Work Text:
The sky hung gray over Arkham and John wished he could breathe in the cool air. His hand was stuffed into the pocket of Arthur's coat, protecting it from the cold wind blowing as Arthur slowly walked along the river. “Some fresh air will do us good,” he had said, and John had agreed because Arthur had sounded exhausted. Time away from their desk and the copious amount of infuriatingly useless notes might actually do both of them some good, he had silently thought.
There was a woman missing, a man seen on a train with her, her necklace found at an old house just outside Arkham and yet, even after three weeks, no trace of her. Even Arthur, John thought, seemed to slowly run out of both patience and hope. Though judging by his silence as they kept walking along Miskatonic river, his mind was probably still trying to find a solution to this puzzle, as usual.
There's a lot of water flowing through the river, John said, half automatically, half wanting to distract Arthur. I hope it won't flood again. Their flat and office was on the second floor but another case a few months ago had brought them down to the river after a particularly strong rainfall. Arthur had slipped several times on its muddy slopes, enough for even John to end up feeling wet and miserable afterwards, hand shaking from the cold.
“I doubt it will be that bad again,” Arthur said, stopping at last and turning towards the river. John eyed the fast flowing water beneath them suspiciously. “Can you feel it?” Arthur then suddenly asked. “Smells like rain.” He didn't sound too displeased about it. John was about to pointedly remind Arthur that he wasn't in the position to smell anything when Arthur suddenly pulled his arm out of his pocket, raising it up so John could feel the wind blowing against his hand.
Feels wet, John said after a moment of silence. Arthur laughed in reply.
“Whirl up, sea, whirl your pointed pines,” he said. “Splash your great pines on our rocks.” The wind didn't pick up, turned neither warmer nor colder but there was a tingling sensation spreading in John's hand nonetheless. “Hurl your green over us,” Arthur continued, voice almost swallowed by the sound of the river below and the blowing wind but yet somehow ringing in John's head. ”Cover us with your pools of fir.” Arthur's voice trailed off as he finished and the tingling in John's hand slowly receded as well, even as a faint echo of it remained.
The silence stretched between them and John realized that he probably should say something.
That was … that was nice, he said, words for some reason coming out slower than he wanted to. He felt a sting of confused irritation at his own reaction. There had been poems before. Before Arkham and even more now in Arkham, Arthur's soft voice reciting them from memory in the evening whenever John dared asking becoming something of a routine. But his hand was still held high, the wind carrying with it wetness and he thought of great pines splashing on their rocks, Arthur’s voice deeper than normal at those lines, and some hidden part of him shuddered.
“It's just something I remembered,” Arthur said, voice sounding weirdly abashed all of a sudden. “Sorry, I didn't mean to…” I liked it, John interrupted him. He wasn't sure why Arthur was sounding almost embarrassed, was even more confused about his own more intense than usual reaction but it was a good poem. And Arthur had recited it for him. He would always be grateful when Arthur did that.
I wouldn't mind more of them, he said, feeling slightly stupid even as he said it. More poems about what, he thought. The sea? Whirling, and hurling and splashing? It's better than the one with the bridge, he added quickly. Another laugh coming from Arthur in reply, sounding almost breathless for a moment. “If you want,” he said and John wished the wind would calm so he could hear Arthur's voice better without really knowing why. “I know a few more like those, I suppose.”
The wind picked up even more then, wet turning cold and Arthur shuddered and stuffed John's hand back into the coat pocket. “Enough poems and fresh air for today though,” he said, turning away from the river. “Let's go over those train schedules again, I think there's something we're missing there.”
It took two weeks, the case of the missing woman and her potential kidnapper turning into two young people foolishly in love and eloping and a furious client refusing payment as Arthur had declined to give up their hiding spot after handing over a letter by her daughter, until the subject of poems came up again.
They were sitting in the armchair by the stove, or rather Arthur was sitting and John was resting his hand on the armrest. The chair had seen better days, as had most of their cheap and mismatched furniture but John had grown irrationally fond of it, the way he had of most of the things Arthur and him had collected for their office and living quarters. He was about to suggest Arthur turn on the radio, hoping they could catch that show about that newspaper publisher secretly fighting crime, even as Arthur mostly grumbled about it being unrealistic that nobody ever recognized him.
