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Another thing about being human: humans have childhoods.
When he was in Arthur’s head, the bleed-over regarding that was minimal. Sometimes there were green fields running under a pair of short legs, and other times there was just smoke and flame.
He never asked too many questions regarding the topic, every attempt was met with tears filled eyes and questions to change the topic, but he knows it’s something important. He can see traces of his childhood in the way he hums church songs when he thinks John can’t hear him, or in the way he can curl up until almost disappearing in the bed next to John's.
In the way he eats the core of apples and the peels of oranges, even though they’re disgusting. ‘Nothing goes to waste’ is his favorite line when he sucks on the bones of the chicken they eat on Wednesday.
On one hand, John can’t forget the hunger during their adventures.
But on the other hand…
“Are you still eating the soup?” Arthur has his mouth full, pointing at John’s plate with his spoon.
Potatoes float in the cloudy broth, neither of them is that great of a cook, with the spoon on the plate’s edge.
“Uh, no” he passes him the plate, “I’m not very hungry”
“You don’t like my cooking?”
“It’s not…” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “Jesus, Arthur. You put too much salt”
“You’re ungrateful and spoiled”
“And you’re a bad cook”.
To tell the truth, he doesn’t really know if the soup is too salty or not. Taste is one of his favorite senses, but he thinks it’s just a bit…immature.
But he loves to annoy Arthur, and he loves to watch him eat.
He loves to watch him in general, but he especially loves when he’s satisfied and pleased and happy and safe.
And he loves the way this Arthur is more and more present.
Since everything ended, they decided to create their own little normal life. A small apartment with two beds and two armchairs, a small PI agency, a routine. In the evening, whenever it’s possible, he sits on the floor at the feet of Arthur’s chair, as he snuggles in the cover, reading out loud until they decide to move in their bedroom, in which he continues until his slight snoring doesn’t interrupt him.
He always says that the armchair’s fabric is itchy, and that’s true, but also he loves when Arthur absentmindedly passes his hand in his hair, grating his scalp with his short nails.
He’d like to think that this detail reminds him of his mother’s fingers during his childhood, but he never had one. So he can’t even imagine that memory.
“You have to eat something” Arthur exclaims, staring at him. “Food is…well…”
“Full of good things, I know” he smiles with the tenderness he learned from him, “but really, I’m not that hungry. I’d rather want you to finish it, you’re as thin as a nail”
“Mother hen”
“Shut up and eat”.
He finishes what remains of the soup in quick gulps, then he stands up and places the plate in the sink.
Even though he doesn’t see much, he learned how to navigate his movements in the apartment without John’s constant guide. Sure, he bumped his toes too many times to count, but to give him grace it has been a rather quick process.
“I’m doing the washing up, don’t worry” John stands up as well, shivers down his spine at the prospect of water on his hands. Running water on his skin, what a wonder!
“You’re so kind tonight, John” Arthur chuckles, reaching to touch his shoulder. “Did you hit your head recently?”.
John puffs amused, washing the first plate. “I was thinking, that's all”.
Arthur looks at him, his hands tapping on the kitchen counter. “About what? I want to know”.
Of course he does. It seems like it’s impossible for him to understand the fact their minds are separated now.
He doesn’t mind, of course.
Such serious absences are often shared grievances.
“When…during your childhood, I mean,” he measures his words, because now it’s not a great time to argue. “Did you have enough food?”.
Arthur stops his tapping, staring at a point in front of him for a few seconds. “Why are you asking?”
“It’s just…it’s nothing” a pause, “let’s finish this so I can read you something. Are we continuing Moby Dick, tonight?”
“John” Arthur grabs his right wrist, stroking the place in which the vein seems to pop out of his skin. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing”
Arthur sighs, and then touches the moles on his arm. “Before my parents’ death there wasn't much food on the table. Only booze, you know. Then, when I got into the orphanage there was a certain…improvement, let’s say” a bitter laughter, “and then, of course, war started. So, back to square one. Even before the…”
“The prison”
“Yeah”. A few beats of silence. “Even before that I wasn’t really used to having decent meals. And you asked because…?”
