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The light gathers soft and golden in the basin of the tub, reflecting off the gleaming porcelain and bathing the room in a warm glow.
The window to his left is open just a crack, a soft breeze moving through it and rustling the white linen curtains, the fabric just brushing the edges of the bathtub. Outside, birds sing in the trees and shadows flicker across the frosted glass as tree branches sway in the spring sunlight. The air is cool and smells of soap and freshly cut grass, and somewhere in the distance, Arthur can hear children laughing.
He thinks the sound should make him sad. He's not sure why.
There's something about this moment that's so... peaceful. Unbelievably calm and quiet. As though time itself is this spectral thing, shivering in the wind like a spider's web, only catching the light from a certain angle.
Arthur leans back on the short wooden stool where he sits, his mind remaining almost meditatively blank. The room itself is pristine, lending itself to a serene kind of emptiness - the bare white walls and clean porcelain of the sink and the tub seem to act almost as a bowl for the light as it bounces off of every soft edge, allowing room only for shade and not shadow.
Arthur grips the edge of the tub and nearly loses his balance when he hears a door behind him swing softly open.
“You’re gonna fall and break your neck leaning on that stool like that.”
Arthur scoffs, not turning around at first. “Who are you, my mother?”
“Clearly I might as well be.”
Arthur laughs, turns around and sees a tall, broad man, whose curly blonde hair catches light in a way that suddenly makes it hard for him to breathe. He knows, immediately, who this man is, without ever having seen him before.
“Are we still doing this or what, John?” he says, as though on autopilot. At first he’s unsure of what he even means by that, until his eyes catch the small arrangement of soaps on the tiled floor at his feet, and suddenly the pieces begin to fall into place in his mind –
A kitchen, glowing in the early light, an ocean and a rocky shore visible out the window, the scent of coffee and a newspaper in his hands. John, offering to refill his mug. John passing the mug over Arthur’s shoulder, placing one hand gently on the back of the chair. Arthur moving to take it, saying thank you, reaching around to put his hand over John’s hand – a simple act of intimacy. John flinching and dropping it when Arthur’s palm covers the back of his hand. The mug shattering on the floor.
“Fucking – shit, Arthur, I’m sorry –”
“No need for apologies, John, it was just an accident. Here, let’s –” And Arthur stands, turns, places a hand on John’s shoulder gently to nudge him out of the way as he goes to grab a rag to mop up the mess, and John flinches again.
“John? Is everything alright?”
His face is steel, stone. Unreadable.
“Yes, Arthur.”
“Are you sure?”
“ Yes, Arthur. ”
And it happens again –
Arthur, leaving to drive into town on an errand, running into John who had been gardening on the porch, repotting little red and white flowers, John standing to greet him and Arthur smiling, telling him “goodbye” and “I’ll be home soon”, rising up on his toes to wrap John in a hug, and John staggers backward, blinks furiously, clears his throat, and Arthur is more perceptive this time –
“John.”
“What is it, Arthur?”
“Do you not want me to touch you?”
“What? No, of course I do.”
“I don’t have to touch you, you know.”
“Arthur, you’re being silly.”
“Do you not like it when I touch you?”
“I…”
“John.”
They talk. They discuss. They agree. John, this vast and unknowable thing, inside this tiny body. He tells him that sometimes a handshake feels like lightning striking. A fire burning. Suffocating beneath the earth. A half remembered nightmare, clawing at his skull, tearing at the seams of his skin. Being touched is overwhelming in an impossible way. But then being alone is almost worse – a vast, uncrossable desert. An emptiness to lose yourself in. Being marooned in deep waters. A night without stars.
Arthur suggests they start small – handshakes. Touching shoulders.
John initiates. Arthur never intrudes, never oversteps. He wears his patience like a crown of gold.
John says he needs to wash his hair.
Arthur offers.
John says yes.
The memories fall into place like rain, a riot of color and sound and sensation, as though an entire thunderstorm began and ended in an instant, as though every raindrop fell at once. The feeling is staggering and Arthur finds himself feeling dizzy for a moment.
When his vision comes back into focus he’s greeted again by the warm, clean glow of the light through the open window. Now, when he listens, he thinks he can hear the ocean.
