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It takes Arthur a few moments to realize he is, in fact, awake, and a few more to gather enough wits about him to be annoyed about it. From what little vision he has, he can tell it’s still dark. He hopes he got more than three hours of sleep this time around, but somehow he's pretty sure that isn't the case.
Arthur rolls from his back to his side and shuts his eyes, more as a pointed signal to his body than because it makes that much of a difference, and wraps his blanket tighter around himself. He tries to listen for the gentle melody of John’s breathing on the other side of the bed, which has been his lullaby on many sleepless nights. (A fair trade, he supposes, considering how many nights John held vigil over him while he slept.)
But now, he hears nothing.
He reaches frantically to the other side of the bed. It's empty.
Arthur is aware, even as he sits bolt upright against the headboard, all attempts at sleep forgotten, that he’s overreacting. John has his own sleepless nights — adjusting to needing sleep at all, Arthur supposes. He probably went to the living room to read a book, or to the kitchen to start some tea.
Knowing that doesn’t stop the wave panic prickling across Arthur’s skin, the painful tightness in his chest threatening to cut off passage to his lung. There’s no fucking way he’s getting to sleep now.
They’ve been separated months, and still, he can’t suppress the bone-deep thrum of fear when John isn’t in the room with him, isn’t within reach, isn’t coiled under Arthur’s skin where he’d grown to fit. Arthur doesn’t know if that feeling will ever fully go away.
He swings his legs out of bed with a groan, pulls a sweater on over his pajamas, and heads to the kitchen.
John is humming to himself, a jazz song they’d both listened to on the radio a couple of days ago, and something bubbles on the stove, and Arthur feels his chest settling, like ripples smoothing out into a cool clear lake. He stands in the doorway a few seconds longer, his breaths slowing down from their frantic acceleration, and lets the sounds warm him like a candle flame.
John pauses with his humming.
“Couldn’t sleep either, I take it?” Arthur asks, a note of a smile creeping in his voice.
Something metal clangs against the countertop. “Jesus Christ, what— how long have you been standing here? You scared the shit out of me.”
“And yet I’m the blind one.”
“Shut up.” Arthur can imagine John folding his arms defensively. “Yes, I couldn’t sleep. I was hungry. Go back to bed.” There’s a nervous note in his voice, and an odd note of a rumble beneath his words; Arthur can practically feel the tension emanating from the kitchen across from him. He furrows his brows.
“Are you okay?” Arthur asks, and steps further inside the kitchen.
“Fine,” John’s words are clipped. “I just… what the fuck are you doing here?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Doing here? In the kitchen of our apartment? The apartment where I live?”
The spoon clacks against the side of the saucepan once more as John stirs with more force than necessary. “Yes. I just… fuck. I wasn’t expecting you.”
There’s something odd about the way John is moving, Arthur realizes, larger and heavier, with an undercurrent of an odd slippery noise. And that makes it all click into place – though he already had a suspicion. “John,” he says slowly, “What do you look like right now?”
John is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hesitant. "I am about seven feet tall, with skin like the night sky. Hands with long jagged fingers, ending in sharp claws. Myriad tentacles emanate from my torso, curling and uncurling. Four horns on my head – just small ones. I don't want a repeat of last time." Arthur smiles at that. "A shining golden cloak wraps around me."
Arthur tries to take all that in, to picture John in his mind.
When they'd first done the ritual to separate themselves, John's body couldn't decide what it wanted to be – tentacles growing and retracting on an endless loop, one hand with stubby fingers and the other with long blackened claws, torso expanding and contracting like an accordion. John says his memories of the first few minutes are pain-blurred and hazy. Arthur remembers John's head heavy in his lap, bones shifting beneath the skin, John's stifled moans of pain. He remembers whispering whatever words of comfort he could find, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.
John’s body settled eventually into a human shape. His usual human body, John says, has a square jaw, long dark hair, and golden eyes. He also says, with no small annoyance, that he is a few inches shorter than Arthur.
Sometimes, he has other bodies too. Now, they no longer rip out of him like nails piercing him from the inside out; instead, he can slide into them, like a comfortable blanket.
Or so John has told him. So far, he’s only transformed while Arthur was away, on walks or errands. Arthur tries to remember that this is new to John, to chase away the bitter thoughts telling him John doesn’t trust him, or doesn’t think he can handle it. He knows by now that neither is true.
He’s swallowed his curiosity. He knows John will show him when he’s ready.
Or, apparently, when they surprise each other at something like two in the fucking morning.
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” John says, “I just… I didn’t want you to…”
“What, see you like this? No danger of that happening.” Arthur chuckles to himself. John does not.
“I figured you’ve had enough monsters to last you a lifetime.”
Arthur’s chest clamps a little and he crosses the kitchen in two large steps. “Well, you figured wrong. I happen to like you, John Doe. No matter how many limbs you have.”
