Archive of Our Own

John regains consciousness just in time to see a blade glinting against Arthur’s throat.

His voice breaks, panicked and loud. “Arthur!”

“Jesus Christ, John!” Arthur jolts, the blade dropping from his hand and clattering against the sink. Oh. The razor sits in the ceramic basin, alongside fine brown hairs and half dissolved shaving cream.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright, just give a guy some warning next time,” Arthur sighs, feeling around for the edge of the sink. “I didn’t even get to finish shaving.”

“Without me?”

Arthur has taught John a lot about human body language, including the quick flick of an eye that people define as an eye roll. John bristles at how dramatically Arthur rolls his eyes, purposefully dragging out the motion.

“Yes, without you! I can get things done when you sleep in.” Arthur carefully trails his hand lower, fingers searching for the razor. “I can probably get a lot more done with you asleep.”

John huffs, closing their eyes. “Fine, then I can go back to sleep.”

Except that he has no control over his consciousness and it doesn’t make a lick of difference whether their eyes are closed, because Arthur can’t see. Goddammit.

“John, you must know I’m joking. I’m the one that woke you up. God, you are so easy to tease.” Arthur smirks. “Good morning to you.”

“Morning,” John grumbles.

“I actually do need your help now that you are up, because this,” Arthur lifts his left shoulder to display the limp forearm by his side, “is no longer going to work for me without you.”

John uses his hand to retrieve the razor. Arthur did a fine job on his own, cleanly shaving half his face already, but John would feel better being the one in control of the sharp object. Especially around Arthur’s neck.

“Tilt your chin up a bit more. There. Use your hand to hold—perfect.”

A routine task like this doesn’t take them any conversation anymore. Arthur naturally adjusts his face to the angle John needs it to be, before John can even think to ask him to move. The razor glides smoothly across the delicate skin of Arthur’s face, revealing the spattering of freckles hidden under his stubble. It’s a shame to see the hair washed down the sink, John is quite fond of the way it looks on Arthur. The ruggedness of it suits him well.

As Arthur leans in to wash his face, both hands reach the water at the same time. Something about being in tune with each other provides a pleasant, fuzzy feeling inside what John would instinctually call his chest, if he had one. Perhaps it’s simply his soul.

The soft hums that rise from Arthur’s throat as he straightens up also warms his soul.

Arthur always fills their silences. He continues humming as they get ready for the day, both hands reaching for familiar drawers, buttoning clothes with practiced precision. He sings, a rare treat, when he cooks breakfast. The sounds of clanging pans are delightfully drowned out by his gentle voice.

If only he could quiet the thoughts racing through John’s mind. It had been a joke, Arthur had said it was nothing. He didn’t really mean that he could get by without John.

Right?

John was a terrible friend. He should be grateful for Arthur’s independence. If not for Arthur’s sake, for his. Arthur’s adaptation to blindness eliminates the early frustrations that came with John having to narrate everything, and provides a…relief. It’s a relief to know that Arthur is fine, even with John continuing to take from him.

“You alright, John?”

John blinks, finding themselves sitting at the kitchen table. Without the chatter of directions, John’s thoughts have become prone to wandering to unhelpful places. “Umm…yes.”

“Great, now you have me worried. You’ve been quiet all morning,” Arthur says. “What are you thinking about in there?”

Promises of honesty linger between them, many have which have been broken throughout this relationship. Many that still will. John searches for something to share that is not ‘I’m afraid you’ve given me too much, and I still want more’.

“What did you mean when you said I was ‘sleeping in’?” John settles on a partial truth, one that stayed in the back of his mind. “I don’t actually sleep, nor do I have any say in when I wake up.”

“You don’t feel it?” Arthur quirks a brow when he questions, another habit that brings John endless amusement.

“Feel what?”

“When you are resting, or in time out, I suppose, it feels different each time I bring you back. Like…,” Arthur considers, furrowing his brows in concentration, “varying levels of effort to get to you. Sometimes it’s immediate, almost as if you are right there waiting for me.

Other times it takes forever, like I’m having to drag you out of bed.” Arthur smiles. “You know, sleeping in. I had been trying to bring you back for a while this morning.”

“Huh. I never noticed that. I don’t think it feels any different for me.” John takes his turn to think. Arthur waits, somehow to two of them knowing exactly what the other needs, without being able to see the other pause. “It’s nice either way. It’s quiet, peaceful. I’m just sort of floating in the background until I feel you call for me, and then I’m here.”

