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ARTHUR LESTER
It only hurt when he opened his eyes. If Arthur stayed still in the sweat-damp bed sheets, eyes shut tight, he could pretend he was still in a world where it wouldn’t. His beautiful delusion was as fragile as spun sugar but twice as sweet, so he kept his eyes closed and relished the taste. That morning, he told himself that he had fallen asleep on his sofa in Arkham. Parker was hunched over his desk and scouring documents about their latest case. When Arthur finally opened his eyes, the golden morning sun would pierce the window and expose the million imperfections riddling the shoddily plastered walls that a gumshoes’s income during a depression had little way of addressing. It didn’t matter. He would see the chipping paint and the cracks and the mildew stains and consider them the most beautiful sights in the world.
Arthur? Are you finished with your beauty sleep? It’s getting late.
That deep, rattling voice did not belong in the fantasy. The sound was all it took to rip Arthur out of the past and drop him firmly back into his borrowed bed at Marie’s. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. There was no sunlight, no chipped plaster, and no stains. There was, of course, no Parker, and never would be again. There was nothing at all. The all-encompassing emptiness made his stomach twist with momentary panic. Those first moments waking from the daydream were always the hardest.
“Shut up,” Arthur grumbled, still gathering his bearings. His voice was raspy and he could still taste sleep on his tongue. “I’m taking advantage of actually having a bed. Who cares if I sleep in?”
It didn’t sound like you were sleeping. Your breathing is different when you sleep. You also cry out more and move constantly. It’s deeply annoying.
“Thank you, John. You are too kind.” Arthur lugged his aching body over the side of the bed. He was lamenting the crackling of his abused joints when John snipped:
This isn’t an ideal situation for me either. I would love to not be trapped in the dark, alone, useless, for hours every night.
Arthur took a deep breath to avoid making an unkind comment about spending only a few hours per day being useless and trapped in the dark. Instead, he braced himself and rose to his feet. It was markedly more difficult than it used to be with one foot being numb and no sight to orient him.
“I know,” Arthur conceded because, this time, John was right. There was no good end of a bargain like theirs. “I’m sorry for… well. I am not a morning person. I should find some coffee. That ought to help.”
He knew that there was not enough coffee in the world to help. Regardless, he followed John toward the staircase as if pretending hard enough made it so.
First step here. Grab the rail. Right. Other right.
“Am I really so restless in my sleep?” Arthur asked, following John’s provided instruction like holy commandments. His footsteps made the aged staircase groan. “I was always told I slept like a log.”
Yes. I can’t understand how the experience is restful for you.
“I suppose running from monsters for months will inspire some nightmares.”
The floor creaked under Arthur’s weight. He soon felt the transition from carpet to the tacky stick of skin-on-tile as he entered the kitchen. He made his way to the counter while using a hand to help prevent any new bruises on his hips. As he drew nearer to it, the little window above the sink let in just enough sunlight to prickle warmth against his face.
The coffee pot lived on the left side of the sink. Marie had gotten into the habit of leaving a mug out for Arthur over the past few days, and he never found it even an inch out of place. He pulled it forward and let John do the work from there. After trial, error, and more than one nasty burn, it was determined that the man with a hand and eyes should manage the pouring of hot liquids. While John worked, Arthur leaned forward and enjoyed the light. Even if he couldn’t see it, it felt just as lovely as it ever had.
“You know,” said Arthur casually as he inhaled the earthy aroma of brewing coffee. He heard a ceramic mug scrape across the counter tiles, and then the satisfying glug-glug-glug of a cup being filled. “I can still see when I dream. I wonder for how much longer.”
You don't often talk about your eyesight, said John. He pressed the steaming mug into Arthur’s hand, which he was more than grateful to accept.
Because dwelling on it more often would get us both killed, he thought bitterly at the exact same time that his mouth said, “It’s just been on my mind.”
I am not exactly good at this sort of thing, but we could talk about it. If you want to.
