Chapter Text
Hot steam filled up the small bathroom, warm white blooms swirling in the air, making John’s head feel a little light, a little dizzy.
It was always a precarious task, trying to fit two grown men, especially given John’s stature, in the small white bathtub that still managed to take up nearly half of their bathroom. Still, they made it work.
John was sitting, perched on the side of the tub with his legs submerged up to his calves in warm, soapy water. Arthur sat before him, his back pressed up against John’s shins as John gently spooned water up with his hands to douse Arthur’s greasy hair.
“You may be in need of a haircut sometime soon, Arthur,” John mused as he ran his fingertips through his hair, his fingers catching on knots and mats worked into the mess sitting on Arthur’s head. “It’s gotten quite long.”
“Hm, perhaps,” Arthur said, leaning his head back against John’s knee.
“I’ve been told there’s an excellent barber in town.”
Arthur chuckled. “What, have I not done a good enough job cutting it myself all these years?”
“I figured a fresher start may do you some good.”
“Hm. Suppose I can’t argue that. Perhaps sometime, though I’m not sure I have the energy for that kind of walk just yet.”
“Of course, of course. There’s no need to rush. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Arthur hummed thoughtfully. “Eat the elephant.”
John nodded, wiping water from Arthur’s brow before it could drip into his eyes. He ran his hand through Arthur’s hair one last time before reaching for the bottle of shampoo sitting on the rim. How long it had been since either had touched it.
John picked up the bottle, pouring the sweet-smelling liquid out onto his palm, before rubbing his hands together, lathering up the suds accumulating between his fingers. He began to carefully work the soap into Arthur’s hair, gently massaging it into his scalp and lathering up all of the greasy, knotted hair he had to work with.
Arthur sighed softly, leaning back into John’s hands as John carefully and meticulously worked the shampoo into each and every strand of hair on Arthur’s head.
John took his sweet time, relishing in the physical closeness he’d been so long deprived of. He took the time to gently scratch at Arthur’s scalp and run his hands down his neck to gently rub his shoulders for a moment before returning to his hair, running his fingers through it to make sure he’d smoothed out all of the tangles as if unspooling a tightly wound skein of yarn.
Satisfied, John removed his hands momentarily and shifted back, putting some more space between himself and his friend. “Lean back for me, Arthur,” John said softly, carefully guiding Arthur down as he slowly lowered his head until the ends of his hair dipped into the water.
John carefully splashed Arthur’s hair, scooping water up with his hands to pour on his head where the water level didn’t quite reach. Arthur hummed softly, his eyes shut, as he allowed John to carefully wash all of the suds from his previously filthy hair.
“Much better,” John murmured, carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair and feeling how clean and smooth he’d made it at long last.
“Mm, thank you,” Arthur said, his eyes still shut in contentment. John leaned over him, hesitating a moment, his finger hovering just over the trigger, and before he could think better of it, he tentatively pressed his lips to the top of Arthur’s head– a tender, chaste, barely noticeable kiss. It was safer that way; Arthur could easily ignore it if he wanted to.
Arthur tensed for just a moment, and just before John thought surely he was going to pull away or shove him backwards off the rim of the tub, Arthur leaned slightly up into the kiss, sighing softly, and John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Let’s finish getting you washed up,” John said softly, pulling away and reaching for a bar of soap. He began to rub it between his hands, working up a lather once more. He had to hope Arthur didn’t feel condescended to by his desire to do this for him. He knew Arthur could wash himself just fine; he just… wanted to.
Arthur had been awfully prickly lately, quick to snap, quick to push John away, and John wasn’t stupid enough not to notice how suffocated his friend was feeling. He could sympathize well enough; he knew all too intimately what it felt like to lack agency. He just had to hope this wasn’t just one more instance of him taking from Arthur something he could do for himself; he just had to hope Arthur knew he was only trying to show he loved him, not to smother him.
John set the bar down and began to gently wash Arthur, beginning with his back, gently rubbing the nice-smelling soap into his skin. He swiped his hands down his shoulders, working the soap into Arthur’s frighteningly thin arms, feeling the way his bones protruded from his shoulder blades and elbows. He tried not to dwell on it, continuing on, just trying to clean up every last trace of illness and hardship left on his friend’s skin.
He could see the blue of Arthur’s veins through his pale skin in places, his skin turned thin and translucent by the bite of winter, little more than a veil, no thicker than paper and no stronger than porcelain, separating him from the cruelties of the world so eager to snap him up.