“Have you ever thought about how I didn't have a childhood?” John puts the plates on the drying rack, “I was born a year and a half ago. I don’t have a mother or a father and things like that. I was just…born like this, let’s say”
“I think we’ve already crossed that bridge”
“Yeah but, it was one thing when I was just a voice in your head. Tied to you. But now that I am, I mean, like this, I realize how much people are shaped by experiences I never…lived” there’s frustration, in his voice. It’s the first time he says it out loud.
He doesn’t know if it’s making him feel better or worse.
“It’s not that bad, if you ask me” Arthur shrugs, touching then briefly the small of his back, retracting his hand in a quick movement. He got more tactile, in the last period. “You can…invent one. A childhood, I mean. You can imagine you come from a, uh, family of artists. From Europe. Your mother was a beautiful actress, and your dad…”
“A theatre director?” an amused laughter evades from his lips, “they met during a gala and they conceived me somewhere on the Amalfi’s coast?”
“I talked to you once about my honeymoon and now,”
“I did research, Arthur” John rolls his eyes.
“Alright, alright” Arthur strokes his hair, something he does rather often. “Your mom has your dark and silky hair and your smile. And your father, your nose and your eyes. You grew up near the coast and…you spent your childhood between the sea and the city. In school, you were a lazy”
“Hey!”
“And melancholic child. Your teachers also described you as serious and grumpy . But in some way you had friends, with whom you played footfall in the streets. Your parents loved you so much, and they treated you like a prince” Arthur shakes his head, enjoying his own fantasy for John. “Girls from all over wanted you, but you yearned for the adventure you’ve read in books. So then you sailed to the other side of the ocean at your first occasion”
“And then I ended up living in this place with a former pianist then PI then whatever you’ve been for the last year and then PI again. Got it” he places his hands on Arthur’s shoulder. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I really do. But you have to understand that this…story it’s just…a story”.
Arthur’s tender expression drops. “I didn’t mean to-”
“I know, I know” he dares to touch the scar under his eye, with reverence and understanding. “But I will never be a full human. I never had those memories or…or a mother or a father. I never went to school and I never had…childhood friends” he avoids his gaze, “I don’t even know how to play football. Everything I learned, I learned from you”.
Everything he is, a grumpy and with a difficult personality and with still some issues with rage and emotions but who always, always, tries to improve himself and to be a better person, he is thanks to Arthur.
He’s nothing without him. But he refuses to place another weight on his shoulders.
Time for weights is over. He just wants peace for the both of them.
“You’re just like Pinocchio” Arthur muses.
“What?”
“Pinocchio. It’s a book. It talks about a wooden puppet that wants to become a real child” a pause, “and before you say anything no I don’t think of you as a child”
“Also because I’m a head taller than you”
“That’s also true” he grabs his side, resting his hand there as if it was its natural place. “But even without a childhood you’re a great person. And I’m proud of you”
“You’re too cheesy”
“Shut up, will you?”.
He actually likes when he’s all cheesy. When he treats him as something worth celebrating.
“Moby Dick, then?”
“Let’s go”.
Their job still sucks, though.
When they decided to start a new life, starting over, they talked about it in the booth of a diner. Before Arthur started to comment the quantity of sugar he was pouring in his coffee (‘just order a hot cocoa at this point, John…’), he reminded very clearly that ‘look, I want to start this thing with you. But if you put yourself in danger even once I’ll leave you there to die’
‘You would never let me die, come on’ Arthur rolled his eyes, drinking in a few avid gulps his dark and bitter coffee. The madman. ‘Anyway, I’m tired too of all this risking my life's business. It’ll be a normal affair, I swear’.
Yeah. Of course. And he even believed him.
It actually started as something simple. Or at least, simpler than what they’ve done before.
And it ended, of course, with a gun to Arthur’s head.
It took little for them to discover that the client’s husband was doing something behind her back, but instead of a betrayal they got tangled up in a stolen jewelry business. Of course, God forbid everything goes smoothly.
The dresser behind which they’re hiding when they enter the man’s office is a tight space. Too tight. John has just the space to breath in the gap between the wall and the wood, his chest rising and falling as his nose fights off the dust in an attempt to not make him sneeze.
Arthur, by his side, touches his Smith & Wesson’s cylinder, to make sure all the bullets are loaded. This is the third time he repeats this movement, always cautious in anything he does.
