Archive of Our Own

The first thing John hears in his new body is Arthur.

“John?”

Gingerly, he opens his eyes and sits up, pushing himself up with his hands. It is strange having control of both hands, he flexes his right hand curiously. 

“John, Are you there?”

The first thing John sees in his new body is Arthur. 

Arthur Lester, detective, composer, the first good thing to ever happen to him stands before John, he watches as Arthur feels around the room. 

All John is able to do is stare, enamoured. Arthur through a pair of eyes that are fully his own, he never thought he’d see the day.

He notes how the sunlight sifting in from the grime covered window makes Arthur’s now chin length brown hair look like finely spun gold.

He notes each and every freckle on Arthur’s cheeks, he briefly wonders if he could commit them to memory. 

He notes the cloudy hazel of Arthur’s eyes, the warmth of his gaze. Were Arthur’s eyes this pretty he was in them?

“John!”

“Yes Arthur I’m here, behind you, to your right.” 

Arthur steps to the left, feels around.

“Your other right—“

The first thing John feels in his new body is Arthur as he tackles him to the ground in a hug. John’s breath hitches, and being new to breathing, he chokes on the lost air. 

Arthur pulls away from the hug. John becomes acutely aware of how Arthur is still straddling his waist, his stomach does a strange fluttery thing, it’s too complicated of a sensation for his newly formed human brain to process.

“Sorry, I should have asked.” Arthur’s cheeks redden, as he pulls himself off of John and sits next to him on the attic floor. “I was just so… relieved, I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Can you see, Arthur?” John asks, changing the subject.

“I can’t,” Arthur answers simply, his expression is impossible to read. John falls quiet, unsure, guilty, he had taken so much from Arthur. The silence holds for a little over fifteen seconds before Arthur speaks again: 

 “Do you mind being my eyes for a little longer?” Arthur’s voice is small, almost sheepish; not unlike the tone he used when they first met but also completely different, it is weighed down by deeds that cannot be undone, scars that cannot fade, a life that cannot be returned to. 

“Arthur, you are an idiot.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Arthur chuckles, running his newly returned left hand over the dusty wood floor.

“Don’t give me that shit,” John snaps. “Seperating should have given you your sight back.” 

“And it didn’t, so what?” Arthur asks.

“So what?” John echos, incredulous as he is indignant. 

“It did what the book said it’d do, didn’t it? It separated us, like we wanted. John, I don’t see what the—“

“It means you’ve permanently lost the life you fought so hard to return to.” John states, his voice comes out louder than he expects it to.

“I am perfectly capable of doing my job without my eyes, John. You of all people should know this,” Arthur says evenly.

“It means you have given me more than I can ever hope to give back,” John blurts out before he crumples in Arthur’s arms.

“John.” Arthur rubs circles into John’s back  and pulls him closer. His touch is… gentle, tender, unlike anything John has felt before in or out of this form.

“Arthur.” 

“The first thing we do when we separate is argue,” Arthur says, John can hear the smile in his voice. He never realised hearing smiles was possible. “Some things never change, huh?”

John laughs mirthlessly and he sinks deeper into Arthur’s touch, revelling in his warmth.

“I’m sorry you’re still stuck with me,” John finally says. Selfishly, a part of him is satisfied with this outcome. John will take as much as he can from Arthur; his eyes, his body heat, his left side, his humanity, anything Arthur holds onto too loosely, he will take and treasure. The world’s kindest parasite. 

Arthur’s form stiffens ever so slightly before he pulls away from the embrace and meets John’s eyes. Arthur’s estimation of his new height is surprisingly accurate. “John, if you want to be more independent, visit new places, meet new people, you can, I can manage fine on my own.”

“Arthur, you regularly fall into holes even with my guidance.” Arthur smiles, his eyes crinkle, John notices the beginning of crows feet. “And I… don’t mind being your eyes for longer.” 

“I’d still like for you to have your own life.” 

“And I’d like you in it.” 

Arthur coughs, almost choking on the musty air of the attic. “Yes, John, thank you. Let’s uh… let’s go home,” Arthur stammers as he untangles himself from John and stands up, John can no longer feel his easy warmth. 

Now standing, Arthur stretches out his right hand to John, John grasps it with his left. He tries to stand but his command over his legs is akin to that of a newborn fawn’s, so he ends up pulling Arthur back down with him. Arthur’s eyes widen as he falls to the ground. 

It takes a few seconds for Arthur’s shock to wear off and for a smile to creep up on his face, one more for that smile to grow into laughter. The grip Arthur has on John’s hand tightens, John’s newly formed heart skips a beat. 

He can get used to this.

——————

It is not difficult to fall into a slow routine with Arthur over the next few days; they wake up, look over case files in the tiny closet-like room they call their office, go out to follow whatever leads they have, look over the information they learned that day, and eventually, after about twenty minutes of almost petulant resistance on Arthur’s end, go to bed. This new normalcy is definitely new for them but it certainly is not unwelcome.

It is the quiet walk from the bus stop a few blocks down from their flat that John enjoys the most. It reminds him of why he likes being human.

“I wonder why the ritual gave you so much hair, John,” Arthur says, his pinkie accidentally brushes against John’s hand. John is suddenly acutely aware of how cold his right hand is. 

John hums in response, he does not process his question, he is fully focused on Arthur’s empty hand. 

“You know, John,” Arthur begins, his comma turns into a period when John grabs his hand and he is effectively rendered speechless. 

John’s fingers intertwine with Arthur’s. It’s a strange sensation, the gradual, steady transfer of body heat from Arthur to John.