“You…like it though, right? When do you have time to yourself?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Arthur stands abruptly, taking his plate to the sink. As they leave the apartment, Arthur chatters about work, doing little to distract John from the tension building between them.

Normally, John would push for Arthur to explain himself. He was an expert at pushing Arthur’s buttons, getting him to the point where he spills secrets. With Arthur so clearly having something else on his mind, John wants to give in to the old impulses, but he stays quiet, knowing he is in no position to demand someone else to share.

*****

“Would it be possible for you to have full control of our body?”

“What?” John nearly screams, feeling like he’s choking on the word. The two of them need to set some boundaries for waking up procedures, because Arthur cannot continue to bring John to consciousness with panic.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what it’s like for you to be in time out.” John can tell, because Arthur is still lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His voice is tired, making John wonder how much he even slept.

“Ok, and what does that have to do with—“

“It's not really alone time, is it? I wouldn’t count sleeping as time to myself, because I’m not conscious during it. I have no control over it. And neither do you.” Arthur’s hands, both of them, are folded on his stomach as he talks. It’s hard to think when John can feel the rise and fall of Arthur’s breath.

“I…huh. I mean, it doesn’t bother me, so I didn’t really consider it that way—”

Arthur cuts him off again. “Would you like to have control over your time? I could just…step back for a bit. Let you have control.”

“No.” John is firm, getting the answer in before Arthur can interrupt him another goddamn time. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I don’t want to take this body from you. Ever.”

“I know, John. I know. I wouldn’t be bringing it up if I hadn’t thought it through and already decided that I would be okay with it.” His fingers tap rhythmically against John’s hand. “I trust you.”

“But…why?” The question is all encompassing.

Why would Arthur want to do this? Why would he give John that much trust? Why would the man who fought tooth and nail for his agency amongst gods give it up now? A man that had been so afraid when John took control of his limbs.

“I want you to do something for yourself.”

And the man who gave up his eyes again, without a moment’s hesitation. For John's sake.

Arthur Lester would be the death of him. “Arthur, are you absolutely sure? I don’t need this, I would never ask this of you.”

“You make it sound like I’m dying, John,” Arthur sighs. “I’m just offering you some time to yourself. Go walk in the park, see a movie, I don’t know. I’m sure there are a lot of things you’d like to do that you haven’t managed to drag my stubborn ass to yet.”

John is not sure if Arthur notices the way his hand has been gravitating towards John’s. He now traces along John’s knuckles as he talks. The touch is gentle, lulling John’s mind into dangerous places. He spent the better part of yesterday worried about everything he had taken from Arthur, and here the man is now, offering him everything. A body of his own. Borrowed, of course, but still complete. John couldn’t actually be considering this.

“For how long?”

“I don’t have a set time in mind. No more than the day, I guess. I don’t want to miss too much.”

“Are you going to keep pestering me about it until I say yes?”

“No! You wound me.” Arthur whines. “You think I wouldn’t respect your answer?”

“But will you still be thinking about it?”

“No.” John can feel his lie. Arthur’s voice pitches up into a painfully obvious squeak.

“Fuck, fine. Yes. Let’s do it.”

Arthur sits up, voice high and was it…excited? “Truly? You want to try?”

No one would be strong enough to say no to that. He loves this man more than life itself, and sometimes he really missed the days when he fucking hated him.

“How are we going to do this, then? I’m just going to…take control? Push your consciousness out?”

Arthur pulls his legs to his chest, pressing his cheek into a knee. “You tell me, oh powerful John Doe, eldritch being. I think this is completely up to you now. I’m planning on taking a well-needed nap.”

John wishes he could roll his eyes. He settles for closing them, putting himself in the dark to focus on their body, rather than their bedroom. He is acutely aware of the parts he does have control over. He can feel the scratch of the wool blanket against his ankle, the warmth of Arthur’s skin on his hand. Perhaps it is just as simple as…pushing that further. John visualizes himself spreading, branching out across their body like the roots of a tree. Each nerve and joint molding to him.

He opens his eyes hesitantly. There should be no surprise that they are still in the bedroom, curled in the same position as before. Part of him expected something more grand, like a rush of power lighting up his senses.

Everything feels the same, making him doubt that it worked at all. Arthur was probably sitting here with him waiting for some magic to happen.

