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Arthur wakes to something bashing against his face: thin paper scratching against his stubble, pages ruffling as the book bounced onto the mattress.
“What?” He mumbles blearily, body as immovable as stone underneath the sheets. Is he even awake? Even if he’s taken a few shuffling steps towards consciousness, how easy it feels just to settle back, to drift off somewhere –
Must’ve fallen off the shelf, John tells him. Good morning.
“‘s okay.” Another few hours of sleep will do, Arthur thinks. He curls his right hand underneath his cheek, only for another book to strike against the bridge of his nose. This time shocks him more, and Arthur doesn’t tiptoe across the border to wakefulness so much as flail across the finish line. His arm shoots up from underneath the sheets, ready to fight whichever unknown intruder might’ve found their way under the linens.
“ Whuh –”
Weird, it keeps happening.
Oh, hell. “You’re such a cock,” Arthur mutters.
He rolls over onto his back and settles his hand on his stomach. John might have won, but that doesn’t keep Arthur from getting a few barbs in from second place. “After all I’ve suffered,” Arthur languishes with a sigh, “After all I’ve been through, saving our lives back in those mines, after every last hurt I’ve endured in the past few months, you can’t let me sleep for ten more minutes.”
Silence, punctuated briefly by automobiles rippling across the street outside.
It is wholly the sound of a being who has realized he doesn’t have a moral leg to stand on.
It’s light out. An excellent defense, Arthur thinks with some smugness. It’s been light out for… hours. And I’ve been stuck here, John reminds him. Imprisoned. If you’ve forgotten.
"Yes, yes. You’re bored, I get it, apologies that us mere mortals need sleep. That seems rather like your department, you know. You should’ve done something about it before we crawled out of the mud.”
Well, at least he’s gotten more sleep than he has in ages. Their plan starts to trickle into his mind – flee Addison, train in Albany, arrive in New York. Plenty ahead to do, and he wants to get moving.
Arthur stretches his right arm over his shoulder blades until his spine cracks, letting out an earsplitting yawn.
“Time to get up,” Arthur announces, and lets his feet hit the floor.
The bathroom is across the room, go past the bed. It’ll be to your left – yeah, there you go.
On their way to Albany, they’d found a little roadside motel. It’d scarcely been mid-day when they left Addison, but it’d be far too late to board a train by the time they got to Albany. If they’d gone as the crow flies – if they hadn’t been two people trying to drive a vehicle at the same time, maybe they would have made it.
Arthur hadn’t been fussed, really. He’d been grateful enough to stop, eat, and rest.
“Do you think we’ll have time for a bath? What time is it?” If there’s some trace agitation in his voice — well, he is very keen on a bath.
They hadn’t taken one yet. When they arrived, Arthur had instead opted for a shower. Too dirty to be sitting around in bathwater, really. John got to learn that he didn’t like showers. To Arthur’s frustration, John kept putting his hand up to the shower-head, as if he might be able to stop the spray from getting in their eyes. Made a terrible contortion as Arthur tried to suds up his hair.
Are you going to shower again if I say no?
“Yes.”
Then I guess we have time for a bath.
“For someone who doesn’t need to sleep, you’re incredibly cranky in the mornings. Has anyone ever told you?” Arthur sits on the rim of the tub, fiddling with the faucet until he hears water ( sweet, blessed water) splashing out into the porcelain. “Did you find anything good on the shelf last night, then?”
I read something, yes.
“Was it the one you hit me with?”
Yes, John replies with no hint of shame. It was about a rancher moving to a small town in Nevada. He meets a girl, but she’s the daughter of a local cowboy gang.
“A cowboy gang, yes.” Warm enough and high enough, good. Arthur begins to strip. Oh, they are going to get new clothes before New York. Albany’s got to have some shops open somewhere. “ Verrrry popular.”
