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John liked to jog — that much Arlo knew from the start. The signs of athleticism were obvious: the punching bag stationed in the corner of their shared living room, the dumbbells scattered about, the nutritious meals prepped in the fridge, and, his admittedly irritatingly toned physique. What Arlo didn’t anticipate, however, were the ungodly hours John seemed to favor for his runs.
He discovered it a few nights after moving in. Dragging himself out of bed at three in the morning for a glass of water, only to hear someone pounding on the door and jiggling the lock during a rainy, thunderous night — well, it was an experience he could’ve done without.
With his ability activated and glowing eyes sharp, Arlo peered through the door hole, body tensed as he prepared for the worst. Instead, the culprit found was none other than his roommate, soaked and sheepish, hoping to be let in. That night, John earned himself a long lecture on always bringing your keys and checking the weather before going out. Not that it particularly stuck. Genuinely though, what could be so important to be running around at three in the morning?
Arlo didn’t bother to ask. He was too tired himself, ready to crawl back to bed and forget the whole thing even happened. It’s not like John was much for conversation, anyway — drenched in rain, freshly chewed out, and too worn out from his run.
The next few times it happened, Arlo at least knew what to expect. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to hear the doorknob rattling as often anymore — seemed the lecture had some effect. They fell into a sort of routine: Arlo sitting at the kitchen table, having picked up the new habit of night reading, the dim kitchen light flickering on. He flipped through the pages until John walked in, kicking off his shoes and tossing his keys onto the nearby counter.
They didn’t greet each other — both too stubborn for that. Arlo casually flipped to another page, his finger tracing the engravings on the book's spine before he lifted his gaze, briefly glancing up at John. John trudged into the kitchen, water splashing everywhere as he rinsed the grime off his face. The red, exerted flush creeping up to his cheeks slowly faded, body unwinding from the run. Arlo’s eyes run back through the previous line in his book, trying to focus over the sound of water being gulped down in the background.
Usually, John finished washing his glass before flopping down on the couch, scrolling through his phone and playing a game or two. They typically sat together in silence until one of them broke — either with Arlo sliding his bookmark in and closing his book, or John sitting up, both retreating to their rooms for the night.
This particular night however, was different.
It started the same way it always did. John walked in, tossed his keys on the counter, and Arlo glanced up. This time, though, their eyes met.
Arlo’s unsure if it’s from the dim lighting, or John was just recovering from his run, but his head lifts, and his eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. Chest rising as he breathed, uneven, ragged — as though it took effort to control. The muscles in his jaw were tense, fists clenched tightly at his sides.
Before he could stop himself, Arlo blurted it out. “Were you.. crying?”
He cringed, as it came out more disgusted than concerned. Inwardly, Arlo berated himself.
John halted, his body stiffening at the question. For a moment, the air between them thickened, and he didn't respond right away, instead staring at Arlo, wide and unblinking, as though Arlo’s question caught him off guard. His breaths were still uneven, but now there’s something different in the way his chest rises and falls. It’s tighter, now. Like something’s trapped underneath the surface.
Arlo, unable to shake the feeling of regret, felt like an asshole. He didn’t mean for his question to come out that way — in fact, he hadn’t meant for it to come out at all — but, now it’s out there. The question hung in the air, left out to dry.
“I.. No,” John finally muttered, voice hoarse, like he’s trying to push the words past a lump in his throat. He turned away then, clearing his voice before heading towards the sink, movements stiff and mechanical.
Arlo kept his gaze fixed on the man in front of him, uncertainty gnawing at him. He could count the number of times he’d seen John unstable on one hand, and none of those instances had ended well for either of them. John was usually strong, unyielding. But seeing him like this, shoulders hunched, expression so vulnerable — so painfully reminiscent of the day Arlo had confronted him — made something tighten in his chest.
“John, I-” Arlo breathed, “Are you.. Do you want to talk about it?”
John exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between a scoff and an incredulous laugh. Scathingly, he muttered, “Why are you of all people asking me that?”
Arlo thought he’d outgrown this kind of childishness, thought he could ignore the irritation prickling at his skin, but of course, it just had to be John — pushing and pushing. A flare of annoyance hit him, he rested his cheek on his palm, and with not thought to it, he fired back, words biting. “Well, because the last time you looked like this, a shit ton of people ended up in the hospital.”
The moment the words exited his mouth, his jaw snapped shut. Why the fuck did I just say that.
John twisted the sink faucet closed, slowly, deliberately. The high-pitched squeak that rang out felt loud, almost deafening in the silence. Bit by bit, his gaze turned towards Arlo, anger simmering in the golden hue of it.
Arlo swallowed hard, regret flashing in his chest. His eyes flickered to the closed bedroom door down the hall, the quiet stretch of the hallway feeling small, suffocating. Distantly, he thought of Seraphina, wondering just how long it might take before she woke up and stopped Arlo from making a bigger mess.
