Embrace

...

Usually Arthur would wake before John, leaving the younger man to sleep in until the late morning. However, on this particularly cold morning, John found himself awake before the other man. At first, John lay there, attempting to go back to sleep, 'cause he'd be damned if he was going to get out of his warm bed and go outside.

When sleep alluded him, he rolled to face his sleeping partner, just looking at him. Arthur hated when John said it, but Arthur was a pretty man – (Marston, I ain't no such thing!) – and John often told him so, only to be playfully shoved away. In this moment, with Arthur dead to the world, John could watch and admire without Arthur pushing him away.

John ran the tip of his finger down his partners nose, smiling as the man crinkled his face in his sleep at the touch. John trailed the digit to the mans soft, pillowy lips, running his finger around the edge. God did John love those lips. He loved them on his own lips, his cheeks, his neck, his hands. Everywhere he could get Arthur to kiss him, John was begging for it, and Arthur would just smirk and oblige.
John loved the scar on his chin, didn't mind that Arthur's beard looked patchy when he grew it out. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth, pale patch lovingly.

John slipped the blankets covering them down slightly to appreciate the man's chest, littered in scars just like the rest of him. Arthur didn't think one way or the other of his body; didn't really think one way or the other of himself; but John knew Arthur was hot stuff. The man's muscular body just did things to him. Watching Arthur move – even when doing the most menial task – would often make heat pool in the younger man's loins.

John entwined his fingers into Arthur's. He had such lovely hands; strong, but delicate, able to produce beautiful art. Hell, even the man's handwriting was a work of art compared to John's barely legible scrawl. The things Arthur's hands could do, the sounds they could coax out of him, how they could make him feel; John felt a tingle go up his spine just thinking about it.

Most of all, John loved Arthur. The man was cranky at the best of times, callous, sometimes aloof. But deep down, Arthur was kind and generous, as a person and as a lover. Arthur cared about his loved ones, cared about John. Whenever he told Arthur any of this, the older man would often scoff and follow up with some self-depreciating comment – (I'm a bad man, Marston). So, John made it his mission to compliment Arthur every day, to help the man understand how much he loved him, and how much he was worth as a person, how handsome and smart and strong he was.

John loved Arthur with every part of his soul, and hoped Arthur loved him just as much.

John smiled as he continued running his fingers gently over Arthur's exposed skin.

"Marston,"

John's gaze shot up to the man's face, who's eyes were now open, blue orbs staring sleepily at the dark-haired man.

All John could do was smile.

"I love you." John half whispered; his voice strained from lack of use.

Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled John against his body, wrapping his arms around his lover. He pressed a kiss to John's forehead.

"Love you too, ya idiot," Arthur yawned as he settled back down properly with John in his arms.

John sighed contentedly.

There was no other place he'd rather be.