He chewed on the prospect for a moment while quietly sipping his coffee, which John had made just a hair too sweet again. In that quiet moment, he heard sounds rising from the grocer below him: the comings and goings of stomping feet, the shuffling of boxes and bags, and the distant, muffled shouts of greeting and departure. It was life that he heard below, and that rose up to greet him like it did every single morning, and no one knew what life could do to a person better than Arthur Lester.
“What’s there to say?” He shrugged off the inquiry entirely and went back for another pull of liquid focus.
I don’t know. You just seem preoccupied.
Arthur gulped down the rest of his cup and tried not to laugh when he said, “Really, John. I could see. Now I can’t.” He said it simply, as if that were all; as if that were anything. “There is no use dwelling on it.”
Arthur rinsed his now-empty mug in the sink and John laid it out on the drying rack with the others. “Thank you for offering to talk, though. It is appreciated. Now, what time’s on the clock?”
Ten after nine.
Arthur nodded. “We best be on our way, then. Noel will be expecting us soon to start planning the… what are we calling this? A heist? A bust? Regardless, we have a busy day ahead of us, friend. So! Where’s my coat?”
JOHN DOE
Arthur Lester was a mostly agreeable man prone to bouts of intense melancholy that seemed to arise for no discernable reason. It was like despair coursed just beneath his skin and even the tiniest papercut would let it all pour out. John was trying to learn how to avoid those little cuts, but he was also trying to learn a lot of other things, like empathy and the appeal of small, furry animals, so he figured he could be excused for making some mistakes.
He had messed up sometime on the walk to Central Park. He was not sure how. Judging by Arthur’s incessant grumbling, he reckoned that sometime between his description of the milky white of window box winter honeysuckle and the glistening skyscrapers looming over them like crystal sentinels, he said something at least moderately egregious. John came from a world considered unfathomable, but he now knew for a fact that nothing was as unfathomable as the intricacies of human social conventions.
The crosswalk is clear. Walk straight. Woman two steps to your left, and—
“I’ve got it.” His friend’s tone was clipped.
John almost wished he had control of the part of Arthur’s brain that managed his fickle emotions. After all, nothing unusual happened that day to sour his mood so profoundly. There had been no monsters or cultists or particularly grievous injuries (apart from Arthur stubbing his toe on the base of the bathroom sink, but Arthur stubbed his toe at least five times per day, and John’s toe about seven, which seemed unfair and suspiciously intentional). He had awoken to a nightmare, but those days, Arthur’s nightmares were as familiar to them as one another.
Arthur’s gait slowed to a timid shuffle. He scooted his right foot forward inch by inch to—oh!
Curb is three steps ahead.
Arthur said nothing. That was normal enough. If he thanked John for every bit of direction, he would never be able to stop talking. What was not normal was the quietly seething anger bubbling between them. Arthur had seemed upset all morning, but not angry like this. Sometimes, John Doe did not think he would survive Arthur Lester, and he pitied anyone who dared to try.
Arthur, I have been patient about this all morning. Have I said something to upset you?
Once they made it across the road, Arthur stopped walking. The street was flooded with dozens of people encircling them on all sides. The roar of their chatter and feet stomping on the pavement was nearly overwhelming. Thankfully, most seemed to move out of the way while Arthur took his unexpected break. They were standing on the street corner where a nearby bodega was spilling scents of fresh food and body odor their way. Arthur anchored himself in place with a white-knuckled grip on the crosswalk sign, holding on as if for dear life. He did not look okay, but inexplicably said:
“I’m fine, John.” Even his voice sounded tremulous. “I’m just worried about everything with the Order. Can we focus on getting to the park, please?”
A pinstripe-clad man rammed directly into Arthur’s left side on his hasty way past them. Arthur, who barely weighed enough to keep his footing during a light breeze, stumbled and was only saved from tumbling into the busy street when John managed to hook a light pole with his elbow.
“Watch where you’re standin’!” The pinstripe man shouted, never sparing a second glance at the person he could have killed.
“Asshole,” Arthur muttered at the exact same time that John intoned, Asshole, and for the first time all day, they felt in sync again.