Distracted from his own reverie, he doesn’t realize at first that John still hasn’t responded. He looks up from the array of soaps and back at the doorway, towards the man he knows as John, and feels an indescribable homeliness. A nostalgia without words, a longing for something that already lies at his fingertips.
“John?” he prompts, and John meets his eyes again. There’s a faint smile on his lips. He’s okay, Arthur thinks.
“Yes, Arthur,” he says, and the smile that had been playing at the edges of his mouth lifts and draws upwards, outwards. “Yes, we’re still doing this.” His eyes, gold like amber, flicker with something Arthur doesn’t quite recognize – amusement? Affection?
John rights himself from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe and finally walks into the bathroom. He brushes a hand over Arthur’s shoulder as he draws closer – just a touch, there and gone – and Arthur is warmed by it. He just kind of stares at him for a moment, trying not to grin like an idiot, and John fixes him with a look.
“What?” Arthur asks, laughter tumbling off the tail end of the word.
“Turn around, Arthur.” That look in his eyes has wormed its way into his voice.
“What? Oh,” he says, twisting around on the stool, cheeks heating. He watches the way the shadows of leaves bend the light on the windowpane, focuses on the scent of the salt air, feels the breeze wrap around him and retreat. Behind him, he hears John’s clothing dropping to the floor – he thinks of John’s broad shoulders and strong arms, his large hands working so delicately with the flowers on the porch and in the garden…
Arthur clears his throat and gropes blindly behind himself to switch on the tap. The faucet gurgles to life and Arthur hears the basin beginning to fill. “You can adjust that if it gets too hot. What kind of bubble bath would you like?” He hears John sink into the water as it rises, the steam from the tap curling through the air before him and catching the light.
“I’m not sure, Arthur. Remind me what you got from the market?”
“Here, um, can I –” Arthur stumbles over his words a little as he turns around enough to reach for the three tins of soap flakes, carefully averting his eyes from where John sits in the tub. “Here, we have rose, lemon, and… juniper? I forgot about that one,” he muses.
“Let me smell the juniper.”
Arthur turns fully around now to hand the tin to John, who looks… rather more tense than he had hoped he’d be. He offers him the soap, and when John leans in to smell it his nose wrinkles.
“Too strong. Let me try the lemon.” Arthur tries desperately to swallow his laughter at the disgusted look that lingers on John’s face as he extends his hand to offer him the other soap. “Hm,” John says, considering. “I like this one. It’s… lighter, somehow.”
Arthur takes the two tins back wordlessly, moving to place the juniper scented flakes on the floor (if John wasn’t going to use them then he certainly was) before reaching out to shake the stuff over the water, watching as bubbles form quickly and the marvelous citrus scent unfurls from the tub. All in all, Arthur is pretty fantastically pleased with his purchase.
(Frankly, the different bubble baths had cost a small fortune, but Arthur had wanted to be sure this was a nice experience for John, and the artisan selling them was a local woman with knowing eyes and a nice smile who’d assured him that his spouse would love them and, well. He wanted John to feel cared for, is all.)
“Is the temperature alright?” Arthur asks, glancing up at John before flicking his eyes back down to the floor.
“Yes. And you’re allowed to look at me, Arthur.”
“Alright, John.” Arthur feels his cheeks coloring again and has an excuse ready on the tip of his tongue to explain it away – the hot steam, the sun – but finds John doesn’t press him any further on it.
He looks up again and, to his own embarrassment, finds himself looking away quite quickly. The light – there’s something about the light here, almost unearthly, heavenly – reflects off the walls, pools in the corners and shimmers on the water, glancing off the ripples and shining onto John’s chest, his face: streaks of gold painted across his skin, in his hair.
Arthur finds himself clearing his throat again and looking away in what he hopes is a respectful rather than flustered manner. He hears John laugh, and Arthur snaps his eyes back to his face – his face which, now, of course, is carefully blank.
“Don’t, you…” Arthur starts, voice tinged with the barest hint of laughter as he lifts a finger, hoping to preemptively cut off any teasing John was preparing for.
“I wasn’t saying anything,” John insists, his mouth twisting into the most intolerable smirk.
