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Noel wakes up suddenly, gasping and cowering from invisible threats as the phantoms of a nightmare linger in his vision— flashes of gold and black and colors he could not name, twisting tendrils and shapes that defied all laws of physics, broken bones and flayed skin and parts of his body that he was never meant to see from the outside— all squirming into the tight spaces between his skull and brain and eyes. Miraculously, the viscous visions soon start to dissolve and fade after only several minutes (record timing), the panic reluctantly dragging its tail and trailing off after them, and he comes to laying in the dark of his bedroom with trembling fingers fisted into the sheets beneath an overheated body.
A gentle rustle as something moves beside his head almost sends him back into the hallucinations of memory, until his sense catches up and remembers the people that had relatively recently moved into his apartment, and that had joined his bed barely even a few days back.
He turns his head and finds John’s hand halfway between him and Arthur, like it had started to cross the channel but stopped halfway through, hesitant to wade too deep before finding someone to grip onto as they learned to swim together.
Noel meets him at that midpoint and takes hold of John’s hand, though he turns to face his head upward again, keeping his eyes trained on the dim grey of the ceiling that can still be made out through the shadows of night. “Sorry, sunshine,” he says, forcing as much levity into his voice as he can while still half-gasping each breath in. “Bad dream, nothin’ to worry your pretty little head off about.”
John finally taps out a message, his finger carefully composed in each minute twitch of muscle. Noel…
Jesus, how can an incorporeal entity manage to put so much emotion into just a few short taps of a finger, enough that Noel can practically hear the fretful concern in the silent action? “I’m serious, John. It was nothin’, just a bit of normal weird dream shit. I’m perfectly fi-”
It was him? John interrupts. The- it was the King, right? He was… there, with you.
Noel stills. He must have babbled about the nightmare’s contents somewhere in his sleep or his panic, enough for John to catch a proper glimpse of the scenes playing behind Noel's skull. Lovely. He takes a deep breath and blows it out in a heavy sigh, clearly stuck with this understanding whether he wants it or not. “Yeah, it was,” he mutters.
It takes a moment for John to respond, while he squeezes Noel's hand in a gentle but firm grip. When he moves to speak again, Noel is both surprised and relieved as he carefully drifts the conversation away from that godforsaken name.
I’ve noticed that you… stir, a lot in your sleep. You’ve woken up suddenly several times in just these couple weeks, and this is the second time you’ve talked through it. All your dreams seem… vivid.
“Sure, that’s one way to describe it.”
Does it happen often? The nightmares, the intensity of them.
Before his thoughts can come up with a more calculated reaction, his face instinctually winces at the question and reveals his answer without words, leaving no choice but to respond honestly. “Not every night, but uh, certainly more than I’d like. Happens a bit more during the cold, or in the middle of particularly shitty weeks. Can’t really predict it, though— all that shit in my mind’s got its own mind, too.”
John can’t smile, but Noel is certain he wouldn’t be even if he could, not with how pathetic that attempt was to force the conversation into flippancy. Damn, he is really out of form tonight, and he can’t even tell if it’s because of the dream still loitering in his subconscious, or the tenderness with which a certain incorporeal person is holding his hand.
Said entity doesn’t tap out another message right away, instead opting to apply a gentle pressure through his fingers. He sets a rhythm, subtle pulses of force and looseness that Noel realizes with a shock match the pace of his still-stuttering breaths.
They play that melody together, slowing to a quiet adagio that reverberates into the winter night.
Once the notes have reached an even common-time tempo, John slides out of the duet to send a solo message over.
Are you going back to sleep? he asks, somehow conveying the coaxing voice through his movements.
Noel smiles wryly. “Don’t think I could even if I wanted, sunshine.”
It’s still the middle of the night, though. Just lay back down, I can stay with you until- John cuts off as Noel huffs out a chuckle.
“Save yourself the trouble. I ain’t exactly new to this, and I know sleep is long-gone out the door and halfway down the street for me by this point.” He gives John’s hand one last squeeze before slipping out from under the sheets. “Thank you, but you don’t need to waste your time worrying about little ol’ me, I can manage myself. See ya in the morning, sunshine.”