John sighs, feeling the air rush past his lips.

“Arthur?” The name comes out of his mouth, lips and tongue forming each sound. The feel of it is horrifying, but what’s worse is that it sounds exactly like Arthur.

“Jesus Christ!” John rushes to get out of the bed, fumbling over too many limbs. A foot, the right foot, gets caught in the blanket, sending John tumbling off the side.

As he crashes to the ground, everything is pain. He slams the hardest on his elbows, sending pure fire running up his arms. John clenches his teeth and hisses at the floor like it attacked him personally. Which might be a reasonable level of anger for someone experiencing his second ever physical pain in his known life.

How humans can live like this is a mystery. God, how Arthur faced everything he had and not gone insane is a miracle.

John props himself up on his hands and knees, realizing what he’s done. “Arthur, I’m sorry, I hurt you! Shit, will this still hurt when you’re here again?” There’s no response.

“It’s fine, right? It’s fine. The pain is already fading away.” John stumbles to his feet, unsteady. He has walked on two legs before, in a few different bodies, but he can’t seem to balance well in Arthur’s. Was Arthur always this scrawny? He swears Arthur was not this bony, his arms and legs not this long and unwielding. How can someone be so tall and so thin at the same time?

“I’m sorry,” John repeats, suddenly feeling fragile. “I promise I’ll be more careful with you. Just one step at a time.”

After a few steps shaking like a newborn lamb, John gathers enough momentum to walk to the bathroom. He misjudges the distance between his body and the doorframe, slamming a toe (again, from the damn right foot) into the wood. “FUCK!”

“Arthur, why is this so fucking hard!” John yells, expecting a snide remark to chime back at him. The apartment is silent, except for John’s own frustrated growls.

When John reaches the mirror, he sees the same face that stares back at him everyday, one that would look perfectly normal to any passerby, aside from the slight honeyed glow of their eyes. In theory, everything is as it should be, but it feels…hollow. Lacking Arthur’s smirk and the dramatic expression of his brow.

“The cold, calculated demeanor of someone not to fuck with.” John forces a smile.

“What am I going to do with myself without you, hmm? For all your nagging, you at least give me something to do.” John delights in the flit of his eyes rolling in the mirror. He stands up straighter, doing his best to scrunch his face the way Arthur does. “John, read this for me. John, tell me which way to go. Hold this for me, John. John.”

John manages a laugh. He doesn’t get to hear the sound enough. He doesn’t dwell on the way his name sounds coming from Arthur’s mouth.

“Alright, ” John sets his shoulders with confidence, “we can do this. I can do this. It’s just for the day, how hard can it be?”

*****

Arkham is freezing cold. The kind of cold that seeps into the bones and makes the body ache. Truly, how is Arthur not dead?

John dared to step foot into the outside world, after getting dressed, and immediately ran back into the apartment to grab another coat. And a scarf, for good measure. The biting winter feels more intense with a full body to experience it, no longer safe in a warm glove or a spot in Arthur’s pocket.

He’s cold, sluggish, and burdened with an emptiness in his stomach, so John's first stop is the diner around the corner. The original plan had been to eat his introductory human meal in the comfort of their own home, but his cooking skills were…not up to edible standards yet. He prays the neighbors don’t complain about the smell.

A gentle chime rings out as he enters the diner. He freezes. There are so many people. He waits for dozens of eyes to fall to him, to sense the wrongness of his form. There was no way people would not know. Oh God, what was he thinking—

“Just one this morning?” A waitress calls out.

One. Just one. “...Yes.”

“Please take a seat and I’ll be right with you!”

John shuffles to the nearest available chair, thankful that he did not pass out in the doorway. His heart is still racing as he sits, and he can feel the blood pumping through his veins. It’s loud in his ears, sounding like it’s rushing behind his eyes.

He does his best to not shout his order when the waitress approaches, because he can barely hear himself think, let alone speak. Everyone around him is so relaxed. They chatter to those they sit with, they flip through newspapers. They hold utensils with complete certainty that they know what they are doing. They can swallow food without feeling it stick in their throats, threatening to come back up.

John stares at the full plate in front of him, mumbling to himself. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

He has to eat. Arthur has to eat. He can feel the hunger gnawing in his gut, and he knows it won’t go away until something is in his stomach. He shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth before he can convince himself that it’s poison.

It’s…fine. The texture is bothersome, but the taste is plain and inoffensive. All that time watching in horror as Arthur eats, and it was fine.