The feeling did not last. John did his best to navigate them through the heavy city traffic and decided that he much preferred guiding him through monster-ridden caves and the nightmare world of a mad king. At least in those places there were no honking cars weaving around one another, nor dozens of people swarming them on every side in all manner of clothing and states of urgency, nor random stretches of scaffolding that clattered and clanged with footsteps as construction workers slung beams overhead on ropes and pulleys.
John stopped bothering with narration. There was too much going on to communicate even a fraction of the firework bursts of light and color engulfing them. He thought he was doing a decent enough job routing Arthur around the thousand mundane ways to die in New York City, but when he walked into his fifth person for the morning, John mentally downgraded his ranking.
Arthur gritted his teeth and stepped carefully to the side of the street, seeking the wall with an outstretched right hand. When he found a shaded spot underneath another stretch of scaffolding, he slumped back and groaned.
“This is getting ridiculous. How much further do we have, anyway?”
From what I can tell, it is maybe another two blocks away.
Arthur nodded. “Hopefully it will be less crowded there. Is everyone in the city using this exact sidewalk today?” John watched Arthur clench and unclench his fist in frustration, his knuckles blanching white and flushing red over and over again.
You’re doing very well, John offered. He intended it to be supportive. Of course, because John had excellent luck and a top notch comprehension of the human psyche, it became rapidly apparent that it was the wrong thing to say.
“Ha!” Arthur barked. He laughed, but it was cold and cruel and didn’t sound like him at all. “Yes, what an accomplishment! I, a grown man, have walked down the street!”
Arthur —
He stumbled into the wall with a sigh of relief. John watched as a startled-looking man steered the sharply dressed woman on his arm away from Arthur, who had taken to banging the back of his head against the wall and mumbling (mostly cursing) to himself.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take this out on you.” Arthur half-shouted to be heard over whatever god-awful construction tools the men above them were using. The one positive effect this had was ensuring that the passersby started giving them a wider berth, as if Arthur had a particularly catching form of insanity that led to shouting into busy streets.
Take what out on —?
“’Scuse me, sir. Let me help you. Headed across?” John felt Arthur lurch to the left when a young woman with auburn curls locked ahold of his arm. Arthur yelped and jerked away. The woman flustered. “Sorry! I just saw you and it looked like you needed some help. See, my upstairs neighbor is blind, and—”
“No assistance necessary!” Arthur managed in a choked voice. He took a few panicked steps forward that John was quick to reroute before he ran straight into a hotdog vendor.
Arthur said nothing for the rest of the sullen walk to the park, but his bubbling anger never let up for even a moment. When John spotted Noel waving them over from a bench, he had never been so happy to see another human being in his life.
NOEL/CHARLIE DOWD
It was cold and miserable. It was always cold and miserable during New York winters, but Noel was willing to bet good money that this particular day chose to up the ante just to spite him. Arthur looked about as happy about the cold snap as Noel felt. He’d somehow managed to burrow himself deep into his coat so only his dirty blonde hair and amber eyes were visible over the top of his collar. He was shivering—weren’t they all—but the real problem was the fidgeting.
Ever since he’d slid beside Noel on the bench, it was either the tapping of his fingers or the wiggling of his ankle or the bouncing of his knee. Noel didn’t like it. Fidgeting meant he was either nervous or distracted. Nervous or distracted meant shoddy work. Shoddy work meant a one-way ticket to the morgue.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Noel, narrowing his eyes to give his impromptu partner a once-over. He still looked like shit, but no more than he had the last time they were together, so, presumably, nothing terrible had happened to the kid.
“I’m just ready to get this over with,” Arthur said, donning a look of misery that may as well have been tailor-made for his face. He learned forward and rubbed his hands together to warm them. One of these days, Noel would have to ask him about that pinky finger. Suddenly, Arthur blurted, “John agrees. He also says hello.”
“Good to see ya, John.”
John Doe. If his reveal wasn’t the damned strangest development about this whole story. When Arthur first mentioned John, Noel, prouder of his status as ‘still sane’ than most, was skeptical. But something about the way the kid understood his surroundings despite his blindness cemented it. Besides, Noel had gotten good at rolling with the punches. The sooner he accepted that his reality was about as sturdy as those twigs Arthur called legs, the faster he could get on with his life. So, John Doe was real, and that was that.