John swiped his hand over Arthur’s skin, leaving a trail of white soap suds obscuring the blue nestled into his friend’s flesh. He turned his attention to his chest, swiping away traces of sweat and blood lingering in his pores and settled into his ribs, washing away all evidence of the hell he’d suffered these past few months.
John washed him carefully, cleaning his stomach, his legs, his arms, making sure to be thorough, not wanting to leave any trace of pain behind.
When he was satisfied, John gently washed away all of the lingering soap, the warm water dousing away the suds and with them the dust and sweat and filth powdering his friend’s skin like a fine model’s makeup.
“There we go,” John murmured, running a hand along Arthur’s shoulder before gently pressing his lips into the crook of his neck. “Good as new.”
Arthur chuckled, his hand reaching up behind himself to cup John’s jaw. “Thank you, friend.”
John smiled, warmth rising up from his chest into his throat and threatening to choke him. “Anytime, Arthur.”
Arthur hooked his arm around John’s neck, dripping cooling water down his back. John shivered and lost his balance, tipping forward and slipping off the rim of the bathtub, falling into the soapy water with a loud splash.
Arthur laughed as John rubbed water from his eyes, blinking rapidly to dry his lashes. John swiped a hand through his hair, wiping dampened strands from his forehead.
“Poor thing,” Arthur said, his voice dripping with smug mock-sympathy. John rolled his eyes.
“Don’t start.”
Arthur chuckled again. “Oh, come here, you. We ought to get you washed up, too, anyway.”
John shook his head, inadvertently splashing Arthur as droplets shook out of his hair. “It’s alright, Arthur, I can worry about that later.”
“Absolutely not. You’ve spent so much time taking care of me, John. It’s about time I returned the favor.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Arthur paused, coming so near to staring directly into John’s soul that he wondered for only half a second if his sight had suddenly been restored. “I owe you my life.”
John frowned, blinking rapidly to clear the illusion from his eyes. “We’ve both saved each other too many times to keep count. There’s no score, Arthur. There’s no debt.”
“Maybe not. Maybe I just want to do something nice for you, after everything.”
“Hm.”
“Would you let me?”
John looked at Arthur through water-dropped eyelashes. He looked genuine. Loving. It was an expression he’d almost forgotten on his friend’s face.
John still hesitated. “I suppose so, if you really want.”
“I do.”
John hesitated again. “Alright then.”
Arthur pulled John closer, his frail hands echoing what John had done for him just a few minutes prior, as he gently began to wash John’s hair, gently untangling knots with the same reverence and care as if separating a great dying whale from a stray fishing net, and washing away grease and grime accumulated from far too long of neglecting himself.
John shut his eyes, sighing softly in acquiescence as he finally relaxed and allowed himself to melt into his friend’s gentle care.
By the time both men had finished bathing, the water was cooling, the hot steam dissipating and fading from the mirror. Arthur and John dried off, fluffy white towels eagerly robbing them of all moisture as they idly chatted before dressing and stepping out.
Warm spring sunlight was filtering through the windows, echoes of dewy grass and blooming dandelions tempting John towards the yard.
“Why don’t we sit outside a little while?” John suggested. “It looks like a lovely day.”
“Hm.” Arthur nodded. “Sounds nice.”
John nodded, and the two made their way into the backyard, feeling the golden sun rays kiss their skin and gleam off their clothes.
“Oh, it is quite nice,” Arthur said, sounding a little surprised. “You know what, why don’t you hang out here for a moment while I go fetch something to work on?”
“Oh, sure, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded and disappeared back into the house. John turned his attention to the landscape around him.
The last of the snow suffocating the ground had burned away, hissing and shrinking beneath the warm spring sun. Green grass had shot up in its place, glistening and fresh and full of life as the wind tousled it gently, sending ripples throughout the yard.
John sat down in the grass, his knees dampening quickly from the dew soaking into his pants. He ran his hand through the dandelions and daisies cropping up in the grass, dotting the yard like the freckles mapping constellations across his own skin. He carefully reached down and plucked a daisy from the grass, twirling it in his fingers.
He pulled up another, a dandelion this time, and carefully twirled the stems around one another, looping and twisting them together. Finding the task to be remarkably easy, John quickly began to braid dandelions and daisies together, linking them into a long, flowery chain.
Arthur returned from the house and sat in the rocking chair beside the back door, a bundle of shiny, purple silk in his arms. John raised an eyebrow, staring across at him.
“Is that my shirt?”
“It is. I thought I might see if I can’t fix it.”
“Oh.” John blinked, a little lost for a moment. “You don’t have to.”