He knows that when action is going to start, and it will start, he’ll be extremely specific in directing his aim. His gun is in the holster by his side, even though he barely uses it. Usually, his physical strength does much of the work.
But you can never be too prepared.
Suddenly, like thunder during a summer evening, steps can be heard from the door.
Okay. It’s about to happen.
“Ready?” John whispers, and Arthur nods.
The door opens wide.
From this position he can see first a pair of elegant leather shoes, and then two pairs of heavy boots. There’s mud all over their soles.
Fuck.
“Okay, Arthur” he whispers, in their almost silent way they perfected through time. “There’s three people in this room”
“I know”
“And we can’t- what the fuck do we do now, eh?”
“What we planned, obviously” Arthur stands up, keeping his gun high.
John’s heart runs in his chest as if it wanted to break his ribcage, his legs moving without the brain first registering the movement.
Three men are looking at them, an instant of silence interrupted only by the sounds of the city in the morning. The two boot-wearing men, probably the expensively dressed man’s henchmen, are pointing hunting rifles at them.
Great.
“You can’t run, mr. Smith” Arthur, even after all he went through, still has that…how did he call it? Ah, yeah.
That cold, calculated demeanor of someone not to fuck with.
His messy hair make him look like some sort of animal, even though his steps are confident as he comes in front of the dresser. He holds the gun like someone who knows where to shoot, like someone who doesn’t feel fear.
Oh, Arthur.
The man at the centre first stares at Arthur, then John. He waves at the other two, who lower the rifles in a synchronized movement, as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“I knew my wife hired some meddlers” a click of his tongue, his curated mustache lying over his smirk, “women. They never mind their businesses”
“Tell your men to drop the rifles” John, right next to Arthur (his only place in the universe), nods with his chin. “Let’s not make it unnecessarily more complicated”
“Unnecessarily more complicated, mr. Doe? What a peculiar name” his grey eyes run over his figure, searching for the smallest of movements. “What’s wrong? Didn’t think I researched a thing or two on you?” he slowly walks towards Arthur, who still has his gun pointed towards him. John’s blood churns like milk at the thought that Arthur only sees a blurry mass walking towards him, but he stands still.
They both went through worse things, way worse things, but anything could still-
It could still-
“Sure, I didn’t find much. How many secrets do you hold, mr. Castorp?”. As he hears his fake name (‘you can never be too careful, John’) Arthur emits a sound similar to a growl. “You heard my partner. Let’s not complicate it more”
“See, guys?” a laughter rich of fake mirth, “these two don’t want to make it more complicated”. He grabs Arthur’s face, a golden gun to his chest.
John takes a step, a single step, as the henchmen’s rifles go back to him.
His lungs go still for a few instants, blood to his brain with the sound of drums. Something ancient, impossibly ancient, tells him to kill all of them just to put Arthur to safety. These men, tall and with their straw-colored hair, think they’re scaring him with their wood and metal.
Don’t they know that right in front of them stands a god? Don’t they know that right in front of them stands something older than time, punished by another god to take a mortal form?
It’s in rare moments in which he feels his body as a limitation, in which he’d like to be something more powerful and great. But in moments like these, in which Arthur is once again one step from death, memories of a hand and a pair of borrowed eyes come back with a sense of powerlessness that overcomes his mind.
He swallows dry.
“You could go away now safe and sound and forget anything that has happened here, but at this point we know the best solution to my problems. Before that, though, why not having a bit of fun?” he tightens his hold on Arthur’s cheeks, his eyes filled in equal parts of hatred and curiosity.
Rage grows inside John’s chest, until it becomes bitter bile in his throat. Nobody is allowed to touch Arthur like this, but especially not something as fragile and stupid as a mere human.
They fought monsters, together. And it won’t be some dick with leather shoes and expensive cologne smell that will defeat them.
“You sport quite the number of scars, mr. Castorp” mr. Smith passes his thumb over Arthur’s scar, the one under his eye, as John feels his fingers elongating like tentacles over the gun. Memories of a past he’s forced to remember. “You do have the gaze of someone who risked it all, I must admit, but-”
“Oh, fuck this” in a puff full of exasperation, John shoots at the ceiling. Just to keep his hands busy, just to keep his hands busy and make this fucker stop touching Arthur in this way.
