Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Despite the late hour, Arthur and John are freshly shaved and dressed in their best. (Their best isn’t all that great, but they at least chose garments without visible mending.) Behind the wheel, John resents the starch in his shirt and the tightness of the knot in his throat. Arthur fussed over him on the way out the door, until John scowled and shoved his hands away, grousing that he looked fine, dammit, and would Arthur please stop acting like a mother hen. Arthur’s still shooting glances from the passenger’s seat, as if constant vigilance is needed to ensure John doesn’t slip into disarray.

Their car trundles down a tree-lined lane, and then turns onto a tree-lined private drive. They're only a mile out of town, but it feels like stumbling upon a clearing in an ancient grove, the maples and beeches standing guard and providing privacy. The night is still and quiet, and the yellowed leaves hang without falling.

The house itself is not the largest John has seen, nor the fanciest. It is large and fancy, nonetheless. A wide covered porch wraps around it, curving gracefully along a semi-circular wall of windows. Two chimneys flank it, and a turret rises from one corner. Every detail is carved and ornate and fussy, and all of it a faded white that glows in the lamps that line the drive. “Victorian,” he thinks he's heard this style called – a funny name, since Queen Victoria didn't rule here. These manses were built during the last century, when the nation grew fat on industry and trade, and no one thought the good times would ever end. But there are missing shingles, and chipped paint, and a few banisters absent from the rail like knocked-out teeth. The house looks sound despite it, suffering from minor neglect rather than outright disrepair. John has seen abandoned houses, and this one still teems with life and pride.

Tonight, the house is alive with light and sound. Every window is bright, with silhouettes passing here and there, and music pulses from within. John is, of course, aware of a phenomenon called “parties,” but he's never attended one – and certainly never one like this.

“John, I think I’ve cracked it! I've just spoken to an old friend. Well, a former client; but we got on well, so I think of her as a friend. This would have been five or six years ago, I suppose. She was known at the time for throwing outrageous bacchanals. As it happens, she still hosts them, and she's invited us to attend the next one.”

“Why would we want to attend an ‘outrageous bacchanal’?”

“For the fun of it! Music, dancing, drinking, food. And, er, other pastimes.”

“‘Pastimes.’”

“When I was at school, we called them ‘petting parties,’ although I expect this affair will go a bit further.”

“An orgy, you mean.”

“I – I was just thinking… p-perhaps it would build your confidence if you… you know…”

“You think this will solve my ‘problem.’”

“Of course you don't have to do a single thing you don't want to. You could simply indulge your curiosity, if that's what feels most comfortable.”

“...Fine.”

“If nothing else, it'll be a window into another facet of the human experience!” 

As they mount the steps toward the front door, Arthur nods in acknowledgement to the half a dozen people on the porch. Neither especially beautiful nor especially ugly, they sit on wicker furniture or lean on the rail, cigarettes between fingers, drinks in hand, party clothes still in good order. It seems the revelry has yet to begin in earnest. The men nod back, while the women cast appraising glances up and down their bodies. One of them catches John's eye and smiles, and even John can read the invitation in it. He returns the stare frankly; perhaps it comes across as aggression, because the smile falters and the woman returns to the conversation she was having with her companion. 

Arthur raps on one of the double doors, and almost immediately, the door opens. A girl in a simple black dress and white apron and cap stands aside to make way, then takes their coats and hats without a word. John always feels a little uncomfortable around domestics – or perhaps too comfortable. A small, dark part of him still remembers being King, and never having to wash dishes or sweep floors or otherwise concern himself with the minutiae of daily life. A servant who declines to make eye contact still seems instinctively right. And he hates that.

The inside of the house meets every expectation set by the exterior. The foyer is dominated by a staircase with a curving banister, and a semi-circular bay of windows with cushioned seats that offers a view of the darkness outside. The rich wood floors gleam where they aren't covered by rich foreign rugs. Guests like the ones on the porch stand chatting, and turn their heads to size up the new arrivals. Beyond, through open doorways, there is movement and music and the rich smells of food and alcohol.

“Detective!” cries a high, musical voice.

John tracks the sound to the landing above. Leaning on the polished railing is a woman in a beaded gown that sparkles in the lamplight. Both woman and gown are dazzling. Her dark hair curls around her face and falls short of her bare shoulders, and her body curves no less than the banister she leans on. She smiles in delight down at Arthur, the chatty man by her side utterly forgotten, much to his chagrin. With girlish enthusiasm, she descends the stairs two at a time – quite a feat in her knife-heeled shoes. All the while, Arthur watches fondly, and John tries to ignore the clench in his chest.