Arthur shrugged. “I ripped it. It’s only fair.”
“Really, Arthur, I mean… between the tear and the blood, it might… it might be beyond saving.”
Arthur frowned. “Even if you never wear it again, I’m still fixing it.”
“Really, Arthur, it’s–”
“Are you enjoying the nice weather?” Arthur asked, gracelessly interrupting him.
John suppressed a growl. “... I am.”
“Good,” Arthur said primly, turning his attention down to the garment in his lap. He picked up a sewing needle, feeding a thin purple thread through the eye, and carefully tying it off despite his lack of sight and his trembling fingers.
Arthur carefully felt along the rip in the silk and began to stitch, and John took his eyes away, returning to his daisy chain.
Not two minutes passed before John heard a muttered fuck from the porch. He turned to see Arthur shaking off his hand, having set the shirt back down in his lap.
John chuckled. “Did you prick your finger, Arthur?”
“You try sewing blind,” Arthur muttered bitterly.
“If it’s too difficult, I can–”
“I’m doing just fine,” Arthur insisted, picking up the needle once more. John chuckled.
“Alright, Arthur. As you were.”
John continued to weave flowers together, alternating dandelions and daisies, neither of which seemed in any way scarce in the blooming grass. His chain grew quickly, brilliant and lovely, even if he found himself intermittently sneezing as he breathed the sweet floral smell in.
Intermittently, John glanced up at Arthur, who was still trying very hard to stitch up John’s favorite shirt. Every few minutes, he’d mutter out an irritable curse, probably under the impression that John couldn’t hear him, and he’d have to pause and readjust his methods, meticulously feeling along the stitches and the rip as he tried to fix what he’d caused.
“We do own a thimble, Arthur,” John called as Arthur muttered out another string of expletives.
“I can’t wear a thimble on all nine fingers, John,” Arthur called back irritably. John rolled his eyes fondly.
“If you want help-”
“I told you, I ripped it, so I’m fixing it,” Arthur said, curling his fingers protectively around the shirt.
“Alright, alright,” John said gently. “I just don’t want you hurting yourself.”
Arthur huffed, bristling. “I am capable of basic tasks, you know, John.”
“I know that better than anyone, Arthur,” John said quickly, placatingly. “I’m only trying to help.”
Arthur softened, shooting John a small, reassuring smile. “I know. Just let me finish this up for you. Please. I promise I won’t damage it.”
John sighed fondly. “Alright, Arthur. I trust you.”
“Thank you.”
John turned his attention back to the blooming flowers poking out of the grass. He pulled a daisy from the dirt, twisting the stem and looping it into the chain he’d started. He thought back on all those years ago, when he’d just gotten his body, and he’d scarcely been able to lift a teacup without dropping it or shattering it in his too-large, too-strong palm. Now, as his fingers nimbly weaved daisies and dandelions together, they didn’t even shake or burn from exertion with each small movement. It had been so long, and yet no time at all.
John plucked a dandelion from the grass and added it to his chain. It was a little more than a foot long now, yellow and white and green and lovely. He secured the dandelion into the loop, manipulating the stem carefully, anxious not to snap it in two.
John watched Arthur for a moment, his eyes shut tight in concentration as he struggled to stitch up the tear in John’s blouse.
He watched Arthur pull the needle through the fine silk, dragging thin purple thread as it went. He stared as Arthur carefully felt along the tear, finding the two sides of the fabric and slowly, meticulously guiding the needle in and out and in and out. John wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Arthur be so careful, so gentle, with anything.
John glanced around for more flowers to weave into his little daisy chain, and his eyes landed on the host of daffodils growing beside the fence. They’d greatly grown in numbers, and really, it wouldn’t hurt to pluck one or two or three for a little extra decoration, but John turned his gaze away. They were prettier where they were.
Instead, John connected the ends of the chain, carefully weaving the ends together. He gently tugged at it, making sure all of the flowers in the loop were properly connected, and when he was satisfied, he rose to his feet, walking over to where Arthur sat on the porch.
“Hm?” Arthur asked, still concentrating on his sewing, when he heard John’s approaching footsteps.
John wordlessly set the little flower crown down on Arthur’s head, daisies nestling neatly into his freshly-washed hair. He gently swiped a strand of hair from Arthur’s forehead, tucking it beneath the ring of daisies and dandelions adorning his crown.
“What’s this?” Arthur asked, gently reaching up to touch the flowers woven around his head. He discovered the answer for himself before John had the chance to answer, a small smile blooming across his face as his fingertips trailed along the crown. “Oh!”