“I— my hands were cold,” John says, sheepish, his grip on Arthur’s hand tightens ever so slightly. “Yours look… warm. “

“Warm,” Arthur echoes, his cheeks are stained pink. John briefly wonders if they are as warm as his hand, that wonder shifts into worry. What was he thinking? His hands are cold? It’s the middle of June, there is no way Arthur believes—

“I guess that makes sense.” A small smile graces Arthur’s worn features, he squeezes John’s hand and continues walking.

John’s mess of thoughts coupled by him only recently learning how to walk with both feet leads him to stumble forwards. Luckily for him, he stabilises himself in time and Arthur doesn’t so much as look back. Barely recovered, John manages to choke out, “You were saying, Arthur?”

John’s question seems to have snapped Arthur out of some sort of daze, his cheeks are still flushed. “Yes! As I was saying!” Arthur exclaims, his tone is a sort of strangled excitement. “I realise you’ve never described yourself to me.” 

“And?”

“And I’d like you to,” Arthur says, his voice barely above a whisper, the night breeze almost drowns it out.

John is silent, he does not know what to say. He does not even know why he is so hesitant, Arthur has seen John at his worst and vice versa, he’s forgiven John for acts that John cannot even begin to forgive himself for, he’s bared his soul to Arthur. Why was something as trivial as his appearance so difficult to share? 

“Please, friend?”

How could John refuse? John may have Arthur’s eyes but Arthur has rooted himself in his heart and entwined himself in his viscera; Arthur has John, all of him, and John would not have it any other way.

“At home.” 

“Alright,” Arthur smiles. John feels Arthur squeeze his hand thrice, the gesture is gentle and tender and everything John does not deserve but wants anyway. He squeezes back thrice in return, he avoids Arthur’s eyes.

The rest of the walk home is spent in comfortable silence. John does not mind the quiet if it means he is with Arthur and their hands are intertwined.

They do not speak until they reach their doorstep. 

“John, the key,” Arthur says, breaking the silence and snapping John out of the handholding induced reverie he was in. Arthur’s hand leaves John’s so that he may unlock the door. 

John’s hands are cold again.

Wordlessly, John unlocks the door before he is practically dragged by Arthur into the bathroom. 

“You passed the mirror,” John says smugly, making sure Arthur can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Oh piss off,” Arthur snaps without any bite as he feels around for the sink, his shoulders bumping against John’s. “There! Now begin.” 

The bathroom is small, it is barely big enough for the both of them, their shoulders are awkwardly pressed against each other. 

“I’m about a head taller than you.” 

Arthur chuckles, it’s a sweet, warm sound. John is happy Arthur’s laughter is no longer as rare as it used to be

“I look about your age, maybe a year or two older. My hair is black with a streak of grey, it’s long and reaches a little past my shoulders. My eyes are a brownish-yellow, an amber perhaps, and my nose has a prominent bridge, it resembles a hawk’s beak. I have warm brown skin with gold markings scattered around. I’m wearing a similar outfit to you, a brown waistcoat over a dress shirt, my coat is a slightly darker brown and it’s draped over my forearm.” 

John finishes speaking, he looks to Arthur for a reaction. Arthur’s right hand is raised in the vague region of John’s face, it hovers over his cheek.

“May I?” Arthur asks, the words are weak, as if he’d forced them out. John does not say anything in response. Instead, he leans in, gently takes Arthur’s hand by the wrist, and puts it to his cheek, Arthur’s breath hitches with the gesture. 

“Oh.” Arthur breathes. Arthur’s touch, rough and calloused as his hands might be, is warm like the morning sun. John leans into his hand.

He stares at Arthur who seems to be in some sort of trance, his hazel eyes are wide, his mouth is slightly opened.

“Go on, Arthur.” 

This seems to bring Arthur back to reality, heat rushes to his cheeks. Is Arthur embarrassed? “Right.” 

Tentatively, Arthur touches John’s face. His thumbs smooth over the soft flesh of John’s cheeks, stopping whenever he feels a spot of gold, they run across the bridge of his nose, and finally down to brush his closed lips. The moment Arthur realises that it is John’s lips he’s touching, he retracts his hands. 

The action is disguised as Arthur moving on to feel John’s hair, he threads his slender, calloused fingers through his hair, combing through it. The force Arthur uses is calculated, John can tell as much; it is just enough to untangle the knots in his hair without pain on John’s end. He’s done this before, many times. 

The proximity is odd, it somehow manages to be both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Arthur is familiar. You can only resist knowing someone you’re sharing a body with for so long. The intimacy and gentleness of another being’s touch is unfamiliar. Tenderness is a relatively new concept to John, he knows of it but being shown it is a whole other thing. His mind wanders to when Kayne returned him to Arthur all those months ago, how he called him his friend, how Arthur so reverently said he missed him, how asked to shake his hand, and the ensuing softness of his hold. John could not forget it even if he tried. 

Arthur’s right hand returns to cup John’s cheek, he leans in ever so slightly, John can feel his warm breath against his cheek. “You’re beautiful, John,” Arthur says simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What?”

In response to John’s question, Arthur swiftly pulls away, placing as much distance between them as their flat’s small bathroom allows, the red of his cheeks persisting with a sort of renewed fervour. “I mean, I’m happy you have a face of your own, John. I’m sure you’re positively dashing,” Arthur blurts out quickly, John almost doesn’t catch his words. “Thank you for letting me… touch you, it must have been uncomfortable.”

“It wasn’t,” John replies automatically. “You helped me to get this body, you deserve to know it as I do.” 

Arthur’s mouth forms the beginning of several words before he settles on John’s name. “John, I—“

“Thank you, Arthur,” John says sincerely. 

Arthur relaxes, his shoulders sag and his lips quirk up ever so slightly, entering the beginning stages of a smile. Always,” he returns, just as sincere.

“Always?” John questions.