They fall in love, but the girl’s father finds out. He tries to kill the rancher and send the girl away. But at the last minute, he breaks free from the train tracks and makes it to San Francisco before the girl gets on the ship. They move back to his ranch.
“Happy ending for all?”
Well, they kill the girl’s father, but that’s no big loss. Oh, and a lot of horses were killed, but… I guess so. At least, I think it was intended to be.
Cautiously, Arthur lowers himself into the water and lets out a soft, breathy noise of satisfaction. He sinks until his chin dips beneath the surface of the water. Christ alive, this is much better than being back in bed. Arthur brings his cupped hand to run water through his hair, letting it trail down his scarred neck.
“But did you like it?” Wonder among wonders – he’s more inclined to chat, now. “Overall.” No answer. After a moment, Arthur prompts: “John?”
Parts of it… I didn’t understand, John answers at last, hesitating. I’ve been thinking on it while you were… sleeping. ‘ Sleeping’ is said with the same disgust as ‘ fucking in a dumpster’, making Arthur snort.
“Yeah?”
Did you have a sweetheart in Arkham?
Not for the first time that morning, Arthur lurches in surprise. “The book gave you questions about me ?”
I’m not going to ask you plot details, Arthur, you didn’t read it. Yes, you. Most of the books on that shelf had to do with love, and it… it hasn’t really come up. So far.
“Do they? Lord, we must’ve rented the honeymoon suite.” It isn’t exactly a joke that John can appreciate, but Arthur titters nevertheless. “Uh, no, John. I haven’t had a sweetheart…”
Ever?
Bella was a peculiar case. At the time, Arthur would’ve answered absolutely in the affirmative, but – he’d been young. And orphaned, for that matter. He had just assumed that that was what love was: what everyone was going on about all the time, shined and polished appropriately for music and literature. Everything in real life was muddier when compared to music.
Only looking back on it did Arthur realize how bored it all made him. He liked Bella, but the rituals of it - the things he was meant to say - and, frankly, all of his love letters were a little contrived. A chore that he was happy to do because it made Bella happy, but nevertheless a chore. He’d just assumed all men, with their bravado and machismo, had felt the same way.
Evidently not, he realized after. He could write poetry that moved him just fine, just – not love poetry. Whatever compelled him about the old masters and their lost loves… it simply was not in proximity to him, things he felt .
That wasn’t to say he hadn’t cared for her. He had, deeply. Bella had been the first time Arthur felt understood. The first time that someone didn’t look at him – moody, smart-mouthed, romantic ( hah!) him – and think his soul was in need of correction.
Of course he thought he was in love, and followed suit appropriately. And he didn’t think much more on it until he met Parker Yang, who made him feel the exact same way.
Hell, it had been stronger for Parker, even, given the length of time they knew each other. Given how much of a wreck Arthur had been when they first met.
Without the pressure to court Parker, Arthur had reconsidered what he felt for Bella. God knew he hadn’t ironed out the details. If he ever would. But, suffice to say – now that he knows it is a possibility – he knows what he doesn’t want.
Certainly not a sweetheart. It’s a bit freeing, to know he doesn’t have that albatross about his neck.
“I don’t really go in for that sort of thing,” Arthur finishes.
Really?
“Yes, I know. For as much as you find in books, in movies, in music –” God, music! The amount of times he’d been asked if this or that composition was supposed to represent a lovely lady with auburn hair. Jesus Christ. “Believe me, I feel the odd one out, but such as it is. It’s never really clicked for me. I’ve never met someone and had the urge to, to… I don’t know, take down a cowboy gang because my heart’s stirred. Frankly, if I were that rancher, I would’ve just left town.”
So you’d rather be alone?
Now, that’s an interesting question. Arthur’s right hand covers his stomach, feels the barely-formed scars there.
Talking about such things with John feels… easier than they ought to have been. Arthur can have a conversation with John and every word feels new on his tongue. Too many new words and he’s usually running for the hills.
But.