“They’re dandelions and daisies, Arthur,” John said. “A soft alternating color palette of yellow and white. It suits you very nicely.”
Arthur chuckled warmly, trying off a stitch and carefully cutting the thread. “Well, I’m glad. I’m sure they’re beautiful.”
“More so now that they’re on you.”
Arthur chuckled again. “You’re an incorrigible sap, you know that?”
“I can live with that.”
Arthur smiled, trailing his fingertips along the silk blouse, inspecting where the formerly torn fabric had been carefully stitched back together.
“Here, John.” He held the shirt out like an offering before an altar, his face turned down, whether in shame or in reverence. “I’m sorry I can’t make it the same as it was, but hopefully it’s good enough.”
John smiled softly, gratefully taking the garment in his arms. “It’s more than enough, Arthur. Thank you.”
Arthur allowed a small, hesitant smile to grace his lips, tilting his head back up to the sun. John inspected his shirt, finding the seam where Arthur had torn it not so long ago. The damage was done, visible and telling as any scar, but Arthur had done a remarkably good job mending the fabric back together.
There were still dark spots on the shoulder of the blouse where Arthur’s nose had dripped hot blood onto it, but John knew better than to dwell on those; they were his own fault.
He carefully traced his thumb along the scar in the fabric, feeling the even stitching and Arthur’s careful workmanship that had almost been enough to cover up his mistake. Almost. His work was perfect, but there was no undoing what was done, nor was there ever any hiding it.
“It’s perfect, Arthur,” John murmured, looking at neither Arthur nor his shirt. “You can’t see the seam at all.”
“Really? I have a hard time believing I did that good a job.”
“Really. I’m very impressed, Arthur. It’s as good as new.”
Arthur chuckled. “Well, maybe there is a god.”
John smiled wryly. “Maybe.”
“In any case,” Arthur said as John began to undo the top buttons on the shirt he was wearing. “I’m glad I got that done. It’s been… it’s been weighing on me a bit.”
“Hm.” John pulled his shirt off and replaced it with the newly sewn-up purple blouse. “Then I’m glad, too. I’d hate for you to feel guilty for something so trivial.”
“It’s not trivial if it matters to you.”
“It’s only a shirt, Arthur.”
“It’s your favorite.”
“Yes.”
“You said dressing nicely makes you feel a little more comfortable… existing. As yourself.”
“Yes.”
“So it matters.”
John averted his gaze, swiping a hand slowly down the purple fabric shrouding his skin. He could feel the tear in the fabric as clearly as if it were a scar in his own skin. He said nothing.
“Anyway,” Arthur said with a heavy exhale. “No need to dwell. What’s done is done, it’s fixed now.”
“It is. No need to think of it.”
Arthur nodded. He reached out for John, his hand wrapping around John’s bicep, and he pulled himself to his feet.
“You changed shirts,” Arthur noticed.
“I did.”
“That was fast.”
John chuckled, folding up his other shirt in his arms and setting it down in the chair Arthur had just been sitting in.
“Come on,” Arthur said, leading John down the steps off the patio. “I think I’ll join you in the grass, now.”
John nodded, allowing Arthur to lean on him as they walked down the steps. Arthur still shook as they moved, but his jaw was set, a stubborn anger in his eyes as he struggled down the steps that told John not to speak on it, and so he held his tongue.
They made their way out into the grass, past where the shoots bowed into the dirt where John’s knees had pressed them down. Arthur stopped them in the corner of the yard, nestled into the crook of the fence where the daffodils grew the tallest and the ginkgo stump shriveled away.
“I can smell it,” Arthur said softly, leaning into John and turning his face to the sky.
“Hm?”
Arthur inhaled shallowly. “Wood rot. It’s a bit early yet for it to be decaying, isn’t it?”
John swallowed dryly, turning his eyes to the small stump. “It’s so small, Arthur. So young. There is little to protect it.”
Arthur nodded slowly. “We couldn’t.”
“No.” John turned his eyes down, wrapping a hand loosely around Arthur’s back. “We couldn’t.”
Arthur stepped away from John, taking a pace toward the little stump. He knelt down, reaching out as if to touch it, but he pulled away.
John followed, kneeling beside Arthur as if in prayer, and he fixed his eyes upon what he’d left of their tree.
“Oh, Arthur,” John murmured softly, his voice breathless. “There are little mushrooms beginning to grow on the tiny stump. There are beetles scurrying across the wood, picking off bits of decaying leaf matter and soft mushroom. There is… there is so much life here, Arthur, it’s–”
“Tragic,” Arthur muttered. John frowned.