There’s this silent understanding between the two of them – this unspoken thread of want that hangs like spider silk across the river that divides them. Arthur knows – or he thinks John knows – what he feels. He just hopes he doesn’t have to say it. They are content, for now, to live in this space between: this indigo twilight of touching and not touching, wanting and not wanting, filling the air with phantom words and half-baked syllables in every room they enter. It’s alright , he thinks. We don’t need to say it yet.
“Alright then,” Arthur continues, moving to switch off the tap as he sees that the basin has filled. “So. Shampoo?” He lifts up two small bottles in one hand and one in the other.
The woman who had sold Arthur the soap flakes for the bubble bath was the same woman selling other fine soaps and shampoos, and of course he had been compelled to buy those from her as well – the variety of different scents surprised him, and he found himself reluctantly charmed by the lovely glass corked bottles they were packaged in, each hand-painted with the likeness of its unique fragrance.
“What do we have this time?” John asks. The wind stirs the curtains as he speaks, and for a moment both men just turn to stare, lost in the simple beauty of this room, this moment.
“Hm,” Arthur says, checking the labels once more. “Lavender, rosemary, and – oh look, your favorite! Juniper again. I was so sure you’d like that,” Arthur clicks his tongue against his teeth in disappointment.
“And to think I thought you knew me,” John quips, placing a hand over his chest, feigning woundedness.
“Shut up,” Arthur mutters, setting the bottle of juniper shampoo on the floor. “Lavender or rosemary?”
“Rosemary,” John says, rolling the word around in his mouth, considering. “Let me try it.” Arthur obliges, handing him the bottle. John uncorks it and his eyebrows lift. “This smells excellent,” he murmurs.
“Doesn’t it just? Here, try the lavender,” Arthur says, eager as he presses the other bottle into John’s hand. His fingers brush John’s palm, and he cringes – John’s gotten better about small touches, but he knows he still struggles when he isn’t expecting it. “Sorry, John,” he says, preparing to tell John they don’t need to do anything else this evening, preparing to say this was all a silly idea and he’s sorry for pushing boundaries –
“It’s alright, Arthur. Thank you.”
Arthur blinks. He stares over at John, who is both extremely still and entirely unreadable. “Oh. Of course,” Arthur shrugs. John uncorks the bottle with the lavender flower painted on it and brings it up to his nose. He makes an appreciative noise.
“This is beautiful as well,” he ponders, clearly considering the two bottles.
“I can use a little of both,” Arthur offers. “I think the scents go quite nicely together. I can mix a bit of each in my hands.”
John hums. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Arthur.”
“Of course,” he says, standing to drag the stool over to John’s end of the tub. He snags the tall glass pitcher by his feet as well, sets it down next to the stool again once he’s situated.
“You’re still sure you’re alright with this?” Arthur confirms, tilting his head and trying to catch John’s eyes.
“Now who’s behaving like a mother?” John mutters, his eyes closed, seeming to be slightly more relaxed and appreciating the warm water. In a moment of supreme childishness, Arthur flicks John’s temple lightly. “Hey!” he exclaims, turning to look back at him. Arthur smirks, but continues earnestly.
“I just want to make sure you’re alright. Earlier, I didn’t mean –”
“Arthur. Please.”
Arthur sighs. “Alright, John. Are you –” John shoots him a look. “Sorry, sorry. Here, let me fill this up.” Arthur grabs the pitcher and sticks it under the faucet, switching the tap back on for a moment to allow it to fill with more warm water.
“Okay, now tilt your head back a little – little more – yes, there we go,” Arthur says, reaching a hand out to brush against John’s forehead, guiding him and smiling as he notices the tension going out of his body bit by bit. He braces his hand closely against John’s brow, lifting the pitcher. “Close your eyes,” he instructs gently, and he watches as John’s eyes flutter shut. He presses the lip of the pitcher to the crown of John’s head, tilting it slightly and dragging it from side to side, allowing the water to soak his hair thoroughly.
Now emptied, Arthur sets the pitcher back on the tiles and reaches for the shampoo, pouring a small amount of each into his left palm before corking them both again and setting the bottles aside. He rubs his hands together, mixing the soaps, and reveling in the scents. He goes to reach for John’s hair but hesitates once again.
“Arthur,” John murmurs. “Go ahead. I’m alright.”
