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"I'm home," John calls, though the heavy door falling shut behind him negates the need to announce himself. "The librarian wouldn't let me bring the record books home, but I took notes."
He sets his leather satchel on the kitchen table and peers down the short hallway that leads to their bathroom. "Arthur?"
A sleepy grunt of acknowledgement rises from behind him, and he catches sight of a gray-suited lump on the unmade murphy bed in the corner. He had noticed the bed was still out when he came in, but he'd chalked it up to Arthur forgetting to tidy up again (as John thinks of it when he's feeling charitable; not bothering, when he isn't.)
Regardless, it's unlike Arthur to nap the day away. The man resists rest like the plague, even now.
"Turn 'ff the lights," Arthur mumbles, burying his face in John's pillow. John snorts.
"Arthur, it's two in the afternoon. That's sunlight."
Another groan.
"Are you sick?" John asks, concern prickling at the corners of his mind. He sits on the edge of the double bed and lays one broad hand on Arthur's back, and the other on his forehead. He's not sure what he's feeling for, but he has never questioned his need to touch Arthur, nor to know that he's okay.
Arthur squints at him blearily. "I'm not sick," he says, "so you can stop checking for a fever. I'm just sore and tired and – and exhausted. This case…" he stops, sighs heavily, and rolls away from John to lay on his stomach, face once more pressing into the pillow.
John hums in understanding, soothing his palm over Arthur's back. They'd both been unsure about taking the job, but rent had been due and the pantry was looking thin… What could they do? Even a mundane life has its monsters. Nowadays, a scowling landlord and groceries bought on credit nip at their heels the way supernatural beings once did, and unpleasant clients with unpleasant problems are a necessary evil.
At his side, Arthur lets out a deep groan, breaking John out of his thoughts. "That feels wonderful," he mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow under his cheek.
It takes John a moment to understand Arthur means the hand absently rubbing his back, and he perks up at the realization. He doesn't always know what to do for Arthur, but if this is helping, he’s going to do it properly.
He settles himself over the backs of Arthur's thighs to give himself better access to his neck and shoulders. Arthur tenses briefly, the way he sometimes does when John touches him or stands too close, but he relaxes once John's hands settle on either side of his neck, thumbs pressing a warm trail from the base of his skull to the dips of his shoulderblades.
Another groan rumbles out of Arthur, and the sound warms John like spice on the tongue. Yes, he thinks, more of that. Arthur melts beneath his hands as he seeks out the knots in his muscles, rubbing and kneading until Arthur gasps in relief. John glows with satisfaction at each moan his efforts earn.
Arthur starts out offering a few thank-yous and grateful murmurs, but eventually he goes quiet – not asleep, but drifting along on sensation, his silence broken by the occasional whimper or gasp.
John watches him, transfixed. He feels like he's unlocked a new piece of personhood. He knows that he and Arthur both have a tendency to forget that a person is a body as much as they are a mind. This reminder has him reconsidering everything.
"You should undress," he says, because it would make this easier, but the body beneath him stiffens at his words. John's brow furrows. For someone who regularly barrels headfirst into danger, Arthur only ever seems truly frightened when John brushes too close to – whatever this is.
"Your suit is wrinkled enough as it is," John says reasonably, with a note of persuasion seeping into his voice. "I can do more good without so much fabric in the way."
Arthur is silent for a long moment, and then he sits up. "Just the shirt and jacket," he says firmly.
John nods even though Arthur can't see him. "Your undershirt, too," he adds, and then, in a softer tone, "No one would judge you for needing this, Arthur. Your body has endured a lot."
A strange expression flits across Arthur's face, falling somewhere between guilty and sly. John doesn't understand what it means (there's a lot he still doesn't understand about being human), but then Arthur tugs his undershirt over his head and John's thoughts fall away into warm static.
After that, it's not so weird for Arthur to remove his belt, and there's no reason not to have him strip down to his briefs so John can work at the deep ache in his lower back.
John is aware that there are areas of the body that humans – or human men – or maybe just Arthur, specifically? – are sensitive about, but he struggles to understand it. To his mind, human bodies are all made of the same morally neutral matter, and there’s no force in the universe that gives a damn what they do with it. Arthur's hang-ups about sections of his body, and in particular their proximity to other men’s bodies, strike John as self-imposed and arbitrary. Even so, he pays close attention to make sure he doesn't overstep and push the wrong boundaries.
He kneads Arthur's hips, then slides his hands down to frame the slight swell of his backside. Arthur tenses briefly, but then groans and seems to relax as John presses his thumbs into the muscle and works them in firm circles. Arthur lifts his body up about an inch to adjust his position, hand swiping almost embarrassedly beneath his hips for a split second before he settles back onto his stomach, hands loose at his sides. John doesn't spare it much thought, and simply continues massaging, hands sliding lower to encircle the backs of Arthur's thighs where they meet the soft crescent of his cheeks. He takes a moment to rub his thumbs through the coarse, crinkly hair that covers Arthur's skin, and a shudder rolls through Arthur.
