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John knew that, by now, he really, really should have developed a better way to communicate direction to Arthur.
‘Left’ and ‘right’ clearly did nothing. Perhaps he should have started saying the exact opposite of where they needed to go, since that was what Arthur always did. Might be best to cut it off at the head. Or, maybe, he should adapt to different terminology and explain it as ‘my side’ or ‘your side,’ ‘my arm' or ‘your arm.’ Maybe he should have simply shoved his foot and hand in whatever path they needed to go until the rest of their body followed after and Arthur didn't have to stumble around with no clue where the hell he was.
John swore that he would design a better solution for them… eventually.
Being on the run from gods and monsters for months gave him much more pressing and deadly issues to think about during the long (yet still too short) nights of rest. And now that they were somewhat stagnant, living in Noel's apartment and learning how to settle, the issue didn't seem pressing. Not when Noel had the advantage of a full body, and could lay a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder to guide him through the city.
There was very little opportunity to remember the plan, almost no need to actually set it in motion to begin with.
So John kept pushing it back. It just wasn't a problem.
Until it was.
Arthur! John shouted. He ran!
Arthur cursed, fumbling his revolver to the ready as he took off after the suspect they'd been tailing. He was involved with this newest string of missing persons cases, they knew it, though they had not managed to catch him near enough to any direct crime scenes or evidence to actually apprehend him. This evening, they had managed to track him down to an old abandoned hotel, a small tucked-away building on a dead street where they suspected they might find a lead on him.
That is, until he noticed them creeping in the door behind him and immediately sprinted off into the building away from them.
John and Arthur's feet pounded the ground, racing down the hallway from the front door.
“Stop!” Arthur yelled, for all the good it would do, overconfident in his command as always. He ran like a starving fox after a rabbit, tunnel vision on his prey and no concern for any parts of the world around him, dangerous or not. All that mattered was his target.
He disappeared through a doorway on the right of the end of the hall, here, John informed.
Arthur scrambled to turn.
Other right!
Arthur cursed and hurried through the opposite doorway.
It’s a stairwell. The pound and scrape of sprinting footsteps came from above their head. There! He ran up to the next floor.
Running even faster, they hurried to bound up the stairs, trying to catch up to the man they needed to apprehend. They whipped around the final corner at the top, and John caught a flash of the man’s coat flitting behind one side of the doorway as they moved into the hallway, a slash of silver catching the moonlight just after it.
Left, Arthur!
And Arthur— predictable, unruly, stupid Arthur— turned right. And ran straight into the man's knife.
Arthur! John shouted, though it was useless, drowned out by Arthur’s own shout of shock and pain. He curled over the blade as it twitched deeper into his stomach, dragging up and over from the original gash. His hands grasped weakly for the man's arms. The man, though, simply wrenched the knife free with a final twist of the handle, turned, and fled, falling entirely from John's sight.
That didn't matter. Not now. Not when Arthur was stumbling backward, knees shaking as he brought up his arm to put pressure on the gash on his abdomen. Not when he was gasping in the now silent air of the dark building, the stutter of his heart like a dazed racehorse pounding in both of their ears.
Arthur, John called again. He rushed to place his hand where Arthur’s was, feeling out the wound he could not see. Hot blood met his fingertips, pulsing in time with the rhythm of a shaking heartbeat, dripping and falling from the gash. You- a-are you—
Arthur hissed as John’s fingers added pressure to the wound, but didn’t pry his touch away. “I… I’m- fine.”
You’ve just been stabbed, Arthur, you are not ‘fine.’
“Alive, then.”
For that, at least, John was grateful. Still, he could not tell how long that would last, couldn’t guarantee that that simple fact wouldn’t shatter apart and take Arthur with it. They needed to get help, somewhere and someone who could heal Arthur and make sure that ‘alive’ would stick through the night.
For now, John muttered, sounding far angrier and less terrified than he truly felt. You need to get out of this building and find someone to help. Come on.
Turning his foot to point the direction, John guided Arthur toward the staircase. Arthur followed his lead without argument, and it only made John more terrified. He fought to keep himself from hyperventilating as they moved, refusing to make too much of a scene when Arthur was the one who needed to be taken care of here.
As they moved down the stairs with jerking steps, John paid closer attention to the actual wound, inspecting the state of the damage.
It had been a small knife, thankfully, just a switchblade, but for all John was concerned it was a long tendril pierced clear through Arthur’s abdomen, a jagged blade stabbed downward half a dozen times, bloody hands rending organs from within the embrace of ribs. And if the shaky tone already overtaking the edges of Arthur’s breath and vision were anything to judge by, that small switchblade had hit more than surface-level damage.
Slowly, they worked together to stumble down the stairs without falling down (and cracking their head open and passing out and bleeding out where no one would find their body for weeks-)
They got to the building’s entrance much faster. John let go of Arthur's torso and left the other man to cradle his side alone despite the itch of guilt it elicited, and pushed open the door for them. They stepped from the doorway out onto darkening New York streets, hardly a stir of life on this half-abandoned stretch of buildings. Arthur’s panting breaths rattled the stifled air around them as they moved into the sidewalk.