He shifted uncomfortably, palm still on his cheek “Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” Arlo muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. It came out more like an afterthought, a late apology in poor taste.
John’s nostrils flared, but his voice was low and controlled. Sending a shiver down Arlo’s spine. “Then how did you mean it?”
The question lingered like a challenge, and Arlo felt the weight of it.
He wanted to rise to it, to fall into the same steps, following their old routine, a constant of fighting and pushing, of harsh words and bruises. He really , really wanted it, but he couldn’t — not without breaking everything they’ve built.
Instead, he sighed, dropping his hand and clasping it with the other as he wrung his fingers together. It’s quiet, he doesn’t know what to think of it.
His mind raced, twisting and turning a response in his head, like a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together. He’s never been good at this, used to taking what he wants just by commanding it. It’s hard to find the right words, but he didn’t want to get this wrong, so he took his time, letting that quiet stretch out. It took a while for them to come out, but when they did, the words came out slower, less sharp.
“Sorry,” He ran a hand through his hair, “I admit it, I’m shit at this, talking about feelings and all.” he sighed and added, “I just meant that I don’t want you bottling your feelings up, not like last time, not like now.”
John stared, mouth shut, and to Arlo, it’s a start.
It felt painful to speak, but Arlo pushed forward — Sera’s words lingering in his memory, “Look, I know that our... past is complicated. But, as we live together, I don’t think it’d hurt if you, I don’t know, let me be there for you. Maybe give you an ear, or something like that.”
It’s quiet again, John’s face unreadable.
It’s enough for Arlo to hesitate, enough for him to backtrack, “I mean, if you want I could get Sera–”
“No!” John interrupted, lowering his voice when their eyes met, “..Don’t do that, I’d never hear the end of it. Look, just-”
He groaned, pulling at the messy black strands of hair. He took the chair across from Arlo, swinging his leg over the backrest and propping his elbows on the top. He slumped, posture defeated.
A beat.
“Let’s not make this a thing.”
Arlo nodded, hoping it didn’t.
“You wanted to know so badly,” John muttered, his voice softer now, more resigned, but still carrying that familiar, guarded edge. He slumped further, gaze drifting away for a moment, as though searching for what to say. “So here it is.”
Arlo looked at him expectantly.
John exhaled sharply, shoulders dropping, “Actually, no. It’s stupid. Really.”
“John,” Arlo raised an eyebrow, impatient and a bit too flat. “Spit it out.”
John huffed, then turned his head, a smirk tugging at his lips yet not quite reaching his eyes. “Geez, Arlo.” He grins, sharp teeth on display, “Even when you try to be nice, you still manage to be an asshole.”
It’s teasing, and it’s like the tension between them broke. The air lighter, and Arlo felt his shoulders drop in relief, “Like you’re any better.”
He rolled his eyes, “Sure, whatever.”
Another pause, the momentary lift in the air now dropping to something less comfortable, something more awkward.
John picked at his nails, thick brows furrowed in thought. “It’s nothing big. I was at by the convenience store, you know, the one right around the block? I thought to buy some stuff – snacks, ramen, whatever.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still fidgeting, “Anyway, I’m looking through the aisles, and there’s this guy and his kid behind me. Buying the kid a lollipop, even though it was like, what? An hour after midnight?”
Arlo nodded, focused.
“Anyway… I just, uh, I remembered something. When I was younger, my dad didn’t like me eating sweets, saying they were bad for my teeth. I’d throw fits about it, but… yeah, I get why he’d hound on me about it.”
John’s voice lowered, his words coming out slowly like he’s not sure how to explain, “We used to go on these camping trips. He always made me go fishing. ..I hated it. The fish smelled bad and I barely caught anything. He’d always say ‘Patience is key,’ and I’d just.. whine. But then when I finally caught one, he’d, like, cheer and pat me on the back like I did something good, which, compared to his bucket of fish, was nothing.”
He cleared his throat, “And then he’d make me clean it. Degutting fish…” His nose crinkled in recollection. “It’s a smell I’ll never forget. I’d burn it too, put it too close to the grill. He’d still make me eat it. No big deal I guess.”
John shrugged awkwardly, trying to brush off the memory, “After that, he’d let me pick out candy at the store before it closed.” It’s all said too quickly, like he didn’t know what to do with all of it. There’s a blunt honesty to it, at least. “I don’t know, all of it made me nostalgic, I guess.”
Arlo nodded, attention steady on John, though his thoughts were scattered. He’s always sucked at this, comforting people.
An attempt of consoling Remi flashed in his mind, she cried a lot, and all he could manage was to offer her a shoulder to cry on, awkward and uncertain, a hand hovered over her shoulder. He looked at John now, just as unsure.
