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John could have died.
Arthur couldn't let the idea go. It was a possibility. It could have happened.
He was aware that there was always a chance one or both of them could die. It came with the job. Both he and John had struggled when they became private investigators. They almost gave up on it at one point.
But they didn’t, and business picked up eventually, so they got used to it.
It was the first time a job had gone this badly, though.
Arthur was used to pain. It was almost like second nature. He woke up expecting something to hurt, stood up instinctually bracing his legs or knees to complain, splashed water on himself and waited for some forgotten cut to sting.
What he was not as used to, was John being hurt. He got injured when they shared a body, of course he did, and he made sure Arthur knew as well. But this was different. Whatever injury John sustained in their time together was never lethal. Now that he had his own body, death was all too feasible.
Arthur could not explain how it felt, realizing how easy it was for the two to be separated. The fear always existed, but it had changed. He’d always feared that John would find a way to leave him when they were one, and when they weren’t, he feared abandonment.
But John had stayed.
And now anyone and anything could take him away, and it can no longer be assumed that they would die together. John would not follow him into the Dark World, and even worse, Arthur wouldn’t either. Not unless he made himself.
John was in the hospital. They had let Arthur in after he awoke. A nurse had led him to a chair next to the bed and left to give them as much privacy as a hospital ward could offer. It wasn’t private and they were surrounded on either side by other patients, or so John narrated to him when he first arrived.
“The walls are white, as are the bed sheets and blanket. My bed is second from the wall to your left, with four more on the right. My midsection is covered in bandages. The wound has been treated. The nurses said I shouldn’t be here for too long.” A pause. “Arthur, I-”
“You need to be more careful,” he cut John off. “You could have gotten killed.”
John scoffed. “It’s just a stab wound, I’m fine.”
“You bled so much.”
“And?” John retorted. “I have a lot of blood in me.”
“What-” Arthur began, then sighed. “Honestly, John, how you made it this far is a miracle.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“I can handle myself,” he said defensively. “I’ve been human much longer than you.”
He bit his lips the moment he said the words. It was difficult to remember sometimes that the world was more than just the two of them. Arthur needed to be more careful with his words. “You haven’t been doing this kind of stuff for a long time,” he continued in a smoother voice.
“I’m not incapable,” John grumbled. He was so particular about that. He’d ask for help over the smallest things, fascination taking over stubbornness, but when it came to what was important, help was like an insult.
“I didn’t say you were,” Arthur placated. “But I can’t have you dying because you refuse to look out for yourself!”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Jesus Christ, Arthur, what are you so upset over?” John snapped.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“You scared me, you idiot!” Arthur hissed out. “I thought you were going to die .”
“... Oh.”
“Exactly, so shut up and listen to me.”
To his surprise, John complied.
“You need to be more careful, John. I-” Arthur took a deep breath. It came out shaky. “I can’t lose you too.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded like he meant it. It wasn’t enough. Arthur wasn’t sure it would ever be enough.
John had gotten discharged relatively quickly, with the orders to stay off his feet and take it easy. It was a constant battle of him refusing to get out of bed from the pain, and refusing to stay in bed because it “wasn't that big a deal”.
Arthur was exhausted.
He would be lying if he said it was just John's stubbornness. He was too proud for his own good, but Arthur was far too used to dealing with him for it to drain him this quickly.
The truth was, being without John while he was in the hospital was harder than he thought it'd be. It hadn't been long, but the quiet of their apartment was suffocating. He’d spent so long with John in his head, without his regular chatter Arthur was lost.
What would he do if John died?
“What's wrong?”
“Hm?” Arthur tilted his head from where he was cooking. John was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, making sure Arthur didn't accidentally burn himself. The chair had scratched loudly against the floor when he dragged it closer to watch Arthur. He was warming up canned soup because he didn't have the energy to make anything more elaborate. Tomato, John had told him when he picked it out of the cupboard.
“You're more pent up than usual,” John explained.
“I'm alright, John.”
It was practically a game at this point, seeing which one of them conceded first. Not a fun game, but one they played nevertheless.