“I was going to say beautiful.”
Arthur hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps there’s not that much of a difference.”
John glanced at the jagged stump of the once-beautiful ginkgo tree, blooming with mushrooms and moss and insects and new, wonderful life. “Perhaps not.”
Arthur smiled wryly. “I can still imagine it,” he murmured. “All I have to do is not touch it, and it’s like it’s still there. It’s so hard to think that it’s just… food for the worms now.”
“And the beetles,” John said. “And the mushrooms, and the mosses, and everything else that needs dead wood to live.”
Arthur shut his eyes, tilting his face to the sky. “And me, then.”
“Yes. And you.”
“You saved my life,” Arthur said, his voice detached as he once again reached out to touch the stump. He ran his hand along it, feeling the jagged splintering where John tore it from itself with his bare hands. His fingertips crossed a small patch of moss. A beetle scurried up his finger, crawling across the back of his hand before it fell off, tumbling back to the roots of the tree and knocking loose the ant that had been crawling on its back. “Perhaps you’re saving theirs, too.”
John hummed softly, crouching down beside Arthur. “I’d like to think so.”
“You know, I never properly thanked you.”
“You’ve thanked me more than I deserve,” John said. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Not knowing everything,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I thanked you before I knew everything, before I made keeping me alive that much harder. You’re right, we’re done with apologies, but… I never said thank you. So, thank you, friend.”
“Oh,” John said. “Well, in that case, you’re welcome, Arthur.”
“You saved my life,” Arthur said again, more insistently. “Even though I didn’t want you to. Even though I was cruel to you. Thank you.”
“You would have done the same for me.”
Arthur smiled unsteadily. “Of course I would have,” he said. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” John murmured. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Arthur’s smile turned wry and bitter. He didn’t respond. John sighed and gently set his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“I’m here, Arthur,” John said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, I…” Arthur sighed. “I suppose I’m starting to realize that.”
John smiled slightly. “It only took you five years?”
Arthur chuckled. “I suppose I may be a bit slow on the uptake.”
John sighed fondly. His hand found Arthur’s lower back, and he pulled him in gently, pressing their chests together. “Just come here,” he murmured, and Arthur’s lips gently met his for the first time in months, cold and chapped but so distinctly his that John couldn’t help the warm, swelling feeling in his chest, hot and suffocating and ready to burst.
Arthur wrapped his arms around John, gently pressing him against the grass. John allowed himself to lie back, taking Arthur with him, running his hand up his back to scratch at his neck and scalp. John’s elbow scraped against the rough bark on what was left of the little ginkgo tree, and he pulled away, slinging his arm over Arthur’s neck instead.
John thought for a moment that he felt a beetle scurry across his arm, but as soon as he registered it, it was gone. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
Arthur’s hand found John’s face, gently running along his cheek, tracing lines across his jaw and cheekbone, running his thumb along John’s eyelid so tenderly it burned.
The sun was warm on John’s skin, kissing his hands and warming his hair as he lay there between dew-dropped grass and the best friend he’d ever known. It was easy to lose himself there, to get lost in the sensation of his friend’s hands on him, his lips against his. It was easy to forget where he was, who he was, where he’d been, and what he’d done. It was so easy to think of nothing but the warm sun on his skin and his best friend on his lips.
If he focused hard enough, lost enough of himself to the moment, to Arthur, he could almost forget that the air smelled of splintered wood and the gentle tang of decay. He could forget the image of golden fan-shaped leaves littering the ground. He could forget it all, replacing the image with naught but dewdrops and daffodils, swaying and dancing in the breeze as he lay with Arthur, lost to the entire world but to him.
John pulled away.
He opened his eyes, looking down at the grass around him. It was green and young, springing up from beneath the sheath of snow that had only recently been lifted. And yet…
John reached down, plucking a limp bit of leaf matter, only half the size of his palm. He held it up to the sky, observing the barely recognizable fan shape of the dry, ashen leaf.
The leaf slipped through his fingers, and John watched as it slowly fell back into the grass, swaying and twirling in the air as it fell, blending once more into the thin carpet John found himself lying atop.
John sighed softly, staring for a moment longer, before he allowed his eyes to shut. He reached out for Arthur, carefully twining their fingers together as he breathed out a long exhale, his breath barely visible in the spring air, as he relaxed once more beside his friend on a soft bed made of naught but slowly disintegrating brown leaves.