Fishing. Candy. Camping trips. Arlo couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a sad story or not, but the way John talks — like he’s forcing the words out — made Arlo’s chest feel tight in a way he doesn’t know how to deal with. He wanted to say something, but what? That sucks ? Sounds nice ? Nothing felt right.
Instead, he just nodded. “Sounds... like a lot,” he finally muttered, tone flat, but not unkind.
John shrugged, eyes averted. The action stirred something in Arlo’s chest, something he couldn’t look too deep into. The uncertainty was irritating, the only knowledge he owned was that John had never been so open, so vulnerable with him. It made Arlo restless.
Arlo’s brain screamed at him, urging him to say something, anything. So, he did, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. “Your old man... he seemed like a good guy. Much more caring than my father, at least.”
It’s not the right thing to say, but it’s what came out.
John snorted softly, no real humour in it, “He was.” He didn’t look up, playing with the drawstring of his running pants. “Too good. Honestly, I.. still don’t understand what he saw in me.”
The blonde glanced away, a beat passing before clearing his throat, the sound too loud in the stillness. “I, uh.. never went camping. My father wasn’t really the type. He was more about giving out rules and expectations.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, surprising even himself.
“Yeah?”
Arlo nodded, “My aunt took me to a carnival once, when I was younger. We rode on the Ferris wheel. I don’t think she knew about my fear of heights."
Bitterly, in the inklings of Arlo’s mind, he knew she knew somewhat. It just wasn’t on the top list of her priorities.
John raised an eyebrow, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips. “A Ferris Wheel, huh? I can’t imagine a guy your size being scared of heights.”
Arlo shot him a dry look, “Yeah, well, it’s different when you’re towering over everyone. You get up there and realize you might as well be dangling from a toothpick.”
Confused, John asked, “Right, so being tall somehow makes it worse?”
“Yes.”
John blinked, a little thrown off by the certainty in Arlo's voice. “Huh. Alright then.” He shrugged. “I guess that kind of makes sense...”
Arlo crossed his arms, satisfied with his blunt response. “Mhm.” He leaned back a bit, looking away as the conversation trailed off.
John’s brows are furrowed, still trying to process Arlo’s previous comment. It’s quiet again, stretching and uncomfortable, and Arlo, feeling the weight of it, decided to just keep going .
“Anyway,” he started, his voice too loud, breaking the tension. “Once, in first year, Rei insisted I hang out with Kuyo and Remi. We visited an arcade.”
The words came quickly, “The last thing we were supposed to do before leaving was to use claw the machines, but Kuyo spent forever trying to grab a plushie. it resulted in him wasting all his change with nothing to bear for it. He got so pissed that he sliced the whole thing in half.”
Arlo reminisced on the memory, a soft smile stretching across his lips at the thought of it. Remi teased Kuyo a lot that day, especially after they got kicked out. Rei often tried to include Arlo in things like that, treating him like a little brother. Maybe he knew Arlo was a bit different, and that was his way of helping him find some kind of normal.
John looked up at him, eyes urging him to continue, steady and unyielding.
“…I don’t really know where I’m going with this,” Arlo admitted, his voice trailing off.
Later, he’d tell himself it was just the exhaustion catching up to him. Later, he would dismiss the fact that John’s presence — for once, quiet and unassuming, somehow made him open up. He’ll brush it off as a lapse in judgment, a fleeting slip of honesty.
For now, Arlo pressed on, “I never really had a big connection with my family. I guess Rei, Remi, and Kuyo; they were the closest thing for me.”
John kept his mouth shut, expression blank and eyes distant. From where Arlo sat, he could see the moonlight spilling through the kitchen window, casting soft beams that caught the edges of John’s features, light falling across his profile in a way that made him look different—softer, almost.
Outside, the crickets hummed, their song the only melody heard. Inside, everything felt hushed, as if the world was waiting for something to shift.
Finally, after a long beat, John exhaled, long and sharp, lips pulling into something like a grimace. “Man,” he muttered, his voice grim, “we’re really fucked up, aren’t we?”
The words hit Arlo harder than expected, and for a moment, he’s caught off guard. But the tension in the air eased, just a bit, and for once, Arlo laughed — startled, amused.
Like a dam broken, the tension shifted, and conversation flowed easier. They shared bits and pieces of their loved ones, some sad, some funny. The words came slower, but they didn't feel as heavy. Each memory shared felt like a small step toward something lighter, something that didn’t hurt as much.
A few nights passed, and Arlo sipped on his tea, thumbing the pages of his novel.
John said not to let it become a thing, and it didn’t. But there’s a shift now, something unspoken. A new, almost unnoticeable part of their routine. The next time John walked in, kicking off his shoes and tossing his keys. Arlo’s already there. He's prepared a glass of water laid out on the table across from him, a small gesture.
There’s not much said, but it’s enough. Arlo peered up from his book, casual. “How was the run?”
John took a deep gulp from the glass, softening when their eyes met. “Good,” he answered.