He doesn’t look back as he turns to walk away, trying to keep the door from creaking too much and disturbing Arthur on his way out, and trying to ignore the tiny coil that stretches from his chest back to the unseen shadow left on the bed, awake and alone.
The morning unfurls its light from beneath the final remnants of night’s serene shadows, and Noel watches its arrival from his post by the balcony door, like he's done countless times before to uncover certainty in the buzzing streets below. Watches as daylight and traffic and city sounds all start to shake off their easy slumber, easily moving between wakefulness and sleep in some odd dual sympathy and mockery of his current impossible challenge.
This should work, it should clean out all the stubborn sticky residue of painful thoughts— but for some god damn reason it doesn't today, and it leaves him uncomfortably aware of the small pockets of filth jammed in the corners of his mind.
He hates when one of his rituals doesn't work, when one of his few fragile sources of dependable comfort breaks apart, and only crumbles further the more he tries to wrestle control over it. He hates that this ritual which should drape a peaceful blanket over him is instead crawling under his skin with bitter irritation, a harsh reminder of the comfort he turned away from in the bedroom due to his stubborn assumption that he could solve this on his own.
He hates it, so he clambers to his feet and snatches his trench coat off the stand, barely bothering to tie it closed before he shuts the door behind him and hurries down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.
From there he walks, circles block after block, paces sidewalk after sidewalk, marches step after step. He walks until the angered panic stops biting at his insides and returns to its hibernation, until his thoughts freeze and wither away in the cold air, until his feet turn numb and the sun rolls high above the city.
Only when he reaches that point of numbed calmness does he allow himself to return home, now confident that he won’t start tearing at wallpaper in frustration, now estimating that he might have a somewhat normal day.
When he returns to the apartment, he finds his roommates have emerged from the bedroom and taken up residence on the sofa. Two hands belonging to two people wring each other, twisting nervously. That movement falters to a stop at the sound of Noel shutting the door and shucking off his trench coat.
Arthur perks up, immediately on alert. “Noel?” A faint anxiety tinges his voice.
Noel walks over and squeezes his shoulder. “Hey, kids. Sorry for runnin’ off like that. S’pose I should’ve left a note, shouldn’t’ve worried you for no reason.”
“Are you alright?”
“Oh, perfectly peachy. Much better after taking that little stroll, although much more in need of a cleanup, too.”
He’s about to walk off and do just that, but John keeps flitting his gaze back and forth between their lap and Noel’s face. Something shines in those equally gold and brown irises, something uneasy, something that makes his own uneasy body pause in sympathetic hesitation.
“Hey,” he says, “Everythin’ alright?”
“It’s um, well- ah-” Arthur wavers, and his eyes turn inward in that strange way they do when a certain voice only his mind can hear starts to speak.
“N-nothing,” he belatedly stammers out.
That inward look doesn’t fade, meaning that John is definitely still going on about something, and meaning that there’s still something there for Noel to uncover. It won’t do any good to push it though, he knows, not with the supernatural stubbornness of both Arthur and John, so he lets that thread sit for now.
“Well, okay then. I’m gonna go change into some slightly less rumpled clothes, and then I’ll join you boys out here again.” He gives Arthur’s shoulder one more squeeze before heading to the bedroom.
While he switches to a fresh set of more comfortable clothes, he briefly runs through possibilities of whatever Arthur and John are worried about. His everyday logic tells him that it’s most likely harmless, some trivial matter that their similarly overthinking minds have exaggerated into a shape much larger than it actually was. His hard-learned logic tells him that it could— like every other thing in life— still be dangerous, some unpredictable threat that he nonetheless must prepare for.
Jesus, just calm down— you’re a nervous wreck, he chastises himself. This is Arthur and John. You can trust them, so long as you let yourself.
Shaking his head to settle the unease pacing inside him, he finishes up and heads out to the short hallway.
As Noel walks back to the living room, he finds Arthur has moved to sit in the armchair in the corner, muttering under his breath. His hands move animatedly, although each one at its own tempo and rhythm. Occasionally, one foot reaches over to nudge the other.