Exactly as he expected, hell breaks loose.
The two henchmen don’t even have the time to place their fingers over the trigger that John already started to punch them blindly until they fall on the floor.
Adrenaline flows in his bloodstreams like electricity in water, flesh hitting other flesh and his fingers wet with blood. His knuckles take a gold-ish hue, as he shows his teeth in all of their pointy glimmer. His vision gets golden at the borders, as if he was swimming in honey, when a familiar voice brings him back to reality.
“John!” Arthur is against the cabinet, his arm around mr. Smith’s neck. He must have disarmed him as he…he…
The other two are on the floor, bruises as violet as ripe figs over their pale skins. They’re breathing, and that’s important.
But still, that was too much.
Good. Let it be a lesson.
His breath is laboured, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“John, what the fuck” Arthur hisses, his face bent in a grimace of effort. Mr. Smith wriggles like an eel covered in salt, his neck held firmly by the other’s grip. “What was that?!”
“I disarmed them” the other breathlessly whispers, “consider it a favor”
“That was so fucking stupid!”
“Do you think this is a good moment to argu-” his words get interrupted by a yell of pain from Arthur (a sound he didn’t want to hear again, a sound that pierces his heart), mr. Smith got free from his arm to get up with his gun in his hand.
“Well” even though his breath is short and bruises decorate his neck, he fixes his hair as if nothing happened. “It’s been a pleasure”.
He points the gun at Arthur’s head, ready to pull the trigger, but John (‘impulsive, immature, too nervous for your own good’ Arthur told him once, ‘you need to think before acting’) grabs his arm and bends it.
A gunshot. A whistle in his ears and a flash of pain in his lower belly.
But he can’t give up now. Even with the deaf sound of his blood pooling in the wound, already coming out, he hits and hits until nothing moves further.
And then, only when mr. Smith’s face is nothing but a mess of blood red and white teeth” he dares to drop him on the floor.
The only sound, in this elegant office, is that of the two’s agitated breaths.
“Arthur” is the only thing he can say, placing a hand where he feels a wet pain coming out of his shirt. His head spins, a nausea taking place of all of his functions as he falls on his knees. “I think-”
“Shit shit shit” Arthur is by his side in the fraction of a second, taking his face in his hands. “Okay, it’s fine. It’s fine” he makes him lay back on the floor, a few inches from the others’ unconscious forms. Pain is a web holding his body down, but his gaze runs across Arthur’s to make sure there’s no wounds.
“Arthur-”
“Shut up” Arthur’s hands run frenetically over his skin, tearing the buttons of his shirt to reach the wound. If only he had the strength to do so, he would make a comment on how this shirt was new and there’s no reason to treat it like that. But Arthur’s terrorized expression, so different from any he’d ever seen on his face with his own eyes, together with the lack of collaboration between his brain and his body, make him stay silent.
With horror, Arthur raises his hand from the wound. A golden liquid, similar in color to cider but way thicker, shines between his fingers. “John. This is- it’s your-”.
Of course. There was a shadow of a doubt, actually. Kayne might be out of his mind, but he’d always been the best at creating such creative problems like this one.
The thought makes him laugh. Not too much, his lungs don’t allow that now, but…
Ironic, isn’t it? He can pretend to be a human as much as he wants, from the outside. But on the inside he’ll always be something different.
“We can’t go to the hospital. We can’t-” tears fall on his short beard, he didn’t shave in a while. “Fuck” he then takes a deep breath, regaining control. “Okay. It’s just a gunshot wound. I know what to do” he taps his cheek, making him open his eyes. “But you, asshole, need to stay awake”
“I can try” he croaks weakly, adrenaline flushed away like his golden blood.
“Good. That’s good, John” he tears off a large part of his coat, tying it to John’s midsection. “Which book- I mean, which book do you want to read after Moby Dick? We’ll get to the library and you choose, alright? It’s your turn. Didn’t you want to-hey” another hit to his cheek. “Hey. I got you. But you need to talk. You need to-”
“Pinocchio” he breathes out, “you told- you told me we’d read that one. About the puppet”
Arthur nervously chuckles, his voice humid with tears. He strokes his forehead, a tenderness making whatever is left of his heart bigger. “Sure. We’ll take it”
“And you’ll teach me-” a grunt full of pain, as breathing gets more and more difficult. “You’ll teach me how to play football”
“Sure. Sure I’ll- I’ll do that. But I warn you” even though he’s thin, he still has some muscle left from all of their adventures. He makes him stand up, placing his arm over his shoulder. “I’m very competitive”
“I’m too” his mouth talks without connecting to his brain, words falling down like rocks during a landslide.