“You seem off,” Noel prompted as casually as he could manage. Arthur seemed a charming, outgoing sort of fellow, but was obviously skittish when it came to talking about himself. Noel knew the type. Better to pull out the ole stray alley-cat technique and let them come to you.
Lester leveled him with a look that suggested he knew exactly what Noel was up to. It would have been a hell of a lot more effective had he not missed Noel’s eyes by a country mile.
“I told you,” he said. “Just...ready to move on from this.”
Noel squinted into the distance where a young girl in a red coat ran ahead of her parents. They carried shopping bags and matching smiles. He watched them for a while and wondered what it would be like to have a life so normal again. He supposed there was nothing for it. This was what life they got, their odd little trio.
“Right. You said you and John had cooked up some crazy idea?”
Arthur chuckled. “I have a crazy idea. John just thinks I am crazy. … I am not, John! … Well that’s rich, coming from you of all people.”
Noel politely waited for whatever that was to conclude before he said, “Well, let me have it.”
And by God did they give it to him.
“So, hypothetically,” Arthur began with an almost mischievous sparkle in his eyes, “How hard would it be for you to borrow the Butcher?”
***
Arthur Lester was either crazy or brilliant, but most likely he was like every other sorry sap who got mixed up with the occult and was a respectable mix of both. It wouldn’t be easy, but the more they talked it over, the more sense it made. That Butcher fellow was odd. If they were going into the lion’s den, they needed to bring one of their own. Arthur seemed certain the Butcher would cooperate. Noel had his reservations, but after that display at the hospital, he had to concede a healthy respect for Lester’s instincts about the guy.
The afternoon wore on like afternoons do. As the sky bloomed deep reds and purples, the incandescent lamp posts came alive one by one. Their glow bounced off the dead, partially frosted wintry memory of grass and cast a hazy yellow hue over the world. The more the three of them spoke while sitting in that sleepy miasma, the more the topics shifted away from crazy plans and toward lighter, easier things.
Noel had to admit that it was strange to talk to a man he could neither see nor hear, but like always, he rolled with the punches. It had gotten him this far.
“...and John has spent days obsessing over an advertisement we saw for a film. Have you ever had an earworm? Imagine that, but it has a mind of its own and is determined to wear you down. That’s you, John.”
Noel laughed at three things simultaneously: Arthur’s comment, the bird John flipped him without Arthur’s knowledge, and the fact that he was having a two-man, three-way conversation with an entity from worlds unknown that only wanted to see a damn movie.
“You know, I say that if he wants to see a movie, we let him.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “John, calm down. If you remember, I already said I would if the opportunity arose.” He quieted as a look of concentration etched across his face. “Well, it isn’t my fault it hasn’t arisen yet! And sorry, Noel. To answer you: Before or after we take down the cult?”
Heavens above. He fully intended to send Lester the bill for whatever whiplash treatment he would need once this was all said and done. Of course, given that he had only ever seen him in one outfit, he doubted he was good for it. Such was life, times being as hard as they were.
Noel considered Arthur’s question and said, “I say we wait. The three of us can go after. My treat to celebrate a job well done.”
“John says: I appreciate that one of you takes my needs seriously... John, this is not a need! But yes, I agree. I think that sounds like a fine plan, and - John, please stop shouting. I’m sure you’ll be an excellent narrator.”
Noel had to laugh at that. John, the otherworldly entity and expert film narrator to the blind. What a world. He shook his head in abject disbelief and suppressed a shiver. The sun had almost entirely slipped under the skyline and the temperature nosedived alongside it. The moon, a cold white, watched them. Noel watched it right back while Arthur chattered aimlessly, chuckling every so often in reply to his invisible friend.
“Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I think we all could use some shut eye before the big day.” He rose from the bench and shoved his icy hands into his coat pockets. “Need any help home, Lester?”