But then Arthur let out a loud laugh, startling him out of his thoughts. What's so funny? John asked. “I just realized why they were so reluctant to talk about the necklace,” Arthur said, voice tinted with amusement. If he could, John would have frowned. What necklace? He asked, confused. “The woman, we found her necklace in that house, you remember? I wonder why she would have taken it off at all if they were just resting there before catching the train. But I suppose resting wasn't all they did.” Again that weird tone of amusement in Arthur's voice and there was something here John wasn't getting.
What do you mean? He asked, annoyance growing at both Arthur for being opaque and himself for not getting what seemed so obvious to Arthur. “Well, it was the first time they really had any privacy, what with them sneaking around her mother's back and the other servants,” Arthur said. “And they are young and in love, I suppose the sudden rush of being all alone for the first time overcame them.”
What are you … oh , John said, feeling foolish all of a sudden. “Quite,” Arthur said, smile obvious in his voice. “They did make a fire and there were blankets in front of the fireplace, you remember?” It can't have been very comfortable, John said, remembering the old wooden floor inside the house, scratched and rather uninviting. “I doubt they cared very much,” Arthur said. “Once it got warmer, it's easy to forget about anything but each other.” Still, John said, trying to gather some of his dignity for having taken so long to realize what Arthur had been talking about. A fire alone doesn't seem quite enough.
Silence coming from Arthur for a moment before he spoke again.
“Come slowly, Eden,” he said, and John's hand involuntarily clenched at the sound of his voice. “Lips unused to thee, bashful, sip thy jessamines.” Deep, deeper than usual, every word perfectly accentuated, creeping deep inside John's head. “As the fainting bee, reaching late his flower, round her chamber hums.” There was heat, the stove in front of them feeling suddenly even warmer than it did before as Arthur kept talking. “Counts his nectars. Enters, and is lost in balms,” Arthur finished and faintly John became aware that his hand was twitching. He forced it still immediately, embarrassed at his reaction, hoping Arthur hadn't noticed.
“It wasn't just the fire,” Arthur added, voice less deep again but somehow the stove was still too damn hot, somehow his voice made it even hotter. I … I suppose it wasn't, John managed to force out. Stared straight ahead then, even though he couldn't really look at Arthur anyway but he somehow was unable to even stand the thought of catching sight of Arthur's reflection at the moment.
Damn stove, he thought. They needed to stop overheating their small room. All that heat wasn't good for his head. He managed to convince Arthur to go to bed soon afterwards, fire thankfully burnt down to embers by then. It was a lot harder though to not think of heat and flowers, of young people in love in front of a fireplace and Arthur and him in their armchair in front of the stove.
Morning dawned however and daylight brought another case he threw himself into with even more enthusiasm than usual. A week later, he regretted some of that enthusiasm. “Are they still…” Arthur whispered. Yes, John cut him off. Thankfully they have moved to the bed now. A soft snort coming from Arthur, quiet enough to not be heard outside the wardrobe they were hiding in. John tactfully avoided another glance through the keyhole, the sounds coming from the bed making what was going on in the room quite obvious.
“Remind me to have a conversation with you about what type of establishments we can expect certain suspects to visit,” Arthur said. It looked like a hotel from the outside, John replied defensively. “I am certain it did but not the type where the beds are ever used for sleeping,” Arthur said drily. John's sharp reply was cut off by Arthur shifting, John's hand instinctively coming up to help Arthur quietly sit down. Probably for the best, John thought resigned. It did look like this would take some time.
At least we now know this isn't his base of operations, he offered half-heartedly. “Still could be,” Arthur replied. “Though he seemed to be too professional to mix business with … pleasure.” Another moan coming from the outside hammered in the pleasure part and John really had hoped their surveillance tonight would finally get them some answers. You really still think he's the one who's selling the books? He asked. It's been days and he just goes from his shop to the bar and then back home. How is he getting them from her library? “A good detective needs patience, John,” Arthur said and if he had eyes, John would have rolled them. Enough patience to not suggest breaking into a room because we might finally get some information? He asked pointedly.