“You're quiet, and when you do talk you're snappy.”
“That's because I have to deal with you being difficult.” He stirred the soup with a ladle, the other hand holding the handle of the pot to keep it still.
“I'm not being difficult,” John retorted, “I’m recovering.”
“And you're doing an incredible job at being a pain in the ass while you are.”
“Fuck you, I'm trying to help.”
Arthur sighed, letting go of the ladle. “I know. I'm sorry.” He rubbed his face. His eyes felt heavy. “I'm just tired, John.”
In a softer voice, John asked again, “What's wrong?”
“I…” Arthur swallowed.
Would it be okay to admit that he missed John more than anything? That even if he feared losing John in the past, it was nothing compared to the constant dread he felt now?
Maybe it would be. Understanding each other was always a roll of the dice, but maybe it'd be worth it to try.
“I want you back.”
John inhaled sharply. He didn't ask what Arthur meant; they both knew already.
“Arthur…”
“I know it can't happen. I know, I just–”
“I understand.”
His breath hitched. “I want you to be a part of me again,” he said, even though the explanation was unnecessary. He needed the desire out of him, to exist in the air and float away. If he spat it out and said it enough times, maybe he would stop feeling so desperate.
“Me too,” John admitted.
And that was that. They had finally gotten what they wanted, and they couldn't even enjoy it.
Arthur knew he didn't actually want to go back to the way things were. He missed having John so close, protected in the confines of his skull. He did not miss the lack of agency, and he's sure John missed it even less.
The knowledge didn't make being apart any easier.
Arthur breathed out steadily, assuredly. He turned off the stove and strengthened his resolve.
“I want you to scar me.”
He heard John gasp. “Oh.”
“Please.”
“Are you sure?” John asked. He didn't ask why, he probably knew already. Arthur wanted him, but he could not have him. So he'll carry John's absence like a scar, a wound he could never forget.
“More than anything.”
“You already have the wooden finger,” he pointed out.
“That was yours, yes,” Arthur conceded, “but you didn't make it. You suffered from it. I want you to never leave my skin.”
John didn't answer right away. The silence was tense, the weight of everything they'd been through, everything said and unsaid hanging between them.
Arthur didn't like pain. He'd been through so much, and it showed. His body was a museum of suffering. Every scar was a canvas saying, “I went through hell.” Every breath he took was a response, “I survived it.” All the sore spots in his body a final statement, “I'll never forget.”
But John hurting him wasn't suffering. It was companionship. It was a desperate sort of intimacy, one that dug deeper into Arthur than anything ever before. If his fossilized wounds were a museum, his bite marks and bruises from John were a newly installed gallery. Contemporary art had always been controversial, so let this be the main exhibit. The title of the piece: “I found a little bit of heaven in the jaws of a man who took everything from me.” The small message underneath would read, “He gave me something new in return.”
“Okay, Arthur,” John broke the quiet. “I'll do it.”
Arthur let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, John.”
“Of course.” How a voice like John’s, which never truly lost its intimidating and godly edge, could be so affectionate was a mystery to Arthur. He wanted to unravel John to his core. Peel off every layer of skin, pull apart every vein and nerve in that new body of his, untangle his intestines, crack open his ribcage, dissect his brain, put a scalpel to his heart, until he finally solved the case of how John Doe could love Arthur Lester.
“Not now, though,” he added, returning his attention to the soup. Let's wait until you've recovered fully first.”
“Where do you want it?”
Arthur hummed in thought. “Somewhere I can access easily.”
“Hidden or visible?”
“As long as I can feel it, it doesn’t matter. I suppose that would be easier if it was visible.”
“You aren't worried people will ask questions?” John asked.
“With all the scars I already have? Hardly. If anything, I'll just make something up.”
Arthur felt his hand against the soft blankets. They were thin for the summer, cool against his skin. He was sitting against the bed's headboard, the edges of the wood stopped from digging into his skin by a propped-up pillow. His legs stretched out in front of him, sliding against the sheets.