After all they’d been through – after all John knows about him – to know that John looks at him for all his faults and thinks him a good person, that his soul isn’t irredeemably…
Oh. Well. Arthur blinks.
Bit early for that revelation, isn’t it? Bit obvious, too. They just haven’t had the time to think.
Arthur? John prompts.
“Um,” Arthur returns, distracted. “If my choices are being alone and being with someone? Then – well, then yes, John, I’d guess so. I’ve done it before.” Saturated with alcohol, but there it is. “But those aren’t the only two choices, you know. I’ve – well, I’m not alone with you, and I wasn’t alone with Parker, and I wasn’t alone with… with Faroe.” A pause. “I don’t do very well, alone.”
Christ, it feels almost pathetic to admit as much. A fully grown man longing for human connection, but not in the arms of a lover? A spouse, a partner, a daughter of a cowboy gang leader? He sounds like a child crying for his parents.
And yet, John hums in understanding. Arthur wants to cup that little hum between his hands.
Yeah. I don’t think I do, either.
“Oh? Like, when I’m asleep, or –”
No. I know you’re still there when you’re asleep.
And John leaves it at that. Arthur doesn’t press – the only time he knows John to be truly alone was in the Dark World, and that is never a line of conversation John’s interested in pursuing. He steers the ships into calmer waters.
“You think you’d ever want something like that? When you get your own body, I mean. Don’t let me not being keen stop you. There’s a grocer back in Arkham, kept trying to set Parker up with his daughter.”
Arthur, what I would do with my own body seems an unfathomable question to consider right now. And, John continues, full of doubt: I don’t know. From what I’ve read, it seems…
“Oh, John, don’t base your entire conception of love off a poorly written novel.”
Mhm. So you’re saying, as a detective, you’ve never seen anyone do something reckless for love? In the ‘real world’?
And perhaps he’s grown a little too comfortable with John, or perhaps the bath water is a little too warm, or perhaps - if he’s very lucky - this is all a dream. “Hey, now, I shoved a knife through my neck for love. Recklessness is not limited to sweethearts, I assure you.”
Ah. He’s made things awkward.
It’s my neck, I can joke about it if I want? Arthur thinks about saying, but refrains. Hesitantly, he pours more water through his hair. His fingers pass over the scar.
I don’t… I don’t know. Frankly, Arthur, most emotions I experience right now are too nebulous to put a name to, much less what I may or may not experience in the future. Right, that’s more than fair. But I know what I do want. You’re my friend. Even with my own body–
“Yes, of course,” Arthur interrupts. Perhaps it’s a little abrupt, but it’s only the shock of it all. He’s taken it for granted on his own end: of course he’ll always want to stay with John. Then again, he supposes it wasn’t that long ago when he truly hated him, and John might need the reassurance just the same. “Sorry. But, yes, always. Long as I’m still breathing, anyway, of course we’ll stay together.”
Good. There’s muffled relief in John’s voice. Good.
He has to wonder if it can compare to the relief coursing through him. Arthur’s never had a moment to think about it. Certainly, he’s never had a moment to grieve for Parker, much less consider the fact that – were John to leave once he got his own legs underneath him – he’d be alone again, without a single friendly face in the world.
It feels selfish. Alone is better than dead, after all, but… he doesn’t know. Were Parker still alive, Parker would be worried about his being alone, too.
And now, he has John. He has a friend that he dearly loves, a friend who understands – mark that, who wants to understand him, and Arthur feels the same way for him. It’s dizzying in the way that Arthur supposes lovers might feel. He stands upon the precipice of the depths of his care for John, and it feels… he doesn’t know. Mighty, he guesses.
I’m glad you don’t have a sweetheart.
“Oh?”
It’d be really fucking rude not to bring her up before now.
Arthur laughs at that, practically rising out of the bathwater so he doesn’t choke. “I really would be a terrible boyfriend,” he agrees. “And – and could you imagine? You’d be an abominable third wheel if we went out to dinner.”