Ah. Friends’ quarrel. This could go on for a bit.
He grabs a book off the shelf before he walks to the other side of the room and sinks onto the sofa. Settling further in the cushions, he shifts his focus away from the other two, ready to wait out whatever debate was taking place across the room.
After a while, the constant stream of hushed squabbling fades into an ambience that, strangely, seems to help him settle into a calm focus. (Although, if he’s honest, “the voice of a possessed man bickering with himself creating a helpful reading ambience” isn’t even near the top strangest things that have happened to him.) He reads his book at a leisurely pace, letting the other two boys continue their argument and simply enjoying the abnormal level of relaxation as he flips through pages.
Finally, the bickering slows, and Arthur speaks up. “Noel?” he calls over.
“Hm?” Noel lets his ears concentrate on Arthur’s voice for the first time in a while, but he keeps his head down as he half-mindedly finishes reading a sentence in his book.
“John and I were talking”— no shit— “and we thought that… well, we just figured… uh, we….” He trails off back into hesitation. Noel still keeps his head down, trying to not rush them, which means that he can’t see them, although he can still hear the soft thumps of a foot tapping the floorboards rapidly. He can also hear the gentle shift of the other foot reaching over to rest reassuringly against the first. It’s impossible to tell which is which from here.
Whoever had been stalling relents, and Arthur clears his throat. “John and I were discussing some of your… sleeping issues— a-and some of the waking issues, too. And we wondered if maybe… W-well, we had come up with an idea that we thought might help.”
Huh. That’s… not what Noel had expected. It’s not yet bad, either, but nonetheless the constant companion of fear starts to stir from its dormancy at the words, its hackles raised in preparation should things go south. Noel tries to soothe its fur back down as he shuts his book and looks up.
John’s eyes are trained on him— not threatening, but certainly intense, watching with a silent apprehension.
Neither Noel nor the fearful animal know how to feel about that. He forces the muscles in his face to remain playful as he looks back and speaks.
“And what did your two disastrous minds come up with?”
“We wondered if you would like to see John.”
Noel freezes for a second. “To see…?”
“Yes, um- to have him manifest, that is, when you’re having a rough day or dream. To have him there to look out for you, maybe hold, o-or whatever it is you may need in a particular moment.”
“I-” Noel flounders, unable to respond as the proposition hits his brain like a collision of steam engines. He thinks about that night at the Order’s meeting, recalls the pack of feral terror that lacerated him as a horribly familiar shape tore itself out of Arthur’s body, recalls the smallest flicker of relief as that shape roared a fierce protection for his and Arthur’s sake.
“If that’s what you want, of course!” Arthur rushes out. “We wouldn’t want to pressure you, wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. But if you do want it, we would be more than willing to offer that for you.”
Shit, did Noel want that? He’s not sure himself, thinking about what it might be like to see John again. The idea of touching a power like that again terrifies him, sends his every instinct into a hard-learned frenzy of fight-or-flight.
But at the same time, it’s John— the same John that had comforted him last night, the same John that reaches for him like a vine toward its only ray of sunlight, the same John that always clutches his hand like a lifeline (although neither could tell who was the one being saved, and who was the one doing the saving). He can trust John, right? He wants to believe that he can, even if every nerve in his body is screaming to turn and run as far as possible from this before it all goes to hell like usual.
He must take too long to step through all those mental hallways for Arthur to not overthink the prolonged silence, because the other man starts to sputter out a retraction. “L-look, forget it. I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have presumed like that, shouldn’t have overstepped. It’s only reasonable that you wouldn’t want-”
“No!” Noel interjects before the door is closed off from him forever. He’s still not entirely certain whether it's a safe pathway to take, and whether he'll actually walk it should his wants start to outweigh his senses, but he can at least buy himself some time to reach that answer. “No, it’s- it’s a fine idea, boys. I’ll… think about it. And I’ll let you know if I make a decision, alright?”
Arthur sighs, a hint of relief staining the exhale. “Alright. We’ll wait.”
Noel nods and shakily opens his book back up, trying to not let any of his uncertainty show. Still, he can’t stop his eyes from flicking up every few moments to glance at the silent hand hiding an extra voice within it, spending the rest of the afternoon fervently and fearfully wondering what that voice might look like.