There’s a brief silence, a hitch in John’s breath, and then a hand on Arthur’s cheek, slow and tentative, larger than Arthur is used to but surprisingly soft nonetheless. The edges of the claws rests against his hairline, cool against his skin — and if Arthur’s breath quickens for a second or two at the reminder that these claws could rip him open, that rush passes just as rapidly, because he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they never will. He relaxes into the touch with a quiet hum.
Arthur tries to picture John in his mind, as he described himself – this majestic, otherworldly being in their tiny cluttered kitchen. It’s not often Arthur misses his sight; that particular pain has healed as best it can, scarred over like so many of his other wounds. And sometimes, like his other wounds, the ache still rises to the surface.
Arthur takes a deep breath. "Do you mind if I touch you?" he asks, and when John hums in assent, Arthur slowly runs his fingers over the smooth skin on the underside one of the tendrils, enjoying how effortlessly his fingers glide across the surface. He traces small shapes, enjoying the soft, almost velvety texture against his fingertips. John's breath catches, and Arthur wonders if his eyes are fluttering shut.
"Do you have eyelids?" he asks.
"...what?" The tendril jerks a bit as John comes back into the moment. Arthur strokes it gently with his thumb. "Yes, of course I fucking have eyelids. Why—"
"Just thinking," says Arthur. His voice trails off as the tendril twines around his fingers, squeezing firmly, pulsing around him, pressing into the palm of his hand, soothing any spots of tension. The insomnia is worth it, he thinks, for moments like this.
“Are you okay, though?” John asks as he runs the tip of a second tendril through Arthur’s bed-mussed hair, “Did I wake you?”
“I don’t think so.” Arthur rests his hand on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, leaning on it. “I suppose my body just decided it had enough of sleep. Still not used to the idea that I should be getting eight hours of it, especially after…” He waves a hand.
John hums in agreement. “You’d think sleeping wouldn’t be so fucking difficult. And yet.”
“And yet.” Arthur sighs, pulling the chair out and sitting down, catching John’s hand in his own as it moves away from his cheek. It's far larger than Arthur's is, the fingers long and spindly. He idly traces a thumb over the lines in his palm — different lines from the ones on his own, but familiar all the same. “Mind some company?”
“Not like I can stop you,” says John, an affectionate smile creeping into his voice despite the nonchalant words. "I'm heating up tomato soup. Enough for two."
Odd choice for a late night snack, but Arthur certainly isn't one to judge. And now that John mentions food, he realizes he is quite hungry — it's possible he forgot to eat last night. Again.
Arthur leans back in his chair, muscles relaxing. Though he’s still wide awake, peace spreads within his lungs from the tranquil rhythms of John’s quiet movements at the kitchen counter. He’s content to sit for a while, lost in the symphony of John’s presence.
Arthur hears the soup boiling in the pot, and then the muted shuffle of John measuring it out, pouring two cups for himself and Arthur. He doesn't let go of Arthur's hand.
"I suppose that's one advantage to your current form," Arthur muses, "Multiple limbs. Means you can do more things at once." Especially after only being a hand and a foot for so long, he doesn't say, but they are both thinking it. "And you can reach the top shelf of the pantry."
A tendril smacks the side of Arthur's head lightly, and he smiles innocently. "Shut the fuck up," says John, though Arthur can hear the tinge of amusement in his voice.
"Sorry," says Arthur, still smiling. He squeezes his fingers around the tendril again. "You know, Parker was quite a bit taller than me and... let's just say, it's quite nice to be on the other end of the 'short' jokes."
John laughs, and Arthur remembers when talking to John about Parker felt like traversing a floor littered with broken glass, careful to avoid any injury to either of them. It's become easier, over the months, as they've survived everything that tried to break them and started knitting this new life together. It's still a work in progress, the pain of the past creeping in like an unwanted neighbor who makes himself far too loud, but moments like this, reminders of how far they've come, block out the noise and replace it with soft, sweet melody.
"Well, I'm taller than you now," John says. He puts a cup of soup down in front of Arthur, and Arthur inhales the rising steam. taking in the warmth, the rich tangy smell. His stomach twists, leaving no doubt to the conclusion that yes, he is definitely hungry. Somehow, this soup from a can, ordinary as can be, seems like the most beautiful thing he’s ever eaten.
"I like when you let me cook for you." It's almost a whisper. "I know you can do it yourself, and I know heating up canned soup isn't really cooking, but. It's nice. Doing things for you."
Arthur’s face feels warm for reasons only partially related to the soup. “Well, I'll just have to wake up for a late-night meal more often, then, I suppose.” He squeezes the tendril still wrapped tightly around his hand. "Thank you, John."
Arthur runs his thumb over the end of the tendril one more time before reluctantly extricating his hand to bring the cup up to his lips. The soup is rich and creamy, with just a little bit of spice, a cushion of warmth for his insides as it goes down his throat. He's silent for a moment, savoring it. He hears John moving across the table from him, sitting in that small chair somehow, taking his own swallow of soup, sighing softly.