Noel noted the exact moment that Arthur stiffened like a plank. Every peal of laughter he’d squeezed from the man, a feat which itself had been like juicing a week-old raisin for the first hour, evaporated like their puffing breaths in the New York cold. Sore subject, then. Good to know.
“No thank you,” Arthur answered stiffly, every bit the proper English gentleman. “We’ll make it just fine.”
Noel recognized the distracted expression that fell over Arthur’s face. John was talking, and if the grinding in Arthur’s jaw was anything to go by, it was not about anything the man wanted to hear.
“You’re worrying too much,” he whispered darkly. Then, after another moment of quiet, he crossed his arms and huffed indignantly, “Yes, but almost falling into the street and actually falling into the street are not the same!” Silence. “That one was your fault! You’re my eyes, remember?”
Noel was starting to get the picture. Arthur paced back and forth while muttering, gesticulating, and clearly not giving a damn about how it looked. Noel watched his face vanish into the darkness only to reappear briefly when he circled back to walk under the lamp post.
“No taxi. We need to save that money for food.” Lester paused and Noel could see him clenching his fist while he waited for John to finish talking. When he (presumably) did, Arthur exploded, “I am aware of the swinging metal beams! They should stay well above us, John!”
And that was his cue.
“Hey! You good?” Noel asked, trying to keep things casual. He had the suspicion that Arthur needed casual right then. “I was thinkin’, and you know, it’s awfully cold out to be walkin’ too far. I got a car parked not far from here. Perks of the force, ya know. Let me drive you.”
He heard a series of furious, mumbled whispers from Arthur before he finally turned and said, looking extremely put-out about having to do so, that, “John insists we accept. Thank you.” Arthur screwed up his face. “He also has resorted to name-calling.”
Noel snorted. “You are very welcome. And John, play nice.”
Arthur stood statue-still, hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat, staring at nothing. His pasty skin took on a sickly sheen in the cold light of the moon, and the park lamps dotting their path gave his eyes a strange light. The overall effect was the sort of haunted look that would warn folks away.
Of course, Arthur wasn’t a ghost. He was a sorry man grasping, badly, at the final threads of his proverbial rope. Noel had been there himself, and some days, though they seemed fewer and further between now, he felt like he still was. That said, Noel’s ordeal hadn’t taken his vision and one of his hands.
He crowded beside Arthur and put a hand on his shoulder. “How long’s it been?” Arthur tilted his head, a question in the gesture, to which Noel added, “Don’t gimme that. You know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Arthur cast those vacant honey-colored eyes to his feet and wrapped himself tighter in an overcoat that looked three sizes too large. He whispered in a hoarse voice, like he was trying his damned hardest not to break right then and there, “A few months now.”
“You do good.” Noel squinted over at the nearby pond. It looked gray and misty in the dark city skies, but peaceful. He tried to channel that feeling for what he planned to say next. In for a penny and all that. “You’d do better with a cane. At least in a place like this. You know, for those… swinging metal beams Johns seems so distraught about.”
“I don’t think so.” The reply was immediate. There was something final in Arthur’s voice that warned Noel to back off.
“Well, you’d know better than me,” he offered diplomatically, clapping him on the back. “But I’m freezin my ass off, so let’s not stand around. Here.” Noel held out his arm, bent at the elbow, and waited. “Come on. Let’s get goin’ before we start losin’ toes. We oughtta give Johnny boy a break so he can enjoy the ride. Bet he’s not seen a park this big before.”
Lester did not take Noel’s arm. Instead, he kept fidgeting back and forth on nervous legs like he was at war with himself regarding how to proceed. Noel waggled his outstretched arm and mouthed “You tell him?” to John and got a subtle thumbs up from Arthur’s left hand, but there was no other change. He just kept fidgeting. Noel could tell he had waded into murky territory, but he was not about to let a freshly minted blind man walk around with nothing more than a disembodied voice to guide him through crowded streets and city traffic. There were lines.
To Noel’s surprise, Arthur eventually accepted the arm. Anyone looking onto their sorry scene would have thought the action physically pained him, but hell, he would take it.
