Chapter Text
It was all Blyke’s fault, if you thought about it.
If Blyke hadn’t pulled one too many all-nighters, he wouldn’t have gotten sick.
If Blyke hadn’t gotten sick, Arlo would have been patrolling with him, not John. They would have been in Grasshill, not Newside.
They wouldn’t have run into an amped mid-tier who shot blades of ice from his fingers terrorizing a bunch of low-tiers.
John wouldn’t have been soaked to the skin in the ensuing battle.
Arlo would not have had to fight with John for ten minutes before he agreed to switch out his soaking, freezing shirt for Arlo’s sweater.
All of which led to the final, crucial point: Arlo would not have been subjected to the sight of John in his sweater.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t known that John was shorter than him. It was obvious every time John bumped into him in the hall; every time he had to reach upwards to punch Arlo in the face.
If someone had asked, he would have known to say that John was thinner, too. That his shoulders were narrower, his frame wiry, without any of Arlo’s bulk.
Somehow it was one thing knowing all that, and entirely another thing seeing the way his own sweater engulfed the other boy’s body. Seeing the way it fell to the top of John’s thighs, the way the sleeves covered his arms to the tips of his fingers.
It was stupid. This, the whole thing. These feelings. They didn’t make any sense.
John was a snarky, sassy little shit who hated everything Arlo stood for. He’d personally dealt Arlo the most humiliating defeat he’d ever experienced. Had turned him from a king into a helpless bystander who could do nothing as his friends were beaten to within an inch of their lives.
John was volatile. He was angry. He was dangerous.
He was not vulnerable.
And yet there was something about him. A tremble in his hands, a shadow behind his eyes. Stories about his past, spoken in whispers –
trouble with the authorities
months of reeducation
All of it adding up to an itching feeling that Arlo couldn’t explain. An illogical and entirely unwanted desire to – well, to protect him. To figure out what monsters haunted his dreams, and to find a way to keep them at bay. Hell, just to get the kid to take a nap and eat a damn sandwich once in a while.
It was absurd. John did not need his protection. John had shattered all of Arlo’s protections. His barrier, his life’s work, his sense of safety. If one of the two of them needed protection, it was him, not John. He knew that, he did.
And yet there was something about seeing him in that damn sweater. The Joker, terror of Wellston, looking like a scruffy child in a hand-me-down. Looking human. Not a towering monster after all. Just an angry boy with haunted eyes.
Arlo dug his nails into the palms of his hands until it hurt.
Stop it. Stop it now, you complete idiot.
From the corner of his eye he saw John giving him a suspicious look. So untrusting, even now. A feral dog, sure that every hand extended in its direction was about to turn into a fist.
Just don’t look. Even his inner voice sounded exasperated with him. If you can’t not be a complete idiot about him, just don’t look.
He tried not to look. He really did.
It didn’t matter. The image of John in his sweater was engraved on his brain now. It would stay there, he knew, taking its place in the rapidly growing John gallery.
You, his inner voice informed him, are so fucked.
*
The sweater was huge. A reminder of the way Arlo dwarfed him, with his stupid height and stupid shoulders and stupid muscles. As if he’d needed reminding of that.
The sweater felt every bit as soft as it had always looked.
Worst of all, it fucking smelled like him. And not just a hint of scent, as if he’d accidentally stood a little too close. No. He was surrounded, engulfed, the scent of cedar and rain and boy as strong as if he was actually hugging the dumb fuck. As if he was sleeping in his bed.
If Arlo was doing this on purpose, John was going to murder him.
*
By the time they made it to John’s apartment, Arlo was feeling better about the whole thing. Okay, so he was a little stupid about John. It was no big deal. A few strange, unwelcome stray thoughts were nothing to him. He was still in control.
And then he turned to John and saw that he was stripping to the waist.
“Here,” John said with a scowl, while Arlo’s brain short-circuited. “Take your stupid sweater back.”
Arlo took a step back before he could think better of it. No. He did not need to be any closer to John’s half-naked, ridiculously sculpted body right now.
“Keep it,” he blurted out. It wasn’t like he was going to be able to wear the damn thing again, anyway. Not without thinking about this whole clusterfuck.
John glared. “It doesn’t fit,” he snarled.
Fuck, why did he have to remind him?
Arlo averted his eyes as he stepped forward, reaching out to grab the stupid sweater. Unfortunately, that had the side effect of making him unable to see what he was doing, and he accidentally grabbed John’s hand.
Sparks. Not literal – always a possibility, with them – but he found himself staring, anyway, certain that a sensation that powerful must have had some sort of visible, physical cause. But no. It was just the feel of John’s warm, calloused hand against his own. Unexpected, unwanted. Inadvisable.
Inescapable.
John pulled his hand away first, cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and confusion. “What are you doing?” he snapped.
“Taking my sweater.” Arlo snatched the garment from the other boy’s hand, fighting a flush of his own. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
John’s eyes were wild. “I don’t know what it is you’re trying to do here, Arlo, but if you fuck with me again, I swear – “
“John.” For once, the tone of quiet authority in his voice had the same effect it did on the rest of the world. John’s mouth snapped shut. “No tricks.” Arlo managed a tired half-smile. “I’m not always plotting anything, you know. Sometimes I’m just being a dumbass.”
John stared for a long moment, then turned and went inside, slamming the door behind him.
Arlo sighed. That… could have gone better. Of course, with their history, it could also have gone a lot worse, too.
I don’t know what it is you’re trying to do here, Arlo.
Yeah, he thought. Me neither.
He let his feet carry him away, eager to get home. He needed a cold shower.