“Where’s-” Arthur cut off in a hiss as his foot tripped on a jut in the concrete.
A hospital, John finished for him. I- I think there’s one a few minutes south. We should be able to walk to a busier street, find someone to help us get a ride there-
Arthur shook his head, which added a wobble to the spinning already covering John’s vision. “No,” he said. “No, just- let’s go home.”
Home? John growled, voice shaking on frustration and panic. Arthur, you’re bleeding through your shirt and can barely hold yourself up. You need help as quickly as possible, and you need someone who can actually fix this. It’s going to take stitches, at the very least.
“I know, b-but… I don’t want to suffer the trouble of all that. I just want to- to go home and lay down.”
If John had the body to shake Arthur by the shoulders right now, he would. Why the hell couldn’t this man ever accept basic help? Had enough head wounds shook out all of his sense for self-preservation? It seemed there was nothing John could do to break through Arthur’s stubbornness— but if there was any time to finally make Arthur see sense, it was now.
Arthur, John bit out as slow and calm as he could around the rapidly growing awareness of trembling in his friend’s body. You need a hospital. I am going to lead you to one and you are going to follow me. This is urgent, and you need to listen to me this one time.
“No-”
Arthur! Would you just—
Arthur let out a sudden strangled sound. "John, please."
And John knew that voice. Remembered the shape of its sound while pressed against a self-wielded knife blade, the feel of its echo while within a coal-dusted mineshaft. Remembered the parasitic shade inside that had forced that voice into such ugly, pained shapes.
The shade that still lingered within another’s skull, well beyond its welcome.
Suddenly devoid of all frustration, veins dropped from boiling to freezing and heavy within a moment— John curled up as small as he could inside Arthur. Too much, too wrong yet again. He pressed his fingers firmer against the flow of blood.
…Okay. We'll…. we'll head home, alright? Turn left. Just a few blocks.
The travel home was excruciating, slower than the travel over sandy Dreamlands eternities, more stumbling and painful than the coughing half-death of ancient missions in foreign country. Injury now was worse than John remembered any of the troubles from their life before. In the now, Arthur had managed to fight his and John's way to safety and a chance at a normal, healthy existence. Each time that safety was threatened, each time John nearly threw that chance out the window for yet another misstep of foolishness, it felt like every painful memory layered on top of him at once, a weight that damned him over and over for the same repeated sin and plead for absolution.
He wasn’t sure how the weight of him didn’t topple Arthur at any point in their journey, but, somehow, despite his burden, they made it to the apartment complex, and up the three flights of stairs that John swore he was going to burn down after this.
Their vision was shuddering like a building before seconds collapse by the time they made it their apartment, their breath no better. Arthur’s knees shook, and John planted his foot firmer onto the floor as they stopped before the door.
John fumbled through their pocket for the key. Blood-slicked fingers slipped over the smooth metal as he tried to grab a hold of it for an eternity of several seconds. Cursing, he finally managed to grip the metal and pull it from his pocket, roughly shoving it in the lock with only a couple rough attempts stabbing at the door before he succeeded.
When the door finally cracked open, all thoughts fell from John’s mind aside from dragging his foot over the threshold and the rest of their body with it. The key tumbled from his hand, his shoulder stung as he shoved the door with it, all of his muscles ached and all of his conscious thoughts shook under the weight of panic— but Arthur was back in the apartment. John had gotten him home.
To the side, John caught a glimpse of anther body standing before the counters in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as strong, scarred arms busied themselves cooking in the evening light.
"Hey, kids,” Noel called over lightly. “Welcome back. I've got some soup goin’ on the stove, should be about ready if y-”
The sound of a spoon clattering on the counter was barely more than background static as Arthur collapsed his weight onto the doorframe, a pulsating onslaught of dizziness nearly toppling John and Arthur at once. Somehow, above it all, the quiet plink of blood dripping on the floorboards rose to the top of John’s ears and attention. At least, until a nearby voice cut in.
“Shit—”
Footsteps rushed over, and soon they were gripped by two broad hands.
John managed to keep their eyes cracked open. Noel! Arthur, tell him-
Fuck, tell him what? That John had walked his friend back into danger? That Arthur was yet again bleeding and falling apart because the man who claimed to love him more than the entire universe had an impulse for blood and violence buried deep in the marrow? That Arthur was hurt, was almost unconscious, was almost dea—
Arthur’s knees buckled. Their vision blacked out for a second, and John thrashed in panic. Arthur! Noel, please, get him- h-help—
Thankfully, Noel was right there to catch Arthur’s wright and keep him from falling straight over.
"Hey, woah, c’mere, I’ve got you, just-" Noel slung an arm under Arthur’s and hoisted him upright. "There, okay, just a few steps over to the couch now. You’ve got it, kid.”