A day passes after that one, then a few, then a week, then another. And the whole time, Noel thinks about John and Arthur’s offer.
He turns over the amalgamated stone of his fear and yearning and confusion, and rolls it in circles around his mind over and over until its surface is polished clear as crystal— although he’s unsure whether that shining surface is giving a clear glimpse into his own self, or if it’s only blinding his sense.
He thinks, and thinks, and thinks even more.
Maybe (definitely) he thinks a bit too much, because his nightmares start to come more frequently, and somehow each one manages to be more vivid than the last. Almost every night, he claws his consciousness out of pits of memory, and his body tries to expel phantom pains and chase out that creature of panic through sweat and gasps and tremors.
And almost every night, John is there to hold him steady in the dark, to wipe the tears clouding his eyes, to press refreshing reality into his skin through just five slim fingers.
And almost every night, Noel wants more.
He wants more than just a hand to offer comfort, wants to feel a familiar body cradling his shaking limbs. He wants to fall into someone else and let them carry the weight of heavy memories overfilling his skull for a small moment. He wants to wrap his arms in turn around this person whom he has only heard in these short couple months but that he knows the shape of nonetheless.
He also wants to never feel that familiar body again, to never be touched or carried by anything bigger and stronger than him, to never give up his control to another.
Still, his limbs seek out that simple touch every night, clawing across the bed to the hand that always awaits him halfway across the darkness, promising the ‘more’ that he wants while never pushing it upon him.
After a while, the constant clashing stampedes of different expectations evolve into a constant nagging headache. While Noel has had an ability to play the long-game through his shitty circumstances seared into him many times over, he finds himself fumbling that ability now and quickly growing tired of this particular problem. It’s not the first thing in his life that he’s found changing ever since he met Arthur and John, and it’s not the first thing to keep changing every single time he spends a moment with either of them.
The change from patient caution to greedy yearning is far from normal, but it comes natural, an unconsciousness evolution of need spurred on by each word and touch his boys offer. The need, the emptiness, the longing keeps growing along an exponential incline. He feels himself trailing along with it, inching closer, closer, closer to what his core aches for.
It's after two weeks and a particularly shitty day— one that started with a bitter memory swiftly diffused by John, and ended with a string of frustrations at work dredging up more strong memories that required another person to sink them back under— that Noel finally makes his decision.
He finishes washing the last dish from their dinner, and goes to dry his hands with a towel as he speaks up. “Hey, boys?”
Arthur perks up as he and John dry the plate that Noel handed to them. “Yes?”
Something starts to stir in his chest, and he shoves it down his ribs just long enough to get his next words out.
Breathe.
“I think I’m ready. I want to see John.”
“O-oh.” Arthur lowers the plate down to the counter with an unsteady hand, though he also fights to retain composure. “Tonight?”
Noel swallows, asking himself the same question. Doubt— an ever-present companion— stubbornly pulls back his vocal cords, but he pushes past it to find the sharp yearning that sits deep inside, and draws it forward. “Yeah,” he says. “Now, please.”
“Okay.” Arthur reaches for John’s hand, lacing their fingers together in support. Noel wonders if John is feeling the same incomprehensible swirl of worry and anticipation as he is. He hopes so— he hopes not.
“Okay,” Arthur repeats, firmer this time. “Just- let’s move to the living room. We’ll need more space for him to stretch out. And that way I can sit down and try to give him as much energy as possible.”
Noel nods, then guides Arthur out of the kitchen with a hand on his shoulder. “Sounds good. I want this to be comfortable for the both of you.”
“I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help, once he’s… out. If we want him to stay for an extended time, I’ll likely need to keep still, m-more inert, honestly. I hate to leave you on your own here, but he’s not exactly a… simple power to hold onto.”
“Not a problem,” Noel says as he leads Arthur to the sofa. “You’re already taking on enough effort ‘n energy as is with this. ‘Sides, this is really my issue to deal with. You just sit back and take it as easy as you can, kid. I’ve got this.” He doesn’t actually believe that last part. Either way, he smiles for John’s sake, and squeezes a shoulder for Arthur’s sake.