A “double-date,” Arthur had called it. He'd met two young women in a shop, taken a fancy to them, and invited them for ice cream and a movie. John's attendance had been assumed.

They were nice enough girls, and John didn't mind meeting new people. What he did mind was watching Arthur flirt with the one he'd decided was “his.” He turned into a stranger – all oily charm and shallow compliments, expectantly glancing over at John every few minutes like a mother cat teaching her kittens to hunt. John, of course, had absolutely no intention of following Arthur’s lead. Which was probably why he and “his” girl ended up quietly watching the drive-in movie in the front seats of the car while the other two necked in the back.

The movie was nothing special, but John hung on every word – determined to ignore the murmurs and giggles and sounds of hands pushing clothing aside coming from behind him.

Afterwards, all friendly concern, Arthur said, “Was she not your type?”

John eyed the newly blossoming bruise on Arthur's throat, and stomped off to bed without a word.

When the woman has descended the stairs, she reaches for Arthur and beams, “Hullo, darling.” He takes her hand, and she tugs him in and presents her cheek; he obliges with a feather-light brush of his lips over the rouged and powdered skin. Up close, John can see she's a bit older than Arthur, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Nevertheless, her snub little nose and full mouth make a very appealing picture.

“You look well,” Arthur says, clearly understating the effect she has on him. Then he remembers himself, and tears his eyes away long enough to turn to John. “Astraea, this is my partner, John Doe.”

Arching an eyebrow, she takes John's hand. “How do you do, Mr. Doe,” she says; a statement, rather than a question. Her voice is sweet, with a drawling accent one doesn't encounter often in New England. “I heard that was your name, but I admit I assumed it was a joke.”

“I'm afraid I'm not a very funny person,” John deadpans.

She laughs at that, big and broad and open, squeezing his hand in affection.

“John,” Arthur continues, “this is Mrs. Astraea Winthrop.”

“Not those Winthrops,” she adds, like John is supposed to know what that means. “You may call me Rae, if you like.”

“And where, I wonder, are Do and Mi?” quips Arthur.

She rolls her eyes. “Arthur Lester, you used that line on me five years ago; unlike your handsome face, it has not improved with age.”

Arthur's face falls a little, and John pettily decides he doesn't hate Mrs. Astraea Winthrop.

“Now, then,” she says, while extending her arm demonstratively toward the rest of the house, “let's get you two oriented, shall we?”

They tour the first floor and get an account of the party rules – more than expected, given the picture of unfettered license Arthur painted. Astraea rattles them off matter-of-factly, as though they aren't discussing when and where and how they may engage in sexual congress. She even wags her finger as she proclaims, “The staff are completely off-limits, and don't think I won't enforce that! I've thrown out more than one Brahmin who mistook a caterer for a catamite.”

At that, Arthur clears his throat and shoots a nervous glance John's way. “Oh, surely not here,” he chuckles.

John puzzles over what exactly is happening. He still carries with him the knowledge he absorbed from Arthur’s mind, random bits of trivia and vocabulary; the collection, however, is incomplete. Brahmin, he knows, refers to Boston's upper crust. Catamite, he isn't sure of, but from context, he can surmise it's something distasteful.

“I invite all kinds,” she says simply. “Any and all proclivities are welcome, as long as they are exercised judiciously.”

The word “proclivities” jogs his memory. He suddenly recalls a passage in a book pulled from Miskatonic’s back stacks, one that raised the librarian’s eyebrows when she saw him leafing through it. It described a "very effeminate-faced youth" who was the "catamite and bedfellow” of some revered English author suspected of sodomy.

Well. That explains Arthur’s discomfort.

The volume the librarian produced was in good shape – a new edition, she said, less than ten years old. She read the title aloud: “Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Vol. 2: Sexual Inversion.” When John opened it and began to leaf through, she lingered, watching him with undisguised curiosity. A scowl sent her scurrying away.

The words he saw inside only deepened his frown. “Abomination.” “Degenerate.” “Unspeakably ugly.” “Shameful, personally immoral, and indirectly antisocial.” “Absolute and unmitigated disgust.”

The esteemed author wrote, “Whenever a man is openly detected in a homosexual act, however exemplary his life may previously have been, however admirable it may still be in all other relations, every ordinary normal citizen, however licentious and pleasure-loving his own life may be, feels it a moral duty to regard the offender as hopelessly damned and to help in hounding him out of society.”

Was this what Arthur thought?