“It’s a variant of ‘you’re welcome’, it tells the thanker that you’ll continue to be there for them, that your support will persist past the act of kindness they are thanking you for,” Arthur explains, he is fully smiling at John now.

“You will?” Even after everything you’ve lost?

“Of course,” Arthur responds almost immediately, he does not even hesitate. “Now let’s get ready for bed, we’ll review what we’ve learned tomorrow morning, it’s far too late for any sort of productive work.” 

John takes Arthur’s hand and presses it to his lips, Arthur stills. “Let’s.” 

——————

This morning, like the many before, John is roused by the sound of music. Arthur has gotten into the habit of playing the piano in the morning. The piano was something of an impulse purchase by Arthur, he bought it in a drunken haze the night after they solved their first case together, and he’s been playing it everyday since.

Even though they sleep in the same bed, John rarely wakes up with Arthur. Arthur is a much more fitful sleeper than him, the few months of being essentially on the run certainly did not do his already poor sleeping habits any favours. In stark contrast, John is a very heavy sleeper. Arthur equates his sleeping form to “a heavy log”, John resents this sentiment. Is it wrong to be good at a natural body function that so many grown adults are terrible at despite years of practice? Perhaps Arthur is jealous of his skill. That must be it. 

John ambles out of their bedroom and into their living room. “Good morning,” he yawns.

(Their flat is a gift from Daniel. He initially offered it to Arthur for free but Arthur being Arthur, vehemently refused, insisting he pay rent. They eventually compromised with a greatly reduced monthly fee.)

“Morning, John!” Arthur chirps, rising from the piano stool. “Your hot chocolate is in the pot on the stove, it should still be warm.” 

John takes a sip, it’s sweet and warm. Why anyone would choose something as foul and as bitter as coffee over it is beyond him.

“You’re in a good mood,” John says, taking a seat on the couch, Arthur sits beside him as he always does.

“Am I?” Arthur questions, he thinks for a moment before he chuckles. “Hmm… I suppose I am.” 

“Did something good happen?” 

“Clara rang while you were asleep, she invited me to afternoon tea this Saturday.”

“Clara?” 

“Ms Pearce.”

John’s mind conjures up an image of Ms Pearce, a regal woman in her late thirties with delicate features and short curly black hair. 

John remembers her being particularly friendly with Arthur specifically, friendlier than most other clients were with either of them. When John brought up her behaviour to Arthur, he brushed it off as “nothing”. “Nothing” his ass, how did he believe that so easily? When did they get on a first name basis? Why didn’t John notice?

“Our last client?” John musters.

“Yes, she asked me out on a date.” 

Of course she did. John does not understand the human categorisation of relationships, familial from everything else he understood fine, flesh and blood and all that, but platonic from romantic? Why do romantic relationships seem to be placed on a higher “tier” than friendships? Why is romance always portrayed as an all consuming force when it is just another type of relationship?

Distaste for human categorisation aside, John knows what it means to be asked on a date, it means she wants to get closer to Arthur, his Arthur.

“A date?” John breathes

“I can hardly believe it either!” Arthur laughs. “Can you imagine? Me?”

“I can imagine,” John mutters under his breath. Despite it all Arthur is beautiful, he possesses the same sort of resilient beauty as a flower growing between the pavement cracks; John’s favourite flower are dandelions, they are persevering and bright like the sun. 

“Are you jealous, John?” Arthur asks playfully. 

“No.” He is, just not for the reason Arthur thinks.

“It’s alright John, I’m certain you’ll find someone soon enough,” Arthur teases, elbowing John’s side.

“That’s not— that’s not it.” John stammers. “Will you be alright without me?”

Arthur laughs at John’s concern, he picks up a piece of evidence they gathered the day before and hands it to John. “John, I’ll be fine, I’m not as helpless as when we first separated. I have my cane and Ms Pearce to guide me.” 

“But—“ John tries to protest, his voice is quickly overridden by Arthur’s.

“And besides, don’t you want some time to yourself?” Arthur asks, there’s something off about his smile, it’s melancholic, almost sour. “Go out on your own, have fun, visit a park, see that movie you were bugging me about on the train.”

It isn’t even showing anymore. John wants to say but he doesn’t. He can’t take the luxury of space away from Arthur again. “Fine, have fun on Saturday.”

“You too, John,” Arthur says, not unkindly. “Let’s… get to work, shall we?” 

“Yes.” 

John begins reading their shared notes from the day before to Arthur, Arthur occasionally points out details he remembers that weren’t included in the notes, and anything he thinks John might have misremembered. It is an awkward few minutes, the room is colder, the air is heavier. 

“Do you resent me?” John asks, his voice quivers ever so slightly.

“Don’t be foolish, John,” Arthur dismisses, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I’m asking you a question,” John says, more forcefully. He will not be brushed off by Arthur, not again.

“And I’m answering it,” Arthur snaps. “I just want some time to myself without you breathing down my neck.” 

“Jesus Christ Arthur, I’m concerned for you!” 

Arthur scoffs, he puts down his cup of coffee with a greater amount of force. “Concerned that I what? Want to have a life outside of you? Concerned that I won’t need you anymore?”

Yes. “No.” 

“I think you are, John.”

Arthur is wrong, surprisingly enough. John is not concerned, he’s afraid, afraid Arthur won’t need him anymore, afraid he’ll be alone again. Selfishly, he misses when Arthur’s presence was a constant, when the thought of Arthur leaving him for someone better, prettier and more human was irrational.

“I am willing to give up a lot of things for you but I draw the line at my space and freedom,” Arthur continues, there is a particular bitterness to his tone, his words are short and biting. “I won’t let you take that from me again.”

Again. Guilt cuts John like a dull knife.