“What makes you like this so much?”

John sets his sights on the steaming cup of coffee on the table. Of the current meal, coffee is the one thing Arthur has expressed enjoyment of. He prepares it the same way Arthur has every morning for the last few months, pouring two hefty teaspoons of sugar and stirring until it dissolves into the drink. It’s worth a shot.

“Oh my god,” John whispers. The first sip is heavenly. It’s hot, slightly burning down his throat, but then filling his chest with a pleasant warmth. He didn’t know Arthur had a liking for sweets, because the amount of sugar poured into the mug masks the bitterness John had been anticipating.

“Next time you eat I won’t make any comments about you eating, I swear,” John says. “I think I get it now.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” The waitress appears beside John, tilting her head slightly. There is a wide smile on her face, but John sees a flash of confusion flicker in her eyes. He catches a glance at the table across from him, seeing that they too, give him a curious stare.

People don’t talk aloud to themselves. John notes that down as another thing to talk to Arthur about later. He hasn't thanked Arthur, who finds patches of time to talk to John during the day. Including him in conversation, despite the looks.

“I’m good, thank you. Just the check.” John’s face flushes under the attention. He pays quickly, and steps back out into the cold morning.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort to keep his voice off as he walks. He wants to fill the empty space with small narrations, directing them around corners and to door handles. Like he usually does.

This is not John’s first day ever thinking, but he can’t wrap his head around having only his thoughts all the time. It’s lonely. Even as The King, he had other voices, different pieces of himself constantly droning. The last time he was fully by himself was…

He shivers out memories of the dark. Of twisted bones and cruel words. That’s not who he is. Never again.

He wants to be—he is—human. More now than ever before.

So he forces himself to exist, on his own, just like everyone else. He tries to fight the silence with a movie. The itch to share is worse than before, because it is exactly the kind of film noir that would have Arthur groaning in complaint the whole time.

“It’s a mockery of the profession,” Arthur told him last week, when John pointed out the movie poster out front the theatre. “All fluff and dramatics, a child could figure out the answer before it’s revealed.”

Except John doesn’t care if the acting is dramatic, or if the case was obvious. He enjoys getting to put together the clues presented to him, unpacking things the way Arthur has taught him. Blood found on the stairs, a murder weapon hidden under a bed, an angry wife’s motivation to kill. He waits as the detective on screen paces around the room, about to deliver his verdict.

“The killer is—“ The wife, obviously. The actor is pointing at her, until he spins, bringing his accusing finger to a different figure altogether. “—you, the twin brother!”

“What?” John screams, flinging his hands up to his mouth to hush the sound before the other patrons can. Oh my god.

Just moving pictures, my ass. John thinks. You’ve been holding out on me, and next time I’m making you join me. I want to see you figure this one out, detective.

John struts out of the movie on a high, the thrill of the cinema roaring through his veins. Crimes were part of his day to day, he knows what a harrowing case feels like, and that was perfect.

What else can he find like that? He needs…something else Arthur would hate.

John finds a bookstore around the block, knowing exactly what is next on his agenda. Arthur had a wide variety of books in his personal collection. Since—thanks to John—he is unable to read on his own anymore, the only books they consume are ones read together. Well, the ones that John reads aloud. Arthur has always been bristly about sitting there doing nothing while John scans through them on his own.

This limitation means that Arthur’s book preferences take priority, but there has been something John has been begging the man to try.

A clerk pops his head up when John enters. “Can I help you find anything today?”

Arthur’s only request was to be back by the end of the day. Not a word was said about a budget. This was Arthur’s fault, really.

“Yes.” John grins. “How many Agatha Christie books do you have?”

John walks out of the shop with his (Arthur’s) wallet feeling significantly lighter, and his heart much fuller.

There is enough money left over for him to test a theory on Arthur’s tastebuds (assuming that they are still his and not John’s). The nearest bakery is a few blocks down, and John smells it before he sees it. Scent in itself is a fascinating detour for John’s brain to travel down. He realized immediately that everything, and he means everything, has a smell. Walking on the sidewalk came with an assault of the senses. Perfumes, car exhaust, freshly fallen snow. And bread. Bread was his favorite.

The bakery lures him in with notes of sweet dough and warm spices. He concludes that Arthur must have a hidden sweet tooth, because the rich, chocolate pastry John bites into nearly brings him to tears.