John focused impossibly harder on holding Arthur’s stomach and bracing with his controlled foot as the man stumbled in his steps.
"No, it... it'll stain," Arthur slurred. "'m'gonna- ruin the sofa."
"Fuck the sofa."
Arthur weakly flinched at the combined voices of John and Noel. John did everything he could to fan out through Arthur’s mind with a softer tone, then, hoping to settle the sharpness stabbing through them both.
Lay down, Arthur. We want you safe and comfortable right now.
“The cushions are replaceable, kid. You, on the other hand, are not.” Noel was incredibly careful as they reached the sofa, slow movements as he readjusted and turned Arthur. “Alright, c'mon, down ya go.” He helped Arthur sit, then got a hand under his legs and back to lay down all the way.
Arthur let out small punched-out sounds, gasps and hisses as he was jostled despite all of Noel's carefulness. When he was laid out, his breath rattled quick and shallow. John's vision tilted every direction at once, and he was almost grateful when Arthur screwed his eyes shut in pain.
Breathe, Arthur, John soothed.
“Good, kid,” Noel murmured. “You're doin’ good. I'm gonna leave for a second to grab some supplies to help ya, okay?”
John flinched. Arthur didn't respond, just let out a soft groan.
Warmth touched the back of John and Arthur’s hands. “I'll just be one minute, alright boys? Promise.”
Shaking, John dared to turn his hand for just a second to tap out Ok, and felt Arthur manage half a nod.
“Okay. Be right back.” And the warmth left, footsteps trailing away down the hallway.
John twisted, a rope looped over itself in the hopes it might strangle out the present moment. Seconds passed like a brain forced through a kitchen strainer. He writhed with the need to claw his way out of the pores in Arthur’s skin and hold his friend, cover the gaping wound in Arthur’s body with his own form. He knew, though, that any attempt to manifest would only succeed in ripping that wound wider, tearing apart the fragile pieces of Arthur holding on by a frayed lifeline at the moment. For now, he was restricted to watching the sun dim from the bottom of a sinkhole.
After an eternal moment, footsteps approached them again. Arthur fluttered their eyes open to see Noel returning with a bowl of water, a bundle of gauze and bandages, antiseptic, and the stitching kit they kept in the bathroom cabinet.
Nausea and memory roiled through John at the sight of the thread, but he reminded himself that this was far different from the coal-coated string he'd held between his own fingers in the dark and dust.
Noel set the items down and dragged one of their kitchen chairs over, setting up so that he could lean over Arthur. “Shirt's gotta come off,” he said softly, nudging Arthur and John's hands to lift.
They did, and Noel undid the buttons of Arthur’s shirt and carefully peeled back the fabric. His face paled at the sight, making John's proverbial stomach turn inside out at least a dozen times.
"Christ, Arthur," he hissed. "What the hell happened?"
“Suspect,” Arthur muttered. “Chase, and- h-had a knife.”
"You coulda gone to a hospital, kid. They’d’ve helped you real quick, and still been able to call me to come there.”
I tried.
“Jh-John said,” Arthur slurred. “I just didn’… want—” He shifted, and weakly hissed at pain shattering out from the motion so strong that John felt it in his own limbs. “Cold…” he continued weakly. “Wouldn’t… wouldn’ know who…”
Arthur trailed away without finishing the sentence, but John knew exactly what he meant. He’d been there all those months ago, stuck like an abandoned statue at the bottom of the ocean while the entire world churned and spun by, nurses and doctors and a thousand other parts of human life drifting in and out of their stream while John could do nothing but watch. He remembered the ache of every second that passed by where he did not know if he would wake back up to the Dark World without warning, if anyone would ever acknowledge him again, if he would ever have the chance to break free, swim to the surface, empty his lungs of dark water, and shout his name for a single soul to hear.
John curled tight in Arthur, wanting to let him know the ache of love twisting his heart, but unable to force it through another rise of guilt-polluted bile. He felt like an anchor, trapping himself and the man tied to his overbearing weight by rope in the dark of ocean floors.
I… I would have been fine, Arthur, John murmured. I would have suffered it again for you. And he meant it, more than even he expected before the words left his tongue.
A quiet sound choked from Arthur’s throat. “’m sorry,” he slurred past slowing lips.
“It’s alright, Arthur.” Noel brought a hand up to cradle the side of Arthur’s face, thumb swiping to catch something John could neither see nor feel. “I’m just- Christ, I’m just glad you’re breathin’, kid.”
“It’s- it’s not much of a… the knife wasn’t that bad, or-”
“Hey,” Noel hushed. “Details later. Let's get you patched up.”
Please.
Faint shuffling sounds came from the side, and Noel turned back around with a rag and the antiseptic in hand.
Immediately, John snatched the rag from Noel's hand.
“Sunshine, I need that.”
No, John lifted a finger to tap out his words on Noel's arm, maintaining his hold on the rag. Let me help.
