Chapter Text
Arthur wrung his napkin through his hand once again, twisting the rough cloth across his palm and over his knuckles. He had taken up something of a nervous fiddling habit in the recent months. A side effect, John had proposed, of again having two hands after growing so used to only one, now needing the left to feel constantly occupied. Perhaps he was right, at least in part, but Arthur was more than willing to let him overlook the obvious cause.
John made him nervous.
It had started with their bedroom. They had kept a second one when they first moved in, mostly on Arthur’s insistence as they worked out what living together in two bodies would be like and, admittedly, for appearances. But after a week of both getting little sleep and realizing that, truthfully, no one was coming into their apartment, John had quickly settled into Arthur’s room. It was nice having John so close, and left the nights much less restless for both of them, but Arthur found himself… struggling to maintain a modest distance.
Even when he made a point to fall asleep with his back turned to John, Arthur constantly woke up tangled into him, John’s arm thrown around him and their legs crossed together at the ankles. The first morning, Arthur felt himself flush red in embarrassment as he quietly unwound their limbs, grateful that John had become such a heavy sleeper in his own body. He knew, though, that John often fell asleep after him, the insomnia leftover from his previous inability to sleep at all.
When Arthur pressed him about it, John had just shrugged and said, “I like to know you’re already asleep.”
Which didn’t bother Arthur in itself, but it made him anxious. He didn’t know when in the night he turned to face John, and put frankly, the thought that he was tucking himself against the man while John was still awake distressed him. Arthur didn’t know how to bring up their sleeping arrangement, not wanting to make John feel he needed to return to the second room or uncomfortable with how long Arthur had kept it from him. It was somehow harder to read John in a separate body. The misty tinges of his emotions no longer ghosted into Arthur’s mind when they spoke, they were now all kept locked away within John himself. Yet it weighed on him, circling his mind in the moments before sleep and always his first thought when he awoke.
He found himself one night in this spiral for nearly an hour as sleep evaded him, lost in thought about whether it was necessary and polite to let John know of the situation. The dip of John’s body in the bed beside him weighed on his consciousness, persistent through counted sheep and measured breathing. He needed to tell him, he had resolved, to put an end to this ridiculous worry and the weeks of anxiously waking up early. In the morning, then, over their coffee and toast. It had been so long, though, so should he downplay the length of time? But John was always good at knowing when he lied, which could make matters worse overall. Especially if Arthur flustered, which he had been increasingly prone to around John to the man’s endless amusement.
Caught up in his thoughts, Arthur didn’t realize John had shifted towards him until a heavy arm was wrapping around his ribs, John’s broad hand settling just over Arthur’s heart. The breath stilled in his chest, unable to stop the spike in his heartbeat from betraying his surprise.
“Oh,” John said quietly. “Arthur? Are you still awake?”
It took a moment for him to gather the clarity to speak.
“Yes,” Arthur said, through a short exhale. He wondered if John could feel the tension he held in his shoulders. “I was lost in thought.”
“Are you alright?” John asked.
“Yes, I just… I just hadn’t expected your arm, is all.”
“We sleep like this every night, Arthur.”
At this, Arthur turned around, John’s arm still draped over him. Though he couldn’t read John’s face, he hoped the furrowed expression on his own communicated his surprise. “You’ve known the whole time?” he asked, a relieved laugh escaping his mouth.
“Don’t you have to ‘know’ to move your body?” John said. His voice was slowly changing from a sleepy murmur to an amused teasing.
“John,” Arthur started. “Have you been… you do this every night?”
“Did I not just say that?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t… Well it seems silly now,” Arthur said. He felt the dreaded heat rising to his face. “I thought I had been… holding onto you, I suppose, in my sleep.”
“You have been,” John said, his voice the familiar dry tone he used whenever he thought Arthur was being exceedingly obvious.
Arthur gave a huff in return. “Well, sure, John. Yes. But I didn’t realize you were initiating all along.”
He felt John tense against him, pulling back his arm from Arthur’s waist. “Should I not be?” he asked shortly.
“No--”
“Then I won’t.”
“John,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “I just didn’t know. I was… embarrassed, thinking I had been so clingy without telling you.”
“I thought you knew,” John said, voice flat again. These were the moments Arthur most wished he could pull the man back into his head, to feel blindly for those faint wisps of emotion that offered some semblance of a clue into how he felt when he spoke like this. Arthur had grown skilled at knowing when John hid his upset, but he still struggled to peek behind the walls he put up in these moments. “I didn’t realize it bothered you.”