John read an account of a doctor who loved a young man but never dared reveal his true feelings. In fact, he sought a “cure” for his desires. “The disesteem of self, the sense of taint, that is a spiritual malady which makes the ground-tone of my existence one of pain and melancholy. The shame of this, and the horror of this abnormality, have made life a hell.”

Humans could be incredibly stupid, he thought with a huff, closing the book in annoyance.

Arthur didn't expect “homosexual acts” at this party, it seems. Now he's suddenly very interested in the pattern on the hallway rug, and John rolls his eyes.

“Petting is fine downstairs,” Rae continues. “For anything more, you'll need a turn in one of the bedrooms. Do keep it under 15 minutes, out of consideration for the other guests. Door open or closed, according to your preference. If you'd care for a prophylactic, they are in a bowl on the landing.”

John is only dimly aware of what, exactly, prophylactics involve. He glances to Arthur for help, and gets only a tight, nervous flicker of a smile in response.

Back at the front of the house, the doorbell rings. Astraea perks up. “Ah, duty calls. You boys let me know if you need anything at all, alright?” They nod, and she whirls away in a cloud of silk and perfume.

John studies the way Arthur's gaze follows her. “So. ‘Old friend'?”

“Well,” he replies too brightly, “shall we get to know some of the other guests?”

Arthur is much more outgoing than John, and so he takes the lead, guiding a rambling journey throughout the first floor. They find the guests a predictable mix of, one the one hand, the dull and rich; and on the other, the beautiful and bohemian. Artists rub elbows with financiers (angling to rub other things as the night goes on). He tries to regard them with curiosity rather than disdain; he doesn't know how well he succeeds. Another facet of the human experience, he repeats to himself.

In what usually serves as a dining room, they find instead a miniature dance hall. The furniture has been cleared out, except for a state-of-the-art record player that's blaring energetic jazz at an ill-advised volume. A half-dozen couples make the most of the cramped space, jitterbugging as best as they can with no room to maneuver.

“We've got to get you some lessons,” Arthur teases.

John tries not to think of whirling yellow silk and singing silver blades. “This seems like a lot of jumping and jerking around. Maybe something more… graceful.”

“Oh? A tango, perhaps?”

“I don't know what that is, exactly.” He has a vague notion that it’s a racy dance, but has never seen it done. Who would teach him, anyway? Take him in his arms, guide him through the steps, let their bodies fit together and cheeks brush–

Arthur opens his mouth to say more, but suddenly a pretty girl is standing before them, tugging their drinks out of their hands. “Come on,” she giggles. “Don't just stand there!”

John throws up his hands and backs away. Arthur, on the other hand, switches the charm back on. He makes an overly formal bow and draws her close, and then they're dancing with just as much effortless energy as the other couples.

It's stupid to look away, and stupid to watch. But John couldn't turn away from Arthur if he tried. The sight of his hands on someone else's body make him ache for the easy affection they shared until quite recently.

Past midnight, John rose from the couch and stretched. “We're not gonna solve this tonight. Let's get some rest, and pick it up in the morning.”

Arthur didn't put down the documents he'd been scrutinizing. If anything, he stared at them more intently than he had all night. “I, uh, think I'll stay up a bit longer, actually. You go on ahead.”

John hesitated only a second before shaking his head and retiring to the bedroom.

He lay alone in the double bed he and Arthur had shared for months without complaint. The apartment was only two rooms, so they made do. John didn't mind the close quarters. Quite to the contrary. Sleeping beside Arthur felt familiar. He could listen to his breath and splay a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat, just like old times. He loved being the last thing Arthur saw at night, and the first thing Arthur saw at dawn.

But this was the second week in a row of excuses. “I'll come to bed in a while.” “You look like you could use the space.” Avoiding John's eyes while smiling like it was all okay. If John called him out, Arthur would go wide-eyed and innocent, and then act like he'd been planning to come to bed all along. Then he'd lie on his side, on the edge of the bed, ensuring their bodies didn't touch at all.

John wasn't sure how much longer he could take it.

“Mr. John Doe,” says a now-familiar voice over his shoulder, and he turns to see Mrs. Astraea Winthrop smiling up at him slyly. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Arthur’s currently occu–”

“I said I was looking for you, not our dear Mr. Lester.”

His eyebrows lift.

She lays a dainty hand on his elbow. “Won't you do me the kindness of accompanying me on a stroll?”