“I’ve—this is John, by the way,” Arthur explained hurriedly, as they started down the dimly-lit walkway, “I’ve never been inside a park at all.”
Noel smiled as big and bright as he could manage. “Well, you are starting with the biggest one around. We’ll go the long way so I can give you the tour. You boys know that not even a year ago they had one of them Hoovervilles smack on the middle of this place? A year ago, and now they got a zoo opened up and all sorts of work goin’ on. Sends your head for a loop, and I think...”
ARTHUR LESTER
Tragedies happened to other people. It wasn’t the sort of uncharitable thought that needed to be voiced. It was simply the universally understood way the human mind protected itself from knowing that what separated you from the corpse in the casket was time. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Tragedies happened to other people, but then Arthur’s parents died. And then Bella, and then his daughter, and then Parker... yet still, despite it all, his traitorous mind, flailing wildly for purchase on any ledge of his sanity, latched back onto the deceitful mantra: it happens to other people.
No one ever predicted they would become blind. You might hear about a friend of a friend who had a terrible accident, and their life was ruined, but after expressing condolences, you never thought about it again. Somewhere they suffered, but at least it wasn’t you. It happened to other people.
Arthur never predicted he would become blind, but here he was. Once again tragedy had rooted him out, drunk on his scent, and the world kept moving while he was the one left floundering.
He tried not to think about it. He tried to re-route his thoughts when he felt them careening toward the dead-end street of existential dread, but some days were harder than others. Some days, the knowledge of what life would look like now, forever, was too much to bear. He bitterly thought that all those other people he had halfheartedly pitied in the past were faring far better than he.
Arthur did not know if it was the grabby woman in the street treating him like an invalid or the offer of Noel’s arm that cemented his feelings on the matter, but the second he and John entered their room, he made a decision. He would not let his self-pity win. He had spent long enough indulging it. If he did not face this now, he would spend the rest of his life ricocheting between anger and depression over his loss of independence. Though, perhaps he would no matter what—there was no remedy for the loss of beaty.
Their rented room was musty, to put it politely, and the smell of dust and lint was nearly overwhelming, especially without any visuals with which to dilute his focus. It was also quite old, with floors and walls that groaned and moaned and carried on with even the slightest movement, which Arthur supposed would work in his favor.
He started making his way across the room.
The edge of the armoire is—
“Don’t tell me!” he hissed, hand splaying out in front of him as he felt through the air. He hoped he looked like a determined man on a mission but feared that he just looked like a fool.
But you can’t see it.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Arthur sneered, listening for the creaks beneath his feet as he crept forward. “I can get to my own bed safely, you know. I’m not helpless.”
I can think of no one who would call you helpless, Arthur.
As if the goddess of irony herself decided to intervene, Arthur immediately clipped the decorative edge of the armoire. He doubled over in pain and hissed through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the sore spot on his thigh, “Fuck! Fuck this, John! I don’t like having to rely on you for every little thing! Other blind people survive without a voice describing the world to them. I can, too.”
You have to learn how to do this right now, while exhausted and cold and with no help? Noel was right. A cane could—
“There’s no time like the present,” Arthur cut him off primly. He sucked in a deep, mothball-flavored breath when he winced while attempting to stand up straight again. “Besides, I don’t want—I don’t need that right now. Given what our lives look like, I can’t rely on always having one.”
It’s just that yesterday you seemed completely fine with me guiding you. Why the sudden change? I know things were messy on the sidewalk today, but we’ve never been in a place like this before. We’ll get better. Besides, once we find a way to get your eyes back—
“Don’t.” Arthur cut that thought off before his friend could dare complete it. “Regardless of... well, that isn’t happening anytime soon, so it would be better for both of us if I could be more independent. You could focus on important things instead of how close I am to a table or a door.”
Arthur started moving slowly again, this time keeping his fingertips trailing along the wall. He could feel the catches and bumps of aged wallpaper and vaguely wondered what its pattern looked like. Had Marie chosen something soft and floral or a more classical damask? He had no way of knowing. He could ask John, but it was not the same. It never would be.
