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There is time now and John is not actually sure what to do with it. Not a lot because there are cases, many of them, partly because Arthur needs to eat and pay rent, mostly because Arthur loves this too much to ever stop. So does John too, if he would allow himself to think about it. But it feels easier to let himself be swept away by Arthur most days, now that they aren't fighting for survival every second.
Thinking about what he wants now that he isn't only allowed to but also able to do so is still unfamiliar, alien in a way he feels uncomfortable with at times.
"Do you want to read the next chapter of the book?" Arthur asks though and he's helping, it's helping that he's there, gently providing suggestions but also asking John for what he wants to do. Even if John mostly doesn't know what he wants outside of continuing the book they are currently reading.
We left off with the doctor being found dead in his office, didn't we? Arthur snorts. "Told you it would have been too smart if it had been him. It will be the rich widow who did it like I said." The book, if it really deserves that title, is trash, they had both agreed on that about ten pages in. They haven't quite managed to stop reading though either, no matter how bad it's getting.
Turn on the light by the chair, John instructs and Arthur does as he's told before they settle in for another round of expressing shared irritation at their chosen reading material. They manage to get to the part where the detective almost gets shot by a mysterious figure, coincidentally when he's about to meet with the rich widow, when John hears soft snoring coming from Arthur.
Gently he closes the book, making a mental note where they had left off. There's a moment where he considers waking Arthur, telling him to get into bed but it's been a long day and he's loath to disrupt Arthur when he's just managed to fall asleep.
It doesn't come that easily to him these days, every hour without nightmares a gift John doesn't want to take from him. A bit longer, he decides and then settles in to what he usually does when Arthur is asleep, which isn't much. He supposes he could read ahead, the table light still illuminating the book in Arthur's lap but he'd rather complain loudly with Arthur about the coming obvious reveal of the mysterious figure.
Normally he spends Arthur's downtime thinking but today had been long for him too and he's longing for some kind of distraction instead, the radio or something else to read. There's nothing but some paper and a pencil though they had used earlier to scribble down some dates potentially related to their latest case. He could make a list, John thinks. Of potential suspects, of his observations down at the docks today, of the reasons why their client seems to be less forthcoming than she should considering she's paying them. But it's work and John is not in the mood for work right now.
Maybe a shopping list of some sorts, he thinks. They don't have much money left after paying for the office that doubles as their living space and food for Arthur but there are things they, or rather Arthur, need. A shaving kit, John thinks as he reaches for the pencil and makes to write it down. One that actually is sharp enough to keep Arthur's face presentable.
Arthur stirs the moment the pencil touches the paper though and the S becomes a straight line instead. John grumbles inwardly, makes to try again before suddenly being struck by the fact that the line resembles in a way the blade of a straight razor. All it needs are a few more lines and John doesn't even quite register that he's doing it until he suddenly looks at the crude drawing of a razor blade and something that might be seen as shaving equipment.
Something stirs inside him as he stares at the sketch. It looks slightly ridiculous, he thinks. Like something a young child who can't write yet might do. But also, he then thinks, it doesn't look too bad either. There's other stuff they not so much need but that would be nice to have and John finds himself holding the pencil and slowly drawing another line. A dinner table, he thinks, for Arthur to eat at instead of just at his desk. And some matching plates and more than just one glass even if Arthur doesn't have any guests who'd actually use them.
The table proves somewhat more difficult than the shaving kit, John imagining looking at it straight instead of down on it. The glass and plates are easier and John briefly loses himself in drawing patterns onto them, even though Arthur can't actually appreciate the details and John can't use them. They appear somewhat empty though without any food on them and John really wants Arthur to eat something that isn't just beans and bread so he finds himself adding meat and cheese and other things he knows Arthur wants to eat but can't quite afford at the moment. He struggles with the cheese, gives up and hides it behind a pie instead.