“You don't gotta-”
Let me. His taps were more forceful this time, though that did nothing to cover up the tremors. Everything within him shook with the need to burst out of this cell, claw his way through the bars and escape so that he could wrap himself over Arthur like the sun itself. But nothing in him could do that. All he had was a hand to reach through the bars and grasp the tiniest scraps of purpose, and he was determined to take anything he could reach.
Noel held his gaze. Some unhidden pleading must have drifted up John’s eyes, for barely a second passed before Noel’s face softened in clear sympathy. “Alright, sunshine,” he murmured, and gave a quick squeeze to John’s wrist. “Clean him up.”
Thank you, John said, though he did not tap the words out for Noel; he was sure the other man heard them, anyway.
He dipped the rag in the bowl as Noel held it up for him, gathering warm water. Wringing it out, he brought the cloth over the Arthur’s torso, holding just above his skin. This is going to hurt, friend, he rumbled. I’m sorry.
With that warning, he lowered the rag and began to clean the wound. Arthur immediately hissed, muscles spasming and instincts pushing him to writhe away. Noel laid his free hand on his hip, voice low as he shushed the gasps and curses from Arthur, soothing the other man as best he could.
John wanted to scream, but he kept his voice as steady as possible, following Noel’s lead and whispering a constant stream of reassurances inside Arthur’s skull. He swiped the rag as gently as he possibly could, trying not to apply more pressure than necessary to catch the blood and lift it from Arthur’s skin. Even that made Arthur twitch and buck, too dazed to control his movements. Only Noel’s hand seemed to keep him from pushing John’s touch away entirely.
After each swipe, John rinsed the rag in the bowl. Slowly, the clear, warm water tainted, swirls of red saturated to make a nauseating merger of blood and water, baptismal birth in reverse. Streaks of blood clung to John’s hand when he cleared the wound, then ran in thinned rivulets down the cracks of his skin when he lifted the rag from the bowl. The scene disappeared after a while when Arthur shut his eyes with a weak groan and kept them closed. John wouldn’t complain when it meant he felt less like he needed to peel his own skin off at the sight.
By the time he’d finished cleaning the gash, Arthur was silent, covered in sweat and shivering. John was the same, but that was not important. All that mattered was taking care of Arthur, and he had done the first step of that— the wound was mostly cleared, all the build-up of old blood and dirt gone and only the ooze of fresh blood left behind, wet and hot.
John set the rag down in the bowl and set his hand on Arthur’s other hip. There, that part’s done.
“First step, kid,” Noel said. The sound of ceramic hitting wood came as he reached to set the bowl down and to grab the antiseptic.
Arthur, John murmured, cautious. The curses from his friend’s mouth had faded throughout the process, replaced with shallow, near-imperceptible breaths. It was hard to tell what Arthur had started to feel with less and less reactions. How do you feel?
No response.
Arthur?
Nothing.
John’s hand tightened on Arthur’s hip, his heart pounded. Visions stabbed his memory, the feel of a heart fluttering to a stop under his hand, the sight of blood flooding from a leg and a throat far below and far away, coughs racking lungs and stealing oxygen, life after life after life of half of his soul fading and leaving and breaking to pieces right before his eyes.
And here it was, happening again because John could never, ever manage to do the one thing he was any good for.
Arthur!
Still nothing, no twitch or word or shift or movement or lif—
A hand suddenly was pulling him back from Arthur’s chest, dragging nails from skin they had started to claw in the daze.
“Hey!” Noel struggled to wrestle John still. He thrashed, fighting to set his fingers back to Arthur’s skin, chase the need to find Arthur’s heartbeat even if he needed to dig it out from his friend’s chest.
After a few seconds of struggle, Noel managed to grip John’s wrist tight enough to hold him in place. “John! Hey, calm down, sunshine.”
John panted, twisting his wrist an attempt to break free to no avail. He curled his fingers tight into a fist. A whimper rose unbidden, and, for once, he was thankful Noel could not hear him.
Noel brought up his other hand and pressed it to John’s. “Talk to me,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
It took several moments before John dared to unfurl his fingers. When he did, the joints creaked in protest, stubborn to break the panic frozen in the synovial fluid. Haltingly, desperately, he pressed his fingertips to the palm of Noel’s hand. Arthur, he- wouldn’t respond- stopped talking and—
He cut off, pressing harder against Noel.
Noel pressed back. “Gotcha.” There was a silent second, presumably as Noel glanced at Arthur lying prone on the sofa. “He must’ve drifted off at some point while you were cleanin’ him up.”
What if he’s hurt? John rushed out. What if he’s dyi-
“Except he’s not,” Noel cut in. “He’s just asleep for now. He- he’s alright, John, okay?”
The words were confident, but the tone was not. An unsteadiness in the question hinted that the person who spoke it needed the answer just as much as the person who was meant to respond.
Even though his own feet could not find their balance, he moved to keep Noel upright without a second of hesitation. John twined their fingers, squeezing tight. Okay, he tapped out.