Arthur let out a deep breath. He could feel the weight of John’s gaze looking expectantly for some kind of response in his expression. He extended a hand out, feeling for the broadness of John’s cheek to rest against. “It doesn’t,” he assured.
It felt more like a promise than he had expected it to, but it rang true. He could feel a small smile tug at John’s face, the smooth skin of his cheek shifting under his hand. In a silent exchange, John had pulled him back in, Arthur’s head coming to rest in the crook of his shoulder just as he so often woke up. A heavy arm draped over him, their legs instinctively winding together like the workings of a machine. Despite the racing heart in his chest, a comfort washed over Arthur so completely that he found himself drifting off.
That was just their way then, from there after. A routine closeness that greeted them every night when they laid down for bed. There had been more hesitancy from John after this conversation, a looser hold of his arm on their walks together or extra inches of distance on the couch, for no longer than a week. By the end of it, neither of them having brought it up again, he seemed resolved to continue life as normal.
The problem only arose for Arthur in that every interaction since had taken on an unignorable buzz , little points of contact that sent a blush to his ears and shocks through his skin. When they had been initially separated, closeness had come so naturally to him. It was an automatic response to come together, to wind Arthur’s worn thin body into John’s new form, the body warm against Arthur’s in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He had been perfectly happy with the closeness they shared in day to day life since that first moment, casual touches that didn’t feel like they had to mean something. That felt different now. Knowing now that John was reaching for him nightly, as if it were an expected act, left him scrutinizing every action for purpose. Every adjustment of each other’s coat or brush past in their cramped kitchen sent him into a small panic. He could manage the distraction at work, drawing on the simplicity of the chase and fight to occupy his mind, but the celebration after a well-done case tugged painstakingly on his heart.
Any hope he might’ve had that growing accustomed to their separation would alleviate these feelings was futile. The longer they spent in two bodies, the more often John seemed to reach for him, running a hand over Arthur’s scars at night or wordlessly stepping in to button his shirt in the morning. If he didn’t know the man better, he would think John was purposefully tormenting him with his gentleness. With every tender moment Arthur felt the need to pull back, not for lack of want but for fear that he didn’t know what it meant to John, or that John didn’t know what it meant to him , that he was again being dishonest in some way for leaning into the passing touches. Dishonest and yet more terrified to ask about it all than he could put to words.
No moment had affected him quite like the present evening. Since the original shock of learning John wanted to hold him, to keep him so near, Arthur had been divided on how to handle each new closeness between them. Just when he thought he could almost tolerate it, the man would invent some new softness that stopped Arthur short. He considered that, perhaps, it was his being out of practice at living so intimately with another person or the trials of learning to cohabitate with John in a different form that made his heart seize and chest grip with nervousness. He even convinced himself that ideally, that was all it needed to be for him, for them. He could accommodate this increasingly close, ever more tender normal, both achingly pleasant and awfully nerve wracking, as just a personal challenge to overcome. When John had suggested they go out for the evening, a long overdue chance for dinner and dancing after a considerable case payout, Arthur took it as the ideal opportunity to prove his resolve.
John had become prone to long showers, giving Arthur plenty of time to sit and stew in the meantime. This offered the benefit of deciding what would be best for both of them to wear.
The restaurant John had chosen was nicer, one they walked past on occasion that had a small space for dancing near the bar and music. While he was thrilled for the evening, he wondered if John had considered the need to dress up for it. John had famously grown to dislike the formality of their daily wear now that it was on his body, developing a specific animosity for ties which he tended to avoid whenever possible. Arthur almost felt cruel, when John knocked gently on their bedroom door, for telling him to pick one out. A series of grumbles accompanied quiet drips from his long hair, still wet from the shower, from where John sat on their bed as Arthur dressed.
“I don’t wear one for work,” John had said flatly as they dressed, avoiding buttoning his shirt at all yet in protest.
“This is dinner,” Arthur supplied. “You chose the location.”
“I can’t breathe in it, Arthur,” he followed with. “I don’t know how you feel more yourself in one.”
“You might, too, if you grew used to it,” Arthur said with a shrug. “Which makes this an excellent opportunity to start.” John continued to grumble under his breath, but the quiet shifting of fabric suggested he had given in to buttoning his shirt. Arthur smiled to himself. “You can loosen it as soon as we leave for all I care.”