He insisted on getting himself a good mattress when they could afford it, thinking it would be a blessing after all the strange places he'd slept. He didn't expect it to be so difficult to fall asleep, his body unused to the comfort. He powered through, though, and his body eventually adjusted.
John became much more approving of the buy after they began sharing the bed.
“How about your lower arm, just below the wrist?” he suggested. He sat to the right of him on the bed, his knees brushing against Arthur’s thighs. Arthur had taken off his shirt to make things easier and prevent any blood from staining the white fabric. Despite the air already warm against his skin, John's touch was searing even through his pants.
Arthur thought about the placing. It would be easy to brush his fingers over, as long as his shirt wasn't too tight. They usually weren't anymore, with how thin Arthur was. They'd bought clothes that had room for him to regain the weight he lost during their hardships.
“Yes, that should work.”
“Okay.” He felt John's hand slip over his left arm, a faint feeling. It became a little clearer when he gripped it to pull towards him.
Arthur froze, holding his arm in place.
“Arthur?”
“Not this one.” He retracted his arm, offering his right instead. He’d feel the pain better. It would be hard to feel the scar with his left hand somewhat numb as it was, but if the bite scarred the way he wanted it to and he dug down hard enough with his fingers, it should be fine.
John took the offered arm slowly, circling his fingers around his wrist. Instead of tugging it towards him again, he moved closer to Arthur. He lifted his legs to straddle Arthur's thighs and settled on his lap. The hand not holding Arthur's pressed against his bare chest, pinning him to the headboard.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” Arthur breathed out.
John moved his arm into place, the outer side facing him. He leaned forward and Arthur felt his weight sink deeper into the mattress. His breath fanned against his skin, just below the pisiform bone. His hand held the middle of Arthur’s forearm, firmly locking it in place.
Finally, he bit down.
Arthur yelped, the pain stronger than John's ever inflicted on him before. His teeth dug in deep, grinding down on the muscle. Arthur’s skin tore open with the force.
He instinctually flailed, his arm jerking back and free one shoving at John's shoulder. With how strong of a grip John had on him, his jaw only dislodged a little, tearing his skin open further. But he loosened his bite and his hand’s hold on Arthur's arm weakened.
He could feel John letting go and bit out through the pain, “Don't stop!” The command was sharp with an undercurrent of withheld agony.
John complied, digging his teeth in deeper. Arthur gasped, head falling back against the wall. He could hear himself panting, the sound loud in his ears. Still, he tried to steady his breathing and keep still.
John shifted closer to Arthur, leaning in until the bitten arm was pinned to his chest, jaw still wrapped around the wound. He grabbed Arthur's arm that had clenched onto his shoulder and pressed it against the wall, keeping a tight hold on his wrist.
He growled out, the words difficult to make out through his mouth being full and the pain and adrenaline running through Arthur, “Stop holding back.” His tongue lashed against Arthur's skin with the words, eliciting a shiver from him. Sparks traveled down Arthur's spine and set his nerve ends on fire.
“I don’t–”
He was immediately cut off with John biting harder, burrowing into exposed flesh. Arthur hissed, his nails digging into his skin. He tried to pull his arm pinned against the wall away, fighting against John's grip. He only pushed harder for the attempt, and Arthur felt the wall's rough texture scraping against the back of his hand.
“Christ, John,” Arthur managed out, not even sure what in particular he was commenting on.
John hummed, pressing in closer. Arthur could feel blood seeping out of the wood. He was warm, overheated with John’s proximity. The open wound was burning, hot breath lighting it on fire. It felt like John was trying to tear off his flesh.
It was agony.
It was everything he needed.
It was John.
God, Arthur loved him. Did he ever tell him that directly? Not implied or admitted to someone else, but to him?
It was a love unlike any Arthur's known before. A kind of love he'd never been able to give to Bella, not that she would've wanted this. It was friendship without the rules he'd been taught all his life, something he wanted cling onto and never let go of. John loved with fangs and claws and desperate words. Arthur didn't need him to be gentle– that was too close to what he couldn't give.
