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Arthur feels the Earth shatter around him, the split second he’s torn open lasting eons as he falls to his knees and weeps. He presses his forehead to the hard ground, feeling as if he’s being torn to shreds as the waves of hurt pass over him. He drowns in it, every inch of him alight with electric pain as John is ripped out of him; his body, soul, and mind overtaken entirely.
He can hear his name echo, distant and warped in his ears, and still, he’s certain the voice belongs to John. Despite how different it sounds spoken outside of his head he’s sure of it. Only John could say his name that way, like a sacred melody only he knows how to sing, transforming “Arthur” into hymn and plea all at once.
Arthur shutters, fighting to lift his head off of the ground. His name repeats, the pain in John’s voice matching his own, and Arthur’s fear amplifies. He digs his nails into the earth, scraping his body along the ground as he drags himself toward John’s voice. Arthur tries to call out, but the sound cuts through him, his words reduced to desperate cries and whimpers.
His throat is raw, the sharp pain barely distinguishable from the agonizing ache pulsing through the rest of his body. He tries to to stop the sound but he cannot seem to control any part of himself, tortured cries pulling themselves out of him as he collapses onto the ground, unable to crawl any further. He twitches, feeling less like a human and more like a pile of live nerves as he curls up in the dirt.
“John,” he begs.
His vision burns, white hot and overwhelming. His tears cut lines through the soil smeared across his cheeks, the salt only exasperating the sting. He blinks, the overexposed world blurring before it blackens, fading to nothing as he slips out of consciousness, a small respite from the pain thrumming through his convulsing body.
He wakes up shaking in a familiar bed. The late afternoon sun streams in through their thin, white curtains, the warm light cast across Arthur’s cheeks. He presses his face into the pillow, the fabric soft and clean beneath him, the dirt he fell asleep covered in already washed down the drain.
Arthur blinks, the large dark spots blocking out his vision only allowing him to see the world through blurred edges, the golden sunlight pouring in no less astounding to see after a year of total vision loss. He closes his eyes, the tears soaking his eyelashes equal parts pain and joy, wonderment intertwined with anguish.
His body feels hollow and empty, and all at once he’s crushed beneath the weight of John’s absence. He feels impossibly small, their bed much too big for him to bear, the space where John should be deep and gaping, both inside and out. He tries to move his left hand, only managing to make his fingers twitch, and the panic grows inside of him.
“John?” he says, his frail voice barely above a whisper. The word aches when he repeats it, straining for volume as he fights against his sore throat.
He summons all of his strength, his fear commanding his disobedient body to act. He struggles to turn onto his back, panting and gasping from exertion as if he’d run a marathon. He makes a pained noise as he forces himself upright, a desperate, animalistic whine falling from his mouth as he tips his head against the headboard.
The ache goes deeper than his bone, the sharp and throbbing pain implacable inside of him. Everything from skin to organ reverberates with a pounding hurt, his entire being engulfed in its steady rhythm.
“Arthur?” John says, stepping into the room with unsteady feet. The glass of water in his hand sloshing as he rushes to Arthur’s side, wobbling slightly on new legs. He puts the glass down on the bedside table, sitting down beside Arthur carefully and immediately placing his hand on Arthur’s cheek, “you’re awake.”
Relief cuts through Arthur’s pain, his tense shoulder relaxing as soon as he hears John’s voice, the feeling of John’s hand on his skin anchoring him in a sea of pain and panic. He tries to speak, but it comes out as a dry croak.
John finds Arthur’s shaking hand and clutches it, holding onto him while he reaches over and grabs the glass of water. He places it into Arthur’s palm, wrapping his fingers around it. He tentatively lets go, giving Arthur a moment to do it by himself before realizing he won’t be able to. John wraps his hand around Arthur’s on the glass, keeping it steady as he brings it to lips and carefully tips it into his mouth.
Arthur drinks slowly, resisting the urge to gulp down as much as he can at once, the memory of his time in the pits and his desire to keep the water down winning out against his instinct.
John puts the empty glass back onto the table. He swipes his thumb across Arthur’s lips, wiping away the water for him. It takes him a second to notice what he’s done, reminding himself that he doesn’t have to be Arthur’s hand anymore.
“Sorry,” John says, quietly, placing both hands on his knees.
Arthur shakes his head, reaching out to grab John’s hand and pull it toward himself. He places John’s palm above his heart, in the spot his hand rests while they sleep. John smiles, the thrum of Arthur’s heart beneath his hand a familiar comfort.
“It’s okay,” Arthur says, weakly. “Thank you, for the water. And for getting me home.”
John nods, feeling his exhaustion now that the panic has subsided. His eyes are heavy, and his entire body aches.