A sigh came from above, tense yet a fraction more relieved than it had been just moments ago. “So now we gotta- we’ve gotta finish takin’ care of him.”
Yes. Let me finish cleaning.
“Of course, sunshine. Here.”
A different cloth was pressed into his hand, cool with antiseptic. John took it, gave a final tap of the back of his knuckles to Noel’s hand, and went back to tending Arthur’s wound. He was careful, moreso than he had been before, taking care not to disturb the fragile balance of Arthur’s state of rest, or as close to rest as he was likely to get.
Another hand guided him wordlessly, light touches to the arm to keep each dab of the rag centered on the wound itself. Once he’d covered the entire wound, Noel lifted the rag from John’s hand.
More shuffling sounds came from the location of the table, and Noel leaned over them again. “He needs stitches next.”
John flinched. Couldn’t stop the immediate twitch of muscles that had had that memory branded into their tissue, a skill which he wished he had never had the opportunity to learn.
A touch from Noel steadied him. “You don’t gotta do it, baby. I’m right here— I’ve got it. I’ve got him.”
I want to help, John argued. I don’t want to be useless. I want to take care of him, save him. I- He cut off in a gasp, finding his breath sharp and frantic. This was stupid, torture worse than all the wounds he’d suffered in their journey, cut off and unable to be heard by either of the men he needed to take care of, unable to keep them safe, unable to do anything, to be anything besides just a worthless passenger, a parasite-
“I know,” Noel reassured. “I know you do. And you do all the time. Just this time I need to do this— I can see him, and reach him better right now.”
And Noel was right, and he could. And it made John curl tighter in guilt.
He fought not to shake to pieces as he tapped back to Noel. Okay, but- let me help, any way at all. Please.
“Sure, doll.”
Thank you.
More sounds, thread and metal and fabric shifting and rearranging that John could neither see nor touch, trapped to only feel frustration and anxiety strike his mind with each sound he was left in the dark to hear. He settled his hand next to the gash on Arthur’s stomach, too scared to touch it but needing to feel the warmth still holding on under the skin.
The shuffling stopped, and Noel’s hands drew closer. “Can you help hold him- h-hold the cut closed for me?”
John murmured a Yes, but did not bother tapping it out for Noel. Instead, he immediately, gingerly felt out the edge of one end on the wound. Loose skin shifted under his fingertips, slick with blood, and John was trembling again by the time he’d grabbed the wound and managed to pinch it together.
“Good,” Noel murmured, and his voice had started to shake again, too. He reached in with the forceps to push the needle through the first stitch, and John could feel the shaking coming from his hands, as well.
It pulled a wretched sound from John, knowing that Noel had plenty of experience with this, was normally composed whenever he needed to deal with a wound or injury. Was it worse now because he was dealing with Arthur? Or was there something far more lethal going on with this wound that John didn’t know about, couldn’t fix?
Either way, Noel forced past the discomfort and pushed the needle into skin. It went easy, smoothly sliding under tissue toward the open air of the wound, then up from the underside of the skin on the other side of the gash. Noel moved through the stitch at a steady, uninterrupted pace despite trembling fingers, like a soldier marching through the battlefield despite a missing limb, until he tied off the first suture.
Three hands continued down the wound, slow, shaking, but steady against it all. Blood slicked their fingertips, making them slip in their trembling several times, but they simply moved right back to their position in the arrangement. Thread slid through skin and muscle, puncturing tissue just to pull it closer to itself again. A jagged tear reformed to a smooth line, broken only by the stitches reaching from the inside to tie the opening shut.
John had no idea how much time had passed by the time he heard scissors snip the last stitch and a long, heavy sigh from above as the tools were set down. He quickly reached to grab Noel’s hand and found the other man reaching back at the halfway point. They laced their fingers together, tight, as though that might choke off all the tension in their veins. It did settle the shaking for a moment.
Noel brought their joined hands to his lips. “Got it. You did good, sunshine.”
No, he didn’t. If he had, they wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. If he had, Arthur wouldn’t have been led straight into another danger, pushed to the brink of death by the very person who was meant to pull him back. If he had, Arthur wouldn’t be struggling to breath and Noel wouldn’t be struggling to stay collected and John wouldn’t be sitting behind a wall, separated from both of them, sitting there doing nothing when they needed him most.
Instead, that’s exactly where John was. That’s where John had always been— sitting alone, wrapped up in himself, selfish, pathetic, a parasite taking and never once giving. A king comfortable in the throne room while the people whom he was meant to serve suffered outside of his walls.
He was trapped, willingly or unwillingly, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t enough. He never had been, never would be. Destined to watch the world through a window above his head, to watch moons and suns pass, lives pass, the entire universe spinning and slipping just beyond his reach and leave him wishing for what he knew was not meant for creatures like him.
All he wanted was to break out of this stupid prison of a hand and climb back into his original form. He wanted to pull Arthur close and hold him within the safety of a hundred limbs, to know that he would never die that he was not dead-
"Hey, sunshine," Noel murmured. "Breathe in there for me, alright?"