“Arthur, please.” 

“What do you want, John? I have given you my sight, my humanity, my old life, my…” Arthur trails off, he softens ever so slightly. “I’m sorry.” 

John sucks in a breath. “It’s okay, Arthur.” 

“Good,” Arthur concludes hastily. “Now where were we?” 

“Mr Abel’s receipts,” John says, his tone steady lest he give Arthur more proof of the lonely, desperate fool he is. 

——————

This morning, like the many before, Arthur wakes up in John’s arms. The last few days, his hold has gotten tighter, Arthur knows why, he knows it’s his fault. 

Guiltily, he basks in John’s touch. He does not deserve to be held so tightly, he does not deserve to be awakened by the comforting beat of John’s heart, he does not deserve his affection. 

The days leading up to Arthur’s date have been… uncomfortable to say the least, they rarely speak save for when they are working or when John describes the environment to him. 

(In a futile, ultimately self-serving attempt to reconcile, Arthur continues making hot chocolate for John in the mornings. Making it blind is not as difficult as he thought it would be, the muscle memory of making it for Faroe on weekend mornings seems to have persisted despite it all. Arthur takes comfort in that making hot chocolate in the mornings regains him, he takes comfort in John’s almost audible smile as he drinks it.) 

Gently, he attempts to pry himself out John’s grasp, he fails as John holds him tighter. “John,” he whispers.

“Stay,” John mutters, still asleep.

“John,” Arthur says, louder this time, his tone is still gentle. 

John seems to do the opposite, his hold on Arthur tightens even more. “Please.”

Arthur concedes. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Arthur runs an unsteady hand through John’s hair, he tucks a strand behind his ear. He imagines John bathed in the early morning sunlight, the golden rays gently kissing his handsome features as he holds Arthur to his chest, close to his heart.

He must look beautiful. 

Fuck.

Arthur loves John, it is a fact he’s known for quite a while, it is not a difficult fact to accept. What is a difficult fact to accept is that his love for John can no longer bear the moniker of “platonic”. Arthur does not know what he feels for John, romantic feelings would not be ideal but they are at least understandable, it has a name while whatever Arthur feels for John does not. What Arthur does know is that he treasures John’s affection, covets it like a dragon hoards gold. Affection is a luxury Arthur cannot afford and definitely does not deserve, John deserves better than Arthur, no amount of vehement denial from John can change that fact. 

Someday the fog of denial that clouds John’s vision will lift and he will leave; from how Arthur has been treating him he will not be surprised if it is soon. 

All the more reason to take as much as I can, Arthur thinks as he drifts back to sleep. 

——————

“Arthur?” 

The arms that were around his waist loosen and eventually leave altogether. Arthur mourns the loss of warmth.

Groggily, Arthur responds, “John.” 

Arthur feels their shared mattress shift as John sits up. 

“God I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have—“

“It’s okay, John,” Arthur interrupts, also sitting up. “If I didn’t want you to hold me I would’ve told you to stop the first time.” 

“The first time?”

The ends of Arthur’s lips upturn in a smile, he cannot help but chuckle. “Did you not notice that you’ve been holding me in your sleep?”

“No,” John says sheepishly. “How long have I been… holding you.” 

Arthur pauses to think. It was the first night they separated, 14th June when it started, the morning of 15th when Arthur realised. How does he remember that? He can’t possibly tell John that he— “Since the 14th of June.”

“You remember the exact date?”

“I.. it was the middle of June, easy date to remember.”

“Oh,” John replies simply. 

They sit on the edge of their shared bed in silence for almost a minute before the words finally come to Arthur.

“I think I owe you an apology for Thursday, a proper one.”

“What for?”

“For being an arse to you,” Arthur states plainly. 

“No, Arthur I—“

“Let me speak, John,” Arthur interrupts, John seems to comply with his request. “I was so excited about being able to do things as an individual again that I immediately saw any sort of concern from you as pushback, I’m sorry for lashing out at you. You were concerned for me, I should have at least heard you out.”

“Arthur, you have nothing to apologise for, I was just being difficult,” John says bitterly. 

“We can decide that together.” 

“Huh?”

“What were you concerned about?” 

John falls silent. This is the one of the rare times Arthur wishes he was not blind, he misses being able to read body language. Eventually, the quiet becomes too much for him to bear and he reaches for John’s hand, cupping it in his. “You’re my friend, John, one of the best I’ve ever had; I care about your opinion.”

“Why her?” John asks, his tone is strangely flat, sounding more like a question than a statement.

“Well, she asked.” Not a lie but not completely true either. He likes Clara, she’s a talented poet and writer, she possessed a similar sort of wit to Bella. As happy as Arthur is to have been able to help find her manuscript, he does not feel any sort of strong connection to her. The truth of the matter is that Arthur wants to feel normal again, like he never lost what he had. The promise of normalcy was something he clung onto during those hellish months, he is just making good on that promise to himself. Arthur’s fear that he would be alone when John realised he could do so much better than the broken husk of a man that is Arthur unrelated.

“Would you accept if I asked?” John responds, his voice is barely above a whisper. 

Yes. Of course he would. “No.” 

“Why? I could take you out on a date just as easily,” John almost pleads, the facade of neutrality he built around his tone unraveling. “We’re separated now, I have some extra money from—“

“John, you’re a man, it’s wrong— unnatural for two men to go on dates,” Arthur interjects, his tone is even, as if we were explaining basic facts to a petulant child. He takes a breath. “Besides, you’re only asking that because I’m the closest person to you.”

John’s grip on his hand tightens, he does not speak for an excruciating ten seconds. “What about the time you said you’d take me dancing? Or the lunch date you suggested at Larson’s mansion? Are they dates? Did you mean it?” John finally, his voice is shaky, quivering, almost as if he were… he made John cry, didn’t he?