He only received an affirmative hm in response. The wardrobe door creaked as John searched through the small rack of ties they shared. Arthur wondered to himself what went through the man’s head when choosing a tie to wear, whether he had a preference for pattern or color. They hadn’t discussed it much other than when first buying John his own clothes. He had picked a tie out with a shy excitement, before realizing how much he would grow to hate wearing one at all. John had said he liked the smooth material, and the tailor had said the gold suited the deep tone of his skin. Arthur listened now as John worked with whatever tie he had chosen, looping the fabric around his neck and sliding it over itself with careful practice before the mirror. Arthur tried to picture what his wide hands might look like twisting the material.
“It won’t tie,” John huffed.
“It won’t, or you can’t tie it?” Arthur grinned. Another grumble told him John was rolling his eyes, fumbling over the knot again aimlessly. It seemed to be going just as well as before. “Would you like me to do it, John?”
The soft sound of the fabric stopped. Selfishly, this was Arthur’s favorite part of getting ready together, an infrequent delight that he could appreciate through touch alone. John padded over to where Arthur leaned against the bed frame, offering a defeatist sigh as he bumped his leg affectionately against him. He had initially tried to teach John how to tie a tie for himself, dubbing it a necessary human skill for him to have in the world. It hadn’t exactly been easy to blindly evaluate John’s attempts, and Arthur himself had been working off muscle memory for so long that he made for a poor teacher. Despite having taken part in the tying of several ties via Arthur’s left hand, John insisted he retained little skill for it. He wasn’t sure if John really couldn’t get his head around the knot or if he refused to learn because he knew Arthur would eventually give in and do it for him, but it was to Arthur’s benefit regardless.
“You can leave the top button undone,” Arthur said, skirting his fingertips over the edge of John’s collar to slide the button back open. He took the smooth fabric in his hands, definitely the gold one , feeling to ensure it was at least turned to the right side before wrapping the blade around the tail. John bopped gently on the balls of his feet as Arthur worked, rolling his neck in little motions against the pull of the fabric. “This is called a Victoria knot. It’s fairly standard, and not too bulky, so it shouldn’t press against you much. And--”
John ran a hand over the gold fabric, his fingers brushing over Arthur’s as he pulled the knot tight.
“--it matches my Albert knot. They aren’t too different, but I thought it might be nice.”
“It feels fine,” John said, his voice low and quiet.
Arthur’s hands stilled against the knot of John’s tie. A steady heat bloomed across the back of his neck, creeping up his ears with a shiver. “I’m glad,” he said, letting his hands linger softly against the top of his chest. A selfish pleasure.
“Thank you, Arthur,” John said.
A wide hand found its way to Arthur’s collar, smoothing over his tie and coming to rest against the side of his neck. His reply caught in his throat, stuck somewhere between the growing blush and the warmth of John’s hand against his skin. They were already so close that Arthur almost didn’t notice John was leaning into him until the man’s lips were pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead.
Arthur had kissed John before. Plenty of times, when they had shared a body, he had kissed the rough palm of his own left hand or brushed the split knuckles to his lips. And in those first moments of separation, he hadn’t even considered it before taking the man’s face in his hands. It was reflexive in that moment to reach out for the man before him and pepper ecstatic kisses across his warm skin, mapping out the features of a face he couldn’t see. A wave of different feelings had washed over him, the disbelief of their separation and the wonder of John’s wholeness, the fear of change and the joy of being finished with it all. But it had felt different since then, like the separation of their bodies created a barrier to touch that Arthur didn’t know how to pass-- didn’t know if he could pass it.
And John had never kissed him . That was wholly new, having never previously had the means to do so and not having exhibited inclination towards the action once he did. It wasn’t that Arthur hadn’t wanted him to, more so that the impenetrable wall he had found himself behind had prevented him from considering that this was something he could want. That John might want as well. And even then considering it, he was reeling with thoughts on what that meant for the both of them. Even as John pulled back, giving an affectionate squeeze to his shoulder before leaving the room to grab his coat, Arthur stayed frozen in the moment of the kiss.
He wasn’t sure he left it, despite having walked arm in arm to the restaurant, huddling against the nipping chill of late winter. The warm press of John’s mouth against his forehead had lingered long into their first drink, possibly growing more insistent with their second. When John had excused himself from the table, Arthur’s poor napkin began taking the brunt of his fidgeting, scraps of dinner abandoned as he twisted and wrung the cloth while lost in thought. A third drink he meant to nurse went down before the glass could sweat. He was grateful he couldn’t see any sideways glances from other diners as he swirled the ice, appreciating the way the cold cut into his hand through the empty glass. By the time John returned, asking casually if Arthur was ready to go, he had steeled himself through muscle tension and liquor to bring up the matter of it all.