Fuck. He'd started shaking again. His hand trembled, practically convulsed from within its tight grasp on Noel.
Noel brought his other hand up to trace gentle lines down the back of John's hand. "C'mon, I've got you. I've got Arthur. And you've got us. We're- we're safe, baby. I promise."
Despite the words' surety, he couldn't quite hide the tremble in his voice.
Gods above, John wanted to hold Noel, too. Wanted to feel his heartbeat move steady and sure with Arthur's, to know these two vines around his own heart still grew soft and safe within his hold. He wanted to unfurl to his full form, use dozens of limbs to clutch Noel and Arthur tight to his chest and cover them entirely, shutting out the world, keeping them all three somewhere safe, quiet, where all that mattered was the two other fractions of John’s soul and what he could do to take care of them.
Yet, John never got what he wanted (didn’t deserve it, hadn’t earned it-). He resigned himself to clutch Noel’s finger tighter, as tight as possible, ignoring the choking sounds that he could not stop. Nobody but him could hear them, anyway, and John Does didn’t have the life to decide what truly mattered.
Noel— too good for John as always— simply held him back, staying close the entire time it took John to force his shaking to a stop. It took far too long, but Noel didn’t seem to mind. He showed not a single ounce of hesitation or regret, only pressing a soft kiss to John’s knuckles when he finally could hold still.
John found himself pressing closer to that kiss on instinct, like a child to the hearth on a winter night.
Somehow, Noel still didn’t mind the neediness. He kept his lips, there even as he started to speak against the skin. "Can I wash your hand for you?"
John almost immediately said yes, so cold and desperate for a stronger hand to cradle his. But he paused before he could follow through on moving, realizing just what he was doing— asking to take more, without a promise to give back. Again. Abandoning his friends for comfort that neither of them had, for comfort that John had not earned, not with his stupidity and selfishness tonight. To seek out a soft touch and clean skin when Noel’s voice still rasped with exhaustion and strain, when Arthur’s breaths were still shallow rattles, was an act of pure selfishness, no matter how John trembled for want of it.
He couldn't ask Noel to go through more trouble tonight when he had been the one to cause the trouble in the first place.
"I want to.”
Noel’s voice broke John from his own mind’s hold— it was soft, warm. Fragile, a young bird stepping to the edge of the nest to find the wind’s caress for the first time, ignorant (or uncaring) of the danger of the leap. So terrifyingly, beautifully sincere.
I… John hesitated. I just don't want to create another bother.
“Promise it won’t be. I-” Noel paused to take a steadying breath. “I think I need to. It’s- Christ, I just need to help you, sunshine. Do something to not think about-”
He cut off, but John knew exactly what he meant. He knew what he would say in Noel’s place: anything to not think about Arthur dying— anything to know that he was capable of doing something good amidst the bad.
That understanding brought clarity. John could take on one more sin of selfishness if it meant helping Noel, if it meant taking care of Arthur.
Okay.
A relieved sigh fell from Noel’s lips. “Let me grab some fresh water,” he said, letting John move his hand to Arthur’s chest, and stood to walk to the kitchen.
John squirmed at that development. It felt… wrong, to have fresh water for this. He was not hurt, he was only here to step in for what Noel needed. It didn’t warrant warm water, drawn new and clean just for him. He clutched at Arthur’s chest, forcing his focus away from himself and to the state of his friend instead. The pulse was weak under the skin, as was the rise and fall of lungs— still, they were there. John had to continue reminding himself of that fact, pressing closer to Arthur’s skin, wishing he would melt into the body itself and be able to monitor the rhythm of breath and blood from within.
He lost himself quickly in the familiar motion of holding Arthur and tracking his heartbeat; the sound of footsteps did not register to him until they stopped right before the sofa. He startled as Noel settled back into the chair, the creak of his joints audible in the muffled apartment.
Noel leaned over them. "You gotta- I have to move you away from Arthur for a bit, alright?"
John tightened his grip. The faint heartbeat protected beneath his hand fluttered with blood loss, weak, subdued from all the fire it should have. He couldn't abandon these few embers. He couldn't turn away and let the wind blow them out, couldn't let this flicker get snuffed out just because he wasn't there to fulfill his purpose and protect them.
“Sunshine.” Noel's voice came soft yet again. “I've got him. You can let go for a bit, let someone else hold him up. You need to think about yourself, too, y'know.”
I don't, he wanted to say, but couldn't. Not when Noel's fingers settled over his so warm, gentle and kind despite all the scars and callouses upon him. Feeling those hands cradle his, feeling something kind hold his pieces like they were not sharp or damaged— he couldn’t stop himself from laying his head by the fireside.
He let go of Arthur and held his hand out for Noel.
“Thank you,” Noel murmured. Then, he went straight to cleaning John’s hand.
It could have been a quick action, a few perfunctory swipes that got the job done and finished in seconds. It wasn’t.