“I know, I know” Arthur forces them both to walk towards the door, using the other arm to orient himself. “But for now let’s just think about getting home, yeah? We’ll take the backdoor, we’re rather close to- John, John!”
And as he talks, all of John’s energy escapes from his body. His eyes get heavy again, as a comforting darkness takes him in its arms.
There’s wind in his hair.
He can feel it caressing his hands and his neck, his naked arms. In front of him, a mass of water.
The light blue is the same as the sky’s, the sun shining without a cloud in sight.
He doesn’t think he’d ever seen such a clear sky. He’d seen his fair share of sky with Arthur’s eyes, but this clear…
His bare feet are sunken in fine sand, and they look way smaller than they looked that morning. Wait, is it morning? The sky is too high in the sky for it to be morning.
“John! Are you ready?” a shrilling voice, familiar but at the same time alien, distracts him from the infinite before his eyes: a child, he can’t be older than ten, stares at him with a serious expression on his freckled face. He has a leather football under his arm, his shorts uncovering his legs full of blisters and sand. His hair, of a familiar light brown, moves in the wind. “I’ve been waiting for hours! Are you sleeping on your feet?”
“No, no. I’m just…” even his voice seems to be smaller. “I’m just…”
“You can’t stand there forever. Come and play!” then, with a lower voice, “it’s boring without you”.
Of course it is. It’s like he exists only to stand by his side.
He stares at his hands, smaller too. And then, touching his face, he doesn’t feel his lines and his stubble. His eyes seem wider, colors more vivid.
“Jo-ohn!” the child’s voice gets more petulant, in a way that he immediately recognizes. “We need a goalkeeper!”
“I’m coming” he puffs, without even trying to hide the smile on his cheeks.
He has the time to turn around as the beach disappears.
He opens his eyes slowly, meeting the golden light of late afternoon that enters from the dirty glass of the window.
The pain is deaf in his ears, waves of a calm sea flooding over his brain. His throat is dry, as are his lips and everything around him.
First, he notices the coat hanger: his third hand winter coat with a floral patch on the right pocket rests next to Arthur’s one, entirely black and shorter than his. Next to that there’s the single copper eye of the wardrobe, and then a man hunching over a small out of tune piano found at a yard sale.
Arthur, in shirt sleeves and with even messier hair, is playing something similar to a march, precise moments of heaviness that sound beautiful regardless of the conditions of the instrument.
Of course.
“The elephant” he mutters, feeling all the weight of his tongue in his mouth. “The carnival of” a whine of pain as he tries to raise himself on the pillow, pushing his body with his hands on the mattress. “The carnival of animals. That’s nice”.
The music stops in a cacophony of sounds, Arthur’s back that straightens making him look like a piece of wood resting on a wall.
“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?” he turns around to look at him, his eyes decorated by deep eyebags and red with tears. His fingers, still stained with gold, move nervously over his pants. “You could have died”.
John doesn’t meet his gaze, shame colors his face. “I did it-”
“I don’t want to hear shit, John” Arthur passes a hand in his hair, a heavy breath coming out of his lips. “You fucked up”
“But-”
“You don’t get it, do you? There’s no buts, no reasons, no explanations. It’s not like that whole mess with Kayne” a strangled sound, like that of a wounded beast. “I can’t lose you too. You fucked up”.
John wants to open his mouth just to make one of his acidic remarks, to remind him that without him he would have died a hundred times, so it’s right that he feels for a second the worry for his life. To make him feel the terror in feeling a loved blood in his hands.
But then, no. He bites his tongue before provocating even more stupid, useless grief.
He clears his throat. “You were in danger” he whispers, still not looking him in the eyes. “I couldn’t- wanted to-” his mouth truly can’t stop moving, eh? “I didn’t want that man to hurt you. It’s all”.
Arthur stands up, taking a few steps until he sits next to his bed.