Through the crowded kitchen they go, past hors d’oeuvres and rows of champagne flutes and lively servants whose chatter quiets as they pass. Then, arm in arm, they stroll the perimeter of her expansive back garden. She cheerily points out sculptures and unusual botanical specimens, and delicately does not point out couples necking in the shrubbery.

When it seems time to turn back to the house, she pauses instead. She looks up at him, and the kohl around her eyes makes them huge and fathomless. Her hand curls lightly around his forearm, fingers settled on the back of his wrist where it peeks out from his sleeve, and her body presses up against his side.

John blanches. Is she going to… does she expect… not that he's opposed to the idea, but…

“Mr. Doe,” she says, “I make it my business to know people's business, and that means learning to read faces like you might read the morning paper. You are powerfully uncomfortable at this party. Are you sure you want to be here?”

“Oh,” he breathes, relieved. “It's fine. I told Arthur I'd give it a try.”

“Mm. Perhaps it's a bit crowded for your liking. Perhaps you'd rather be alone… with Arthur?”

He doesn't miss the implication in her tone. His eyes go wide. “I – I don't–”

“Don’t panic, now, it's all right. Some of us remember when that sort of thing was fashionable among the daring set. The Depression has made people stuffy. Of course, Arthur was always a bit stuffy on this particular subject.”

“Look,” Arthur began. “I'm not angry.” He still wouldn't meet John's eyes, though.

John waited.

“And I… I understand. I can see how you might be… confused.”

John scoffed. “The only thing I'm ‘confused’ about is how you're behaving right now. You act like I punched you, not like I–”

“A punch would have been better,” Arthur muttered to himself.

“You're upset that I kissed you.”

He swallowed. “As I said, I understand. It's only natural. We… we spent so much time in the same body. You only had me for companionship. Everything we went through, everything we suffered and survived, made us closer to each other than most people ever get to another person.” Finally, he looked up at John. His brows were drawn, his mouth a thin line. He pleaded, “I treasure that closeness John. You're… my closest friend.”

John heard the emphasis on “friend,” heavy and final. “And friends don't kiss,” he said flatly.

“No, John. No, they do not.” As if he couldn't stand holding John's gaze a second longer, he looked back down at his plate. “More to the point, men don't kiss each other.”

“I don’t think that’s–”

“Fine. Decent men don't kiss each other.”

John blinked.

Arthur gave an exasperated sigh. “It's not – it's just not appropriate. It's not normal.”

“Did you expect me to be normal, Arthur? Did you really think–”

“Although,” Astraea continues, “I have long suspected he doth protest too much.”

“What do you mean?” he asks slowly, trying not to let hope trickle into his voice.

A slow smile spreads across her face, and she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Oh, I think I'm beginning to piece together the picture.”

He scowls. “Maybe I don't like being ‘pieced together.’ Maybe you should mind you own–”

“Do you like women as well, Mr. Doe?” she interjects breezily. “There's no wrong answer, except one that isn't true.”

He should shove her arm away and stomp back into the house. Find Arthur. Tell him they're leaving. Instead, he hears himself replying, “I… think so. Haven't really had the chance to confirm that through experience.”

Her face lights up in amazement, and he immediately regrets his response. As far as she knows, he's just confessed to being a 35-year-old virgin. But there's nothing petty or mean-spirited in her smile; she seems genuinely enchanted, and it eases his concern a little.

“You won't tell anyone any of this, will you?” he asks.

“Why? Because I'm an insatiable old gossip?” She laughs. “No, I will not. I owe a great debt to Arthur Lester. He helped me out of a hole the rest of the world would have been happy to leave me in to rot. And I am fond of him.”

John pauses, considering everything he's observed tonight. “Did the two of you ever…?”

“Ah, I see you're good at reading people, too.” Without shame, she continues, “Yes, we did. This was years ago, mind. He and Parker had a row about it that nearly brought the building down. ‘Don’t shit where you eat, Lester!’ Not very flattering to me, I suppose, but the principle was sound.” 

She tugs his arm a little again, turning them back toward the house. “I hadn't heard from him since my case was resolved, until he called me angling for a party invitation. ‘For a dear friend,’ he explained, ‘who wants to broaden his horizons.’” She looks at him pointedly. “I don't think broad horizons are what you really want.”

“They're not,” he finds himself admitting. “But apparently, what I want is… unacceptable.”

“–John, I understand! You're so new to being human, to having a body, to making sense of… all sorts of feelings.” He laughed awkwardly. “While I know you hate me to say it – in many respects, John, you are like a young man, still finding yourself in the world, and creating your understanding of yourself. It does sometimes happen that boys, in their natural curiosity and impetuousness, get swept up in desires they will not later feel at all. It's nothing to be ashamed of, as long as one sets it aside with other childish pursuits when the time comes.”