"John..." Arthur mumbles. His voice is sticky with relaxation and disuse, but there's something in his tone that makes John's hands still, although he doesn't remove them completely.
"Is this alright?" John asks. "Do you want me to stop?"
Arthur takes a long time to answer. John knows he should give him space to respond, but he finds himself rushing to fill the silence anyway. "I can keep going," John blunders ahead, "And if it's too much, you can stop me if you need to. Okay?"
"'S'not too much," Arthur says softly. "It's – good. It's too good, John, do you understand? I don't... you shouldn't have to..."
John waits, but Arthur doesn't say whatever it is he shouldn't have to do.
"I want to," John says, finally. "I'm enjoying this. I like taking care of you, Arthur,” he says, voice dropping an octave. "Let me touch you."
Arthur huffs out a short laugh and buries his face in the pillow. "God, John. I don't think you know what you're – "
"I know," John growls, even though he's not sure he does, but there's enough of his former self in his tone that Arthur goes still and listens.
"Okay," Arthur says softly. "Okay, but don't – you don’t have to. Do you understand?"
John understands that Arthur has a pathological avoidance of his own peace and that this might be the most progress they've ever made on that front, but he doesn't say that. "Relax and let me help you feel good, Arthur. Okay?"
After a moment, Arthur exhales shakily. "Okay."
This time, John lets his thumbs circle the dip between Arthur's thighs and ass, pushing up and out in a way that causes his cheeks to spread ever so slightly. Arthur whimpers as if in pain and slides his arms up to clutch at the pillow under his cheek. His hips flex almost imperceptibly downwards. John looks up, catching sight of closed eyes, flushed face, lips parted as if to allow the harsh sighs that he's still holding back. John's throat goes throat dry as a confusion of heat flares within him.
John slides his fingers under the hems of Arthur's shorts. He's not sure if the skin here is really that much softer than the rest of him, or if it just seems that way because it's hidden, secret, private. He waits for Arthur to stop him.
Arthur doesn't.
Emboldened, heart pounding, eager in a way he can't yet put into words, John slips both hands inside the loose leg openings of Arthur's shorts and squeezes the soft, muscular cheeks.
Arthur swallows a noise and spreads his legs farther apart.
Oh, fuck, John thinks, as a feverish rush of arousal clenches in his belly. The thin, unyielding cotton shorts are tight over John's wrists as he slides his hands up – up – his fingertips peek out from the waistband as if reaching for the dimples on Arthur's back – Arthur shudders, hips flexing – and then John retreats, hands smoothing their way back down the tender, sun-starved skin.
Once his hands are free (his palms still tingle from the warmth of Arthur's skin and the tickling crush of body hair), he hooks his fingers meaningfully into Arthur's waistband. He gives a gentle tug, waiting for permission or rebuff –
And then Arthur rises to his knees, hands rushing to help John tug this last item of clothing free, hard cock bobbing in and out of sight as Arthur's narrow legs lift gracefully one by one, before it disappears beneath his body again. John tosses the crumpled fabric aside without a care for where it lands, unwilling to stop touching Arthur for any longer than he has to.
The brief glimpse of Arthur's erection remains emblazoned upon John's mind – the shining red crown and straining length of it, fully hard, the sight of it both aggressively sexual and yet somehow demure. John finds himself breathless with sudden comprehension. It shouldn't come as a surprise that Arthur is hard – his arousal is clear and contagious; the two of them are knotted in the same ropes of fascination and desire – but the evidence of it still catches John off-guard. He's only seen his own cock in this state, never Arthur's. He's only touched his own cock, but he wants (not for the first time, but now with renewed hunger) to wrap his fingers around Arthur and find out for himself if the velvet heat of his skin matches John's own.
Instead, John continues to massage him, occasionally straying away from his ass and the sensitive, shadowy area between his thighs to focus on stretches of neutral territory (back, shoulders, scalp), if only because denial seems to pluck the strings of Arthur's need.
Arthur sighs in relief when John's hands finally make their way back down to squeeze his ass, and he lets out a bitten off grunt when, after massaging his calves, John's hands drift up to spread his cheeks in a way that tugs at the dusky pucker between them.
When John indulges his own curiosity to trail his fingers over the soft skin of Arthur's testicles, Arthur releases a gasp so unrestrained and needy that John wishes he could catch the sound between his teeth and swallow it.
John trails his fingertips along the delicate bridge behind Arthur's testicles, letting Arthur feel where he's headed, giving him plenty of time to back out. But Arthur doesn't pull away; he tilts his hips up ever so slightly, inviting John to run the pad of his thumb between Arthur's cheeks. When John strokes over his hole, Arthur lets out a high, quiet moan.
"This okay?" John murmurs as he traces the unfathomably soft skin. He doesn't want to break the mood, but he needs to know.