“John, are you crying? If it’s upsetting you this much—“

“Answer the question, Arthur, please,” John chokes out, his words are strained, stretched.

“I meant it.”

“Then… would you go dancing with me if I asked?” He sounds hopeful. “It’s— it’s not as a date or anything.” 

Arthur smiles at his earnestness, John is endlessly endearing. God it is going to be so hard when he inevitably leaves. “I was the one who asked you but yes, yes I would.” 

“Let’s go dancing then, when cases slow down,” John says, determined. 

“Sounds lovely.” Arthur releases John’s hand and gently wipes away his friend’s tears. “You’re going to make someone so happy one day, John,“ Arthur says softly.

The sheets rustle, John is fidgeting. “Someone?” He echoes with an upwards intonation

“Your future romantic partner, whoever they— she is.” Arthur smiles in spite of the numbing ache in his chest. He needs to get over himself, John does not owe him companionship even after all they’ve been through.

“What makes you think I’ll have one?” 

Arthur cannot help but laugh at John’s question. “John, have you seen yourself? I don’t need to be able to see for my eyes to be sore while looking in your general direction.” 

“Arthur— you— I— that’s—“ John flounders for a few seconds before he decides to keep his mouth shut presumably so he can come up with a single coherent response rather than the beginning of several different ones. “What does that mean?”

“A sight for sore eyes. You’re attractive, John, I cannot believe I have to spell that out for you,” Arthur chuckles, amused. The irony of a man, a former god who has been worshipped, who has been prayed to, who has been sung of being unaware and unable to comprehend that he is desirable. 

John is stunned into silence, Arthur is close enough to hear him let out a single breath. “You’ve never seen me,” John grumbles just loud enough for Arthur to hear. 

“There are other factors at play!” Arthur argues, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re artistic, smart, gentle, thoughtful… kind, you’re you.”

“Thanks, Arthur,” John says, he’s genuine but his tone is laced with an emotion akin to resignation. “But I don’t want that— I don’t want anyone else, I’m happy with things as they are, with you.”

Arthur laughs again before he says something he has been told countless times by people who felt qualified to give him life advice solely because they were older than him: “You just haven’t met the right person yet.” 

How the mighty have fallen but it must be done. Arthur cares about John, he does not want John to be stuck holding his hand, leaning his head on his shoulder, falling asleep by his side for the rest of his life; it would be a waste of the humanity they had worked so hard to get him.

John does not respond, perhaps he is thinking about Arthur’s words, maybe they angered him, Arthur would understand if they did. Regardless of John’s current feelings, Arthur persists with his argument.

“And— and you will someday and they’ll make you happier than you ever thought possible,” Arthur concludes, he hopes John did not notice his voice shake.

“I’ll consider it,” John says reluctantly, there’s a soft thud of fabric against fabric when he flops back down, returning to lying on their bed. “For now I’ll just… lay here.”

“Come on, John, we’ve got an entire day ahead of us. We can’t be moping in bed all day, can we?” Arthur teases, reaching for John’s hand and pulling him up. “I need you to lead me to the telephone." 

“Who are you going to call?” Arthur hears the spring of the mattress creak as John stands up, Arthur takes his arm in his right hand.

“Ms Pearce, I’m going to cancel my date with her,” Arthur explains as John leads him to the living room.

“You don’t have to Arthur, please don’t deny yourself nice things for my sake, you deserve it,” John’s words are stilted, as if he were reading off a script. He does not sound sincere.

“Are you sure, John?” Arthur asks, cautious.

Silence. John stops walking, he’s thinking. A traitorous part of Arthur wants John to say no, stake his claim over him, tell him that he belonged to him and only him, order him to cancel. Arthur knows John would never do that because that is what he would do in John’s position; John is not selfish, not like him.

“Yes, Arthur, I’m sure.” 

——————

John trudges through the city streets, his steps are brisk, the warm toned leaves covering the stone pavement crunching beneath his boots. A soft zephyr whips around and brushes the tip of his ear, he stuffs his hands into his jacket pocket as he continues to walk.

It is a frustratingly pleasant autumn day and it pisses John off that rather than spending the lovely afternoon with Arthur he instead spent it watching the most painfully mediocre motion picture he had ever seen in a theatre that was completely cut off from the light and breeze of the outside world. 

(The worst part of that movie is that it was neither good nor bad, it was the perfect middle ground. This means that there was nothing to say about it other than the fact that it was eerily average. A window into greater humanity is something to be coveted, it’s why John enjoys poetry, movies, music, books, enjoys art, they allow him to gaze into a life he’s never lived whether it be the characters’ or the authors. Thus, it frustrates John when a piece of art fails to say anything at all, when it is clear that the author did not put their lifetime of experiences or any of their heart into it. At the end of this specific train of thought, John wonders if he took on more of Arthur’s pretentiousness than he realised.)

John’s thoughts consume him, his frown deepening as the vortex of regrets sucks him in. He should have told Arthur to stay, found some poor excuse for Arthur to spend the rest of the day in his embrace. Speaking of which, John cannot believe it took Arthur so long to confront him about his… sleeping habits, what is even more unbelievable is the fact that Arthur wanted to be held by him, just thinking about Arthur’s admissions made John’s heart race. Perhaps Arthur treasured his company and touch as much as John did his. 

Wishful thinking aside, John regrets not stopping Arthur. He hates how someone else is soaking in his radiance, how he’s probably smiling at someone with the same sort of affection he usually only showed John, how—

A flash of red enters his field of vision— apples. Arthur likes apples. This sight almost immediately untangles John from his mess of thoughts as he stops to take a look. John absentmindedly picks one up and inspects it.

