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Van Helsing had meant to go straight to Miss Lucy's bedside, to check how she looked this morning. But he found himself in the adjacent room first, where Mrs. Westenra had told him that John was asleep on the couch. Of course it was best to wake John first, so they could observe their patient together. It was not because he desired to see John asleep. Surely not.
But there John was, lying sprawled with his cheek against the couch pillow, one gangly arm draped over the arm of the couch and the other dragging on the rug, his legs tangled up in a rumpled blanket. He looked like he had tossed and turned all night, and yet he was also sleeping soundly; even in the dim light Van Helsing could see his eyelids twitching as his eyes moved to and fro behind them in deep sleep.
He looked younger right now, despite the worried crease that never left the space between his eyes, even in sleep. His eyelashes were long and dark against his pale skin, and his lips, usually pressed together or held into a tight line, were relaxed and rosy, still unblemished by the lines of age. There was something both angelic and darkly brooding about his sleeping form, an innocent beauty to his face even though the marks of worry never left him.
Asleep, he looked less like the harried twenty-nine-year old doctor of the present and more like the bright-faced twenty-two-year old student Van Helsing had met in Amsterdam seven years ago.
Oh, how Van Helsing wanted to kiss him.
It was a familiar desire, an invisible fist that would grab his heart or his lungs or both and squeeze until the pain felt unbearable. There were a thousand reasons to push back this desire, from Van Helsing's own marriage to the fact that John was a man. He knew that pushing down the desire did not make it go away, and so he tried to let it pass as quickly as possible, tried not to take too much pleasure in it.
Still, he couldn't help imagining. And John's vulnerable position asleep gave these images fresh fields in which to bloom.
He would kneel and lean down over him, feel John's warm breath against his lips. Then he would kiss him, gently and tenderly, not too long, just enough to wake him up. John's eyes would flutter open and he would look up into Van Helsing's face, his lips parted in confusion and surprise, but his face would brighten into a smile, a look of joyous disbelief. Van Helsing would lean down again and offer his mouth, let John take charge, let him kiss him as softly or as deeply as he wanted, let him explore and taste. Perhaps John would run his slender fingers into Van Helsing's hair, caress his neck. Van Helsing would put his arms around John's waist and gather him to his chest, just hold him and feel the warmth of his body pressed against him.
Beyond that, he did not dare think.
Perhaps it was vain to think that John would give in to him so readily, would welcome such attentions from someone who should be a kindly old mentor, a father figure— not a lover. And yet Van Helsing could not muster any such natural feelings toward this young man who had captivated his attention seven years ago, who was so beautiful and bright and… and who cared so much.
God in heaven, John cared so much. If one of his friends was in need, he always acted before he thought. He was wearing himself thin helping out Lucy, and although Van Helsing had initially believed it must be for Arthur's sake, after observing John taking care of Lucy, he realized that it was for the friendship between the two of them as well. When blood had been needed, John had already been rolling up his sleeve before Van Helsing could get out the words (though he was grateful that Arthur had shown up instead— the thought of injecting one of those huge needles into John's thin, pale arm gave him a lump in his throat). John cared, and that more than anything fueled Van Helsing's desire with painful fervor.
It had been too long since he'd been to confession. He had his favorite confessor in Amsterdam, who knew him well and listened without judgement, but he had not been able to get there and spill these desires, air them out in the open where God and the simple act of confessing could sweep them away. He was stewing, drowning in these thoughts, and it was not good.
Van Helsing drew himself up, shaking his head as if the motion would rattle the thoughts out of his brain.
Then, he leaned down and allowed himself a single, small touch— a caress on John's head, his thumb lightly brushing his forehead.
John was awake in an instant, blinking up at him with those doe-like brown eyes. The worry in his face was strong, but Van Helsing also read a moment of bright delight, to see the professor leaning over him. His mind danced on this expression, torturing him with thoughts of how much brighter John's wonder would appear were he awakened like the Sleeping Beauty, with true love's kiss.
"And how is our patient?" Van Helsing asked, to break the silence.
"Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me." John sat up, disentangling his legs from the blanket and trying to straighten his tie. He was a beautiful rumpled mess, and Van Helsing's mind whispered unhelpful suggestions for how he might be rumpled further.
But there were much more pressing things to do, even if the desire could be real, and not exist only in fantasy. Van Helsing smiled, and allowed himself a small brush of his hand against John's thin shoulder, a small reassuring squeeze. "Come, let us see."
It was enough, he thought, to touch him like this.
It had to be enough.
~~~