A pause coming from Arthur and John would have triumphed if there hadn't been a loud crashing noise followed by another moan just that moment. I think they have fallen off the bed, John confirmed after a quick look through the keyhole. Doesn't seem to stop them though, he added, reluctantly almost feeling impressed.
“Reminds me of something,” Arthur mumbled and for a moment John could swear, he almost heard a grin in his voice. I don't think now is the time, John began, only to be interrupted by Arthur. “There was a young lady of Norway who hung by her toes in a doorway,” Arthur said. “She said to her beau, just look at me Joe, I think I’ve discovered one more way.” He paused as if expecting a reaction from John, but John felt distinctly not impressed. Not one of your better ones, he said. “You’ll be happy to know that it's not mine then,” Arthur said and John could fully tell he was grinning now, even without being able to see his face. “Got it from Parker. Made me laugh like hell back then but admittedly, we were both rather drunk when he told it.”
Get me drunk and try again then, John answered drily. A very quiet laugh coming from Arthur. “We ought to go and have another dinner soon,” he then said softly. “A nice meal for me to eat, some entertainment for you to watch, far enough away from where we usually go so nobody will care if I talk to you during the meal. Or hell, our usual place, it's not like they don't call me that crazy private eye already anyway.”
There was something about the fact that Arthur wanted to be able to talk to him during their outings, something that made warmth spread somewhere John couldn't quite identify. He was about to reply, something, anything, maybe just telling Arthur he also wanted to have another dinner with him, when the noise outside the wardrobe at last stopped. Finally, John grumbled, risking another look outside to confirm nobody was on their way to open the door to their hiding spot. They are putting their clothes back on and … oh! “What?” Arthur hissed. There's a suitcase, Arthur, John said excitedly. It was hidden under the bed, he didn't come in with it. Quite heavy from the looks of it!
“That's how he does the handover with the secretary without the two having to meet in person,” Arthur whispered equally excited. “He probably was also here some time ago, handed it over and now our guy picks it up.” So there was some business along with the pleasure, John said as he watched their suspect plant one last passionate kiss on a giggling recipient before handing over some bills and leaving the room with a wink and, more importantly, the suitcase in hand. Clever. Those thieves are getting better and better.
“Just look at me Joe, I think I’ve discovered one more way,” Arthur mumbled. It took John a moment to remember the rhyme from before. This one is still stupid though, he said and before Arthur could reply, quickly added. They both have left the room, let's get out of the window before we get caught. Arthur for once did as he was told and a few minutes and one climb down a rain gutter they were on their way back to their office.
“Now all we need to do is get the books back and we're done,” Arthur said happily and John couldn't fault his optimism right there.
He faulted it five days later when they were staring at said books in front of them. “Fuck,” Arthur said. “Fuck,” he repeated for emphasis. Agreed, John said darkly. I can't understand all of the writing but the one I can… His voice trailed off, eyes fixed on the open book in front of them.
“Let me guess, it's not good.” No, it's not. As far as John could tell, it wasn't ripping a hole in the fabric of the universe and opening a gateway bad, but there were instructions here that could be used to summon some truly vile creatures. And judging by the notes scribbled on the side, they had been not just attempted but even fine-tuned over the years.
“No wonder she didn't want to get the police involved,” Arthur mumbled. “I should have known there was something fishy here.” You couldn't have known, John said. She did come to us after all because we are discreet and don't judge. “Well, I am judging now. She's not getting those books back,” Arthur said resolutely, almost trapping John’s hand when he abruptly closed the book.
Do you think they knew, John asked. What books they were stealing from her? “I doubt it, you’ve seen the guy’s place. He was only interested in the money. Suppose overall jail is better than anything to do with this,” Arthur said. A moment of silence followed, stretching uncomfortably between them. She will have more of them, likely, John then finally said. You remember her library when she hired us. “Yes,” Arthur said. A shadow of movement and his right hand was coming up massaging his forehead and blocking John’s view. He didn't say anything. There were only the books to see after all anyway. And he didn't particularly care to look at those.
