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It was excruciating.
The white, hot rending of flesh; a body splitting in two down the middle. Arthur, in the center of it all, had no idea where he was– only that no matter how loud he screamed, no one would hear him.
Arthur was lying on his back, having collapsed when it hit. As the pain tore through him, his body protested; his back arched, limbs ramrod straight and twitching, hands at his sides clenching and unclenching. His unseeing eyes bulged, glistening with unshed tears. Despite everything he had been through– being stabbed and shot, his bones broken and every inch of skin bruised– this was the worst.
It came to a crescendo, like an orchestra building to the finale of a great piece; trumpets blaring, violins shrieking, symbols crashing. All fighting to be heard over his agonised howling.
He gasped as it hit its peak, heart beating so quickly it should have burst. As the air was squeezed out of him, he felt something else leave him as well.
And then it stopped.
Arthur rolled onto his side, folded in half with his forehead to his knees. He coughed, dry and then wet with blood as his body reacted to the torture it was just made to endure. He moved carefully to curl his arms protectively over his head. His hands were forced to grip his hair to stay in place, as he was wracked with violent shivers.
As he caught his breath, he finally had the wherewithal to take stock of his surroundings. The ground was soft and damp underneath his cheek; blades of it tickled the soft, bruised skin under his eyes. It smelled sweet and fresh. Grass then, he decided. It was quiet, save for the chirping of crickets. Without the disruption of birdsong, Arthur guessed it was late into the night.
Just as Arthur was getting his bearings, something to his left stirred. He jumped, breath catching and causing another coughing fit.
“Wh-” he gagged, throat catching, “Who goes there? John? Who- what do you see?”
John ignored him.
“John?”
Still, he remained silent. Without him filling the space he left behind, Arthur’s mind was uncannily quiet.
Arthur once again curled inwards, crossing bony arms over his chest and bringing his wobbly knees up to his chin.
“Please, John,” he pleaded, “I- I can’t do this without you.”
The thing stirring beside him was starting to move, rolling around in the grass. It was a few paces away, giving Arthur just enough of a head start to escape. But he was exhausted, finally beaten to his breaking point. He laid his head on knees, accepting whatever horrible fate that would befall him.
The thing took in a great, gurgling breath; its throat unstuck with a wet pop, as if it had never breathed before. Its lungs heaved, deep voice growling between gasps as it tested out its vocal cords. Eventually, it managed to grunt out a single word.
“Arthur-” John wheezed, pushing out too much air with the word. It was inexperienced and clumsy, and yet it was the best thing Arthur had ever heard.
“John!” He sprang to his feet, before promptly crumpling to his knees again. Maybe he was more spent than he had anticipated.
At another more urgent call from John, Arthur crawled over. He felt around the dewy grass until he touched something solid. Warm. John.
Tears sprung to Arthur’s eyes and he blinked them away out of habit; John always kicked up a fuss when he couldn’t see. Instead, they rolled freely down his cheeks, splashing softly onto John’s arm.
“Di- direct me to you. I- I need-”
Gingerly, John placed a hand on Arthur’s hip. He pushed until Arthur had stumbled over him, straddling John between his knees. Arthur’s weakened arms gave way and he landed gracelessly onto John’s broad chest. John once again wheezed, but regained his breath soon enough, letting out a huff of laughter. Arthur mirrored it wetly, chuckling into the crook of John’s neck.
“Oh my God.” Arthur exclaimed aimlessly, too incredulous to follow it up with anything meaningful.
John was breathing beneath him. His real, solid chest was rising and falling, pushing Arthur up and down insurmountably with each inhale. He dug his nose further into John’s sun-kissed skin, marvelling at the heartbeat he found there.
John, in turn, wrapped both arms around Arthur’s middle, somehow drawing them closer together. Arthur was shivering from head to toe, hot tears running down the side of John’s neck; and yet, John felt no need to move. Part of him wanted to stay in this moment forever, while the world was fresh and new and Arthur was safe in his arms.
Instead, he asked the only doubt that was on his mind, “Does this mean that you’re still…” his weak voice petered off, almost a whisper. Arthur let out a soft noise of contentment as it brushed his ear.
John felt Arthur nod before he spoke, “Blind? Yes, quite.”
“I’m sorry.”
