Think of this as a bit of a companion piece to my fic "They Didn't Know."

The Way

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There was something about the way Merlin moved, something about the way he did things, about the things he did and the way he was—there was always something about it, about him, something... captivating, something that made it hard for Arthur not to stare at him and notice all the small things, all the things that made him Merlin, all the things that made Arthur love him. Because it was the small things about him—the things most people probably didn't notice, didn't take note of—just as much as it was the big things—the things that took up most of his being and that you would have to be a blind man not to see—that made Arthur love him like he did.

It was the way he smoothed down the sheets on Arthur's bed, slow and deliberate, more careful than he was when he tore them off in a fit of passion.

It was the way he mended Arthur's chainmail, fingers steady with frustration and purpose even though it was probably the 1,000th time he had to do such a tedious task.

It was the way he dressed Arthur before a battle, the weight of his armor lost in his fragile fingers and nimble wrists.

It was the way he sat with a book when he thought he was being clever and avoiding Arthur's chores for him, fingers poised over the corners of the pages, turning them quickly and gingerly.

It was his damned hands, his fingers too long and soft when they touched Arthur's bare skin, sending light shocks of pleasure through his being as they fluttered like eyelashes all about him.

It was the way he never left Arthur alone when he needed it least—even when he demanded, even when he threatened.

It was the way he bit his lip whenever he wanted a kiss, but thought, due to whatever company they were keeping at the time, it would be in bad taste to steal one from him.

It was the way he knotted his fingers through Arthur's hair when he leaned in for a slow kiss, tugging him close—always closer.

It was the way he tried not to seem impressed when Arthur did something impressive, the twinkle in his eyes the only thing giving way to the ruse.

It was the way he got on with the knights, just as much a brother, just as much one of them, as anyone could possibly be.

It was the way he could always make Arthur laugh, could always make him smile, even when he was in such a mood that he brought down the atmosphere of whatever room he was in.

It was the way he thought he was so subtle when he raised a hand to fend off attackers or when he breathed life into a slowly dying fire or sharpened Arthur's sword to a point not capable of being achieved by a whetstone alone—it was the way he was so unsubtle it was endearing.

It was the way he made time to send letters and money home to his mother at least once a month.

It was the way he talked in his sleep whenever he was stressed, sometimes mumbling simple enough spells that did little things like refill the water cup at the side of the bed or straighten up the room a bit; it was usually silenced with a chaste sort of kiss that had him sighing instead of talking a moment later, making Arthur's eyes crinkle in an affectionate sort of way.

It was the way he would smile at Arthur, a special sort of smile that was wide and pleasant and just for him.

It was the way he would collapse into bed after exhausting days, his gangly limbs spread out until Arthur shoved him over to make room for himself.

It was the way he curled into Arthur under the covers, seeking warmth, seeking comfort and contact that he was deprived of during the day.

It was the way he watched Arthur when he thought he wasn't paying attention, all soft eyes and a wondering gaze, so impressed with him, so besotted, that Arthur had to fight the urge to take him in his arms and kiss him senseless; if he knew that he saw him watching him like that, Arthur was afraid he might stop doing it.

It was the way he dropped everything to help a friend—to help anyone in need, really—not resting until the problem was solved and they were happy.

It was the way he hummed through meals when he was giddy with excitement and happiness.

It was the way he couldn't lie worth a damn.

It was the way he fiddled with his neckerchief whenever he was nervous.

It was the way he followed after Arthur, sneaking into the shadows, blending with the darkness, whenever he went off somewhere on his own—hell, the way he followed after everyone when they went off somewhere and he had one of his funny feelings, his curiosity and concern damn near unquenchable some days.

It was the way he wouldn't let Arthur get away with anything—despite him being the king and able to make his own decisions and do whatever he wanted to damnit.

It was the way he believed far too much in Arthur, in his abilities as king and ruler, the way he believed in Arthur as a good person.

It was the way he said "I love you," like the words were fragile, precious jewls in his mouth, and would crack or break if handled incorrectly or too roughly.

It was the way he came to Arthur with his concerns and worries, telling him everything in the dark he wouldn't let the daylight hours touch.

It was the way he insulted Arthur, affection laced through every "dollophead" and "clotpole" that he sent his way with a roll of his eyes, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips as the insults left them.

It was the way he tended to Arthur's wounds, nervous and doting, worried and agitated at the injury that had been caused to him—probably due to his own stupidity, he joked sourly, not often meaning the jab—as he used what he had been taught to treat him.

It was the way he was so smart, devouring more books than Arthur even knew he owned, knowing more than Arthur gave him credit for, casually sharing his wide knowledge with anyone who wanted to know anything.

It was the way he simply was, carrying himself with the air of someone who knew too much, saw too much, had to suffer too much, but who would not let it wear him down, pushing through, instead, and carrying on with his life.

It was the way he buried his face in the crook of Arthur's neck when he was upset, tickling at his skin in the most bittersweet sort of ways.

It was the way he tasted like mysteries and clouds when he kissed Arthur, always pulling back too soon, his eyes searching Arthur's for something Arthur could not describe, a sort of fire igniting between them when he pulled him back for another when he didn't find whatever he had been looking for.

It was the way he was Merlin and loved Arthur just because he was Arthur, never caring where he came from or what his station in life was.

And it was the way no one else seemed to notice every little thing about him—not in the way that Arthur did—because nobody would ever really notice Merlin in the way that Arthur did.

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