It was slow, every motion deliberate, planned and performed with care. Noel held John with a grip that was balanced between firm and soft, holding him up like a bed cradling a body at the end of the day. He brushed a fresh rag over every inch, between each finger and under each nail, never hurrying or showing less attention to any one point than the rest of the hand received. Warm water flowed over stiff muscles, drawing out tension as it dripped off and back into the bowl.
It was all careful. It was reverent.
It was not an act of obligation or chore— it was an act of love. It was an act of prayer.
When it was done, Noel set the bowl on the table and came right back to John, giving both hands to the work of holding him tight and steady.
John wrapped his fingers around Noel in turn. It wasn’t two hands, but it was all he had, and so he gave it.
They stayed wrapped around each other for a few quiet minutes, locked together, watching over the soul sleeping below them. John wished he could stay there forever, never disturb this balance that he wasn’t even sure how he’d struck in the first place, terrified that he wouldn’t know how to recreate it if he tried.
Nonetheless, a particular worry itched at the back of his mind. Reluctantly, he shifted his thumb just enough to tap out a simple, terrifying question.
Is it too much? John asked. He kept the word he really meant away, made sure to let Noel decide what direction he wanted to take the definition of ‘it’ instead of forcing him to answer John's real question: Am I too much?
Noel ran a thumb over freshly-washed knuckles. "No, sunshine,” he whispered. “It ain't too much. Not with you two.” He lifted John's hand to his mouth, placing a soft, slow kiss to the now clean skin of each finger, taking an extra beat on the final one, the dead material shaped to be a living body, that twisted-shadow wood from another plane that still found a way to call this city upon Earth ‘home.’
Even when the kiss was done, Noel did not move. He spoke against that wood like it was the most sacred stretch of skin he could find in this apartment. “You two give me everything. You give me and Arthur everything. It’s a lot, but it’s good. Christ, is it good.”
He placed another kiss, and John pressed into this time. “You’re like a star exploding in my life, bright as hell and lighting up the whole god damn world. You— as you are— is so much more than I could ever ask for, and it’s everything I want. You’re everything, John Doe.”
Wetness pricked at the corners of his and Arthur’s eyes. Without the ability to blink them away, the tears traced down the sides of their face. Noel didn’t say anything about them.
Carefully, John extracted his hand from between Noel’s fingers, feeling for the other man’s face. When he did, he turned his hand to cup Noel’s cheek. Noel leaned into the touch almost immediately, letting John take his weight this time.
John swept his thumb across Noel’s cheek, slow, deliberate. Thank you. I love you.
Noel let out a soft sigh, nuzzling even closer. “Love you, sunshine.”
Neither moved, not for a long time. They sat quiet, taking in the presence of each other, watching over the presence of their third part, letting the evening sink its way into night, settling the apartment into rest as three bodies tried to keep their shaking, bleeding selves held tight together.
When Arthur woke again, the sun was filtering through the balcony door, soft, yellow light sliding through glass to settle on two drowsing bodies in the cool air of early morning. Noel had moved to the floor at some point the later before, sitting leaned against the sofa with his arm angled up awkwardly to hold John’s wrist, keeping hold of him and monitoring the beat of recovering heart underneath at the same time, holding both John and Arthur right by his side. John focused on the warmth of that touch throughout the entire night, listening for every inhale and exhale from Arthur’s lungs, counting the seconds between to notice when the breaths came more often, more even.
As a ray of sun settled upon their face, Arthur shifted, grunting as his eyes slowly fluttered open and adjusted to the light.
John stirred. Arthur!
Arthur hissed at the shout.
Shit, I- sorry, Arthur.
“It's… ‘s fine,” Arthur managed around a voice thick with sleep and rough with pain.
John tipped his foot over to rest against Arthur's, forcing himself to remain calm. Are you… How do you feel?
“Frankly? Like shit.”
He couldn’t stop the frustrated growl. Arthur, I’m serious.
Somehow, Arthur managed a self-satisfied huff of laughter, spiteful bastard like always. It did lead into a sharp cough, though, and it took him a moment to respond. “I’m serious, as well, John. Getting stabbed is not exactly, ah, pleasant.”
I… I know, John murmured, even though he did not— that was guilt better saved for another time. A time when Arthur didn’t need him. He tried to settle out over as much of Arthur’s mind as possible, tried to fan out like light, early morning rain over the rooftop.
Arthur sighed, a hint of comfort at its edges. “Everything hurts, but I- I can feel the stitches— I presume Noel did those?”
We both did. You fell unconscious before then, it- it worried me.
“I’m sorry for that, friend.” His hand trailed down his stomach to trace the stitches. “These feel very neat, they’re well done. Thank you, John.”
John rumbled. Anything, Arthur. Always.
He hesitated, unsure how much he wanted to bother his friend, especially when he could feel the tiredness already beginning to creep back over Arthur’s body despite having just reawakened. But then he thought about his conversation with Noel the night before, the reassurance of his words. It wasn’t too much— he wouldn’t be too much.