Arthur drew in a sharp breath, “No- no, don’t be. I’ll be- I’m just glad to have you here, John.” It was shaky and strained, but John could hear the relief in Arthur’s voice. He reached up, tangling his free hand in Arthur’s grown out hair. It was sticky with sweat and not an insignificant amount of blood, but John revelled in it. It was uniquely human; another new smell and feeling under his fingers, something that only those who walked the Earth could experience.
They laid on the grass, just enjoying the feeling of having the other there, for what could have been hours. It was still dark when they decided to move on, although the crickets had relented slightly and the rumble of far away cars drifted in on the smooth, country air. Civilization wasn’t too far away, then. Arthur, for all that transpired to get them here, felt like the luckiest man in the world.
“Perhaps we’ll chance upon a motel,” Arthur dared to hope. He held up his hand to John, needing to double over and catch his breath, “Maybe- maybe it’ll even have a bath.”
They had wandered through a thin forest, following the sound of cars until they came upon a dirt road. Now, they were walking down it, hand in hand. Arthur wondered how it must look to passers-by; two haggard, beat-up men taking a stroll on the side of the road like old lovers. One with blood down his front and an absent gaze, covered head to toe in scars. The other, hulking– standing taller than any man Arthur had met in his life– with legs shaking like a newborn deer taking its first steps. The thought made him a little bit hysterical, and he couldn’t stop a few chuckles from escaping his lips. He missed the way John looked down at him, mouth parted in surprise as a flush crawled across his skin.
“Let’s just- Arthur, watch your step. There’s a small hole just ahead,” Arthur murmured his thanks, “Let’s hope there’s nothing waiting for us when we get there. You have to remember that our separation isn’t going to be received well by those who desire to kill us.”
“No,” Arthur said firmly, “No, not this time. Nothing is out to get us, I’m sure of it. Regardless of what we’ve done, I don’t think anyone would care about us like this. You have no power, so surely the King is finished with you– and- and we’ve been magically transported to who knows where, so no one will be able to track us down!” He turned to John, looking a bit too low to see eye to eye, “John, we’re /free/.”
John opened his mouth to argue, partially because he wasn’t as optimistic as Arthur and partially because it was something to kill time.
“Arthur, look!”
He froze in place, fingers digging into John’s arm. The hope he felt curdled in his stomach, breath shortening.
“What? What is it?”
“A motel– smaller than the hotel we stayed in, and more populated. There is a single automobile parked outside of the building, possibly another guest. The sign at the edge of the road is tall and imposing; half of the lights have gone out, rendering the motel’s name illegible. Arthur, this is exactly what we were looking for!”
Arthur deflated, leaning heavily into John’s side. That single rush of adrenaline wiped out the energy he managed to gather on their walk. John ran a sympathetic hand down his back.
“Yes, I can hear the sign. I suppose the neon craze has spread even to a place like this.”
“Is that what that is? I had no idea light could make noise.” Of course, when they were one, John could hear whatever Arthur heard, but seeing and hearing it himself was an entirely different experience. Being with Arthur had been like putting together a puzzle with another person– he could see what was being built, but he didn’t have the experience of fitting the pieces together himself. Now, he was the sole person in charge of it.
Despite his state, Arthur found himself grinning at John’s simple joy. He pressed his face into John’s arm, attempting to calm his wildly beating heart. He hoped John could feel it.
Arthur withdrew from John and rubbed a hand down his face, collecting himself. “Well, shall we?”
John linked their arms, “Let’s.”
As they made their way up the driveway of the motel, John could see just how run down it was. The exterior paint was peeling, revealing old gray wood planks underneath the attractive green. All of the window’s curtains were drawn, although only one room had its lights on– most certainly the owner of the automobile parked at the far end of the lot. They came upon the front door, and John could see years of wear in the scuff marks at its foot. The hinges protested loudly when they opened it, and Arthur jumped at his side. John held it open for him, keeping an apologetic hand on his elbow.
The interior was better, but not by much. The carpet at the door was brown and matted, visible footsteps leading to the front desk. The lights were a warm yellow, casting the entire room in a quaint, homely glow. John quite liked it.
There was an older blond woman behind the counter, possibly in her forties. Her shoulder-length hair was fraying, and it was clear in her deep eyebags that she would rather be in bed than behind that desk. Her pale face was resting in her palm as her eyes glided lazily over the magazine in her other hand. When she noticed them approaching, her eyes blew open wide. The colour drained from her face as she took in their appearances.
