Merlin collapses on top of him, quivering and boneless. Being the generous soul that he is, Arthur permits the indignity; it’s not as though Merlin is very heavy—and, well, maybe the closeness isn’t really so bad after all.
Their breaths mingle, soft puffs of air slowly evening out as exhaustion seeps in.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, expression so earnest and open that something in Arthur’s belly flutters strangely. “God, I...”
“I know,” Arthur says, and presses his lips to Merlin’s sweaty brow, “but if you start spouting sonnets at me, I will mock you forever. Get some sleep.”
“Such. A. Prat.”