busy fighting off bandits and monsters for him to get it cut. The way his hands dance in the air as he tells his stories, his fingers always busy, long and eager as he cleans my armour or straightens my tunics or holds onto the wine we both will drink later. So close, too close.
Long legs, large ears that beg for touch, his throat bare for once because he’d lost his last kerchief and hadn’t enough time to wash another. His arms, whenever he forgets to hide them under baggy tunics, are strong and sinewy, and I can only imagine how they’d curl around my waist if I ask. I never ask.
But it is his mouth that intrigues me the most. His lips bitten red with worry or wet with laughter, intriguing me with smiles or just saying my name in that way of his. His lips that should be burning against mine but they never do.
I watch him. And he has no idea and he never will.
I watch him. His blue eyes shine in the daylight, and I am not sure if they are as blue as the ocean or light as the sky or sometimes dark with dread when trouble arrives. His hair curls a little, longer than he’d like because there had been bandits and monsters, but bright in the afternoon sun and I can’t help but watch him run his fingers through it and wish they were my fingers instead, combing his hair.
He is poetry in motion, the way he dances in the wind as he swings a sword, his body flowing with the joy of it. His arms glisten in sweat, his tunic tight against that sculpted chest of his. Fleet of foot, long legs with thighs and an arse as perfect as if the gods had sculpted them. Golden-haired, golden-skinned, a body begging to be held. I never do.
It is his mouth that I watch the most. Curling sometimes in contempt or bright and warm with laughter, his lips reddened when he bites them in worry for things he cannot change. I want to kiss those lips, but he would laugh me off or send me packing and that I cannot allow.
I watch him. But he will never know how much I want to do more than watch and he never will.