Arthur stepped up to the counter, polite smile finding a place easily on his lips, “Good evening, miss. Room for two, if you would.”
Her mouth hung open, snapping shut when John stepped up and leaned on the desk.
She kept her eyes on them as she fiddled with the sign in cards to her right.
“Cou-could I get your names?” She said, voice wobbling.
John growled.
A nervous laugh escaped the receptionist, “I’ll just put you down as two male guests.”
As she looked away to write on her little card, Arthur pinched John’s arm. He yelped quietly, turning to his partner indignantly.
Arthur leaned in close, “Don’t torture this poor woman, John.”
“She’s asking too many questions!”
Arthur shushed him, sending an apologetic smile in the direction of the receptionist. John grabbed his chin, angling it a bit to the left to look her in the eye. A bead of sweat ran down the woman’s face.
He laughed in an attempt to cut the tension, “Don’t mind my partner, he’s not very good at using his inside voice.”
The woman laughed frantically with Arthur. She stopped abruptly when she caught John’s glare.
She looked down at a collection of cards on the far side of her desk, flipping through them. She frowned, and then flipped through them again.
“Um… I’m sorry, but our double room is booked at the moment.” She mumbled. Her nails were tapping on the desk in an uneven rhythm, hands shaking.
Arthur, who couldn’t see what she was doing nor the terrified face she was making, steamrolled over her concern, “No matter! We’ll take the single then, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, well…” She was staring at them strangely. John couldn’t decipher the look she was giving them, but it wasn’t wholly unlike the ones Arthur would get when he spoke to John in public. When he would stand just a bit too close to someone and appear like he was talking to thin air. This woman was looking at Arthur, and now John, like they were madmen.
John’s irritation must have shown on his face, because the receptionist started scrambling with the keys hanging on the wall behind her. She dropped them into Arthur’s outstretched hand without another word.
“T-Two doors down, room four.”
As soon as they closed the door to their room behind them, Arthur started undressing.
“What are you doing?” John asked, more curious than surprised. He still had yet to grasp why humans were so ashamed of their bodies as to be embarrassed around others while changing clothes. He and Arthur had certainly never been shy about it, although he had to admit, they were a bit of a special case.
Arthur tugged his shirt over his head, frustrated by the buttons that refused to come undone, logged with dried blood. He threw it to the floor, “I-” he grunted, leaning down to rip off his shoes, “am going to take a fucking bath.”
John hummed, taking that as his cue to describe their room, “Our room is small, but serviceable. The wallpaper is cracked and peeling near the bed and bathroom door– as is the carpet, although to a lesser extent. On the opposite side of the room is our bed, small yet well-kept. Probably big enough to fit the both of us, but I'm not entirely sure. The head of it is pressed up against the right wall, and to its right is presumably the door to the bathroom.”
Arthur patted his arm as he stepped around him, “Thank you, John.”
He stumbled into the bathroom, John following close behind.
Arthur set the hot water on the bath going, adjusting with his right hand under the faucet until it was just right. He perched on the rim of the less than pristine tub, dropping his chin into his hands. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to just breathe.
John watched him silently, leaned against the basin. His eyes softened, finally able to appreciate seeing Arthur from the outside. It felt more real; this new perspective gave him a full view of Arthur’s mannerisms and quirks. When they were together, John felt like he knew Arthur inside and out, but now he wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t a surprise to see his sunken cheeks and prominent ribs, nor the countless scars tracing all of his past injuries. But the way he moved his body, the faces he made and how he chose to take up space, was unfamiliar. John wanted to reach out and touch him, grab his hands and move in tandem with him. In some way, he supposed he missed their closeness. John wondered if Arthur would lean into his touch, surprised at the warmth but welcoming of it. He wondered if it would be different for Arthur too, feeling John's hands on him when they’re not attached to his own body. Before, they had worked together as if one, two souls in one body. One flesh, one heartbeat, two minds– all wrapped up in a single length of skin. But now, here was John; warmer than Arthur, taller than Arthur, stronger than Arthur.
Arthur finally sat up, reaching over to turn off the tap. John was loath to admit he startled, completely lost in thought.
“Help me in, would you? It would be quite a waste if we went through all this trouble just to crack my skull open in the bath.”