A vase with some flowers maybe too, John thinks once he's done with it. They don't need it, they certainly won't spend any money on it but it would be nice. Arthur could smell the flowers and John could describe them to him. Also, he realizes, he likes flowers more than cheese. Likes looking at them when they are in the park or when they come across them on the street. He's not sure what his favorite ones are, not even sure if he has any favorites but he finds that he doesn't need to pick when he draws flowers, he can just draw as many as he wants.
Or at least as many as would fit into the vase he had placed on this fictional dinner table. He stares at the drawing in front of him, now finished he supposes, and feels a weird feeling rush through him.
It takes him a moment to realize that it's pride mixed with satisfaction. It's far from a perfect drawing, he pointedly avoids looking at the cheese turned pie, but some of the flowers, he thinks, some of them really look beautiful. And he made them that way. His hand, the only thing he has to make himself known in this world he now inhabits, made what he sees in front of him.
There's not enough space left on the paper for much else but until Arthur wakes up hours later to groggily stumble towards his bed, John finds himself drawing various types of plants all over it.
He doesn't mention it in the morning, feeling suddenly slightly silly and embarrassed. In the cold light of the day, without the soft warm glow of the lamp, it doesn't look as good as it used to and he's ready to forget he's ever done any of this.
That's until Arthur reaches for the paper about to write down some more dates just on top of a blooming daisy. Wait, it bursts out of John and Arthur's hand freezes. "What is it?" he asks, alarmed and John can almost feel him tense up, fight or flight reflex kicking in even though they are at home, even though Arthur should be able to feel safe here.
I uh … you should use a different piece of paper, that's all, he replies, a wave of guilt flushing through him on top of his previous feeling of embarrassment. "What? Why?" For a moment John considers lying or deflecting. But he had promised himself to stop lying to Arthur now that they are back in Arkham and can have a fresh start and he can't think of a good distraction.
I drew on it while you were sleeping, he says reluctantly. He can't see Arthur's reaction to this, regrets once again that they can't always talk in front of a mirror but he can hear the surprise in Arthur's voice when he answers. "You drew something? What did you draw?" John is about to tell him that it doesn't matter but underneath the surprise there's also curiosity in Arthur's voice and it's not like he can actually see if the drawings are that bad. Flowers, John therefore replies because it seems easier than explaining the plates or shaving kit.
"What kind?" Arthur asks and now it's just curiosity and fascination in his voice. Daisies, John says after a brief pause because Arthur's hand is still hovering above one of them. Sunflowers and roses too. He had realized at some point that he doesn't actually know that many flowers, not in enough detail to draw them at least. But Arthur's hand wanders slowly over the paper, carefully to not actually touch as if to avoid smudging the granite. "I wish I could see it," he says softly and John feels once again that sting at what he had taken from Arthur.
"We should get you some more paper and colored pencils," Arthur then says though, voice turning cheerful. Oh, that's … that's not necessary. "Nonsense, it's good for you to have something to spend your time with outside of cases." It's Arthur trying again, John knows and he should tell him that it's fine, that he doesn't need to do this, doesn't need to sacrifice what little money they have on him when Arthur needs it more.
But then he catches sight of the roses and suddenly imagines what they would look like in bright red. Thank you, he says instead. "Don't mention it," Arthur replies and John can hear the smile in his voice. They get more paper and colorful pencils a few days later, and John starts drawing for real.
He feels like he gets better over the next few months. He still draws mostly flowers and landscapes, running out of green much quicker than any other color but he finds he likes drawing those things the most, enjoys looking at them a lot. He likes watching humans too but as fascinated as he is by them, by figuring out their feelings and what they mean, he finds them more difficult to draw than flowers, frustrated when he never can quite get their expressions right. So they stay vague silhouettes in his ever expanding landscapes, a blurry afterthought among the various shades of green.
"What did you draw today?" Arthur sometimes asks and it feels weird in the beginning to describe his own drawings, to expound on shapes and colors used but he finds he enjoys this part too. I can't seem to get the shape of the maple leaves right, he once complains after a day spent in the park, Arthur enjoying the sun and John spending almost as much time staring at leaves as he does drawing.