“Besides,” Arthur said. He felt his leg brush against a…chair? Ah, the desk chair. He felt along its borders and twisted around it. “It’d be nice to have the confidence to walk down the street without worrying about falling into a manhole.”
Arthur, said John gently, something almost playful in his tone. Even with your eyesight, I believe you would find a way to fall into any manhole that presented itself to you.
Arthur snorted. “And in it we would find a monster, or a cult, or a portal to a forbidden world, judging by our record.”
He heard a yowling whistle somewhere to his right and the sound of rattling glass. The wind had grown fierce, and armed with the cold, it was a formidable foe. Arthur was glad they had accepted Noel’s ride, much as he loathed to be seen as someone pitiable. Eyes or no eyes, it would not have been a comfortable walk home in that weather.
If this matters so much to you, I’ll take the passenger seat for a while. That said, if you are about to get seriously hurt, I’m going to intervene. I live here too.
“You make that rather hard to forget, my friend.”
Arthur squinted his eyes in determination as if that did anything at all to improve his chances. He righted himself, took a deep breath, and slid his foot cautiously along the floorboards. He extended a careful hand and, meeting no resistance, took what he tried to pass off as a confident step away from the wall.
When that seemed to work, he repeated the steps again. Step, feel, step, and—
CRASH!
Arthur! Are you all right?
“Fine, fine! Just...” he hissed at the bright pain blossoming along the side of his arm. It was hardly the worst that he had felt; he just had no idea what had happened. All he knew was that he was now face-first on the ground and aching horribly. “Just tell me where...no, fuck!”
There was a bunched-up roll in the rug. You tripped over it. You’ve fallen into the bedside table. Just calm down and show me your arm. I need to see if anything is bleeding.
Arthur did as he was asked, but he was so incandescently angry that he was surprised he could hold his aching arm steady. A rug! He had become so useless that his life could have been ended by a goddamn rug. He could imagine the headlines: “Double homicide suspect does world a favor, trips over rug and splits open head!”
“Well, doctor?” Arthur asked glumly. “Will we make it?”
The arm looks fine, but I am not so sure that you are.
“I’m just peachy.” Arthur pushed himself off the floor with considerable effort and immediately smacked his temple into a low-hanging light fixture. He clasped his hand over the tender spot on his head and howled, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Arthur, whatever you need to get off your chest, stop dancing around it and do it. We have to infiltrate the Order of the Fallen Star. We can’t fuck it up because you’re distracted by whatever this is.
“Whatever this is? What do you think has me so upset, John?” Arthur laughed hysterically, trying and failing to decide whether his arm or his head hurt more. The wind would not stop howling, and the room would not stop smelling musty, and he needed to force these awful words from his chest before they ate a hole through him. “Maybe it is the monsters, or the cultists, or the fact I’m more scar than skin, or the fact my body isn’t my own, or the fact that I am fucking blind!”
I knew this was about your eyes! You’ve been touchy about the subject all day.
Arthur clenched his fist tightly around the metallic handle of the end table. “I’ve been touchy? I want them back, John! I want you to give them back!” He kicked the edge of the bedframe, and it hurt, and that was good, because it meant that at least that sense still worked properly. “I want to see the sky and read a fucking book! I want to be able to walk down the street without feeling terrified. I want to drive a car and be independent and live a normal life! I don’t want to need other people for every tiny fucking thing! I WANT MY LIFE BACK!”
After the breathless rant, he gasped and heaved with lungs burning from air-hunger. Anger and grief in equal measure surged through his nerves like electricity.
“Things were finally starting to look up!” He said mournfully. Arthur felt his body swaying and plunged his arm forward to steady himself on the floral-or-damask-or-who-knows-what-papered wall. He found John’s hand was already there, trying its best to hold them upright. “Was that the problem? Am I such a terrible person that the universe couldn’t give me a single fucking inch? Maybe this is my punishment for all my failures. Fail your wife and never see the sunset again!” He kicked the bed again, not caring how much noise he was surely making. “Kill your daughter and never see a smile!”