He continued, speaking to Arthur and pulling him from drowsiness for another minute. Arthur…
“Hmm?”
About last night, on the case, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let you get hurt like that, not ever again.
“John, you weren’t the one with a knife.”
No, I was not, but I did nothing to stop him from using it against you.
Arthur snorted weakly. “What were you supposed to do? Put your own hand up, tell him ‘no,’ and let him stab you instead anyway?”
John shifted quietly.
“Don’t you dare say you would have actually done that.”
Fine, John grumbled, even though he was sure he wouldn’t have done that. Probably. Still, though, he said, softer this time, I wish I could have done something to help you.
“Didn’t you?”
What?
Arthur lifted his hand up to trace the space just under their eyes, a small stretch of skin where they both could feel. “You said you helped set the stitches, didn’t you?”
Yes, but I only did a little to-
“And you helped me get out of the building after I’d been hurt by our suspect, yes?”
Yes, I… suppose.
“Then you guided me down the streets, helped me open the door, got me to this sofa and brought me back to Noel. You brought me back home when I asked you.”
I… John didn’t know how to respond. Arthur said all of these events like they were acts of miracles, grand displays of strength and care, and he spoke of them as if their impressive nature could not be denied. Like there was no question about the goodness of what John had done. What he’d been.
“You did good last night, John,” Arthur said. Simple. Sure.
O-oh. John shifted, rippling in Arthur’s mind. He let the words sit over him, rolling them over to study the way their weight shifted in his hands. He… he supposed he had brought Arthur back through the streets. And maybe it had not been to a hospital, but it had been home. It had been what Arthur wanted, perhaps what he needed. And John had been the one to make it happen.
John didn’t speak for a while, though Arthur didn’t seem to mind. His thumb continued to rest in that crook between eye and cheek, holding John steady. John soaked it up, quiet, taking in Arthur’s words and touch determined to make them stick to his own mind.
Several minutes passed in complete silence, and John eventually assumed Arthur had fallen back asleep, but then he spoke up again, voice thickened with tiredness. “Where’s Noel?” he asked.
He’s still asleep, John rumbled. He’s been holding my wrist through the night, watching your pulse.
“That explains why your hand hasn’t been all over me since I woke up,” Arthur smirked.
If John could flush, he was sure he would be now. It- that- I wouldn’t—
Arthur let out an amused hum. “I wasn’t complaining, John,” he murmured. A yawn caught the end of his sentence, and he shifted deeper into the cushions. “I like it when you fret over me. Like a- a worried mother.”
He hesitated. It’s… not too much?
Arthur snorted. “Since when are we ever worried about ‘too much’ between us? Like hell you could ever be too much for me, John. Never have been, and you won’t ever be.”
A pleased rumble that John would not call a purr rose unbidden from him. That’s… good, Arthur. I’m glad.
“Mmm, me too,” Arthur murmured, shutting his eyes with a flutter, as though he were fighting the tiredness. “Unfortunately for you, you’re stuck with me no matter how annoying either one of use gets.”
The rumble grew. Good. I wouldn’t have it any other way, friend.
John could hear the tired smile on Arthur’s voice as he spoke. “Good, me neither.”
He gave another tired sigh, body going loose. “When, uh, when Noel wakes up-” he cut off in a yawn, the sound of which filled John with affection. “When he wakes up, tell him 'thank you' for me. I think I’m going to sleep for a- a while.”
Of course.
“Thanks,” Arthur slurred, breaths growing deeper.
John pressed his foot closer to Arthur’s and fanned out in Arthur’s mind as the rising sun did the same upon his skin. He let the pleased rumble continue, allowing it to fill Arthur’s hearing with something kind and steady.
Rest, friend, he murmured. Sleep easy.
Arthur hummed weakly, already slipping into unconsciousness before he could respond.
The world, then, went dark and silent for John, but not alone. He focused back in on Arthur’s breathing, on the warmth of Arthur’s foot upon his, the warmth of his regrowing blood flowing under the skin of John’s own arm. He focused on the grip of Noel’s hand around his wrist, the soft snores coming from him below and the way he had not moved from their side once during the night. He focused on the growing embrace of the sun as it rose over city buildings, unafraid to enter their apartment and settle upon his skin just the same as it did all the rest of the life and earth around him.
John was held here, through and through. And he held each life that held him back. And none of them— neither of the souls by his side that knew all too well the difference between what was cruel and what was good and kind— were afraid to welcome him in. None of them buckled under his weight, or tossed it to the side with a refusal to carry it a single step forward.
He sat here, in their arms, their loving palms, and they carried every part of him like it was all they ever needed.
Perhaps if they could welcome his heart’s weight with nothing but a smile and open arms, he could do the same.
John settled comfortably into the embrace of Arthur and Noel around him, basking in the hold of the sun, and he took on the near overwhelming waves of affection that crashed over his head with every minute that passed. It was a lot, but it was not too much.
Not with them at his side.