He felt the need to say something, of course, as he always did, but he didn’t even know where to begin to explain himself. It surprised him how much the question of what to call this, how to figure what he and John were , scared him. The fear of the unknown, he supposed. He had once told John it was the “most primal” of all human fears, and he certainly felt it true now. Despite all that they’d been through, all that his body had endured, he found himself so tight in the throat over the idea of asking that he could barely speak to John on the way home. John hadn’t seemed to notice, or if he did he didn’t mind, simply taking Arthur’s arm and narrating the city views on their walk back to the apartment. The air had grown colder during their dinner, but Arthur could barely feel it between the heat in his chest and the warmth of John against his side. Whenever the man would lean in to make a comment about some particular passerby, Arthur felt the heat of his own face bouncing off John’s skin. He was at once grateful for the hasty third drink, hoping it masked some of the blush.
Familiar cracks in the sidewalk let him know they were almost home before John’s drawling narration did, foot catching on a particularly jutting stone. John just held his arm tighter, stabilizing them both and continuing on without missing a beat. Somehow, the heat was almost searing where Arthur’s arm wrapped through John’s, even through the heavy sleeves of their coats. He bounced from one cool surface to another as they entered the building, dragging a hand across the building door and pressing his back into the elevator walls, siphoning what chill he could to abate the growing blush. The choking nervousness in his throat refused to let up even as John unlocked their apartment door, the quiet click behind them feeling much like a tolling bell in Arthur’s head.
A growing urgency began to fill Arthur’s chest, a need to tell him now . Before the night ended and John slipped the golden tie from his neck. Before they crawled back into bed, Arthur’s skin burning into John’s shoulder.
“John,” Arthur began. He heard the slouching sound of John dropping himself onto the couch, unconsciously listening for the pat to the other cushion to welcome him over. “Did you, ah… how was your meal?”
“The same as when you asked me in the restaurant,” John said.
“Right.”
Arthur sat down beside him, leaning gently against John’s side as had become normal for them. John turned his knees in to meet him, a long arm draping behind Arthur’s shoulders to encase the two of them together. Despite his buzzing nerves, the familiar settling soothed his tension enough to draw a deep, slow breath.
“It was nice, very different than we usually have,” John mused. “Though I’m still not sure how I feel about the drinks.”
“Well you’re not a small man,” Arthur said, elbowing him playfully. “You’ll likely need a bit more than two drinks to feel much of the effect.”
“I more so mean that they taste bad,” John said. “But I’ll keep that in mind, Arthur.”
They settled into an almost comfortable silence as Arthur rolled a half formed question around in his mind. He still wasn’t sure where to start with it all. He rarely was, in moments of panic. Over the course of their time together, John had criticized how quickly he could make a situation worse for himself through a spur of the moment decision. He didn’t always solve their bad situations out in the end, either, sometimes escaping by stumbling into a worse case which did not inspire confidence in the moment. Though, if he were being fair, it had all rounded out ultimately, their losses in between be damned. Perhaps it was best, then, to fall back on old ways.
Just as he opened his mouth to let something start it off, John spoke first.
“What’s bothering you, Arthur?”
He let out a short sound. “How do you mean?”
“You’re thinking so loud that I can hear your thoughts,” John sighed. He let his arm slip off the back of the couch and onto Arthur’s shoulders. Though Arthur knew the gesture was intended to be comforting, he couldn’t stop himself from tensing up on contact. John warily pulled back, arm still pressed to Arthur’s shirt, but withheld and cautious.
“I can’t keep anything from you, I suppose.”
“I spent months trapped within your head,” John said. “I’m hurt that you would think you could.”
“No, you’re right,” he said. Arthur eased back into his arm with another laugh, the tension abating with John’s words. “Naturally, you’re right. It’s nothing, though, really. Just… just something I’d been meaning to talk to you about.”
For as well as John knew him, Arthur felt sometimes to be just getting to know him in turn. Parts of their new arrangement were still unfamiliar, and having John separate from him was at times a practice of trial and error. When it came to John’s voice, though, Arthur was well acquainted. A new body couldn’t hide the familiar guarded hum John answered him with. Arthur could imagine his face now the way he had tried to before they were separated, an expression that meant John was deciding how to play his cards before Arthur even got the words out of his mouth.