Third wheel!?
“Yes. Well, what are you going to do if I went on a date, John? Feed me lines? I have my own poetry, thank you, I really wouldn’t need any help in that regard. I even play music, so.”
John snorts at him.
He settles back against the tub, thoughtful. His right hand dangles outside it, tapping out an inaudible rhythm against the porcelain. Christ, Arthur thinks he could really stay here forever, until he shrivels up to nothing. Even better that Arthur can’t see how filthy the room is.
I know what color their eyes are, John eventually finishes, and Arthur cracks up again. He hears John rumble alongside him until they both settle. Arthur estimates they’ve sloshed about a quarter of the bathwater on the floor. He’ll have to mind that, getting out.
“You know –” God! There’s tears in his eyes, even, and he can’t say they’re entirely from laughter or just – whenever he gets a single spare second to relax, it’s like his eyes have sprung a leak. “It’s, it’s funny. Haven’t ever told anyone that, about me not really caring for that kind of love.”
John knows plenty of things that Arthur’s never told anyone else. For the most part, Arthur’s told them as a sort of bargaining chip – sometimes so little as to convince John he deserves death – or when he gets so god-damn angry that he can’t separate one thought from the other.
This, though? This is… it’s just chatting. It’s nice. It’s a comfort.
No?
“No. I, I think Parker assumed I was a grieving widow, and nobody else…” Cared. “It didn’t come up for anyone else.”
I don’t think I could talk to anyone else about it but you lingers behind his teeth, but Arthur doesn’t bring it up. He doesn’t know why.
“Certainly you’re the only person I’ve ever met who feels… even similarly, you know. Everyone else seems practically dying for it.”
Really?
“Look at the books on the shelves. Next time you listen to the radio, just – everywhere, really. Made me feel like something was wrong with me for the longest time, not having any particular urge to seek it out.”
It isn’t as if the world met him halfway, there. Arthur’s always found himself curiously apart from the rest: not in the way that puts himself on a pedestal, not in the way that makes him special, but that - in whatever great, cohesive blueprint of the world there is - Arthur Lester was simply not planned for.
And yet, in the most impossible of circumstances, he’s found John.
That means something, even if Arthur isn’t sure what it is yet.
I don’t think anything’s wrong with you.
“Well, me either. Or, anymore, I ought to say. Other things...” Well. There’s no need to get into that, now. He doesn’t much like thinking of that time, as it happens.
And I’m glad. John’s settled squarely into thoughtful. That we’re alike. And that we’re together.
That warms him.
“Course. Don’t worry, John. No danger of me running off with a cowboy gang leader’s daughter. And no danger – we’ll be together,” Arthur finishes, impatient at himself. “Until you get truly, terribly sick of me, you’ve got me.”
John doesn’t answer again; not for the first time, Arthur wonders whether it’s too much. As easy as it is to sometimes forget… this is new to John. A few months, most of which weren’t exactly spent under ideal conditions. Arthur probably ought to make sure he doesn’t overwhelm him.
Eventually, the pause gets a little uncomfortable.
“Sorry, that was –”
No. No, I agree, Arthur. I’m just… I’m grateful.
“But?”
No but. I just can’t figure out the words to tell you how much that means to me.
And this from the man who’s been describing everything to him for months. Arthur softens. Though John stays silent, he can almost hear the rumbling of John’s presence against his own. He really is trying to figure out the words.
“I hope the feeling’s mutual?” Arthur asks, just softly.
Of course, my friend.
“Good.” That’s all he needs to know. At the end of all this (and Arthur’s still trying for ‘an end of all this’), he really can’t fathom the thought of losing John. “Well, in that case, we ought to get on with things. Can’t miss the last train to New York because we were having a bath.”
Silence, punctuated only by the sloshing of water and the cars speeding by their little motel.
And then, John suggests the last thing he’d ever imagine.
Maybe just a few minutes more, Arthur.