He checks that the floor is clear of any potential debris before stepping to the other side of the room. Taking a deep breath, he watches as Arthur grips the edge of the sofa like an anchor. John’s eyes dart between him and the carpet as though scared to settle in one place— although, when he notices Noel’s steady attention, he stops to hold that gaze, glints of trepidation and eagerness fluttering through shining irises.
As Noel stares back, he has the sudden impulse to light a cigarette, or maybe to jog around the block, anything at all that might make the fearful animal inside his chest stop pounding against his ribcage.
He mentally tosses off the urge as soon as it arises, and goes to assure himself. This will quiet that animal— seeing John will help his unease, it will fix his shattered pieces.
This will fix everything.
Just say the words, however quiet they may be. Speak them until they become reality.
This will work.
This needs to work.
It will.
(please)
Inhaling a breath like a bowstring, Noel gathers his tension into taut lungs, steadies his eyes to aim them forward straight into those yellow bullseyes, exhales, and fires.
“I’m ready.”
Arthur nods, takes his own steadying breath, leans back, and closes his eyes, leaving Noel to simply wait for a near-future that he equally feared and desired. The moments stretch on, silent, torturously quiet against a shrieking mind. Then— slowly at first, and quicker as it goes, like a tick that swells with blood gradually until it stretches its containment too thin and tears through its own skin in a sudden, hot, dripping explosion of self-ascension— a dark shape pours from Arthur’s stilled body.
A twisting motion of the air, a slight shake to all the objects in sight as the entire room trembles, as each atom comes into contact with a force entirely beyond this realm. A contortion of the space around Arthur, then suddenly, a convergence of light and shadow and types of matter foreign to this plane of reality, all to form a hulking figure that encases Arthur altogether.
The air moving around it in shimmering heat waves, in swirling cold patches, warped by unfathomable power as it picks apart reality’s seams.
A shadow half-covered in pallid white, twin fires of molten yellow boring lava through the flesh they lock onto.
A rumbling voice that shakes sanity and gouges sharp points of nightmare deep into brain matter to pry out long-buried slices of memory— impossibly dark, impossibly resonate, impossibly real.
“Noel?”
Charlie finds that he cannot breathe.
The voice is trying to talk to him, John is trying— no, wait, it’s the King— or maybe it is John, fuck he can’t tell, everything is blurring and no no no that’s not what he wanted that’s not what this was supposed to do-
But what he’s wanted, what was supposed to happen, has never once fucking worked out, has it?
It didn’t matter if he wanted his best friend back, his body was rotting as piles of shredded viscera somewhere unknown across the ocean.
It didn’t matter if he wanted the anchorage of his old companion back, he had been ripped away and then ripped apart in front of his eyes in that hellish realm.
It didn’t matter if he was supposed to live a simple life, a safe life, a happy life, the universe had stolen that fate from him a long time ago.
It didn’t matter if he wanted to just be alive and normal, Hastur had ripped his life away, Hastur had killed any hope left in him, Hastur has wrapped his dark filthy tendrils around every atom in his body and is never going to let him go, never going to let him escape to Earth, never going to let him escape to death, and there is nothing in his vision his mind his body his life except for gold burning with the light of a thousand solar flares and everything he has ever been and ever will be is tainted with the excruciating pain of Hastur Hastur Hastur everything will always be-
Every muscle is frozen into self-imprisonment as he looks into the swirling cosmos in front of him, and he sees Hastur—
tendrils (covered in his blood)—
Hastur—
eyes (too many too many too many)—
Hastur—
shadows (as dark as, no, darker than his cell)—
Hastur —
nights that blurred into days into weeks into nothing more than a continuous swing from ever-present dull aches to flashes of divinely-bestowed agony. Nights that should feel abstract right now, nights that feel real, realer than this night, realer than his life.