John did as he was told, dutifully guiding Arthur into the warm water. He hissed as it engulfed his aching body, then sighed with relief. A small, content smile curled on his lips. John’s gaze lingered on it.
John lowered himself to the edge of the tub, sitting in the spot Arthur had been before. They sat in silence, just listening to each other breathe for a long time. It was nice to exist in a place together, shielded from the rest of the world. They could almost pretend that they were the only two people on earth– that there was no one who wanted to cause them harm, because there was no one besides the other.
Eventually, steam stopped rising from the bath, and Arthur deigned to sit up and finally wash himself off. Luckily, soaking in the hot water had worked most of the grime off of his skin, but it was still caked into his hair. Arthur raised a hand to it, face scrunching with disgust when he felt just how dirty it was.
He cleared his throat, “John,” he looked in John’s general direction, “I’m… well, I’m going to need your help for this part, if that’s alright with you?” Arthur’s tone was tentative, a soft flush gathering in his cheeks. John had seen him undressed, even helped him wash up before; they shared a body, for Christ’s sake. But this was new territory. There had never been this kind of vulnerability. If Arthur needed help, John was obligated to help; not that he hadn’t wanted to, but there was no space to refuse. They needed each other to survive. If they didn’t work together, they died, simple as. Perhaps now that they were separated, John would take the opportunity to add distance between himself and Arthur.
Wordlessly, John reached over and grabbed the mini bottle of shampoo provided by the motel, “Tilt your head forward.”
Arthur obliged, closing his eyes as John's hands gently scrubbed at his hair. It was slow going, the first pass doing nothing more than loosening up the blood caked at the back of his head. But John persisted, instructing Arthur to turn this way and that as he worked the shampoo through it. Eventually, they made it to the scalp and although it was technically clean, John continued to comb through Arthur’s hair with his fingers. Curling a piece around his pointer and then letting it go, watching it join the other strands. It was a quiet ritual, aside from the various sighs of contentment leaving Arthur's lips. John quite enjoyed this whole affair. It almost made everything before worth it.
Once the bath cooled off completely and Arthur’s shivering started up again, they decided the moment had passed. Not unpleasantly so, but Arthur needed to warm up and John was getting a bit tired of sitting on the rim of the tub, so they split.
John left Arthur to dry off on his own, going back to their room to clean up Arthur’s soiled clothes that had been thrown every which way. He tossed them into the corner of the room, hoping they would just be forgotten by the morning.
He undressed as well, climbing into the single bed in just his undergarments. The cotton sheets might as well have been silk with the way John melted into them. He pressed his face into the musty pillow, taking a deep breath. Feeling his lungs expand, taking in the new smells of motel bed; it was euphoric and overwhelming in a way he couldn’t describe. When his view of the world had just been sight and touch, it was comfortable. What you see, you can touch, and vice versa. But smell and taste weren’t even options to him; he had no idea what he was missing out on. Now, though, he wants to discover it all– does water have taste? What does the sun feel like on one's face, when it's bright in the middle of the sky and when it's a deep orange, cresting the horizon? Does a dewy afternoon have a smell? A taste?
John closed his eyes, sinking further into the lumpy mattress. Does Arthur have a smell? Underneath all of the dirt and blood, his own and others, what does he smell like? John’s face warmed as he contemplated it; Arthur liked to be clean and neat, giving the impression to others that he was a professional, no nonsense man. But he was also kind, polite to strangers in the way a proper English gentleman ought to be. John cracked a rueful smile imagining Arthur, bloodsoaked and mad, doing something as mundane as chatting with a cashier at a grocery store.
Arthur soon emerged from the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind himself. He padded over to the bed, feeling around the sheets until he found the head of it and climbed in. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, fitting both himself and John onto the small bed, but they made it work. John curled around Arthur, tucking his lean frame into the crook of his hips and laying his arm across Arthur's to entwine their fingers. The subtle feeling of Arthur's knuckles shifting under John's palm was glorious. He wished he had memorised one of Arthur's poems, something to articulate the warm feeling in his chest; the way it expanded, pressing against his ribs and threatening to suffocate him. John pressed his lips to the back of Arthur's neck, open mouthed and loose, just barely a kiss. Arthur tensed under him, taking in a nearly silent sharp breath. The feeling in John's chest grew again and he reacted accordingly. Wrapping both arms around Arthur's waist, John tugged him closer until his back was flush with John's chest, the defined bumps of his spine digging into John's soft flesh. Arthur relaxed, all but melting into his embrace.