John was not built to be soft. Arthur wasn't either. He had tried to be, for Bella, but…
They were wild strays. They fought tooth and nail like it was all they knew, so it only made sense they'd love the same way. With scratches and bruises and patching each other up. Arthur wouldn't have it any other way. He liked the pain, the contusions and cuts, the reminders that he had someone. He suspected John liked leaving behind marks to show that Arthur was his. If it was anyone else, he'd tear them apart.
But it was John, and John liked a little bit of a fight, but it'd always end the same way– with Arthur pinned and trapped, at his mercy.
Arthur liked it, too. He didn't think he would, but it was nice to be vulnerable in the face of danger and come out of it fine. He liked John’s mercy. It was a breath of fresh air. It was freedom. It was bite marks that Arthur wanted and asked for instead of lethal wounds because he failed to escape what wanted him dead.
He didn't know how to let go of danger, but John was a safe kind of hazard. He was an oxymoron, and Arthur craved it.
Despite the pain, he felt himself relax.
Tension slowly seeped out of his shoulders, his muscles unwinding and arms going limp in John's hold.
He was trapped and wasn't going anywhere.
He was trapped and he was safe.
He was trapped and John wasn't going to let anyone hurt Arthur but him.
He sighed in bliss. His arm throbbed, and it was all he could focus on. John's teeth inside him were the closest they'd ever get to being one again.
Arthur thought if one of them died before the other, it would only be right for the survivor to eat them. It wouldn't be like Mr. Faust, not a desperate need to survive. It would be an act of love.
Arthur wouldn't enjoy it. But he's too devoted to let even death tear them apart.
John's grip on him remained strong. He knew better than to let Arthur go too quickly, knowing from experience that Arthur would lose his relaxed state if he did.
Instead, the two sat still. Arthur's breathing was harsh, dealing with the pain. He was trying to calm it down, but occasionally John would shift slightly, and he would wince at the new wave of agony.
It was a gradual release of pressure. John slowly slid his hand up to Arthur's palm and intertwined their fingers, lowering their hands to rest on the bed. He leaned back, using his grip on his other arm to tug Arthur forward.
Arthur's head slumped forward and John sat up straighter to let him rest his forehead on his shoulder. His arm was forced up, still trapped between John's teeth.
Arthur complied easily with John’s maneuvering, too boneless and idle to fight back.
John eventually loosened his grip on Arthur's arm, unlocking his jaw and prying his teeth out of broken skin. Blood leaked out quicker without the obstacle. Cool air stung at the wound and Arthur sucked in a breath.
He felt something wet swipe against the injury and belatedly registered it as a tongue. John lapped at the blood, licking it away. It was a strange but not unpleasant sensation.
Reluctantly, Arthur spoke up. “John…”
“Hm?” John hummed, preoccupied.
“We should bandage the wound.”
With a final sweep of tongue, John relented. “Sure, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded but didn't move. Neither did John. They just sat there, enjoying each other's presence.
Arthur wanted to thank him. He wanted to scrape his teeth against John’s neck, equal parts threat and promise to return the favor if John asked.
“Come on,” John whispered, crawling off his lap. He still held onto Arthur's injured arm, holding it steadily.
Arthur let himself be pulled out of bed and taken to the bathroom, John never letting go of him.
The bathroom tile was freezing, sending a jolt through Arthur. He heard a click, probably John turning on the lights.
John guided him onto the edge of the bathtub and finally let go of his arm. He cradled it close to his chest.
He heard a familiar creak of the cabinet, along with sounds of something hitting, which he guessed were things either being knocked over or placed down as John searched for the first aid kit. Some shuffling, and then John gently grabbed his arm, warmth seeping into his skin.
“I'm going to try to lessen the bleeding,” John said, and Arthur felt a towel being brushed against his skin.
He nodded. “Alright.”
John pressed the towel onto the bite, applying pressure. Arthur took over, using his uninjured arm to move John’s hand out of the way and held the towel himself.
He sat still, listening to John's footsteps and the sound of rushing water.
After some time, John returned to him, resting his hands on Arthur's knees and kneeling in front of him. He took the towel and checked the wound.
He grunted. “It should be fine. I'm going to clean the wound now.”