If the rest of them are like this… John continued. “I know, John,” Arthur snapped. “I know,” he added softer. “I had just hoped this part of our life was finally over.” A bitter laugh. “More fool me.” John wanted to answer, say something to make Arthur feel less like the relative security and normality they had painstakingly built for themselves after returning to Arkham was once again at stake, but what was there really to say? What could he say, the bodiless voice inside Arthur's head, that had cost him so much, that wouldn't just serve as a bitter reminder that there was no actual real normality ever to achieve here? Not as long as John was still around.
You should go to bed, he said softly in lieu of anything else he could think to say. Get some rest, it's been a long day. He wanted to add that at least the thief was behind bars for all the other things he had been trying to fence but he doubted Arthur would find much comfort in that right now.
So he stayed silent as Arthur prepared for bed, at least one normal thing Arthur now got to have.
He waited for the usual sound of Arthur's breathing calming down as they laid in the darkness but Arthur just tossed and turned instead. “You know,” he then said suddenly. “It's not that I mind looking into this stuff. We also did it. Are still doing it even. It's just why do so many of the people doing this seem hellbent on using it for evil?” It's not so much just plain evil, John said slowly. Briefly remembered worlds and deeds of unspeakable cruelty when looked at from a human perspective but back then, back then it had just been existence, uncaring of anything outside itself. It's not caring what happens to other people as long as you get what you want.
“Still sounds evil to me,” Arthur replied. John felt it was too late for philosophical discussions, especially one that would edge precariously close to his own past no matter how much he was still trying to take responsibility for it, to learn and be better. Caring takes effort. Not everybody wants to put it in.
“It doesn't seem to be an effort for you anymore.” John felt a wave of surprise flush through him at that. “We could have just told that woman’s mother where she was hiding, gotten the money and be done with it,” Arthur continued. They seemed happy though, John said slowly. Happy to be able to finally be together, even if it had meant running away. “They seemed happy, yes,” Arthur said. “And even if they aren't in the end, it will have been their choice at least, not her mother’s, not society’s. But still, they were strangers to us and we could have used the money.”
We could have, John agreed. And it would certainly have been easier. But it wouldn't have felt… He trailed off, trying to find the best words. Right. Right or good. I would have felt bad about it, after the way she had begged us to just leave them alone. Knowing she’d have to go back there and never see him again because of us.
“See? You care. And it's just something you do now.” John thought back to Arthur's bitter anger when they had realized just what books they had been sent to retrieve , at the way he had desperately wanted to take that anger and bitterness away, turn it into something else, something softer, something that would stop hurting Arthur.
Yes, he said after a long pause. I care. And then he thought of the couple when they had first tracked them down, how happy and carefree they had looked as they had embraced each other. And how even if he would have found the words to comfort Arthur, it only would have been words. Nothing else. Nothing more he could ever give to Arthur.
I’m sorry, he said. Silence followed his words and for a moment John thought Arthur had fallen asleep.
“What for?” Arthur then said though, voice sounding genuinely puzzled. John let out a sigh feeling tired all of a sudden. For … this. Everything. The books but also that you can't just leave all of this behind. “John,” Arthur began but John interrupted him. The fact that you can't go out and have a normal dinner without me staying silent or being considered crazy. That there aren't any new books for you without me reading them to you. That you can't… The memory of two people embracing. Can't have a relationship without me constantly being there, John finished softly.
“You can't have that either. You have even less than I do, maybe.” Yes, maybe. There was the usual frustration, the anger at his own limitations but right now, John was more angry at everything Arthur had lost. Everything he had cost him. You remember the fireplace where we found the necklace? Or the man even at the brothel. You can't have that anymore without me constantly being there in the background, no hugs, no kisses, no … more.
A long moment of silence and then Arthur suddenly shifted, moving onto his side, pulling his arm and John's hand along with it up to his face.
“Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me,” Arthur said softly and he wasn't touching John's hand but they were close enough that John could feel Arthur's warm breath against his palm as he spoke. “Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves, a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me,” Arthur went on and it was different from the poems before, so loud and secure.