He crawls over Arthur’s legs, keeping a hand on his chest as he slips between the covers. He lets out a long sigh of relief as his body sinks into the mattress, the combination of resting his weary body and finally being close to Arthur melting away his unease. He stares at Arthur, wondering how being away from him for minutes could feel like hours, frightened by the knowledge that he’ll have to get used to being away from him soon.
Arthur lays down beside him slowly, wincing as he does so. His breath is heavy as he turns to his side to face John. He puts his fingertips to John’s face, the awe of having John physically in front of him bringing tears to his eyes as he trails his fingers along his jaw.
“You’re crying,” John says, knitting his eyebrows together, “why?”
Arthur closes his eyes and lets the tears fall from his lashes, breathing out a tiny laugh. He tries to make sense of the bundle of emotion inside of him, the pain somehow taking a backseat to the feeling of having John here with him. He struggles to put it into words, the love and relief he feels too big to convey. His body shakes with it, trembling as the tears stream down his cheeks, suddenly overtaken by sobs.
John pulls him in, a gentle hand on the back of his head pulling him closer. He runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair as he cries into John’s neck, trailing his fingertips along his spine.
“It’s okay, Arthur,” John whispers, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Arthur clings to him, his hands gripping the back of his shirt with white knuckles, as if he’s worried John might dissipate if he lets go for even a second.
“John,” Arthur says in between sobs, the need to be closer to him swelling inside of him like violins. His body is a symphony of feeling, an orchestral love plucking at his heart as he tries to make sense of it all. His emotions bleed together, each an indiscernible sound he can’t separate from one another.
“I know, I’m here,” John says, understanding that Arthur is feeling exactly what he is, the absence and pain cutting him to his core, the need to bridge the distance stifling. His love for Arthur is all-encompassing as their bodies fail to recreate the intimacy of being one, the contradictory joy of having his own autonomy doing little to suppress the desire to be as close as possible.
John continues to murmur reassurances, whispering in between gentle presses of his lips to Arthur’s hair and forehead. Arthur continues to hold onto him, shaking as his sobs slowly subside, his breath evening out against John’s shoulder.
By the time he pulls away his eyes are puffy and red, and John’s shirt is soaked through. He runs his hands along the wet spot spreading across his shoulder and chest.
“Your shirt…” Arthur says, feeling ridiculous for those being the first words he can properly articulate.
“It’s just a shirt,” John says, with a shrug, “it’ll dry.”
“I’m–”
John untangles himself from Arthur, sitting up and peeling off his shirt to prove his point. He tosses it to the floor unceremoniously, the sound of Arthur’s subsequent laugh bringing a smile to his face as he lays back down. Arthur falls back into him, the feeling of his bare skin beneath Arthur’s cheek comforting.
“Are you okay?” Arthur asks.
“Me?” John asks, “Arthur, you’ve been asleep for nearly two days. I had to carry you home.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
John sighs, his hand finding its way back into Arthur’s hair, his nails lightly grazing his scalp as he tries to find the right words.
“I’m sore,” he says, “everything feels like…like I’m being pumped with electricity, and every so often there’s a jolt that cuts through me without warning.”
Arthur nods, understanding exactly what he means.
“But I’m okay,” John says, “I’m…”
He trails off, tears forming as he tries to process the slew of new emotions hitting him now that Arthur is awake and cohesive. He wants Arthur closer, resenting the thin layer of his shirt for keeping their skin apart. He wants to crawl back into his head and stay there forever. He’s elated, at the same time, having his own form both exhilarating and relieving, knowing he has the power to move and speak of his own volition a wonder he’s not sure anything could have prepared him for.
He moves back to get a good look at Arthur, his heart flooded with love and affection for the man in front of him; still in disbelief that they’re both here and safe, together. The sight of him is almost too much to bear, the view from his own eyes so vastly different than the limits of gazing at Arthur through a mirror. He swallows his words before they have a chance to form, not knowing how to put Arthur’s beauty into language, and not wanting to spoil it with his shortcomings.
“Are you okay?” John asks instead, clearing his throat.
“I…” Arthur says, trailing off and sighing. He smiles, craning his neck to press his forehead against John’s, not bothering to hide that tears once again forming in his eyes, knowing he doesn’t have to hide this, not from him. He places his hand on John’s cheek, wishing he could see how he looks, even if just for a moment.
“Arthur,” John says, his voice soft as he says his name only for the sake of saying it out loud, wanting to feel its weight in his mouth as he whispers it.
“I love you,” Arthur says, overtaken by the feeling, “we…we did it, John. We’re here, we’re safe and intact. We survived it, all of it. And I…Christ. I just love you so much.”
“I love you too, Arthur.”
John lets himself cry alongside him, holding him close and basking in their accomplishment.