A soaked towel this time was pressed to Arthur's skin, scrubbing around the wound but never touching. It pulled at his raw skin a little, but the pain was manageable.
“Brace yourself,” John warned him, and Arthur gritted his teeth, knowing what was to come.
The alcohol stung like hell. “Jesus Christ,” Arthur wheezed out, clenching his fists.
“It'll be over soon.”
John cleaned the injury quickly but thoroughly, whispering reassurances when Arthur groaned in pain at an especially sensitive spot. “Good, you're doing so well, Arthur,” he crooned. Arthur ignored the way his cheeks warmed at the praise.
“The upper half of the wound is larger, the flesh ripped apart by my teeth. It threatens to peel off with too much pull,” John narrated. “The bottom half is more of a gouge, deep but clean.
“... It's beautiful, Arthur.”
His breath hitched. Beautiful. Arthur didn't doubt it.
“I'm going to bandage your arm now,” John informed him.
“Fucking finally.”
He snorted. “You asked for this.”
“Shut up,” Arthur snapped back lightheartedly.
John placed a gauze pad onto the wound and held it in place as he wrapped Arthur’s arm. His fingers traced over his skin through the bandages, a feather-light comfort. It was somehow more overwhelming than the bite itself. Arthur listened to him breathe, a steady tune. Almost unconsciously, he matched the pace with his own breath.
“There. It's done.”
Arthur felt at the bandage. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Arthur closed his eyes, tilting forward. John caught on and placed a hand on the back of his neck, guiding him so their foreheads met. Arthur placed his hands on John's shoulders and pulled him closer until he could feel John's breath on his lips. He didn't dare chase after it; somehow, it felt too much. Like if he did, it'd open a door for them that they couldn't go back from. They'd end up on a route that might not end well for them.
For Arthur.
“You're tired,” John commented. “Let's go to bed.”
“Alright.”
As Arthur hoped, the bite scarred. Not as badly as he wanted it to, but it would have to do. The skin that had torn open was now raised, but he could only feel it faintly when he pressed down on it. John said it had healed into a lighter color that stood out and retained its bitten shape.
Nevertheless, its mere existence brought him comfort. John's companionship was etched into him permanently. No matter who tried to come between them, human or beyond comprehension, they could never truly separate the two. Not even gods could tear them apart, not even them gaining their own bodies. Their connection was beyond requirement; it was an active choice they made.
It was perhaps a bit dramatic of Arthur to take a self-inflicted scar to heart like that. But it was different. Unlike the wooden pinky, it wasn’t an offering; unlike the jagged scar across his throat, it was not spite or a last stand. It was love, in its barest form: instinct and desire and indescribable devotion. But it was also a decision. That was the sweetest part.
Christ, how was it possible to love this much? Arthur thinks he might just burst with the amount of affection in him. It was too much, almost violently so.
John, for his part, had become strangely soft with the scar. He'd been unnecessarily careful when rebandaging the injury, and still after it had completely healed. Arthur's skin crawled at the tenderness of it all.
It was night. John had retired to bed late, enthralled in whatever book he was reading. Arthur complained of waking him up, but the two knew that he never fell asleep in the first place. He usually didn't without John, unless he was especially exhausted.
John had played along though, apologizing in a saccharine sweet tone dripped with sarcasm.
“Bastard,” Arthur murmured, but crept closer to him anyway.
John huffed. His hand drifted over Arthur's scar, as he was wont to do now. He was strangely fixated on it, and Arthur knew exactly why. He liked that this mark would last far longer than any other he'd made.
But instead of holding it and brushing his fingers over it as he usually did, John brought it up to his mouth. Arthur held his breath in anticipation.
It was not pain that met him, but a delicate press of lips against his skin.
Arthur gasped.
John paused. Arthur, finding his voice had left him for once, looped a short strand of curly hair around his finger and tugged at it, something he did when John would be too slow in bruising.
He felt John smile against his skin and continue, pressing a more firm kiss to the scar.
Arthur could feel his heart beating in his chest, loud and quick, pulsing energy through his veins.