The apple is a vibrant red with splashes of yellow across its round surface, the light from the street reflects off its smooth, waxy peel. The fruit fits right in his palm, he squeezes it, it is firm. John buys a few, leaving the grocery with a heavy paper bag before continuing his trek home.

Music greets John at their doorstep, he hears it through their flat’s thin walls, Arthur is home. Hastily, he wrangles his key into the keyhole, pushes open the door, and stumbles into their living room; his actions are so rushed that he almost drops the bag of apples. 

The music stops abruptly. John sees Arthur, who is sitting at the standing piano in their living room, his slender fingers are still on the keys, there is a bouquet of yellow flowers on the case’s lid, they look like daisies. 

“John?”

“Arthur, you’re early,” John breathes

“I missed you,” Arthur replies immediately, colour rushes to his cheeks the moment he realised what he had said. “I mean— I don’t—“

“I bought apples on the way home,” John interrupts lest Arthur embarrass himself further. He places the paper bag on the dining table. 

“There’s a fruit bowl somewhere in the cupboard,” Arthur says, his sentence punctuated by the screech of the stool scraping against the floor. Wincing at the sound, Arthur stands up. He takes his cane in his right hand, the bouquet in the left, and walks over to their kitchen where John is. Arthur leans his cane against the dining table, crouches down and feels around the cupboard below the kitchenette.  

“To your left, a stack of porcelain bowls rests atop of shallow dish plates, behind them are pots and pans haphazardly stacked, it looks like the person keeping them didn’t place too much care into it,” John describes, crouching down beside Arthur.

 Arthur rolls his eyes and opens the right cupboard. “Do you,” he begins before he puts the flowers on the counter above him. “Do you see it? It’s a big clear blue bowl I think.” 

John cranes his neck to look inside. “At the very back, be careful of the dishes in between.” 

“Could you put the apples in?” Arthur asks, placing the bowl from the back of the cupboard on the table before taking a seat. John notes how Arthur is fiddling with his hands.

John pours the apples into the bowl, Arthur picks one and takes a bite. John moves to sit across from him. It takes a minute before either of them speak again, John spends that entire minute staring at the bouquet of yellow daisies on the kitchen counter. 

“How was it?” John finally musters.

Arthur stops eating. “She was nice, made good conversation, the tea was… good.” 

“She got you flowers.”

“Oh! The flowers, I almost forgot.” John has known Arthur long enough to know that he is lying. Arthur reaches for the flowers on the counter, his cheeks have taken on a peach hue. “No she didn’t, I got them for you.”

Arthur stretches out the bouquet to him, almost instinctively avoiding John’s eyes. Their fingers touch as John receives the flowers from Arthur, the cold wood of Arthur’s left pinkie brushes against John’s own. John swears he feels his heart stop and stutter like a faulty engine. 

“They’re apology flowers, I was a bad friend, I’m sorry,” Arthur says, his hands returning to his lap. “They didn’t have any dandelions so I went with yellow daisies.” 

John runs his fingers across the delicate golden petals, a petal falls from the force, John mutters a curse under his breath as he pulls his hand away from the flowers. His fingertips are stained yellow with pollen.

“Thank you, Arthur,” John smiles. “Why are you apologising again though? We made up this morning.” 

“It was not enough of an apology, not for me.”

“You don’t need to atone, Arthur.”

“You don’t understand!” Arthur protests, frustrated. “John, I can’t— I cannot—“ Arthur’s eyes widen, he realises… something; judging from the mortification that painted his features, the crease of his eyebrows and his slacked jaw, it probably was not good. 

“You cannot what?” John asks, his tone is gentle as if he were speaking to a cornered animal.

Arthur’s expression softens into a small, twisted smile, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Yet, John, smitten idiot that he is, finds it beautiful all the same. “Thank you.” 

That does not answer John’s question, it takes every bit of self control John has not to ask further. He wants to pry, reach into the trenches of Arthur’s heart but he knows Arthur guards those depths with a lock that can only be forced open by a monumental argument that ends up hurting the both of them. It would be an exercise in futility to try so instead he says:

“Always.” 

“Don’t get smart with me,” Arthur snaps playfully, his shoulders relax from the release of tension. 

John stands, still holding the flowers. “Where do I put the flowers?” 

“In a vase probably,” Arthur says sarcastically.

“Which we do not have,” John replies, matching Arthur’s tone. Arthur’s smile turns out to be infectious as John finds himself smiling back at him. 

Arthur giggles, it’s a lovely sound. “Which we do not have,” he echoes.

“Do you think we can make it to the second hand store before it closes?” John says, thinking out loud. 

Arthur stands up and takes a bite of his apple. “We’ve most certainly been on tighter deadlines before.”

——————

On a rainy Friday evening, Arthur finally takes John dancing. The club they go to is one of the smaller ones, Arthur suspected that it was a speakeasy that had gotten a liquor license after Prohibition was over. The interior is welcoming, doubly so after coming in from the damp cold of the rain, it’s dimly lit by warm lamps shaded by frosted glass, the floor is a smooth, worn dark hard wood, polished by the shoes of excited dancers over the years. John will not be one of them, at least with the way things have been going

“Are you going to dance with anyone tonight?” Arthur grins at him, his cloudy hazel eyes sparkling in the lamp light. John gazes into his friend’s eyes, his expression softens despite himself.

Arthur looks nice tonight— relaxed, his hair is slightly messy from a full day of detective work, his cheeks are tinged pink, warmed by the alcohol, his new floral tie is loose, and his smile, God his smile. It is small but constant and genuine, his crows feet become more apparent, and his lips quirk up ever so slightly, just barely making his dimples visible; John did not realise Arthur had dimples until recently when smiling became less of a rarity for him and John could actually see Arthur’s face with his own eyes, despite this, John finds himself treasuring each smile all the same. 