"I am impressed you can draw them at all," Arthur replies. "I am really bad at it." You are? John asks, slightly surprised and realizing that they hadn't broached that subject in the several months John now had spent much of their precious free time drawing. "Oh yes, can't even draw a decent tree, much less anything resembling maple leaves."
Huh, John thinks. Somehow some part of him had thought this was Arthur still. His abilities and knowledge spilling over to John, that mix again where John cannot quite figure out what of the things he knows is Arthur and what is him, even if he doesn't mind mostly anymore at this point.
But it seems all of this, the crude shaving kit turned into a beautiful day at the park with dots of yellow and red flowers among the green and a maple tree he's sure to get right one of these days, is his own doing. Again he feels a feeling of pride and accomplishment wash through him. It's him, fully him, neither Arthur nor his past for once.
He ends up drawing even more, determined to perfect his leaves the next time they have a few free hours for the park.
He doesn't quite remember when or if he gets the leaves right. He remembers the first time he draws Arthur though. It's night, Arthur having fallen asleep in his desk chair over a case file in a way that allows John to draw. He feels weirdly reminded of the first time he had started drawing, paper illuminated again by a lightbulb, Arthur's gentle breathing a calming backdrop.
He's out of green once again, considers drawing some buildings for a change but instead his eyes are suddenly caught by the gray. It's a light gray, like the sky on a cloudy day and it's the color of Arthur's eyes, he suddenly realizes. He can see part of Arthur's face reflected in the window to his right, not all of it and the rest of it in shadows but it's enough for John to impulsively pick up the pencil and start drawing.
Thirty minutes later Arthur's eyes are staring back at him from the paper, the only thing he had used color for, the rest of his face a rough sketch. It's not quite right, off in a way that might be his lack of experience drawing people or him drawing most of Arthur's face from memory, John can't quite tell, but still, he finds himself staring at the drawing transfixed.
There's the allusions of a small smile, imagination instead of reality given Arthur's face is currently slack with sleep, soft wrinkles creasing his cheeks as Arthur seems to look somewhere off in the distance. Something inside of John starts aching as he keeps staring at the drawing, more and more every second and yet he just cannot look away from it.
"Did you draw anything last night?" Arthur asks the next morning, stretching before reaching for his shaving kit. John stares at his eyes in the mirror and thinks that despite his attempts he hadn't quite managed to perfectly match their shade. No, he says and Arthur just hums briefly in reply before he starts shaving.
It's the first time in almost a year John outright lied to Arthur and he doesn't even know why exactly, only knows that he isn't sure he can talk about it without giving away whatever it is he feels when he looks at Arthur's eyes and the outline of his face that he had drawn.
It's the first time he draws Arthur. It doesn't stay the last time. John finds himself sketching Arthur on the blank spaces of papers used for other sketches, in various situations with a wild array of emotions on his face. It's memories mostly, mirrors or other reflective surfaces rarely in reach whenever Arthur gets particularly expressive but he still hopes he manages to capture him. For a man whose eyes he possesses, he suddenly realizes, he rarely really gets to see his face in full for a longer amount of time. So he does his best to catch Arthur in the in-betweens.
"This case could pay a lot." His cautious joy. "Faroe used to have a doll like that." His lingering sadness. "I promise we will find her." His deep compassion. "I will kill you if you touch her!" His burning anger. "Don't worry, you're safe now." Everything about Arthur that makes him Arthur.
Everything John wants so desperately to capture in every drawing he does of him, thinking if he only gets it right once, he will finally know what the ache inside of him means. Fails somehow to do so every time, decides that if he can only get the color of his eyes right once, it will be enough.
