Chapter Text
When Harold finally reaches him on the roof, John isn’t breathing, hasn’t been breathing for a while now, but he is still warm.
Harold clutches him close, his knuckles whitening till they hurt - hurt that does not hurt at all - but there is a deep and endless gaping endless pain in his chest - and Harold who understands everything, everyone - he can’t understand this crippling pain in this chest - right where John rests against it. The blood is everywhere, - oh God, John what have you done - the suit is drenched and Harold’s face is drenched and he can’t tell if it is blood or water - or whether it matters at all because things have been so fundamentally transfigured - Harold doesn’t know if he can breathe again - all Harold knows is that his hands are slippery now - but John won’t slip away, he hasn’t slipped away - because Harold is holding on so tightly - holding on to the warmth that is so painfully John - though tomorrow the world keeps spinning on its axis, indifferent and cold - colder than Harold could ever have imagined - Harold will never, can't ever, let him go. Not on that roof, with a bomb strapped to his chest, and not on this one either.