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Arthur was crying. He was doing a remarkable job at hiding it, and John may not have noticed had he not so recently gained the ability to hear for himself. As it was, his new body was only days old, and every sense seemed amplified tenfold — the smell of rain as they left the automobile and trudged towards the first motel they’d seen for miles; the sound of the droplets smacking against the window of their dingy room; and now the sight of Arthur’s duvet quivering in the darkness, shaking with his shoulders as he held back what seemed to be whimpers. John’s heart sank. Something had been wrong ever since the ritual which separated them. John had worried something had failed — that there had been some catch, some inevitable price Arthur paid to give them both what they’d wanted for so long. But Arthur had assured him time and again that this was not the case. It was harder, somehow, to read him when John wasn’t physically in his mind. Perhaps there was more emotional bleedover than he’d realised, when they were still one being. Now, he hadn’t the slightest idea what Arthur was feeling, or what was causing it. Most importantly, he didn’t know how he could help.
“Arthur…” John sighed into the darkness, and the shaking stopped as Arthur sucked in a surprised breath. It was silent for a long moment, the gap between their two beds seeming to grow wider the longer John stared at the taught muscles of Arthur’s back beneath his sleep shirt.
“I thought you were asleep,”
John huffed.
“For all I lamented not being able to sleep when I was in your mind, it seems to have escaped me since I got this body,”
Arthur laughed — a shaky, humourless thing.
“Same here,”
Silence again, followed by the rustle of cheap covers as John sat up in bed. His hair was mussed, and he felt it cascade down his back in onyx waves. He liked having long hair. It was a little strange, just how dark it was — inhuman, in a way — and he’d yet to see another man in Arkham or any other place with hair quite as long as his own. Still, he declined to cut it. He liked it, felt it singled him out from the rest, implied there was something more to John than the shell of a man he sometimes felt he was.
If Arthur heard John sit up, he didn’t acknowledge the action. John watched as he curled himself up tighter in the covers, clutching them to his chin, his face not visible from John’s position. John had seen this man diseased, bleeding, near-delirious. John had seen Arthur die. Not once had he looked as small as he did now, making himself shrink, trying to hold back tears like a child afraid of being scolded.
“Arthur,” John said again, softer, this time, more insistent. “Talk to me,”
Arthur drew in a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, eventually. John stared at the shape of him. He longed to close the gap between them, to pull Arthur against him until they were flush, until they were one. But he still didn’t know why Arthur was upset, and for all John knew he could be the very reason. He normally was.
“What could you possibly be sorry for, Arthur?”
Another barely-suppressed sob.
“I should be happy,” Arthur choked out. “I should be— I should be fucking ecstatic. We did it, John. We separated ourselves, and for once there wasn’t a catch. You have a body, you are truly your own. And— and yet—”
John felt his newly-gained heart freeze.
“And yet?”
“And yet I can’t help but feel that I’ve lost, somehow,” Arthur’s tone was exasperated, anger and confusion churned together. John thought all of this through for a moment.
“Did you not want me to have a body, Arthur? Admittedly I still have a long way to go before I can consider myself ‘human’, perhaps I am undeserv—”
“No!” Arthur exclaimed, twisting in his bed to finally face John. The words evaporated on his tongue as he stared at Arthur, at the tear-stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes. His hair was unruly, tousled by an angry hand. Arthur wasn’t looking directly at him, of course, his eyes had that usual unfocused edge to them. But they were wide and glassy all the same.
“I wanted more than anything for you to get your own body. You deserve at least that, John,” A sigh. “You’re more human than anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m truly happy for you,”
John’s eyebrows furrowed.
“But?”
“But,” Arthur took a shaky breath. “I can’t help but feel that when you gained a part of yourself, I lost something,”
John was silent, trying to understand this. When it was clear he had nothing to offer, Arthur continued.
“Having you in my head, John, it was—” A bitter laugh, “It was invasive. Infuriating. I had no privacy, everything I did affected us both, I was no longer— I couldn’t just look out for myself anymore. And for a long time, I hated it.”
Arthur’s unseeing eyes drifted to the floor. John felt his heart clench.
“But it was also grounding. It gave me… you gave me… purpose, John. Something beyond myself, something to live for. Something I hadn’t felt since…”
“Faroe,” John breathed. Arthur nodded slowly.