“John,” he continued, giving in to the insistent urge to ramble. “You know that before , or rather I’ve told you, in part, about when I… when Bella and I… when we were together .”
John offered an even more guarded noise in response, low vibration buzzing through his ribs and into Arthur’s shoulder. He felt the muscles in the man’s arm go tense, as if Arthur had transferred the feeling to him.
“Right. And I’ve said previously that it wasn’t… right , to me at least. I cared for her, of course, we were friends, and I loved Faroe--”
“Arthur, get to your point.”
“Right,” he sighed. “My point is… what is this, John?”
John angled himself further towards Arthur, confusion coloring his tone. “What is… what , Arthur?”
“Us, you and I, what do you make of this?”
“We live together.”
“Well,” Arthur said, huffing an exasperated breath to cover the anxious rise in his chest. A creeping dread told him he had entirely misread their situation, sending a wave of heat to his neck. “Yes, thank you, John. And the rest of it?”
“What does this have to do with Bella?” John asked in his familiar, flat voice.
“Oh, what, other than the obvious?” Arthur said.
“You want what, Arthur? To find a wife?”
“ What? ” Arthur balked. Color flooded to his face. “No, Jesus, John. What do you think I’m asking here?”
“Arthur, I wish I knew,” John said. Arthur could feel the furrowed expression the man was making at him. “Maybe if you actually explained--”
“John, I’m asking about you and I, while referencing my last relationship.”
“Yes.”
Arthur closed his mouth with a frustrated exhale. He stared at what he hoped was John’s face, lips pinched in a thin line between his teeth as he searched for the words to possibly get through the man’s head.
“What… John, what are you expecting out of this? Out of me, out of living together?”
John seemed to silently turn the question over in his mind, trying to pull out the deeper meaning Arthur was too scared to touch. “Nothing? You said before we should--”
“No, I mean--” Arthur sighed. “When you kissed me earlier, when we were getting dressed, that… meant something for me.”
“I thought that was the point.”
Arthur couldn’t help but smile despite himself. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, shaking breath. “John, I can’t… I don’t think I know how to be a-- a husband -- or whatever I’m supposed to be or do. I don’t even know where we’d start , god knows we couldn’t tell anyone--”
“Arthur, I don’t understand any of what you’re saying,” John said. “Why not just stay as we are?”
“But what is ‘as we are’, John?” he asked, half laughing.
John shrugged. “Does it need to be something?”
“Yes, because--” Arthur started. “Because that’s just what’s done. I don’t know, John.”
“Sure,” John said, rolling his eyes. “It sounds like you don’t want an answer.”
“I do--”
“Look, Arthur. I spent months trapped within the confines of your mind, learning piece by piece the functions of humanity and your world,” John sighed. His hand wrapped around Arthur’s shoulder. “I won’t feign to know everything, or to understand the ways in which you constrain yourselves. But I do know you, and that you’re working yourself into the kind of frustration where, ultimately, you agree with me.”
“That’s unfair--”
“I love you,” John said. Arthur drew an involuntary breath. “I’m glad to be here, alive and in this body, and sharing that with you. Whatever you need to call that, you’re free to decide. But if you’re fine with our life as it is, what you call it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Oh,” Arthur said, quietly. He swallowed hard against the persistent lump in his throat. “I love you, too, John. You know that. I just… I’ve never felt inclined towards the roles of romance, so to speak.”
“Arthur, until several months ago, I was the disembodied fracture of a god’s soul,” John said. His dry tone had taken on an edge of humor, one that Arthur was warmed to hear even at his expense. “I can’t imagine what’s proper holds much weight in our circumstances.”
“Right,” Arthur laughed quietly. “No, I suppose you’re right.”
“As I said.”
“Oh, come off it.” Arthur rolled his eyes, offering another jab to John’s side. “You are, though. I don’t know why I made this such an ordeal for myself.”
“It’s one of your many talents,” John teased. A yawn cut him off, and he brought his arm out from behind Arthur to flex against a tired stretch. “If that’s resolved, I’m going to lay down.”
Arthur smiled to himself. “I’ll join you.”
John stood and held out a hand for Arthur to take hold of. Though he had grown plenty accustomed to navigating their apartment by himself, the gesture sent a renewed wave of warmth over his ears. The heat spread down his neck as John pressed a quick kiss to his temple, his lips pulled in a smile against Arthur’s skin.
“How decisive,” John said, pulling him along before Arthur could say anything else.