This was but a whisper in the dark room, every word carrying with it a soft exhale of breath that almost seemed to caress John's skin. He felt goosebumps break out somewhere faintly on his wrist, those parts of him that ended and Arthur began, warmth spreading along his hand despite the cold of the room, extending illogically even to his wooden finger.
“Now folds the lily all her sweetness up and slips into the bosom of the lake,” Arthur continued and his words and breath turned the warmth into heat. The fireplace with the blankets in front of them, turning towards the unmade bed in the brothel, at least coming to rest right in this moment, with the room dark and Arthur's words the only thing mattering. “So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me,” Arthur finished and then there was nothing but his warm breath against John’s skin and the sudden urge to reach out and feel.
That was … that was beautiful, he finally managed to force out. “Yes,” Arthur replied, voice kind. “Beautiful.” He was still lying on his side, still close enough that John would only have to stretch his fingers to touch his cheek, his skin, his mouth. And slip into my bosom and be lost in me, John thought and a shudder ran through him. It took all his strength to keep his hand still, to not reach out, to not become even more lost in Arthur.
You should sleep, he said, trying to force himself to sound normal. Get some rest. “Yes,” Arthur mumbled before yawning loudly. “We should talk though tomorrow.”
About the books? John asked, puzzled. A soft chuckle, turning into another yawn, quieter this time. “Sure, about the books,” Arthur said, voice trailing off and after a few minutes, John could hear his breathing calming down completely. Still though, Arthur was on his side, John's hand pulled to his face and he stayed like this for most of the night, John counting every second and committing it to memory.
Be lost in me, he kept thinking as he failed to find himself again before Arthur woke up.
The morning brought conversations about books. It also brought two towering masked men, carrying them off the moment they left their office. Finding themselves in the library of their client when the bag over Arthur's head finally came off truly was the least surprising part of their day so far, John thought grimly. At this point, he was very much siding with Arthur on being tired of this specific part of their life.
Their client started ranting, John only half-listening, eyes wandering from the masked men, standing silently but menacing behind the woman, to a lit candle holder to their right. When I say now, get out of that chair and hit the candlestick to your right, John instructed and Arthur couldn't reply but his hand resting on John's curled slightly, a sign of understanding.
Now! John yelled the moment their client turned away from them briefly and Arthur reacted immediately, jumping up and hitting the candlestick. It landed on a pile of books, hazardly stacked in a corner and there was a loud scream coming from their, at this point former client as the ancient books immediately went up in flames. “Save my books, save my books, you idiots!” She yelled but the masked men didn't move. John watched as she reached for another book, wildly thumbed through it and then started chanting in a strangely familiar language, the men finally starting to move sluggishly towards the books.
It was too late though. The fire had already started catching on to other books and Arthur was coughing, thick, black smoke spreading. “The door,” he yelled. “Where's the door?!” I can't see… wait, to your right, John yelled, trying to make out anything but flames, smoke and burning books. Arthur started running towards it but the flames were spreading quickly, engulfing the rest of the sizable library quickly. Ancient books about evil rituals sure burnt well, John thought briefly before a burning shelf just by the door gave in, crashing down and blocking their way out.
The doors blocked, John yelled, eyes feverishly casting around for a different way out. In the corner of his eyes he could see the masked men fruitlessly trying to save the books from the flames, masks burning away as their clothes started catching fire too, revealing inhuman features underneath with long glowing red eyes and sharp teeth. John shuddered, tearing his eyes away from them and towards the window behind them.
Run, he told Arthur. “What are you…” Run and jump when I tell you too! John interrupted. Arthur swallowed, loud enough for John to hear and then he started running.
The flames licked at them angrily, there was another scream of pure fury coming from the woman, her hands reaching out to grab them but John's eyes were fixed on the window. It was an old house. With old windows. And thin window panes. At least John hoped so.