"Do you want to go to the park?" Arthur asks the next day, as the little girl is back with her parents, as the cheque they had received had doubled in its amount, as John knows Arthur would have also found her for free. I thought you wanted to get a haircut and a good lunch? John says. Arthur halfs shrugs, gesture caught in the reflection of a shop window they are passing by, John meticulously taking note of the casual smile on his face, filing it away for later, the way he had started collecting every glimpse and glimmer of Arthur's face he sees these days.
"There might be music again in the pavilion. And you can draw. It's easier to draw from reference than memory, isn't it?" John mentally flinches at that, thinking back at the at this point countless pages he had filled with Arthur's face, most of them more memory than anything real.
Yes, he says though because it's true and he hadn't seen the pure relief and overwhelming joy on Arthur's face when they had returned the girl yesterday but he might be able to capture something close to it in the sketchbook Arthur had taken to carry around for him.
The park is full today, people enjoying the last days of summer and John is already thinking of the changing of leaves soon to come, of the reds and yellows and then of Arthur heating their small oven and asking John to read him a poem as they settle in for the night.
The ache returns and quickly John focuses on his drawing instead. The bench Arthur had chosen allows him to listen to the sound of violins drifting over softly from the pavilion while John has a good view of some flowers.
But instead of drawing the bright yellow in front of him, John finds himself remembering the glimpse he had caught of Arthur's smile. It's not even an actual decision then and he loses himself in his drawing for a while.
"People these days." The voice that disturbs his attempt to capture the exact curve of Arthur's smile is unfriendly and loud. Arthur moves his head the same moment John tries to find the source of the sound and is slightly startled to find that somebody had sat down next to them without him noticing.
"The entire park and he draws himself," the old man says with a contemptuous huff to nobody in particular and them specifically. "Really, what's the world coming to?" Maybe he could have been able to play it off, pretend he has no idea just what the man is complaining about or say somebody else had been around but John's first instinct is to quickly close his sketchbook, Arthur's hand that until now had rested easily on the other page suddenly trapped in between. Another snort full of contempt and there's mortification rushing through John now. We should go, he hisses and Arthur worldlessy stands up, the man thankfully staying silent as they leave.
They don't talk on the way back, John not bothering to ask about Arthur's plan to get a haircut, mind instead racing. Maybe he just won't bring it up at all, he thinks. Pretend it didn't happen. Or maybe John could lie about it if questioned. The way he had been lying about it for months now. The heaviness somewhere inside his mind increases and he feels his grip tighten around the pencil he has been holding since they left the park.
He hasn't managed to come up with what to say when Arthur closes the door to their flat behind them. For a moment Arthur stands unmoving and John doesn't know what to say to break the silence between them. Then Arthur starts moving, marching over to the desk, pulling out the sketchbook from his bag and opening it up. With a jolt John realizes that it's the page showing his drawing of Arthur from the park, his finger still where John had abruptly closed the book.
"What did you draw?" Arthur asks, his voice simultaneously barely audible and unbearably loud in the silence of the flat. For a moment John considers lying again but this has been going on for too long and in his drawing Arthur is smiling. He isn't smiling right now though, he knows that. You, John replies. I drew you. Another long moment of silence and John can see Arthur's fingers briefly wandering down the drawing, almost like he's trying to see it through touch alone. "Why?" he then asks and it's the one question John has no answer to, not even the truth.
I wanted to, he says because he knows at least that much. "Yes, but…" Arthur begins, something close to frustration in his voice before breaking off. The hand that had been resting on the drawing curls up before he pulls it away and the ache inside John returns a thousandfold all of a sudden.
"I suppose I hadn't realized your drawing skills were so advanced that you could draw identifiable portraits already," Arthur says, voice forced into a lighter tone. He could leave it here, John thinks, give a nonchalant reply and they could go on as before. But in a way it would be him lying again, wouldn't it?
It's not my first drawing, he says. That I made of you, that is. He cannot see Arthur's face, cannot interpret the silence that follows this particular admission. "I suppose you don't see that many other faces as regularly as mine," Arthur then says. No, John replies because he really doesn't. Most of it is guessing though and memories, he then adds quickly, not wanting to give Arthur the impression he is constantly staring at his face even though it's what he had started doing in the last few months.