A long time passed like that, the both of them waiting for sleep to come and knowing it probably wouldn’t. John would intermittently ghost a kiss over Arthur– his shoulder or the base of his neck or behind his ear– wherever he could lazily reach. Each time Arthur’s breath would stutter, and then he would sigh or hum, giving John enough permission to do it again.
When Arthur's breathing evened out, and John was sure he had fallen asleep, he decided to answer his previous burning question. Once again, John leaned into Arthur, resting his face on the back of his shoulder. He took in a deep, deliberate breath through his nose, drinking in his scent; first it was clean, sweet and milky like the soap from the motel bathroom. He smelled as much clean as he did musky, likely from the damp caving underbelly of Larson’s estate. Then, a quieter, dry and earthy note; possibly left over from the months they spent in the Dreamlands, taking shelter in caves and braving sandstorms. And then, of course, the sharp, metallic smell of blood, of which he almost always smelled. Maybe they hadn’t been as thorough with the bath as they should have been. Maybe this was just what humans did– absorb scents, keeping them on their skin as a constant reminder of everything they’ve been through.
John's concentration was broken when the skin under his hands started moving. Arthur was shaking again. It was unlikely he was cold, as John ran hot enough to warm the both of them. He sat up on his elbows, looking down at Arthur.
”Arthur?” he said under his breath, “Are you…” He didn’t know how to ask Arthur if he was okay. It felt a bit gauche, especially after everything Arthur had been through to get John his own vessel. Arthur was strong willed, but he wasn’t a machine; sometimes he cried, and at these moments John felt the most lost. Anger he could do, banter he could do– even small moments of vulnerability, when it was dark and quiet and he knew Arthur wouldn’t tell a soul about it. But when he was the one doing the comforting? When it was partially his fault that Arthur was in pain, it didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t deserve to be the one Arthur relied on, not after everything he had done to him.
Arthur was wiping his eyes, sending John into a panic. If Arthur was crying, then something must be very wrong. Perhaps he didn’t want John there after all; he was a constant reminder of everything Arthur had lost. Everything John had selfishly taken from him.
John withdrew from Arthur, preparing to be forced to see himself out. He could find somewhere else to sleep, in a pinch. Maybe the receptionist would let him stay in another room, if he intimidated her enough. John opened his mouth to speak, when Arthur burst with laughter.
“Sorry, sorry I’m not- I don’t mean to laugh,” despite this, another round of cackles wracked his meagre frame, “Go on, what were you saying?”
John narrowed his eyes, “Arthur, why are you laughing?”
Arthur shook his head, trying to cover his smile behind his hand, “it’s nothing, John-”
He sat up, crossing his arms and glaring down at Arthur.
Arthur broke almost immediately, “Okay fine,” he swatted John's arm “Quit looking at me like that, John, there’s no need to sulk.”
-”It's just…” he held back a smirk again, forcing himself to take a few steadying breaths, “You- were you sniffing me?”
For the first time in a long time, John was thankful for Arthur’s blindness. His face was burning up.
“I- no, I was just…” he couldn’t come up with an excuse. He flopped back down on the bed, rolling away from Arthur to face the wall.
”Oh, come now, don't be like that,” Arthur teased. When it was apparent that John had no intention of giving up his brooding, Arthur shimmied closer. He snaked his arms around John's middle, laying his hands flat on the soft skin of his stomach. John squirmed.
”Arthur, your hands are cold. Please move.” He ground out.
Arthur disobeyed, instead tracing small circles on John’s stomach with one of his fingers. The skin under Arthur’s touch was electrified, his stomach exploding with sparks. John was sure something was wrong with his body, if this simple action made his whole body react so tremendously.
”Don’t be cross with me, John. I was only teasing,” he said gently, “To be frank, now was probably the best time for you to find out that sniffing other people isn’t socially acceptable.”
”I can feel you smiling. You’re still making fun of me.”
He was, “Perhaps. But I know full well that you love it.”
John huffed and then Arthur felt his warm hands envelop his own, weaving their fingers together again. He hummed disapprovingly.
“You’re right, Arthur. I do love you.”