Jump, he yelled when they were a foot away from it and Arthur obeyed, jumping towards the window. His body connected with it and there was the sound of glass breaking. Arthur landed heavily moments later, somehow managed to roll on the ground, before coming to a stop among shattered glass on the wet grass. For a moment he said nothing and John felt a surge of panic rush through him before Arthur let out a pained groan that turned into a cough halfway through.
“Could have warned me,” he mumbled, rolling around and getting up, knees shaky. No time, John replied. Are you okay? “Nothing broken, I think,” Arthur said. “Is she coming after us?” John looked towards the house, the fire having fully engulfed the library now. For a moment he thought he saw a figure at the window, clutching a burnt book in her hand but then the smoke and flames swallowed her whole.
I don't think so, he said. “Then let's get the hell out of here before the police show up,” Arthur said, already walking or rather limping away. They somehow managed to make it back home, catching a taxi once they were far enough away from the house to feel they wouldn't seem suspicious but John only felt himself relax when the door to their office closed behind them.
“We really need to ask for advanced payment,” Arthur said, as he limped towards their desk. “We keep not getting paid once we finish a case.” I’m not sure burning down a house with our client inside counts as finishing a case, John pointed out. Arthur snorted. “You heard her, she was very keen on using my blood for her next experiments now that she had her books back. Not a great ending for a case either.”
Well, I don't think we have to worry about those books anymore, John said. Or her. “Small mercies,” Arthur sighed, leaning back in his chair. “At least that's one thing less out there trying to kill us. And we didn't die either so there's that.” Yes, John said. I’m glad you're okay. “You came through with that window,” Arthur said. “It's good to have a partner I can rely on.”
A brief pause, long enough for John to struggle for a reply.
“And a … friend,” Arthur then said, voice softer. He leaned forward again, arms resting on the desk. “I did mean to talk to you about this,” he said. About what? John asked, confusion mixing with trepidation. Another long pause coming from Arthur and then suddenly he raised his arm, bringing John's hand up to his face.
“At the touch of you, as if you were an archer with your swift hand at the bow, the arrows of delight shot through my body,” Arthur began and a shock ran through John. Arthur, he said but Arthur cradled his hand in his own and the words were lost in the warmth and heat of the touch. “You were spring,” Arthur continued, whispered almost, against his skin, his hand so close to Arthur's mouth. “And I the edge of a cliff.” Every word, every exhale of breath was heat, the touch of Arthur's hand magnifying the sensation by a thousandfold and John suddenly understood it all too well. “And a shining waterfall rushed over me.”
Waterfalls and fireplaces, beds and armchairs. Heat and warmth and poems and Arthur. Always, always Arthur. “What do you say?” Arthur asked softly, John's hand still so tantalizingly close to his mouth. But then, that was the problem, wasn't it?
I’m not an archer, John said. A confused sounding moment of silence. “That's not what this is…” Arthur then began only for John to interrupt him. You need a body to fire an arrow. For other things too. So many other things. The couple embraced tightly in his mind, the man shared a passionate kiss and here was a hand, two eyes and nothing more. He had taken so much from Arthur already. How could he take this too?
“John,” Arthur said but John tugged his hand away, slipping easily out of Arthur's grip and he fell silent.
I can't be an archer, John said softly and the heat turned cold, a painful sting he tried to ignore. Let's … let's get you cleaned up. Your clothes must smell like smoke. Silence for a moment and now more than ever before in his life, John wanted Arthur to disagree with him, fight him on this. But instead Arthur just sighed. “Okay. Okay if that's … if that's what you want, John.”
It's not, John thought. But wasn't that the point of caring? Doing what was right and good even if you wanted something else instead? Why then, John thought as Arthur silently stood up to get himself clean, did this feel like neither?
They didn't talk much more that day, conversations stilted and awkward, even as Arthur tried to act like nothing had happened. It ached someplace deep inside John in a way he tried to ignore. Surely, he thought, it would pass. Surely all those foolish selfish parts of him would realize that this was better for Arthur. He kept repeating it to himself like a mantra over the next week, hoping that another case would show up to distract him. They spent their time doing chores instead, talking no more than necessary, avoiding the topics of literature as much as possible. It surprised John when Arthur slowed his step when they passed a bookstore some days later.