Charlie shakes, tremors overflow his body and the paralyzed animal within it the longer he stares at the robed figure before him, the figure that has now fallen into a silence he might call shameful if he didn’t have that figure’s past pride permanently branded onto him. If he didn’t still remember the feel of his subsonic laugh forcing its way through his flesh, the feel of his hateful gaze peeling back synapses and sinew, the feel of Hastur-
No— no no stop, it’s not H-
not him-
it’s J-
no, it’s him-
he can’t tell who anymore, it’s-
it’s-
it’s-
Still too bright, too burning, too gold.
Too real.
Abruptly, violently, the panicked animal in him rips itself free from its frozen state and takes off sprinting, and with a convulsive effort he is able to move his eyelids shut as tight as he possibly can, hoping to douse the fuel that his fear is using as kindling. He takes a steadying breath, or, moreso, he gasps in as much oxygen as his spasming lungs will allow at the moment, and scrapes out words.
“Say something.”
The figure across the room shifts in shocked confusion.
“…what?”
Charlie grits his teeth, fighting through images and memories as they writhe together. Sharp, dangerous limbs of ink and oil and ebony— all far too familiar— twist around his thoughts and try to slowly strangle the last pieces of his clarity. He strains to claw his way through them, to pry their grip loose and wrestle the edges of control back with the only weak defense his suffocating mind can manage. “Say. Something.”
“I don’t… I don’t know what you need me to say.”
“Anything.” He shakes his head, as if that could throw off all the serpents crawling underneath his skin, the terrified animal howling in his skull. “Please, Hast- Jo- j-just say something. Anything. Please.”
There is a pause, long enough that he almost believes that the voice has left for good and will never speak to him again— and, in the fog of external silence and internal screaming, his scattered mind wonders why that loss stabs both a relief and an ache through his chest.
His question gets no answer as the silence is broken by the voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Charlie’s racing fear trips over the tiny, heavy words and stumbles off its track for a few paces.
Still, though, he can hear robes made of stars shifting in front of him, a sound of the past made present. The animal scrambles back to its feet, back to its flee. Its eyes lock forward in desperation of an escape that does not exist, its muscles burn and tremble through every pounding footfall that strains over as much ground as possible.
And its ears stay turned back to that heavy voice, clutching every word as they continue to unfurl from their origin.
“I’m sorry that I hurt you. Or maybe not… not me, I suppose. An old part of me, but still me, in a way. Enough that it matters — to you and me. Even if for different reasons.”
The contrition is not what he expected, not something that he is quite able to recognize coming from this voice which he has only ever understood in cruel tones.
His fear keeps sprinting, but its gait starts to unravel ever so slightly as the voice keeps talking.
“And… I am sorry that anyone at all hurt you. I am sorry that others stole your comfort and safety, that you could not have every bit of joy and safety that you deserve.”
Each word digs a new hole in the foundation fear runs across, trips its paws and makes it slow, still stubbornly running, but struggling on exhausted, shaking legs.
“As much as I wish I could, as much as I would give to be able to — I cannot change the course of the universe. I cannot remove your pain, past or present, nor can I remove the dark parts of the world that might bring future pain. I cannot restore what you have lost, cannot repair the cracks and holes back to unblemished smoothness.”
The ground which it runs upon begins to crumble entirely, layers of distrust and confusion eroding into dust that is calmly swept away by a deep, rich, cradling voice as each stumbling step loses its hold.
“I know that I cannot change the universe for you— but I can walk through the universe with you. I can guide your steps through the dark, and clean and bandage your wounds, and hold your life next to mine against all the storms that try to stifle your soul. It won’t… I won’t be perfect, but I will try. And I will give you every piece of me you need, every new moment of kindness it takes to overshadow past pain, every effort it takes to weave a dream of safety and peace for you to rest in.”
The animal finally trips to a stop, flanks heaving for breath like a beating heart as it fights to pump blood through a wounded body. It pants, frothed drool rolling off its tongue, legs shaking on muscles that yearn to rest on the new foundation being built with words beneath him. And though its pulse pounds through the veins in its ears, he still strains to hear the voice echoing around him, the voice that carries a familiar timbre but speaks words entirely unknown.
He pants, and shakes, and waits, and listens.