"That … can't have been that easy. Drawing a face from memory." It's not, John says, really not sure where this conversation is going.
Another long pause. "I suppose I can sit for a portrait if you want to," Arthur says then and the ache inside John twists, mimicking the sudden skip of a non-existent heart.
I… he begins, no idea what to actually reply. That would be… Foolish, he thinks, extremely foolish, to not just allow himself to look as long at Arthur as he wants but to have Arthur knowing he's looking at him. But then, he thinks, this might be the only chance he ever gets to do this. And his last chance to draw Arthur at all because surely he will want him to stop after this, won't he?
That would be nice of you, he says. "If it helps you improve your skills, it's nothing. Where do you want … uh, how should I sit?"
It takes John a moment to think about it, considering both light and access to a mirror. There's a small portable mirror in Arthur's shaving kit but it's difficult to see all of Arthur's face in it. The mirror over the wardrobe then, he decides. Take the chair over there … yes and turn on the light, he instructs and Arthur quietly does as he's told.
There are shadows playing on Arthur's face like this but in lieu of bright sunshine, it will have to do, John thinks. Briefly he considers asking Arthur to move his head up and down so he can draw him directly but it would require him to move a lot and John doesn't like the image in his head that creates. Too much of an actual self-portrait, he thinks, and what he's drawing is not that.
Move your head a bit lower and keep it there, he says and again Arthur silently does as he's told. He can see both the paper in front of him and all of Arthur's face this way without Arthur having to move his head for him. It's not a really convenient position but it will do for this, John thinks.
And then he starts drawing. There's no question that this will be just pencils and no colors except for Arthur's eyes, he doesn't have the patience to figure out more colors than that, not right now, not when he almost has to force his hand to keep from shaking with every line he draws.
Arthur meanwhile is completely silent, the only reaction John sees coming from him being the way his hand, resting on top of the wardrobe, clenches at times. John wants to take his time in a way, wants to lose himself in every part of Arthur's face that he's allowed to look at as long as he wants for once but somehow the drawing seems to flow out of him, an almost feverish feeling overcoming him.
Every line seems to go where it's supposed to, capturing Arthur in a way he hasn't before with the glimpses he had stolen before in reflections and memories.
He's almost surprised when he looks down and realizes that he's finished. You can move again, he says softly and for a moment Arthur doesn't react before he stirs as if awaking from a stupor.
"Does it … are you happy with the result?" he asks and John looks at the drawing as if for the first time.
It's Arthur, obviously, drawn as if he's busy doing something. Reading a case file maybe, John thinks and then corrects himself. No, composing, writing down the last parts of a new piano piece. There's no smile on his lips, his mouth instead rather curled as if deep in thought and John finds himself staring at it for a long moment.
And then there are his eyes. Averted, not meeting the gaze of the onlooker or rather John but there's the gray, the color of a clouded sky, breathtaking in its intensity. Beautiful too, John suddenly thinks, so beautiful. Just like the rest of Arthur.
Yes, John says, realizing all of a sudden that he has been quiet for far too long. I am happy. A laugh escapes Arthur suddenly, slightly shaky and quickly subdued. "You know, I almost asked you what it looks like," he says. "Which would be stupid because it's just me after all."
It is, but also it's not and more importantly, it has been so long since Arthur has been able to see himself. You are looking down at something, John says. Occupied with your work, lost in it, the way you always get. Passionate but in a quiet dependable way, one that will make sure the job will get done, no matter what.
A sharp exhale comes from Arthur and he should stop, John thinks, mind racing, wondering why he is saying any of this at all.
There's no color in the drawing except for your eyes, he continues though because nothing could stop him now from saying this, from needing to tell Arthur. Gray, like clouds before the sky bursts open or right as a storm is brewing. Electricity in the air, a sense of anticipation, an intensity unrivaled by anything else in nature.