“We should go inside,” he said. “We might not be able to afford any new books right now but you can take a look at some, if we ever manage to actually get paid for a case.” It was a weak joke but John was desperate for some normality and so he didn't say anything as Arthur entered the store.
They browsed through a few of the books on display, managing a short exchange about a mystery they had already read and thoroughly despised before Arthur fell silent, letting John look around on his own. There was a history book John had little interest in, another one about art that was more to his liking but he knew Arthur would find boring and he blindly reached for the last book on the shelf, hidden behind another mystery. It was a collection of poems, it turned out and John almost put it back immediately. But then he wanted, needed, things to go back to normal and the thought of there never being any more poems between the two of them, was too much to bear.
So slowly he opened the book, eyes scanning the first poem. Something about spring, nothing that really grabbed his interest and he paged through the rest of the book quicker, mostly just reading the titles. One suddenly caught his attention though and he slowed down. Read the first few lines, read them again, felt heat rise as he kept reading.
He should close the book, he thought. Close it and forget about this. Instead his hand, shaking slightly, came up and ripped out the page the poem had been printed on, feeling only a slight pang of guilt as he did so. “What's that sound?” Arthur asked and John abruptly closed the book, stuffing the piece of paper into their coat pocket. Nothing, he said. Just a … book about painting techniques.
“Now I’m suddenly glad we can't afford to buy any new books,” Arthur said with a laugh and John said nothing in response, Arthur's laughter quickly dying down. We should go home, John said abruptly in the ensuing silence. It's getting late. It actually was but he hadn't even noticed until they left the store and saw night slowly falling. There was more silence on their way back home, John's mind too occupied with the page tightly gripped in his hand inside the coat pocket.
Arthur prepared himself dinner and John was thankful there wasn't much input required from him there. Afterwards he stocked up the fire in their stove before sitting down in the old armchair. “I’ll turn on the radio,” he said as he settled in and for once John didn't care at all about the music that was playing. He was just glad that the music allowed him to pick up the piece of paper he had managed to drop on the table next to the armchair when they had returned home.
Slowly he started reading the poem again, taking his time to savor each word. Heat again and he wanted to put the blame solely on the poem but that wasn't quite it, was it? Caring, he thought dimly. And then he thought back to the poems Arthur had recited to him, the way his voice had sounded as he had spoken each word to John and then, more importantly, he thought of his own reaction to those words.
And then he thought that maybe it didn't only have to be Arthur giving this to John. His hand was already halfway towards turning off the radio before he realized it and he just let it happen.
“If you don't like the music, we can listen to something else,” Arthur said when the radio fell silent. No, John said. I mean, it's not that, I … I have something for you? “You do?” Arthur asked, sounding surprised. “How … I mean what is it?” A poem, John said. Not one I wrote, he then added quickly.
And then before Arthur could say anything or John lost his bravery, he raised the paper and began reading. I like my body when it is with your body, he started and he could immediately feel a reaction from Arthur, his body stilling in response to the words. It is so quite new a thing, John continued quickly and it really was, wasn't it? Muscles better and nerves more. I like your body. I like what it does, I like its hows. Liked the way he could feel Arthur shift slightly as he spoke, liked the hint of a goosebump spreading at his wrist, liked the way he saw Arthur's hand curling up on his knee when he allowed his eyes to wander away from the paper and down the parts of Arthur's body he could see.
I like to feel the spine of your body, and its bones, and the trembling -firm- smoothness, John continued and stopped when at this, he could hear a sound, a loud exhale of air, sounding almost like it got punched out of Arthur. “John,” he said, voice shaking slightly. Unsure John lowered the page with the poem. Do you want me to stop? he asked.
A breathless laugh in return and then Arthur was suddenly reaching out, grabbing his hand, poem falling down and John let him intertwine their fingers and pull their clasped hands close towards his mouth. “No,” he whispered. “Don't stop. Please don't.”
It was hard to see the page lying in Arthur's lap but he was not going to let go of Arthur's hand. I like to feel the spine of your body, and its bones, and the trembling -firm- smoothness, he repeated again and his fingers curled around Arthur's, feeling along them, warm smooth skin and firmness, shaking slightly as they allowed John his exploration, him stroking and caressing Arthur's hand.