“I… I understand if you would not want me, if you would need me gone or different to find your peace. And if you do, I will not hesitant to give you that. But, if you do not — if you choose to let me into your life — I will gladly spend the rest of my existence at your side, existing as whatever you need me to be, providing you with whatever light and warmth you ask of me. I will love you with the force of the universe itself.
“I will love you, always. And with my love, I will give you everything that you deserve. I will give you all of me, always.”
The voice— that deep, rolling thunder— paired with the words— that light, soothing breeze— finally, finally slips the last layer of this new and stronger ground beneath his feet and he finally, finally, collapses every piece of his weight onto its awaiting bed, sinking into warm soil and soft grass.
He opens his eyes and looks up and across the room, finally lets his sight linger on the pale white looking back at him from within cosmic darkness and starry gold.
He stares into that unearthly gold—
no, no it’s not gold, not even yellow—
it’s-
it’s-
it’s…
a sun.
He stares into that sun, that bright star, that shining explosion of protection and devotion, that radiance that has cradled him since the first moment they ever collided, and lets it burn out fear’s remaining paralyzing cold, lets it wrap warmth around his and fear’s shaking form until they melt into the heat source’s companionship.
He keeps his eyes on that sun— not out of fear, but out of trust, out of love, out of recognition of the beautiful person standing before him—
“John.”
The word is small, barely a breath slipped through trembling lips, but it speaks a truth great enough to fill the space between every atom within this room.
“Noel.”
The word is low, more felt through its vibration than heard through its sound, but it seeps a truth loud enough to silence everything in the world outside of this communion.
John begins to reach out with his hand, but stops halfway between their bodies, quivering fingers always seeking for a close touch, always leaving the final steps for the other to take.
Noel steps forward and meets him at that midpoint, never once turning his head away, holding onto John’s gaze like the sacred safety it was.
Their hands interlace—light and shadow, shadow and light, mere human and otherworldly entity, settled animal and mere human.
Someone— possibly (definitely) both of them— pulls them closer, until they press against each other’s side with every piece of themselves, until those sides become meaningless and they forget every boundary of self, until everything in their universe concentrates into this small pocket of dream made real, this safety of two souls, this heaven of each other.
The dream stretches and settles, a sunlit mist over their bodies, minds, hearts. Held in each other’s arms, they breathe in that lullaby of mist and relax into the sanctuary that they’ve built together, that they silently promise to keep building together with every step forward.
It’s a promise exhaled into each other, pressed through hands and skin, rolled through quiet understanding— growing stronger with every passing second.
Eventually, a sound of a shiver comes from behind them, and it echoes a faint tremble into the side of their entwined form.
John shifts, and tendrils of warm night brush tighter against the man they hold— secure, not restrictive. “Arthur-” He shudders again, stronger this time as his and Arthur’s conjoined energy strains to keep itself separated. “Noel, I have to-”
“I know.” Noel buries his face further into the wall of light and murmurs into it, coating his words in a soft tone to soothe both his and John’s pangs of loss and keep them in this tranquility. “Just- don’t go far, okay? Stay with me.”
A long hand strokes down the back of his head, and a warm rumble gently flutters the top of his hair.
“Of course.”
They hold on tight for another second— a too-short blink of time, a just-right expanse of meaning— and carefully disentangle, bodies trailing to gather as much touch as possible before they part.
Then, as quickly as he had unfurled, John sinks back into Arthur's body, matter and imagination folding back into each other in an incomprehensible dance.
The air gapes and tremors with its sudden emptiness. Noel’s eyes shudder to find a physicality to match the afterimages burned into their retinas, his ears ring to locate the source of thunder echoing against their drums, his mind contorts to craft an explanation for the incorporeality weighing on its synapses; his heart doesn’t worry— it knows exactly where his sun sets.
Reaching down to steady Arthur’s lolling form, Noel settles onto the sofa with his boys and pulls the other man onto his lap. He laces one arm around his torso and then places the other hand on the back of his head, softly scratching his scalp, which encourages a hummed sound of tired contentment from the other man.
Arthur is heavy, deadweight and leaning into Noel’s body as he slips into a drowsy exhaustion. Noel doesn’t mind. The pressure is grounding, affirming his physical presence in the world while his mind floats on a lake of fantasy and dazed euphoria.
