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Separation hasn't really been how they imagined it to be. For once, John realized that having a body is way more work than he thought. He has to manage food, water, temperature, sleep, basic hygiene and bodily functions, way too many things he never had to worry about.
Second of all, he never thought that separating would mean he was going to lose his sight.
It shouldn't have been so surprising, there really only ever was one pair of eyes between them, it was naive of him to expect both of them would come out with a whole body. John wishes he could say that knowing it would be like this wouldn't change his decision.
He is happy for Arthur, he really is. Arthur deserved his body back, his sight back. He deserves everything John took from him and much, much more. He is happy that Arthur is free. But still… Still there's a part of him that aches.
It aches every time Arthur says the sky is beautiful, every time he bumps into something, or trips, or has to ask Arthur to read to him, to guide him.
Since his birth, he was the one guiding, and now he feels lost.
Arthur had told him, once, that the world is more beautiful through his words, that he has the soul of a poet, but his words fail him now, when he has nothing to describe.
And Arthur is so much worse at it than he was. He skips important information, he goes on and leaves John behind, he talks quick and leaves off the details.
If John painted the world like an impressionist, Arthur painted it like a cubist. Shapes and colors, yes, but information he didn't know where to put, lacking dimension.
“Oops, sorry. That's… There's a table there” Arthur's voice lingered in his ears after John bumped the fucking table, almost falling over it. Again.
“Yes, thank you Arthur.” John said sarcastically, huffing. It was easy to be angry. It felt natural. It was as easy for the guilt to grow and choke him.
“Come on, John. It's not like you never let me bump things before.” Arthur chuckled, that sound John learned to recognize Arthur's nervousness in. Arthur took his arm, helping him straighten up and walk around the table.
“I'm sure I did it way less than you do.” John huffed again, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Walking is hard. It's harder when you can't see.
“Well, I'm new to this, John. I never had to guide anyone before.” It was Arthur's turn to huff. John knew he was annoyed, too. That he didn't like this as much as John didn't, and it makes him even angrier.
“You could at least put some effort into it!”
“I do! I'm fucking trying, John.”
“It's not enough!” It will never be enough. It will never be enough when John doesn't know what color Arthur's eyes really are. When he has a body, but he doesn't know his own face. When he asks Arthur to describe the flowers for him and he says “they're red”. When sight was the only thing he had for so long, the only way he could feel the world, and then it's gone.
His sight is gone, and he feels lost. His sight is gone, and he feels angry, and he feels guilty, and he feels sad, and he can't even talk to Arthur about it, because his sight was never his to begin with. It was always Arthur's, he stole it, and now Arthur has it back, and he's happy for him!
He's happy for Arthur. And he doesn't want to fight. And he feels Arthur's hand withdrawing and he panics. He panics because he can't see him, and Arthur can leave, he has his sight and his body and he can leave whenever he wants and John will be blind and alone again.
“Arthur?” He asks, and he pretends he doesn't notice how his voice breaks.
“I'm here, John.” Arthur sighs, his hand making its way back to John's arm. John grips it, holding Arthur's fingers in his. “Look, I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry if it feels like I'm not trying.”
John sighs, relaxing when Arthur starts to rub his thumb over his hand, just like he used to when they shared a body.
“I miss having you describe things to me.” Arthur said, more quietly now. John could hear the smile on his lips, soft and almost not there. “I didn't want to take your eyes from you, John. If I knew, I wouldn't…”
“Your eyes.” John interrupted, looking down. The pit in his stomach growing even more. “They're your eyes.”
“Don't be stupid, John. They're yours. I gifted them to you, remember? They're yours, they have been yours for so long, and then I took them back and I'm not even doing a good job helping you out! What a good friend I am.”
“You're a great friend, Arthur.” John said, feeling Arthur's hand on his again. He took it with both of his, trailing the lines of his palm, the wooden finger, the rough skin. “You did fine, without seeing.”
Arthur laughed, and John forgot all about being angry. “And I was a bitch about it the whole time!” He squeezed John's hands, bringing them to his lips to press five soft kisses, one on each knuckle. “I am sorry, John. I never wanted to take it from you”
John didn't answer, instead he wrapped his arms around Arthur, hugging him as tight as he could, burying his face on Arthur's neck, where he belongs. How can he deserve this? This care, this love, this understanding? He deserves none of it. He doesn't deserve Arthur's sorrow, he is the one being selfish, desiring something that was never his, making his friend, his light, his everything, feel like he took something from him.
“You gave me everything, Arthur.” John pulls back, lifting his hands to Arthur's face, bumping his nose and almost poking his eye trying to settle on his cheeks. “We'll make it work?”
He felt Arthur's smile against his palms.
“We will. Together.”