Arthur, you know that’s not—
Whatever fire had been lit beneath Arthur could not be so easily appeased, and he pushed on as if he had not heard John speak at all. “And I am angry, and then I get angry over being angry, because how dare I be? My family is dead. I got off easy, right? I got off easy, and I still can’t stop wallowing in self-pity!”
I would not call any of this getting off easy.
“I deserve this, but I don’t want it. I feel like I’m not allowed to say that, but I hate this. This wasn’t supposed to be my life!” It wasn’t supposed to happen to me, he did not say, because he could not bear the shame of even thinking it. “And every time I so much as mention my sight to you, you act like we’ll just severe ourselves and I’ll get my eyes back.”
We have no reason to believe it isn’t possible.
“I do. I was blind even after we separated. I want you to be right, but I don’t think you are. I think… I know my sight is gone. All this optimism makes me hope, and then I remember the truth, and I have to start grieving it all over again. Do you know how exhausting that is?” Arthur seemed to deflate after that. He shrunk in on himself, feeling small and empty and utterly terrible. “I’m sorry for this, John. I shouldn’t have unloaded all of that on you.”
Arthur sat on the edge of their lumpy old bed. The bedding was cool beneath his hand, and given the chill in the air outside, he wished that the room had better heating. He took a deep breath, laid back, and closed his eyes. It made no difference.
I’m glad you did. I think you needed to say it. And—no, further right; there’s the pillow—and I won’t mention your vision if it makes this harder on you.
“You know,” Arthur said in an unusually flat tone, “the worst part is Faroe. I can’t hear her or smell her or touch her, but at least I had photographs. I could see her. And now…” Arthur choked down the lump in his throat. “John, sometimes I struggle to picture the things you tell me. I feel like I’m already forgetting. What if I forget her? What if I forget my little girl’s face?”
John did not miss a beat. We have a photograph. I’ll describe her. Every day if you need me to.
Arthur hummed in reply. He felt entirely empty now. His tears dried into unsteady, hiccupping breaths. In the ensuing quiet, he listened to the ambient sounds of the city: the cars, the slight howl of the winter wind, and the distant sound of voices and shouts and God knows what else. It felt like a sacred sort of silence, and one that neither of them were brave enough to break until finally, John mustered up the courage.
You were quick to say no to a cane when Noel brought it up.
“I know I’m being ridiculous,” said Arthur. “It’s just that this has all felt so much like a bad dream that maybe a part of me is just... waiting to wake up.” Arthur removed John’s shoe, and John proceeded to kick off Arthur’s without prompting. He slid out of his suspenders and trousers with practiced efficiency, and once he was satisfied, lay back to stare at what should be a ceiling, but was instead a void. “That feels like the thing that would make it real. If I felt that in my hand, or touched braille, I think I’d know.”
You have survived everything so far. When you’re ready to tackle this, I’ll be with you.
Arthur’s eyes suddenly felt agonizingly heavy. It felt like he had been carrying something monumental for a very long time, and while he could still feel it weighing on him, it was a little lighter. He buried himself in a blanket that smelled almost unbearably of mildew and said, “I know.” After a moment, he smirked and added, “Though you really have no choice in the matter, which lessens the emotional impact.”
John dared a small laugh.
I am trying very hard to be supportive! I would stay with you even if I could leave!
“Oh? So you want to possess me?” Arthur teased with an impish grin. “You want to deny me my own body? My privacy?”
You are twisting my words!
“Oh, I am fortune’s fool!” Arthur lamented dramatically and flopped face-first into his pillow. They both laughed then, Arthur trying to stay as quiet as possible lest he wake Marie. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled by the fabric over his mouth. “We really should sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
I suppose I am on lookout duty again.
Arthur twisted in the bed to get more comfortable but mostly succeeded only in tangling his legs in the blanket. He managed to articulate through a thick yawn, “I promise we’ll switch out one of these nights.”
Sure. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Arthur mumbled sleepily, “I’ll believe it when I see it, too.”
He tried not to laugh too hard at the spluttering when John finally realized what he had said.