We should stop here again, I think you’d like it. John muses, stepping back into the city street. Or we could try making this at home. Have you ever tried to bake? I imagine the you that Faroe remembers did, but I can’t seem to picture you doing it for yourself.

The cold nips at exposed skin, but he is determined to make one last stop before heading back. He tucks his chin into the scarf and plops down on a park bench to finish his snack. It took a while for the day to get started, and now the sun is setting.

This spot looks different with snow.

It was autumn when they first returned to Arkham. After all that they faced, they walked through here daily, a reminder that they were safe. That they were home. It was easy for John to persuade Arthur to sit, taking a second to appreciate the day. As time went on, they started making longer trips, sometimes bringing books or journals with the intention of existing in a moment of peace. Together.

The journal helped Arthur get thoughts down from time to time, and eventually…so did John.

John didn’t understand journal keeping, not in the same sense Arthur did, but he enjoyed writing as a whole. He could exist in a way that was tangible, one that had meaning beyond Arthur’s eyes. He fell into poetry, because Arthur’s penchant for quoting verses could only rub off on him so much before he had to start creating his own. Arthur would start to doze, half-listening to John describe the way the leaves fell or the birds waded in the pond.

Arthur said he liked John’s perspective. “You see the world in a way no one else does.”

John had to retort, because it was easier than accepting the praise. “I see it with your eyes, you fool.”

“But it sounds so beautiful in your voice.” Arthur had mumbled before falling back asleep. John has never stopped thinking about that. Not his words, the choices he made to describe things, but his voice.

Now, John has neither his own voice or the inspiration to write something new. The ducks that John watches in the pond are gone, their home frozen over. The leaves are crinkled and decayed. The patch of grass he convinced Arthur to take a nap on is covered in a thin sheet of snow. The park is empty, as is his soul. He’ll just have to borrow someone else’s words then.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” The poem finds him quickly. It’s one he reads often, repeating the lines in the emptiness of his mind as he and Arthur drift off to sleep. The words have never made their way but out loud.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height.” John exhales, bringing his hands up to catch the warmth. “My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.”

There is an unexpected stab of pain, resonating deep within his chest, answering all the questions John had about what having a heart of his own would feel like. It hurts.

“For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.” John wraps his arms around himself, a poor attempt to fill a void left by the man whose body he walks around in. A familiar sensation prickles behind his eyes as he recites the words, trying to race to the end before the feeling grabs hold of his throat.

“Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose—”

“I shall but love thee better after death,” Arthur yawns. “I give you a day to yourself and you are sitting around, reciting poetry?”

“Hello, Arthur.”

“Hello, John. How was it?”

John doesn’t answer, not trusting his words to come out clear. As if he could do anything to stop the tears from falling. He can only wait for Arthur to feel them running down his cheeks. “John, are…are you crying?”

John chuckles softly, “Yes, I think I am.”

“Where—what time—” Arthur pauses, gathering his bearings. He whirls his head to look around their surroundings.

“We are at the park. It’s just us here, and a few brave squirrels. Not many people seemed interested in facing the snow today, I guess. The sun is setting, already touching the horizon, dusting the park with a pale orange glow.”

“Ah, thank you.” Arthur does not settle back into the bench. “I appreciate your description, as always.”

“We are never doing that again.”

“What? Oh. Okay, it’s—“

“Never.”

Arthur’s back stiffens. “Tell me what happened, John.”

“No need to worry, it was fine. Nice, actually. We—I had breakfast. Saw a movie. Went for a walk. Everything on its own was good,” John reaches for Arthur’s hand, “but it was…weird without you. Empty.”

Arthur returns the touch, squeezing the hand back. His arm is firm, the muscles unyielding. “I—oh. Are you sure that you don’t want to give it another try?” Arthur cuts John off before he can even finish forming his dissent. “Not today! But you only had control for what, a few hours? It was probably weird because it was new.”

“Arthur, I like being here with you. I missed you, so why…” John can’t get past the way Arthur is strung so tightly, refusing to relax. “You’ve told me that the thought of losing your body terrifies you. Why did you insist on trying this?”

“I…it’s nothing.”

Irritation bubbles up in John as he raises his voice. “Tell me why.”

“Fuck, I don’t know! I—I…” They both sigh, calming the rise of anger that is ingrained into both of their beings. “I don’t want this body to be your prison, John. I don’t want to be your warden, deciding when you sleep and when you wake and what you can do.”