And which I will again and again and again kiss, John continued, hand stopping in its tracks at the last word. Kiss, he thought, and almost wanted to pull away. But then Arthur tugged at his hand slightly, pulling it towards himself and then John felt the soft touch of his lips against his skin. He gasped at the contact.
Arthur, he whispered, feeling helpless against the onslaught of heat spreading, more intense than ever before. “Which I will again and again and again kiss,” Arthur said in reply, every word punctuated with another soft kiss. I like kissing this and that of you, John whispered. Arthur opened his mouth in reply, the tips of John’s fingers dipping into his wet mouth and John couldn't held back a moan at the sensation, sparks flying through him as Arthur started sucking on his fingers, pulling two of them deeper inside his mouth to get better access, hot tongue slowly wandering along every of John's digits.
Arthur, John said or rather moaned, wanting to get completely lost in this feeling, the sensation, in Arthur. Arthur softly pulled away then, a hint of teeth scratching along John's skin in a way that made him want to beg before he busied himself with John's palm, slowly kissing along it, up to John's wrist where he lingered.
Please, John whimpered almost, unsure what exactly he was even asking for until Arthur finally opened his mouth, kiss turning soft bite as he sucked on the sensitive skin on John's inner wrist, tongue coming out then to softly lick over reddening skin, soothing it almost. The heat exploded or boiled over or did something else John was in no position to verbally describe right now except for it being good, it being the best thing he had ever felt, it being something he never wanted to end.
Arthur, he gasped out, vision blurring briefly, and with one last lick against his wrist, Arthur pulled slightly away. “How does the rest of the poem go?” he asked, voice sounding way too innocent for what he had just done to John. John blinked a few times, vision returning to normal at last and then forced his attention back to the page still lying in Arthur's lap.
It was not the only thing he saw between Arthur's legs and he felt a smile somewhere when he softly pulled out of Arthur's grip. I like slowly stroking the shocking fuzz of your electric fur, John continued as he let his hand wander down Arthur's chest, feeling the way he shuddered underneath his touch, stopping for a brief moment to feel his heartbeat, a fast thunder underneath John's palm, before finally reaching his goal. He slowly started rubbing over Arthur's crotch, feeling the hardness there grow even more, delighting in the half-broken moan he pulled out of Arthur as he did so.
And what-is-it comes, John continued, feeling his own voice starting to shake too as he somehow managed to force Arthur's pants open enough to push his hand inside, giving him full access to start stroking his hard cock. Over parting flesh, he went on as Arthur's hips bucked up against his hand, beautiful reactions he had caused, sensations he had given to Arthur. “John,” Arthur moaned, the way his name sounded coming from Arthur's mouth like this somehow better than any poem Arthur could ever read to him and John’s hand moved faster, wanting to hear more of Arthur's voice.
And eyes big love-crumbs, he went on, his own eyes fixed on Arthur's body and what he was doing to it, greedily noting down every reaction, every noise and twitch he was able to pull out of Arthur. He could feel Arthur shaking as he kept touching him and then Arthur gasped, John's name somewhere in there and he felt him come apart underneath him, another flush of heat running through him as he pulled Arthur towards this and beyond.
He let go of him when Arthur stopped shaking at last, wiping his hand on Arthur's pants as he pulled out, deciding they were already ruined enough. Arthur immediately reached for his hand after he did so, John feeling slight tremors running through him as he clasped their hands together once again and John held him tightly until he could feel the shaking stop.
The page with the poem had fallen to the ground some time during their previous interactions and it was hard but not impossible to make out the last line of the poem. And possibly, John finished, voice a soft whisper as he felt the warmth of Arthur's hand seeping into his. I like the thrill of under me you so quite new.
“Yes,” Arthur mumbled as he held John's hand. “I like the thrill of under me you. So quite new.” Next to them the stove was burning and John knew the warmth he felt wasn't coming from it. The feeling of it so quite new and yet oh so familiar.