Arthur swallows, anxiety rising in his throat at the idea of mistakenly treading over some unseen boundary, but trusts that John is being honest with him. With that thought, he sets his fingers gently to John’s short curls and studies the man’s face, seeking out signs of discomfort. He finds a twinge of tension in the corners of John’s eyes and in the slope of his mouth – he waits for John to tell him to stop and ask him to leave, but no such words come.
Arthur sets about scrubbing at John’s scalp, dragging his fingers gently through his hair. The scent of the bubble bath mixes with the shampoos, and he takes a deep breath in, holds it, exhales – watches as the steam curls with his breath in the sunbeams.
Do I dare disturb the universe? he thinks.
“How’s this, John?” he asks, scarcely above a whisper. The other man hums. “... is that a ‘good’?” Arthur presses, scratching lightly at John’s temples.
John sighs, deep and contented. The tension has melted fully off his face and gone out of his limbs. He looks at peace. “Yes, Arthur.” His voice is a low rumble, fading against the distant sound of the sea.
“Okay, John. Okay.” He slowly works his fingers over his scalp, the base of his skull, behind his ears. John hums, tilting his head slightly, canting his jaw towards Arthur.
“Alright,” Arthur says, breaking the silence between them. “Let me just rinse this out now.” Again he rises to refill the pitcher, and again he gently presses John’s head backwards against the wall of the tub. This time, though, John opens his eyes ( those lovely amber-hazel-golden eyes ) and looks up at Arthur. He smiles, and – not now , Arthur tells his heart as it flutters in his chest. Not now , he tells his stomach, even as it flips.
“Close your eyes, John.” He obeys.
Arthur pours the water over John’s head again, scrambling for other words to fill his head besides baptism and grace and holy, holy, holy.
“Arthur,” John says, his voice wavering slightly, and this time it’s Arthur’s turn to flinch – he all but leaps back, withdrawing his hand from John’s forehead and immediately setting the pitcher down.
“What is it, John? Was that too much?”
John exhales softly through his nose. “No, Arthur. On the contrary. Could you… That is, would you mind…” John trails off, tilting his head back up and opening his eyes. “Would you… put your arms around me, Arthur?”
Arthur regards him for a moment, surprised. It wouldn’t be a full hug – those are still effectively off limits – but the more he thinks of it, the more he longs to wrap his arm around John’s shoulder, to just lean down and be close .
“Of course, John,” he says at last. He scootches the stool closer and leans over the lip of the tub, moving to wrap one arm around John’s chest and put another around his shoulders, resting his hand atop John’s head. He tucks his head into the crook of his neck and his shoulder and breathes in – the lemonlavenderrosemary smell soft and sweet and lovely.
Both men are still, just basking in the fading light and the sound of the breeze.
Arthur smudges a kiss to John’s shoulder – more of a brush of skin to skin than a kiss, just a touch – and John leans his head over to rest it on Arthur’s.
Gulls cry in the distance. Waves crash on the shore. Arthur closes his eyes.
Arthur opens his eyes. Darkness.
He remembers where he is, and the sob that’s wrung out of him is almost inhuman – he lets only a fragment of it out before swallowing the rest, pounding his fist in the dirt before bringing it up to his face to scrub over his eyes.
“Good morning, Arthur.”
He sighs. John’s familiar voice is all that he has, and he’s grateful for it all the same.
“How did you sleep?” John continues, picking up on Arthur’s desire to not comment on his manner of waking. Arthur bites his lip.
“Do you ever, I don’t know… lose yourself, when I’m asleep? Do you ever think you were somewhere else, or just wish you were?”
“I don’t dream if that’s what you’re asking, Arthur.”
“No, of course, I just…” he drops his hand from where he’d been resting it on the flat plane of his belly, down onto the rough dirt floor. He scratches at the ground, fidgeting, before drawing his fingers into a loose fist.
He’s exhausted, starving in a pit inside the prison of an elder god on another world. He’s too tired to lie. “In my dreams, I can still see. And I dreamed I was somewhere else. With you. It was… a good dream,” he says. He’s worried at first by John’s silence before he realizes that in this particular moment, neither of them have anything left to lose.
“What did you dream about?” John asks at last. Arthur exhales softly through his nose, fidgeting again and moving to run his hand through his hair. Now or never.
“If you had your own body, what color would you want your hair to be?”