And oh, he’d seen him in worse positions, but after a while he forgot this sight.
More than anything, seeing him like this, with his own eyes, because of him, makes him want to tear all of his teeth out of his mouth.
Only then he could forgive himself, only then he could be less of a monster. How much sorrow will he bring to this man? He doesn’t deserve it.
And he doesn’t know if he knows it and tries to hide it or hates him for that.
Humans are great liars. Arthur is no exception.
“I told you you’re the only thing I can see clearly, didn’t I?” Arthur gets his hand closer to his, one of the few parts that come out of the cover. The thought of Arthur placing it over his body is a small consolation.
John nods.
“So now that you…I mean. Now that you have your own body, John, you need to be more careful” he touches his knuckles, covered with gold-stained bands. “If you can’t find a reason to do it for yourself just…do it for me? Please?”.
And there’s something in his gaze. There's sediment. A sediment of grief that became a lowland with time.
He asks himself if there’s something similar in his eyes as well.
John nods again, bringing his hand to his lips. Because that’s what you do when you don’t have words, right?
Arthur stares with shiny eyes and a half-formed breath.
“I could kill for you” John then says, “I killed for you. And if I can’t kill I can die” why is it so difficult to speak? “Don’t ask me to stop. Don’t ask me to-” don’t ask me to keep you distant, because I couldn’t tolerate it. Don’t ask me to go away, because my soul wouldn’t stay in one piece. Don’t ask me that. Don’t ask me that, because without you I don’t know how to be human. “Please”.
Arthur then passes a hand over the bridge of his nose. “You’re a good man, John”
“I am not even a man. I’m nothing. I don’t have memories nor a family and I don’t have anything beside you” something humid climbs the walls of his throat, water filling his eyes. “My life is for you. And I don’t care if- you give me a purpose, do you understand? You give me a purpose and you make me feel…you make me feel…” his mouth makes strange noises, breaths dragging themselves out and tears dropping over his nose and mouth. The movements of his chest are painful, as he leans over to breathe better. He whimpers, he growls, but most of all he just bawls.
It’s the first time. It hurts so much.
Arthur stays in silence, passing a thumb over the back of his hand.
And then, he sits right in front of him.
“Shh…shh…” he coos, holding his hands. Their hands are almost the same size, his slimmer and longer. He crosses his fingers with his, getting closer and closer until he’s a few inches from his face. “It’s alright, it’s alright…”
“It’s not!” John croaks, coughing before catching his breath. “Because this time it was…was fine”. Arthur’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline. “But another time I could- I couldn’t and- and-” a sob, “and I saw you die. I felt your body getting cold. More than once. And I don’t want to- to-”
“John” Arthur places his hands on his face, forcing him to meet his gaze. He places his forehead on his, his freckles highlighted by the light from the window together with his short beard. His fingers, long and light like branches of a young tree, are placed behind his ears. “John. There’s no need to risk your life to feel it, okay? You are you. With your flaws and your paranoias and your rage and your love. So, so much love. You’re made of love, both its good and bad parts. So please” he kisses his forehead, as he did the first night in his own body, “believe me when I say that we’ll find a solution to all of this. We’ll find a way for you to, let’s say” a timid smile on his lips, “direct some of that love towards yourself”.
John stays silent, drinking his words like holy water.
Loving yourself. Will he ever be worthy of that? If Arthur thinks so, then it must be true.
The time of lies is over.
“Okay. It’s fine” he murmurs, because he doesn’t have anything else to say. “It’s fine”.
“It’s fine, yeah” the other agrees, as then John places his hands on his hips. To keep him still. To keep him close.
To feel life under his skin.
“I will try”
“You better. It’s been a lifetime since I managed a gun wound. I should check it, now that you make me think”
“Let’s stay here for a little more” John mutters, his head under Arthur’s chin. “I like to feel your blood flowing”
“Okay, it’s fine” Arthur traces circles on the base of his neck, “but we’ll have to talk about it, sooner or later”
“When I’ll get better”
“When you’ll get better, yeah”
Arthur got his bed closer to his to check on him better. Which was, actually, just a matter of time before he decided to do so.
He gazes at him sleeping under the moon’s light. And for an instant, just for a mere instant, he reminds himself that it’s worth it.
It’ll always be worth it.