(They had spent some time after dinner yesterday evening picking out new ties for the occasion at Arthur’s insistence. “It’s important to indulge in small luxuries every now and then!” he justified with an excited smile on his worn face when John initially protested. Happiness looked too good on Arthur for John to even consider denying him that whim.)

“I’m happy where I am, Arthur,” John replies stubbornly.

“Sulking at the bar with me?” Arthur laughs, taking a sip of his drink as if to prove his point.  “You wanted to go dancing, right? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.” 

What Arthur said was true, John did want to dance, he wanted to dance with Arthur who was annoyingly unaware of that fact. “I’m not,” John mutters. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” 

“Go up to someone you think looks nice and ask them if they’d like to dance,” Arthur explains as if it was obvious what John was supposed to do. 

“Would you like to dance with me, Arthur?” John asks obstinately, fully aware that is definitely not what Arthur meant 

Arthur’s smile falters for just a second before he laughs. “No, John, the point of this is to meet new people.” 

John looks down at his hands. “We meet new people at work.” 

“This is different, John, there is a level of intimacy to dance, the music, the proximity, it’s the beginning of a connection,” Arthur argues gently, his smile is less apparent now. “Just ask someone, I promise it’ll be fun whether or not it works out.” 

“What should I be looking for?”

“It varies from person to person.” 

“What do you look for?”

“W-what?” Arthur’s smile was completely gone now, his face red with embarrassment. 

“You’ve lived longer than I have, surely you have some idea of what you look for in a ‘dancing partner’,” John replies innocently, it feels good to throw Arthur off after a night of teasing and pestering.

“… I don’t, not anymore,” Arthur frowns, barely regaining his composure. “I have no reason to.” 

“Why not? Were you intending on dancing on your own when you invited me all those months ago?”

Arthur laughs mirthlessly and shakes his head. “Look at me, I’m… not exactly an ideal partner.” 

“I disagree with that,” John says automatically.

“Don’t patronise me, John,” Arthur growls, slamming his glass on the bar counter, the sound is fortunately muffled by the music.

“I’m not, Arthur, you—“

“Come on, John, you don’t need to lie to make me feel better. I know what I look like.” 

“I don’t think you do.” 

“Stop lying to me!” Arthur shouts a little too loud, earning them a few glares from other patrons. “We… we should go, since neither of us will be dancing,” Arthur says quietly, he puts some money under his half full glass of whiskey and stands up.

John does not protest and leads Arthur out of the club and into the cold of the rain once more. The heavy rain against the pavement and the music from the band inside muffles the thrum of John’s heart.

“The buses should still be running,” John says, opening the umbrella they had bought. John wishes Arthur would say something— anything at all but he only hums in acknowledgment. 

They do not speak on the way to the bus stop or on the bus. John tries not to cry, it’s hard not to. Concealing his emotions was easier when he still lived in the back of Arthur’s mind, he didn’t have a face to control back then, only a voice. 

It is when they are mere steps away from their door when the dam breaks. “Fuck’s sake, Arthur.” 

“John, please—“ Arthur begins to plead, his voice is barely loud enough for John to hear over the pouring rain. 

“What is with you?” John spits, ignoring Arthur’s words.

“Open the door,” Arthur says breathlessly. “It’s raining.” 

“Christ, Arthur, why won’t you answer any of my questions?” John yells, frustrated. 

“We’re out in the fucking rain in the middle of the night so I’m sorry for not being in the mood for an interrogation,” Arthur retorts, scowling, his coat is slightly wet from the stray droplets of rain that the umbrella failed to shield them from. 

“What do you want, Arthur?” 

“I want to get into our home.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!” John cries, their faces are inches away from each other, he can feel Arthur’s hot breath on his cheek, he can smell the whiskey. If it were not for the umbrella he was holding over both of their heads he would have fallen into Arthur’s arms. “One moment you’re affectionate, you let me hold you to bed, you hold my hand on the walk home, and then you stop, you withdraw the affection as quickly as you gave it, as if you’d just realised what you were doing, as if you hated yourself for doing it, as if it was wrong. What do you want, Arthur? What do you want from me?” 

Arthur sighs, he looks… almost guilty. “We can sleep in separate beds, we should have been sleeping in separate beds, I don’t know what I was think–” 

“I like falling asleep next to you,” John breathes. 

“That’s the issue, you shouldn’t… like that.” Arthur’s frown deepens, he wraps his arms around his upper body pulling his coat tighter to warm himself up. “You should want more, better.” 

“Who are you to tell me that?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you, John?” 

“I guess so!” 

“Fine! You deserve more than a heavily scarred, traumatised blind man for a partner, you deserve to wake next to someone who is better, you deserve to love someone who isn’t broken,” Arthur sobs, he manages to stun John silent. “I thought you were going to leave, that it was only a matter of time before you decided you were done but you just wouldn’t, you stayed.”

He does not know what to say to Arthur, how to even begin to correct him because he was wrong, so  wrong. Arthur tilts his head up, to purposefully meet John’s amber eyes. John naturally looks away, it is hard to look at Arthur when he is… like this, defensive, scared, terrified of losing again. 

“Look at me, John,” Arthur says, his voice dangerously steady. 

“I am,” John lies.

“You can’t bear to look at me, can you?” Arthur chokes, his head falls, John can no longer see his eyes. 

John sighs, he finally finds it in himself to look at Arthur, to properly look at him. His light brown curls have gotten frizzy from humidity, his coat is wet from the rain, his big brown eyes are damp with tears, he has permanent eyebags from the months he spent on the run with John, his cheeks are covered with umber freckles that remind John of the stars, his lips are chapped and he has a scar at the bottom of it from shaving that morning, and he is beautiful, the most beautiful person John has ever laid his eyes on.  