He could look up, John realizes. He could look up from the drawing and see Arthur's face, see the expression on it at John's words. Doesn't though. Just keeps looking at the drawing.
"The cold, calculated demeanor of someone not to fuck with," Arthur says softly and John almost laughs. Yes, he says because that's still Arthur, still and hopefully for a very long time to come. But there's kindness there too, he adds. So much kindness and compassion. For the world, for everybody in it. I … I missed that the first time I saw your face. I am seeing it now.
And then at last he dares look up and the ache drums through him when he sees Arthur's expression, like he's being stabbed but it hurts in a way he has never felt before, a feeling he never wants to stop experiencing. Like the sky before it bursts open, he thinks, his head swimming. Like sunshine and a storm at the same time.
"You make this so difficult, you know," Arthur says, voice breaking on the last words. John is so occupied staring at his face, the words almost don't register. Difficullt? What's difficult? He then asks when they do though.
A twist of Arthur's lips, bitter wistfulness. "This," he says. "All of this. Giving you what little space I can, letting you be you or at least letting you find out who you want to be. Not asking for everything I want."
Asking for what Arthur? John says confused, the ache twisting deep inside him. "You," Arthur replies, voice barely a whisper. "Asking for you. For us to not just be friends, partners. To be something more instead."
You want … me? He can't wrap his head around what Arthur is saying, half convinced he's imagining all of this somehow.
"Yes and it's so difficult to try and let you live your own life as much as possible instead when you're like that. So creative, so thoughtful, so observant. So gentle in what you think you see in me."
It's not what I think is in you, John says, mind unable to cope with the rest of what Arthur is saying. I know that's who you are, Arthur.
"Really not making this easier, John," Arthur mumbles. But it doesn't… you want me? There's so much Arthur deserves, so much more than John can ever give him. He should want somebody better, John thinks, somebody better than who he is, who he used to be, who he tries so hard every day to stop being. He deserves somebody better than him.
"Yes, I do John," Arthur says though. "I want to listen to you reading books or poetry to me, I want to talk to you about what you see in the park, I want to argue about what food I should buy, I want all of this and … more. I want you. I want you so much."
His hand is still resting next to the drawing, clenched into a tight fist and John wants to reach for him, wants to ease the fist open, wants to interlock their fingers. Wants and wants and wants and every drawing he has done of Arthur, every attempt to capture his eyes, his smile, capture Arthur suddenly runs through his head as the ache inside of him explodes into the desperate longing it has always been.
There's a small twitch when John touches Arthur's hand, warm against his own but his hand opens easily underneath John's then.
I can't embrace you, John says slowly. I can't go to dinners with you, can't give you flowers, can't dance with you. Can't do any of the things you deserve to have. A shaky exhale of air coming from Arthur.
"You can hold my hand like this," he replays softly. "I want you to hold my hand like this."
John stares at their hands interlocked on top of the drawing and the ache inside him spreads until it's all he feels.
I want that too, he whispers. I want this. I want you, Arthur. Arthur's hand squeezes around his as if in surprise. "Really?" he asks, voice breathless. "But you should … there's some much about being a human you haven't experienced yet, you should get to experience."
Yes, John says. But this is part of it. And it's something I want. Something I know I want.
"But…" Arthur begins. Do you know how often I've drawn you, Arthur? Not because you were the only face around me? Drawn you purely based on what I could catch from your reflections and what I remember of your face? John asks. "No," Arthur says, voice shaky and breathless once again. "No, I don't." Too many times, John wants to reply, but he could draw Arthur till they both died and it still wouldn't be too much. Enough times, he says instead, voice soft. Enough that I should have known earlier.
He squeezes Arthur's hand who squeezes back, who maybe is still not quite actually believing that John wants this, that he truly wants him but underneath their interlocked hands is the drawing of him and he has gotten the gray of Arthur's eyes perfectly right, John thinks.
Holding Arthur's hand tightly, he thinks that they can get this right together too.