“Did that happen to you, Arthur?”

“What? N-no, I meant that – that I've seen it in other boys. Look, what I'm trying to say is, it makes sense that you'd misdirect some of those feelings onto me. And, since we've caught it early, we have time to set things right. You just need to find a nice girl, and–”

John had gone cold all over. He clutched the napkin on his lap, breathing slowly, like Arthur taught him. It would be bad to reach across the table and throttle the insufferable bastard opposite him. “You think my feelings are ‘misdirected.’ You think I made a mistake.”

Arthur's no fool; he knew that dangerous tone. “Now, John–.”

“He thinks I need a… connection… with a woman, and that will fix me.”

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Doesn’t work that way with a man of your age. Doesn't work that way with many younger men, either. We are who we are; we want what we want. You can either accept who you are and what you want, or you can lie to yourself and those around you, and make everyone’s lives the worse for it.”

“I think, for a long time, Arthur wanted to make his life worse.”

“Yes,” she agrees readily. “I never asked him about it, but I got enough information through my other channels to understand the sadness behind the charm.” She cocks her head. “Does he still want to punish himself, do you think? Or is he ready to be happy?”

John stops just outside the door to the kitchen, and Astraea stops by his side. “I don't know. When we… started working together… he seemed happy. I thought we were happy together. We'd been through hell, and…” He notices her sharp scrutiny, and catches himself before accidentally revealing too much. “Anyway. I thought we were dancing the same steps, but I stomped on his foot, and fucked it all up.”

Her musical laugh wafts through the air like jasmine perfume. “I do enjoy your mix of poetry and profanity, Mr. Doe. You know, I believe I'm well on my way to becoming fond of you, as well. May I call you ‘John’?”

“Certainly, Astraea.”

“‘Rae,’ if you please.”

“Rae.”

They re-enter the house. It isn't long before Arthur spots them. He looks a little frantic, as though he's been searching. “John, there you are! I was wondering where you'd wandered off to.”

Rae squeezes the arm locked together with hers. “Oh, I simply had to steal him away for a walk through the moonlit garden.”

Something crosses Arthur's face that no one but John would notice – a flicker of displeasure. It's gone in an instant, smoothed away with a smile, and John's left wondering what exactly he dislikes about the situation. Is he hoping to have Rae to himself tonight? Or… or what Rae said about “protesting too much….” No. He can't think like that. That sort of thinking is what ruined everything.

Between them, Rae glances back and forth and grins. “Such handsome men. I can't imagine how the girls will choose between you. Of course, it's so much nicer not to have to choose at all.”

Once she's flitted off once more, they wander toward the front of the house. In the parlor, the two long sofas are occupied by those who have, perhaps, found their occupation for the evening. Consistent with Rae's house rules, no clothing has been removed; however, hands roam freely over fabric and under hems. Arthur looks away politely, but John finds himself scrutinizing. Watching strangers kiss is fascinating. He can't help but imagine what he might do, given the chance. 

Arthur laughed, tired and out of breath, and it was John's favorite sound in the world. How many days did he hear cries, sobs, grunts, but never a laugh? Even now that they were more common, he treasured each one. The way the smile spread over Arthur's entire face and lit up his eyes. The way he never stifled his joy, now that he actually had some. Like he was sharing it with John.

John didn't realize he was staring until Arthur's smile turned curious. “You okay?” he asked, tilting his head.

And John didn't think. As if it was the most natural thing in the world – as if it was something he'd done a thousand times – he closed the distance between them and kissed him.

He pressed his lips to Arthur's, hoping he wasn't pressing too hard, or not hard enough. He's supposed to sort of push them forward, he thought; and hold them there a moment; and pull away with a tiny bit of suction, so his lips make that little “smek” noise. Then Arthur would look up at him with fluttering eyes, and sigh his name, and…

When John pulled back, though, Arthur's eyes were wide, his face frozen with just a trace of the earlier smile.

“Arthur?” he said hesitantly.

“Well,” Arthur replied. “Let's get home, shall we?”

That was the first night he slept on the couch.

Suddenly Astraea appears between them. She slips her hands into their elbows. Conspiratorially, she murmurs, “Now, this may make me the worst hostess in New England, but I've got something I want to share with you two and you two alone.”

Arthur and John look at each other with matching expressions of surprise and curiosity. When Rae tugs at their arms, they follow.