“Arthur.” The name drips from him like honey.

“I told you what happened when Lilith was with me, right?”

“Yes. She took over your body completely.”

Arthur nods slowly. “I knew what it was like to not be the one in control and I—I hated it. I think that was the closest I have ever come to giving up.” Arthur’s breath catches in a way that makes John want to hold him, to protect him from the world. “I couldn’t get out of my head that I was doing the same thing to you and that you…you weren’t telling me that you hate it here. You’ve done it before, forced yourself to stay somewhere you weren’t happy.”

John has chosen to spend his life with an idiot. An absolutely stupid man. Everything that he wanted to give was what John already had. The same things John thought were too much.

“You know that this body is my home, don’t you? You, Arthur, you are my home. This is not the same as me being with The King. I want to experience this life with you. I love you.” John ends his speech with conviction, each word delivered slowly to hopefully stick in Arthur’s head. With everything that he is, he loves this man.

“I—thank you.”

“Bring my hand closer to you.”

“What?”

“Just do what I say. Closer. Up to your face.” Arthur furrows his brow in confusion, but he complies. His left arm brings John’s hand to his cheek, giving John the chance to rest there. Perfect. John flicks Arthur’s temple with all the force he can muster.

“Ow! What the fuck, that hurt!”

“Good. Because everything you just told me is exactly the kind of poor communication you scold me for.”

Arthur laughs, slow and uncertain at first, but it grows as he doubles over, holding himself together. Arthur’s laugh has become brighter than John ever thought possible. He would do unholy things to hear that sound everyday. “I am the world’s worst hypocrite, aren’t I?”

“You are. Do you finally believe that I’m fine like this?”

“I do. I won’t try to take it from you again.” Arthur sits up, bringing a hand to his mouth to contain the giggles. “However, I have to be honest and say being away didn’t bother me this time. I don’t know, maybe it’s just because Lilith and I were constantly fighting for control.”

“We don’t fight all the time? Are you sure you didn’t forget anything when I put you in time out?” John’s hand is right against Arthur’s lips. He has to bring his mind somewhere other than Arthur being warm and soft and here. “I could certainly find something else to be mad about, if you need a reminder.”

“Perhaps we fight differently then, in our own way. As someone that has had far too many voices in his head, I can say that it’s always been different with you.”

His lips pressed into John’s hand. There is no way that they did not. John knows what it’s like to feel a heartbeat and right now his being thrums like blood is still pumping through him.

“You kissed my hand.”

“I—what?”

“My hand. You brought it up to your face and just now you…you kissed me.”

The hand flies down, shoved quickly into Arthur’s coat pocket. “No I didn’t.”

“Arthur.”

“Oh God, I did. I wasn’t thinking. I just—John, I’m sorry. Forget about it.” Arthur stands so quickly it disorients John’s vision. “Tell me where to go. I think it’s time to go home.”

“It was nice. I liked it.” John stammers. Of all the times for honesty to pour out of him. “If you want to insist on doing new things today, I pick that one.”

“Nope, we are never speaking about it again. Talk to me about literally anything else.” Arthur’s voice cracks as he starts walking down a path at random. It’s not the way to the apartment.

“Turn around, first of all. You are going to walk us into the middle of nowhere.” Arthur spins on his heels, ready to run off. “And second, you forgot my books.”

Arthur stops. “Your what?”

“You told me to do something for myself, so I did. By the bench, lower, there!” John shouts in glee when Arthur’s hand finds the bookstore bag. “I bought books. I intend to make you sit down and read them all with me. Or we can go see a movie. Your choice.”

Arthur grits his teeth, grunting with the effort. “John, this bag is so fucking heavy.”

“Indeed.”

Arthur sighs and says a prayer to the god John knows he doesn't believe in. “If I say yes will you forget about…what just happened?”

“I will not make a promise I can't keep.”

“Goddammit,” Arthur’s voice gets so high when he’s upset, that John cannot help but laugh. “I could put you away forever, you know.”

“You wouldn’t. You love me too much,” John says, knowing that Arthur lost this game the minute they woke up this morning. John would continue to push until he heard what he wanted. He needed Arthur to say it back.

“I do,” Arthur mutters. “I love you.”

John really was a terrible friend, because he decided at that moment that was going to continue to take from Arthur. His sight. His left side. His heart. Anything and everything this man would give him.