“It’s not that,” John breathes, he says it far too tenderly.

“Then what is it? Why do you stay John? You have a body now, you can leave, you can find better, more suitable companionship, why do you choose to spend the limited time you have with me?” Arthur sucks in a breath, he has started fully crying. “I’m not worth it, John.” 

“Don’t you dare say that about yourself.” 

“I can say whatever the fuck I want about myself.” 

“If that’s the case then don’t tell me what I should want for myself!” John snaps.

“That’s different,” Arthur shoots back as if his argument made any sense. 

“What do I have to do for you to allow me to want you? Why do you refuse to believe me?” John says— he begs. 

“Because it is not true, it will never be true,” Arthur says through tears. John balks at the argument. Arthur is a private investigator, they both are, he should know that saying something ‘is not true’ does not make it so, especially when the evidence that it is stands in front of him.

“Goddamnit, Arthur!” He finds himself screaming back. 

“Don’t be like that, John, please, I want—”

John kisses him. Their umbrella falls to the floor. Their noses bump. Time seems to stop. John’s hands cradle Arthur’s face, he kisses Arthur like he is going to dissipate into mist and slip through his fingers the moment he lets go. Arthur kisses him with the same desperation, his fingers thread through John’s long rain-soaked hair. And after what could be seconds, what could be days, they part, the rain continues to fall. 

“You are an idiot,” John smiles.  

“I’m sorry, did you not want that?” Arthur has the nerve to ask.

“Arthur, I kissed you.” He takes Arthur’s hands in his. “I should be asking you that.” 

“Right,” Arthur nods, his cheeks are red. “And… I wanted it too, terribly so.” 

“Do you believe me then?” John asks, bringing Arthur’s hands closer to him, he smooths over his left wooden pinkie.

“Yes but I still think you’re making a mistake.” Arthur’s hold on John's hands tightens. “I’m not easy to love.” 

“We both know that’s not true.” 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“We’ve fought, we’ve killed, we went through hell together,” John says. “Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” 

“Damn it, John.” Even though Arthur is still crying, he cannot help but smile. “You’re making a mistake, you know that?” 

“I’ll make the mistake then, It’s my life, remember?” John says softly, he puts Arthur’s back hand to his lips and kisses it. 

“The life that you want me in,” Arthur replies, awestruck.

“You remembered.” 

Arthur laughs, his tears mix with the rain. “I did.” 

“So will you? I want you there.” 

Arthur smiles brightly, his dimples show. It’s a happy, gorgeous smile. “I’ll be there, as long as you’d have me.” 

John hugs him. It is objectively a terrible hug with the rain and the layers of wet clothing that came with it; John does not care. He has Arthur and Arthur has him, that’s all that matters for now. 

“Thank you, friend,” John says, his voice muffled by Arthur’s shoulder and the rain, the giant smile on his face definitely does not help. 

“Always.” Arthur pulls away from the hug and presses his lips to John’s cheek, John tries to return the favour by planting a kiss on Arthur’s lips but he stops him, playfully pushing him away. “Inside, darling, we’ve been out here long enough.” 

——————

“So you want this, me.” 

John, smiling, rolls his eyes and nestles further into the crook of Arthur’s neck, he is so wonderfully warm. “You’re seriously asking that now? While we’re in bed, while I’m latched onto you like a fucking koala?” 

“It’s an honest question!” Arthur protests, his smile betrays the seriousness of his tone. “Besides, you’ve been doing that for months.” 

In response, John grunts and his arms tighten around Arthur’s waist. This, surprisingly, is not a satisfactory answer for his companion.

“You’re impossible,” Arthur chides, there’s no real bite to it. 

“Hm?” John hums innocently.

“I don’t get it, you have a choice now, why do you choose to stay?” Arthur asks, his tone is lighter than when he first asked that question.

“I love you.” 

Arthur ruffles John’s hair. “I knew that. Why do you love me?” 

“Fishing for compliments now, are we? I thought you were above that,” John jokes. 

Arthur presses a chaste kiss to the top of John’s head. “Then you think far too highly of me, friend.” 

“I would argue it’s just high enough.” John shifts himself up so he’s face to face with Arthur, so he feels his breath on his cheek. 

“So will you oblige me?” Arthur’s voice is small, he sounds uncertain, insecure.

“You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re resilient, and you’re really fucking stubborn but you’re probably the strongest person I know,” John confesses, his voice low and affectionate. “I like it when you play the piano, even in the mornings when it’s not for me because it’s evidence of your existence, a reminder of the humanity you’ve gifted me.” 

Arthur touches his forehead to John’s, he beams at him. “You’re a sap,” Arthur says before he closes the miniscule distance between their lips and kisses John, he tastes of mint and morning sunlight, John almost forgets it is still raining. 

“And you’re everything I look for in a dance partner,” John says when they pull apart. 

Arthur laughs, a full wholehearted chortle. “Even after today?”

“Especially after today,” John says seriously. “I believe it’s only fair.”  

Arthur heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose I don't have a choice then.” 

John stifles a giggle, he feels like a fucking school girl despite neither having gone to school nor giving a damn about gender. “No, no you do not.” 

“Aren’t you demanding?” 

“To be human is to want.”

Arthur huffs, amusement colours his tired features. “You make a compelling argument.” 

“How do you think I survived sharing a body with you for so long?” John’s arms snake around Arthur’s waist once more, he feels Arthur relax in his embrace.

“Fair enough,” Arthur yawns into John’s chest, sleep will be taking him soon. “It’s a date then.”