John kissed him again, and again, and again, soft butterfly kisses so full of tenderness that Arthur didn't know what to do. Emotions whirled through his mind. It was dizzying.
John had never kissed him before. Arthur knew it wasn't a real kiss, not the kind that'd been clinging to his mind every time he saw John. But it was something, and it was maddening.
He didn't know how to deal with this kind of affection. It was so gentle, so soft, that his knee-jerk reaction was to reject it. It felt too close to expectations. It felt like movie romance, like the Valentine's Day chocolates and flowers he’d gifted Bella, looking through cheesy cards full of metaphors his feelings would never match. Arthur loved John, with every fiber of his being he swore he did. But he didn't think he could handle John expecting from him what everyone else in his life had. It was a broken, jagged part of him that he knew would let him down. If he allowed John to be soft, allowed himself to be soft, would John realize that he was lacking?
He couldn't lose John.
They liked things rough. They didn't need to be soft.
And Arthur wanted so much. He didn't need to let himself be gentle, didn't need to listen to the part of him that wanted that because there were other things he could focus on.
He wanted to bite and bruise and scratch. He wanted John to be helpless underneath him and let Arthur have his way with him.
That's all he wanted. If Arthur said it enough times, it would be true.
He flipped over and pinned John underneath him.
“I am not,” he snarled, breathing harshly, “fragile. You don't need to treat me like glass.”
John was quiet.
Arthur didn't need to be soft.
He didn't.
He dipped his head, resting it on John's chest.
But God, he wanted to be sometimes.
John brushed his fingers through his hair. Despite his better conscience, he melted under the ministrations, sinking deeper into John.
“I know you aren't,” John said, continuing to card his fingers through soft locks, “but I want to be careful sometimes, too. You deserve it.”
“Don't.”
“I thought you'd like it. I'm sorry.”
“Don't.” Don't apologize.
Arthur did like it. That was the worst part. He wanted more, craved John's gentle touch as much as the pain.
John was an oxymoron, dangerous in his kindness. Arthur couldn't stop yearning for everything John had to offer, even when he should.
He wanted to return the soft touches as much as the violent ones. He didn't just want to bite and bruise. He wanted to touch, and feel, and kiss, and–
He sat back up. “I can't be your lover, John.”
“... What?”
“I can't be that for you. It wouldn't be right, and this feels right, and I can't lose that. I don't want this to feel wrong too, please–”
“Arthur. You don't have to be my lover.” John’s voice was grounding, blunt but kind.
“But friends don't do this, John, they don't bite or sleep together or kiss!”
“So?”
“So?” Arthur parroted. “So I don't know what to do. I don't want what we have to change. I like being your friend.”
“Then we won't change anything. You'll always be my friend, Arthur. Nothing we do will change that. Fuck what we're ‘supposed’ to be, I don't care. We'll do our own thing. We'll figure it out.”
“One bite at a time,” Arthur said, laughing in relief.
“Yes, Arthur,” John chuckled. “One bite at a time.”
He dipped his hand down, tracing Arthur's jaw and cupping his cheek. “Did you not… like me kissing you?”
“No, I did,” Arthur admitted. “I just don't want you to expect romantic things from me. I'll only let you down.”
“I don't want anything you don't want.”
Arthur's breath hitched. “I want to kiss you.”
“Me too.”
“I want to bite your neck.”
“Me too.”
“I want to grab your shoulders and waist and hips and thighs.”
“Me too.”
“I want to have sex with you.”
“Me too.”
“But not today. Eventually, but not now.”
“Okay, Arthur.” John said it so easily.
“... I want to be gentle with you, too.”
John’s hand curled protectively around his neck. “Okay.”
Arthur sagged in relief.
He loved him. Arthur loved John. He craved him. John was the sun, and Arthur needed him more than the moon, more than sunflowers, more than summer, more than life.
He was a mess. But so was John, and they worked through it. Loved each other, both despite of and because of it.
“I love you.” A whisper meant only for their ears.
John's breath stuttered.
His voice, honey and needles, sweet and sharp.
“I love you too, Arthur.”