Noel places a kiss on top of Arthur’s head. “Thanks, doll,” he says, voice low.
“’s not a problem,” he mumbles into Noel’s shirt. “Did it help?”
A hazy warmth flutters in his chest and reminds Noel of the answer that he already knows. He presses his lips to the top of Arthur’s head again. “Yeah,” he says, a soft smile on his lips. “Yeah, it helped.”
“Good, that’s… good.” Arthur’s voice, despite its rapidly-growing lethargy, still manages to carry sincerity. Noel suspects that Arthur simply contains too much emotion to ever truly hide any of it. “’m glad you feel better.”
“Me, too, kid.” Noel strokes his back a few times. “You should rest, you did good. Now sleep.”
“Yeah, okay. Okay.” Arthur yawns into Noel’s shirt. “G’night.”
“Good night, doll.”
It doesn’t take long for Arthur to lapse into silence and for his breath to ease into soft snores.
For a while, no one moves. Noel figures he should say something, but he also has a hunch that enough has been said, that they both know everything they need to anyways. So, he holds Arthur and John, and waits patiently until the other stirring mind shifts.
Quietly, John’s hand reaches up to cup Noel’s cheek. He sighs and leans into the touch as John’s thumb moves gently up and down, focusing on that simple yet meaningful point of contact.
It’s gentle. Not like the King’s gentleness, his thin, fake tenderness that masked pain and grief.
No, it’s real gentle. This is a delicate embrace given to deliver an impossible amount of hope, kindness, adoration.
This is love. This is real.
This is John.
After a few minutes of simply savoring each other’s touch, John’s thumb pauses its sweeping motions and instead taps a short three words against his cheek.
I love you.
And if Noel needed any more proof that he is no longer in the past, that he is somewhere safe and warm, surrounded and held by someone who will never hurt him and will only ever heal him, it’s in those words.
He smiles and turns to press a kiss against the palm of John’s hand. “I love you, too,” he whispers against the skin housing the home that his John was.
Minutes pass pressed together, and slowly, everything— every beast of emotion, every heavy thought, every weary muscle, every loving body— settles into blissful rest, soaking in the comfort of a new foundation, a new life, a new dream.
Submerged in their shared near-slumber, Noel slowly draws John down from his cheek and holds his hand. “Hey,” he murmurs, “will you sleep next to me tonight?”
John’s fingers twitch in confusion. I… can’t?
“Sure ya can. Sleeping is just sitting still and gettin’ cozy. All you gotta do is lay down, settle in, and focus only on dozing off for the rest of the night.” He gives a small, playful smirk. “And maybe focus on me sleepin’ right next to ya, too, if you want.”
John curls his fingers in a way that oddly resembles a bashful duck of the head. I think I would like that, he taps. If that’s what you want.
“It is.”
His fingers curl again, more confident this time. Good.
Noel shifts, careful not to disturb Arthur, and maneuvers them until they’re all laid across the sofa, Arthur and John in his arms. The morning will assuredly bring a sore back and protesting joints, but he couldn’t care less right now, content to cradle this pocket of intimacy for as long as possible. Once he gets them settled, he goes to bring John’s hand back up to his mouth— he smiles when he finds John already meeting him halfway there
They twine, and he draws that interlaced point upward to whisper against it.
“I’ll dream of you, if you’ll dream of me.” He places a chaste kiss on John’s knuckles. “Sound like a deal?”
John traces a finger over Noel’s lips. Deal.
Noel kisses him one more time, like a promise, like an understanding. “I’ll hold ya to it.”
With a final featherlight touch, John moves down to rest his hand at the top of Noel’s sternum, that small crook of warmth where every pleased heartbeat and drowsy breath meet to form a steady metronome of contentment. He lets that rhythm resonate through him for a few beats before he taps out one last word, a quiet command, a gentle guide:
Sleep.
And so Noel does.
The rest of the night passes with no stirring, no tears, no shaking. It passes slow and kind, and through it all, Noel dreams only of a shadow that wraps him in protection, of a sun that beams on him in reverence, of a soul that sleeps and dreams next to his in love.