“Yes. Not that— not that I see you as a child! God, you’re certainly not that. I just— I guess—”
“I had much to learn. And you taught me constantly,”
Arthur’s voice broke and John watched fresh tears spill down his cheeks.
“I feel so empty without you,” He said, a quiet confession, hands fisted in the fabric at his knees. “Untethered,”
“Oh, Arthur,” John sighed, eyebrows drawing up in empathy. Empathy. Not the most pleasant of emotions John had discovered, but necessary all the same. He stood up, the wooden floor creaking under his six-foot frame. Arthur had laughed at the way he towered over him after being confined to such a small space for so long. He wasn’t laughing now.
“John?” He murmured as John approached his bed, stopping in front of Arthur.
“I’m still here,” John said, voice pitched low, as soothing as he could muster. He hesitated only a moment before reaching a hand out and pushing it into Arthur’s hair, streaked with twice the amount of silver as it had been when they’d first looked into that bathroom mirror. The cold, calculated demeanour of someone not to fuck with. The observation seemed almost laughable now as the man beneath him flinched at the touch, before the jolt turned into a tremble, a sob tearing itself free as Arthur leant desperately into the hand. John hummed.
“I still have much to learn, Arthur. Even more now that I have my own body. These sensations, for one,” He untangled a knot in Arthur’s hair as if to punctuate his statement. “All of this I have because of you. And yet I’m afraid I’m not quite done with you yet,” He chuckled, “I need you, Arthur. I’d be nothing without you, and if you left me now…”
“I would never,” Arthur rushed, and John smiled, cradling his head with as much tenderness as his clumsy hands would allow.
“I can still be your purpose, if that’s what you want,”
A shaky inhale. Arthur’s hand reaching up to settle atop John’s own.
“Yes,” He gasped, “I can’t… I can’t live for myself, John. Not yet.”
John almost wished he wasn’t granted this heart with the way it broke at that statement.
“Then live for me,”
Arthur crumbled. He nodded frantically, bowing his head and clutching tight to John’s hand as tears cascaded down his cheeks, as though supplicant to a God. John didn’t like the connotations.
“Lie down, Arthur,” He whispered, and Arthur seemed hurt for a moment, as though not wanting to break this small connection. Still, he released John’s hand and lay back, shaking, on the bed.
“Good,” John praised. “Move over a little,”
Arthur was more than eager to make space as John joined him on the entirely-too-small bed, his feet sticking out awkwardly over the end and his arms slightly cramped at his sides to avoid pushing Arthur off. Still, the proximity was familiar. Comforting. Arthur’s shaking was slowing, the tremors less violent as he awaited John’s next move. John sighed as he turned onto his side, reaching out and tugging Arthur’s trembling form into his arms.
“Turn a little— yes, like— yes,” John instructed as Arthur shifted until his back was flush to John’s chest. They fit together perfectly, John’s form easily encompassing Arthur’s — frail with all they’d been through, but by no means weak.
John curled his arm around Arthur’s side and rested it over his heart. He heard Arthur sniff.
“H-harder,” He managed, “Please,”
John nodded, tugging him closer until he was pressed into John’s chest, his arm tight around him. He felt Arthur’s body relax, his muscles loosening.
“Thank you,” He whispered.
“Thank you, Arthur,” John replied, tucking Arthur’s head under his chin and smelling the inexpensive shampoo the motel had provided. John shifted his leg, next, moving it to rest between Arthur’s, effectively caging him in, holding him to the bed.
“Is this okay?” He asked, breath ghosting Arthur’s forehead.
“Mmhm,” Came the reply, his voice exhausted, but not panicked as it had been. “The pressure is… good,”
John held him closer in answer, if that was even possible.
“Okay. We can do this for as long as you need. Every night, if you’d like.” He sensed Arthur’s eyes closing, the way he relaxed in the tight hold. “Anything you need, Arthur, just ask. I’m not going to leave you. I promise you that,”
Arthur murmured something unintelligible, clearly half-asleep.
“Hm?” John prompted.
“I love you, John,” Arthur sighed. There goes John’s damned heart again.
“I love you too, Arthur,”