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“I’ve been thinking about something,” Arthur says, apropos of absolutely nothing.
John blinks at the coffee table in front of them where he’d been silently reading one of Arthur’s poetry books, pulling his attention from the jagged-edged stanzas on the page. There’s twenty minutes before the food in the oven is done, and Arthur had begrudgingly agreed to sit on the floor in front of the coffee table for once, despite multiple complaints about how much it hurt his knees.
What? John asks, slipping the bookmark into place before closing the book.
“According to everyone who knows about you, you are a voice in my head, yes?”
As is typical when Arthur says something abruptly, John has absolutely no idea what direction this is going. It isn’t exactly a poignant observation.
Yes. That sounds right.
“Why my head, specifically?”
What the fuck are you talking about?
“Look–" Arthur huffs. "I feel as if the assumption that you live in my head implies that you’re some– malfunction of my mind, when you aren't that. You aren’t my thoughts, because I have my own thoughts. You don’t– control my brain, or anything. I think you could live wherever you like.”
To John's annoyance Arthur is starting to make sense, and his frustration wavers slightly. John makes a low, thoughtful sound, tracing his thumb along the softened edge of the poetry book.
Well, I see through your eyes.
“True,” Arthur grants him. His other hand is moving animatedly, the way he does when he’s eager to explain something. “But you have my hand and foot, too. And you aren’t John Doe, the voice in my head and hand and foot, are you? I know my head is where I hear you, and think about things, yes, but that can be different to where I feel you.”
Where would you feel me, if not your head?
“Well, that would…” Arthur starts, but the momentum he’d gathered suddenly falls away, and his words trail off. John sees his hand slow, setting his fingers on the edge of the coffee table. “I, I don’t know, actually.”
John waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. He clears his throat, and John suddenly realises he's lying. Poorly.
Arthur.
A short, sharp breath. “It’s stupid.”
I don’t recall a time that’s stopped you from doing anything.
“Oh shut up, John, fine– I can feel you in my heart.”
He says it all in one breath, and John’s stopped before he can think of some jab back at him, words faltering in the silence.
What? he asks.
“I mean, that’s just what it feels like,” Arthur says sheepishly, and he goes on before John can cut in. “I don’t get a headache when you’re upset, my- my chest hurts. I hear your voice, but that's because I hear everything with my head. That doesn't necessarily mean that's where all of you lives. And if you put your hand here…”
Arthur is taking hold of John’s hand before he can process not only the fact that Arthur has just told him John lives in his heart, but that his chest aches when John’s upset—which feels a lot more like he’s misinterpreting the physiological response to sympathy than anything all that eldritch—and the right words for a response are out of his reach.
Arthur doesn’t even seem to notice, carefully unfolding John’s first two fingers and bringing them to rest on the side of his neck, tucked under the collar of his shirt.
“It’s just the way hearts sound, of course, but it drums twice in a beat, like–” he drums his index and middle finger against the back of John’s hand with a slight stagger, two beats that don’t quite overlap. “–that.”
Oh, John breathes, feeling the same syncopated beat echoed in Arthur’s heartbeat, a gentle thrum against the pads of his fingers. Yes, I… I feel it.
“Well, I like to think one of them is you,” Arthur says softly.
Maybe he’s tricking himself, but it feels like the interval between the staggered beats shortens for a moment, as if the slower one sped up enough to put them in sync.
Oh.
If it’s something supernatural and he’s really taken control of half of Arthur’s heartbeat, then it happened without either of them noticing. Even if John hadn’t even realised it, they’d both been working in tandem to keep their body warm and breathing, and considering they’re both still here, they’d done a good job. He distantly thinks of the broken horror that’d bled into Arthur’s voice when he first realised John had taken up control of his hand, the sheer terror of having a piece of him puppeted, invaded, infiltrated.
And now, even though he’s talking about something infinitely more vital than anything else John’s taken, Arthur brought it up with undeniable tenderness in his voice. John realises with a feeling not unlike being punched directly in the stomach that Arthur hopes that it’s true.
And even if it isn't, if the no chamber of this body’s heart is John’s and it’s just something Arthur’s chosen to think about, then… Arthur just chose to think about it. About him.
“John?”
It takes him a couple tries to speak.
Arthur, I…
“Are- are you alright?” Arthur says uncertainly. There’s a tone to his voice almost like he’s about to laugh, but still audibly concerned.
Yes. I’m alright. I just… I wasn’t expecting you to say that.
“Oh, John–” Arthur says, the withheld laugh spilling from him as he brings the back of John’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fluster you.”
You’re doing a terrible job, he grumbles, but turns his hand against their face anyway, cradling Arthur’s cheek in his palm. Arthur sets his own hand on top of it, a smile on his lips that John can feel against his fingers.
“Awfully sorry,” Arthur says, sounding nothing even close to sorry, and moves his hand to squeeze John’s wrist affectionately. “It was just a thought. I’ll let you get back to your poetry.”
John huffs, despite the fact that he’s grateful for the out. Thank you.
He begrudgingly slips his hand from Arthur’s face to open the poetry book again, sighing as he looks over the words again. He’s forgotten where in the poem he was, he rereads the first two lines multiple times before realising he’s not taking in a word of it. The strange and fuzzy feeling he gets when he finishes a particularly beautiful stanza, though, hasn’t faded.
So he just pretends to read, casually moving his hand back to where Arthur had placed it, fingers against the side of their neck.
And if he shuts their eyes, settling into the comfortable darkness to focus on the gentle drum of a shared pulse beneath warm skin, well. It’s not as if Arthur's going to mention it.