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John did not know when it had started. The creepy, painful need to protect Arthur, the need for him to be safe and to know he was cared for.
It was most definitely not present in the beginning, maybe it started during the coma, or maybe as late as the Dreamlands, but it appeared nonetheless, and has not left since. Arthur is sleeping now, curled in on himself. He has not spoken since they arrived here, the sting of Kayne's lie prickled over John's non-existent skin. He had not been sure why he had wanted to wipe Arthur's memory of his lying, except even that was a lie. He knew exactly why; he feared that Arthur would hate him, that he would leave him. It was foolish, they were connected after all, neither could leave the other, no matter how much they wanted to.
Except John did not want to leave, not really. He wanted his own body yes, but he still wanted to be with Arthur, as close as he could manage.
Once upon a time John had been part of a greater being, The King. He had be powerful, with the ability to shape and destroy the Dreamlands, and the minds of men, to his whims. Now he was desperate not to allow his hand to curl up against Arthur's chest, to feel the quick panicked beat of his heart. John had lived a life surrounded by yellow, his robes, his eyes, the stars that dotted his once massive form, all sharing that same gold and yellow hue. Yet now, he was surrounded by a completely different shade. Arthur was a blinding gold, the color of the sun, a color that brought warmth and safety to him. Arthur felt safe yes, even when John had watched him ripe the life from Faust's eyes, a pure animalist desperation to stay alive. His mind then went to the mines. How when he come back, Arthur had cried, the pure joy of getting John back had done something to the entity, he had felt the wax of his wings melting, branding his skin. However, he also thought of Uncle, and how Arthur had broken down after brutely killing the massive man. It had spoken to his ability to extend such kindness to strangers like John or the Oscar, but none to himself. A burning inferno that could warm the weary, but would always be feeding itself on itself. Yet still, Arthur had been through so much, and yet his light had never dimmed, not to John.
John looked over Arthur, covered in blood, someone else's this time instead of his own, and shaking in his sleep. Even like this John loved him. How many times had he betrayed Arthur, and how many times had Arthur forgiven him? Could he this time? John thinks he would do almost anything to stay with Arthur, he would throw himself from the heights, attempting to soar closer to the burning passion and warmth of Arthur's sun, even if would flay his skin and burn his fractured soul. Carefully, he tucked his hand under Arthur's neck, right above his heart, where John lounged to be. The burning core of the sun, and if he did burn John, if his wax wings would forever scar his flesh and leave him falling into the sea, he would know that for just one second he would have known what it would be like on the receiving end of Arthur's love.
He felt Arthur stir under his palm. He pulled away, knowing that the man was likely still angry with him. He yearned for a time when he could experience Arthur's warmth without terror, or lies, or betrayal between them, but for now he would gladly love the sun as a boy standing on the precipice, ready to throw everything away for the chance to experience it's glow and warmth up close. It was crueler to love the Gods, then to be loved by them. John knew this firsthand after all, and Arthur was so much more of a God than John could have ever been.