“...What.” John deadpans, more of a statement than a question.
“If – when we make it back home and you get your own body, what color would you want your hair to be?” Arthur asks again, rubbing at his scalp absently.
“I… Well…”
“C’mon, John. We’ve talked about you getting your own body enough times now, surely you’ve at least thought about what you might want to look like. And if you haven’t then, well… It’s not a difficult question. I’m just curious.”
“I… I have. Thought about it, that is,” John stammers. He sounds almost shy, uncertain. Arthur feels as though he can sense his presence inside his mind retreating to the shadowed corners, seeking cover. “I suppose… I suppose I imagined I’d have brown hair, like you.”
Funny , Arthur thinks . How easy it is to be honest now. For both of us.
“Brown hair?” Arthur remarks, blowing a breath out softly through his lips. “Personally I think I picture you as a blonde.”
John pauses, clearly mulling it over. “I suppose I can see it.”
Arthur allows silence to fall at that. He knows he hasn’t answered John’s question, and he’s going to, just… not yet.
“Have I ever told you about the coast?” Arthur continues, picking up the thread again after a few moments.
John sighs. “What the hell are you talking about, Arthur?”
“The coast. The beach. The ocean, east of Arkham. Well, northeast, I suppose, up in Maine. I visited once, long ago. It was beautiful. I went in late spring, just as the wildflowers were starting to bloom up in the foothills. The coast there is much rockier than some other parts of the country, but I find it beautiful. I just sat on a rock with a book and read for hours, soaking up the sun. It was relatively quiet. The sky was so blue,” he murmurs.
He feels his chest seize and he sniffles a bit, fighting down tears. His voice is thick when he speaks again. “You asked me what I dreamed about. I dreamed we were in Maine. In this… beautiful house. You had your own body. You –” Arthur pauses, intentionally slowing himself. The dream threatens to tear itself out of his chest, fighting against his grip as he pulls back on it. He fears if he speaks too quickly, he won’t be able to stop the tears from coming. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “You had blonde hair, in this dream. And you, ah, you asked me to wash it. We had this big, lovely bathroom – this gorgeous clawfoot tub, all polished porcelain, I wonder if you’d like that sort of thing – and there was um, a window. This big, lovely window with a view of the sea. We could hear the ocean.”
John is silent for a long time, and Arthur breaks the silence once more. “Do you remember what light is like, John? And not just – I don’t know, not whatever dishwater sliver of it you get when they open the hole to throw us food. Real light. Sunsets.”
John, again, is silent for a time, but this time he does eventually raise his voice to speak. “That sounds like a beautiful dream, Arthur. Yes, I remember what light looks like.” John pauses, and Arthur senses he intends to continue. “I miss light,” he admits.
“Imagine a sunset, John,” Arthur says, sitting up to lean against the wall. “The way the clouds streak the sky and the whole world goes orange. The color of the light on the water. The way the sun sinks beneath the darkening sea,” he whispers fervently. “It’s all still there, John. All of it. It’s all still there. We can get back to it. We can see the ocean. We can see the sun again.”
John takes a breath that shudders and fades in his mind. “I’d like that, Arthur. I’d really, really like that.”
“We’re getting out of here, John. You know that, right?” Arthur insists, reaching to rest his hand over John’s. “We’re not dying here. You’re going to live to see the ocean.”
John’s voice sounds watery in his ear. “This is uncharacteristically optimistic for you,” he mutters, trying to force a laugh.
“No it’s not, John. No. Not optimistic. Realistic . We’re not staying here. There’s a whole world out there, and you’re going to see it. I swear. I promise.”
John exhales heavily. “Okay, Arthur. Okay.”
Darkness and silence settle over them both, and hope flickers, unconquerable, in their shared chest.
Somewhere on the coast of Maine, a little yellow house sits vacant, overlooking the thunderous, rocky shore, a place where sea oats wave in the cool salt air and the sky is the kind of radiant blue that breaks hearts.
An open window sings against the wind. A candle burns on the windowsill in the fading half-light of the evening, framed by linen curtains that are tossed by the breeze. Red and white flowers grow wild in the surrounding verdant hills.
The front door remains unlocked.
Somewhere, there is a house, empty, waiting for two people to come home.