Once again, Arthur wishes he could see John, if only because he’s pretty sure the sight of him in their small wooden kitchen chair, holding a cup of tomato soup to his mouth, is quite adorable. He’s also pretty sure John would strongly object to being called adorable. Under the table, another tendril hooks around Arthur’s ankle, lightly at first and then with a little more pressure, as if John doesn't want to go one second without touching Arthur. As if Arthur would ever want him to stop.
“I’m glad, John,” Arthur says between sips of soup. “I’m glad I can be with you like this.”
"Sometimes I —" John breaks off. Arthur rests his cup on the table and leans toward him, waiting. "Never mind."
Arthur hooks "Whatever it is, you can say it."
“Just.." John's spoon scrapes against the edge of the cup as he traces it, thinking. "We did so much work for me to have this body. You did so much. And now," he says, his voice smaller, "I feel as though I don't use it enough."
Arthur shifts closer to John, increasing the points of contact. "We did it so you could have a body, John. So you could interact with the world, so you wouldn't have to be a... passenger. What that body looks like is beside the point, as long as you like it. As long as it feels right to you."
“I still miss it, sometimes,” John says, almost a whisper. “Being part of each other. It was hard – there were times when I was desperate to escape, to claw my way out. But it was easier too, always being close to you, feeling you there with me, curled around me in the shape of a home. Does that make any fucking sense?”
“Yes, John.” Arthur finds John's strange and familiar hand atop the table and squeezes it again. “It makes perfect sense. And I suppose I miss it too.”
They sit for a moment in silence, remembering.
"I do like being human," says John, "I like how close and bright everything feels, like I'm truly alive. I like being the perfect height to rest my head on your shoulder. I like my hair — the way it cascades down my back, and trying out different hairstyles. I like—”
“Spending an hour and a half in the bathroom doing your hair?” Arthur asks innocently.
“That was one time, fuck you,” says John, without any real heat to his words.
“Sorry." Arthur takes another swallow of soup to disguise his smile, “Continue.”
“As I was saying…” Another tendril pokes Arthur in the chest. “Sometimes it does feel right."
"And sometimes it doesn't," Arthur says, nodding.
They both know there are days when John's heart feels too loud in his chest and the nighttime hum of electric lights builds like a storm until it surrounds him and the blankets scratch at his too-tender skin like sandpaper and he thinks he might rip his skin off if it helps get to the layer of whatever is coiled-twisted-wrong underneath.
John’s body follows its own rules. Sometimes, the other shape, the one strangers might call monstrous, is the skin that fits best.
"You know you're still human, right?" Arthur says, and hopes the truth in his statement will shine through what feels like a too-flimsy reassurance, "You were human long before you had your body, and you're human now regardless of what it looks like."
Despite not being able to see him, Arthur can feel John's stare fixed on him, pinpricks of golden light boring through. "There are some who might disagree."
"There are some," says Arthur, "who are fucking idiots."
John exhales, a surprised huff of laughter. "You are not wrong, friend."
"I'm glad you're here with me, John." Arthur reaches forward and runs his index finger over the knuckles of John’s hand. "In whatever form you choose." He swallows another spoonful of soup. "Especially when you make soup like this."
"Maybe one day I'll learn to actually make soup,” says John drily.
"We can try a few recipes, when it's not the middle of the night. There's one Parker and I used to make together..."
By the time Arthur has eaten his soup, sopping up the last of it with a bit of bread, a pleasant warmth has spread over him, like honey stirred in tea. His body feels light and heavy all it once, his mind as though it's wrapped in thick woolen blankets. He tries to push himself up from his seat, suppressing a yawn, and is surprised when he almost falls face first onto the table.
John catches him, tendrils wrapping snugly around Arthur’s waist. Arthur leans back into John, marveling at how well they fit together, no matter the ever-shifting shapes.
"The dishes..." he murmurs, "We should–"
"Tomorrow." John's voice is firm, his breath tickling the back of Arthur's neck. He lifts Arthur up easily, as if he's nothing more than a stack of papers, and holds him closer still. Arthur considers protesting — he can walk, for fuck's sake — but the steady rhythm of John's heartbeat against his ear is steady as a metronome, pulling him closer and closer to sleep. John's body runs so warm, especially when he's like this. Arthur isn't quite sure how that works — John's descriptions of himself sound more akin to cold-blooded creatures — but he's certainly not going to question it when that warmth feels so heavenly, banishing the nighttime chill and soothing the little aches in his lower back.
By the time John lays Arthur down on the mattress and curls up beside him, a third and fourth tentacle wrapped around him, a full-body blanket holding him close, Arthur can barely keep his eyes open.
"Love you," he whispers, resisting the gravity of sleep to produce words, rather than incoherent murmurs.
If John says anything in response, Arthur drifts off to sleep before he can hear. But the gentle pressure all around him, the tendrils twining around his limbs in a shielding embrace, the ever-present melody of John's breath and blood and beating heart — those are answer enough.