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“You make me want things I can’t have.”
John wasn’t sure whether it was the alcohol, the late hour, or simply the sheer unexpectedness of Arthur’s answer that made him laugh, but he couldn’t help the few chuckles that turned into full blown laughter after hearing his words. Arthur’s scowl, far from being a deterrent, only made him laugh harder.
“That’s why you don’t like me?” John said when he could finally manage a few words between fits of laughter. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”
Arthur’s expression was somber, and John might have felt bad for laughing had the circumstances been any different. As it was, after several hours of drinking, he was both too tired and too drunk to be mindful of the other’s feelings.
“I do like you, Marston,” Arthur snapped - John hoped to God he would remember that Arthur had said that tomorrow (he knew he wouldn’t). “It’s just - “
Arthur looked away, and John finally felt his amusement fade. There was something about Arthur’s demeanour - the way his hand held the bottle so tight that John almost feared it would break, the tension in his body despite the generous amount of alcohol he had consumed - that told him that this was one of the rare moments where Arthur was honest with him - there would be no teasing jab at the end of every sentence, no backhanded compliments thrown in every now and then.
“You have all this,” Arthur finally says, putting his bottle aside as he cups his empty hands in front of John’s face, slurring slightly. “And you just treat it like it’ll always be there, like you can always change your mind and Abigail and Jack will be there waitin’ for you. But someday, they’ll be gone. Gone.” He separates his hands, as if dropping an imaginary weight, and sweeps his bottle back up from where he had put it, taking a long swig. “And you won’t be able to bring ‘em back. And you’ll spend the rest of your goddamn life wonderin’ what coulda been different if you’d just been there, if you’d just done your goddamn job as a father.”
John knew Arthur wasn’t talking about him anymore - not really. After all these years, Eliza and Isaac’s deaths still hung over Arthur like a pall - one John knew Arthur would never quite be able to shake off.
“That’s what I don’t like about you, Marston,” Arthur says quietly, looking straight ahead. “That you have things I want. Things I can’t have. And you don’t even see it.”