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The TV blared. I watched it rather mindlessly, my mind unfocused because of John. His arm wrapped around my shoulders, his face buried in my neck, kissing me. One of his damn cigarettes was lit and resting in his other hand, getting ash on my couch. Sometimes I wondered if he even loved me a little, or if I was just something for him to take his mind off of his work. Right now I didn’t want to get caught up in all that, since I rarely got to see him any more.
“Do you want a drink or-?” He’d hardly spoken to me since he entered my apartment. I don’t even know how we ended up watching Lone Star Law: Texas.
“Mmh,” He grunted in reply, which knowing him probably meant yes. The kisses became a little bit more sloppy and heated. Something was starting to bother me. John was never this touchy, I mean sure - he liked to make out and have sex when we could, but he was never this preoccupied with me. He pulled away and took a drag from his cigarette, not meeting my eyes as he released the smoke. Yanking at his tie and loosening its grip around his neck, he began to return his attention to mine. Okay, fuck this not worrying bullshit. I pushed him away, finding his eyes and locking on them.
“John, are you okay?” I noticed him tense up, as he turned to face me. His arm which had been relaxed now grabbed a firm hold of the couch behind me. He was restless; messy hair, crinkled shirt, and a look I didn’t see often on his face. John Constantsine was desperate.
“I’m fine.”
“John, there is no way you are fine.” I reached for his face, only for him to flinch out of the way and take another drag. “John.” I crossed my arms.
“Please,” he said quietly, tapping the ash on the table this time, “I really don’t want to talk about it.” He looked away, hunching over himself, the last of the cigarette smoke spiraling into the air.
“We don’t have to talk about it, but I’m not going to let you use me like one of those damned things or a glass of whisky.” He buried his head in his hands, shaking his head slowly. “John.”
He looked over at me tentatively. Then he reached for my hand, slowly pulling it close to his mouth so he could kiss my fingertips. Back was the romantic way he usually kissed me. Thoughtful, with a hint of deep red hunger. “It’s been 2 weeks,” he said, tasting the words in his mouth like one would try a scotch.
“I called you,” I reminded him. “I tried to -”
“I’m sorry I haven’t tried harder.” The scotch had become sour as the truth he spoke. “I keep thinking if I stay away for long enough maybe -” he trailed off lost in thought.
“It’s been bad hasn’t it.” All he had to do was nod. John’s work was never going to become easy, it would always be an uphill battle. He would get into these patches of rough sluggish hell. The exorcisms would be harder, the affected more and more damaged, all while he refused help from anyone that truly cared. I was getting tired of it. I pulled away from him, wondering if maybe I should just let him wreck himself. The only issue was, I could fix this right now. I could be his quick hit of nicotine, I could close the blinds and shut off every clock just for the night, I could lock the world out so that John Constantine could feel whole and normal again, and I hated that I still wanted too.
The truth of the matter was, no matter how hard we tried, the world, his world, would find him and pull him right back into the inky, maddening depths he was drowning in now.
I shook my head, making a last heart-wrenching decision. I was about to speak when he broke the silence with an anxious huff.
“I can’t do this anymore,” His eyes found mine, they were begging for forgiveness. Was he seriously going to break up with me?
“John, wait, you should know -” I was about to agree when he held out his hand frantically to stop me. His cuffs rolled up revealing the edge of his forearm tattoos, I noticed the ivory fabric had a light smattering of blood.
“I need you to listen to me - I love you. I hate myself for the way I’ve treated you over the last couple weeks but I kept on hoping you’d lose interest. That I’d drive you away so that I wouldn’t have to lose you.” He paused, his hand shaking slightly as he lifted the last of his cigarette to his mouth. He took a frantic hit, and leaned back covering his face with his hands. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s keeping me up.” He swallowed and dragged his hands down his face, sighing. “Every night, I lie there wishing you were next to me.” He took another drag before finishing, “It’s killing me.”
All I could do was laugh. John Constantine? In love? His idea of romance was quite literally handing me a bouquet of dying roses and letting me share his cigarette in a rainy alleyway (2/10 would not recommend), and here he was telling me he was so in love with me he was worried about my well being? “You - you could move in with me.” The silence grew louder, I hardly thought about it. For him to do this - to ask - to be this painfully vulnerable with me. To admit how much he cared? “Maybe only a few nights a month or maybe I could find a bigger apartment or -” I didn’t let him finish.
“Of course I’ll move in with you, John.” He reached forward and kissed me properly this time. There was one person in the world that could make the smell of smoke so comforting and safe. It was him. He yanked me onto his chest and laid down on his back. He muted the TV with a sloppy grab at the remote as he held me against his chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I won’t let anything happen to you - I promise.” I could have sworn he pulled me closer for a second. One of his hands rested on my lower back, the other holding the back of my head. In this comfort I let myself dream. Mornings with black coffee and newspapers forgotten on dining tables, dinners across from a man in a bloodstained shirt, reading books by warm light while listening to him clean his equipment, and cold nights where he’d have to hold me for warmth. Not too bad at all. I was starting to truly believe that he was in love.