"Hnng – mm-hmm." Arthur nods and tucks his face against the pillow. The tips of his ears are very red.
John exhales heavily and watches the way his thumb pulls the delicate creases of Arthur's hole gently to the side, down, to the other side. It feels unbearably intimate, being allowed to see this part of Arthur, touch this part of Arthur, and yet it feels so familiar. It's Arthur's body, but John used to live here, after all. He splays his free hand on Arthur's lower back, pressing him firmly into the cushions. Arthur sighs and lets himself be guided. His hips move tentatively in counterpoint with the teasing patterns John is drawing on his skin.
John realizes he's seen Arthur's hips move this way before. Infrequently, but more than once during their time sharing a body, John had been startled in the night by Arthur's hips pushing in slow, lingering thrusts against the mattress or, occasionally, against his own hand tucked covertly beneath himself.
That gives him an idea. He taps Arthur's right arm and says, "Do you want to put this under you?"
Arthur hesitates. John can hear him swallow. But then he says, "Yeah," in a voice so low it's almost a whisper, and slips his hand down under the weight of his own body.
The way Arthur curls his other arm around the pillow makes warmth bloom in John's chest. Despite his nerves, there's an ease and sweetness to the shy press of his cheek into the pillow (the press of his back into John's palm). Shame trails Arthur like a leashed beast (and has done, John suspects, for most of the man's life) but if it's here now, it must be slumbering. The constant tension in Arthur's back seems to have been tossed away with his clothes, leaving something different – softer, more trusting – in its place.
Arthur is red down to his shoulders, but he keeps his legs spread and lets John work him slowly, thoroughly, rocking back into his touch with little sighs and moans.
John doesn't intend to take it any further than this – the slow seep of relaxation through Arthur's body alongside a new tension, building as Arthur's hips work forward and back, shoulder rocking and lower back drawn taut, penned in on all sides by the sweetly building ache of pleasure. John keeps massaging that tight ring of muscle, working it until it's soft and warm, until he can watch it flex and relax as Arthur's inhibitions fade. Arthur's a bit sweaty now, his skin growing tacky under John's hands, so John adds a bit of spit to his thumb before his next pass and oh, the sound Arthur makes at that: a sharp huff of air through his nose as he arches in wordless supplication.
John tries to mimic the slow, indulgent pace he'd seen Arthur set in the past. He doesn't know if Arthur kept his movements slight on those occasions in hopes that John wouldn't notice, or if he genuinely prefers the tease of a slow build. But, John thinks, if Arthur wants him to go faster, he can ask. For now, John is content to listen to Arthur's bitten-off little moans and feel the way his hole grips John's finger as he dips ever so slightly inside.
John presses three broad fingertips against Arthur's taint while continuing those firm, patient circles against his hole, and Arthur swears. "John."
"Still good?"
"Yes, yeah, it's good."
Arthur is rocking into his own hand and up against John's. His breath is coming heavy now, and John finds himself breathing hard and echoing Arthur’s low moans as if caught in a loop of hedonistic call and response. He feels warm and satisfied and focused, eager to see Arthur through to his finish.
Now and then, a shard of awareness cuts through the meditative focus of bodies working in tandem, the simplicity of touch as tool and bond and gift – and in those moments John finds himself once more caught up in the surprise of it: the long-awaited shudder of Arthur’s body against his in pleasure; a yearning suddenly fulfilled; a question answered.
Soon, Arthur is butting up against John's hands and pushing down against his own in quick, cut-off thrusts. John can hear the hint of a whine slipping out, though Arthur is clearly trying to stifle it, and this time the tone of it is different, higher and thinner, rising as if in violence, until Arthur's body stiffens and his mouth opens in a silent shout – and John nearly forgets the shock of his uncharacteristic silence against in the full-body shudder that rolls through Arthur – hips pulsing, shoulders jerking, until suddenly it's over and he collapses with a sigh.
Arthur winds down, though John keeps him pinned there just a few seconds longer than he needs to. Then he backs off, suddenly nervous. The confidence he’d felt moments ago seems to evaporate. Now that the heat has passed, will Arthur turn away?
"Feeling better?" He asks, trying to infuse his voice with the calm comfort from before.
Arthur sighs and stretches. John tries not to look at the long flex of his back, the comical pinch of his cheeks – he’s suddenly uncertain of the rules, now that the deed is done.
Then Arthur peeks over his shoulder in John's direction, and his expression is almost playful. He laughs, shakes his head, and tucks his face against the pillow again, still laughing.
"What?" John asks, feeling the weight of anxiety lift as suddenly as it had arrived. Laughter bubbles out of him as well, contagious and medicinal.
"Yes, John. I'm feeling pretty fucking great, actually."
"Oh. Good."
Arthur rolls over as best he can amidst the sprawl of knotted blankets and discarded clothes. His legs tangle comfortably with John's, and he smiles up at him. He's pleasantly flushed holding his right hand away from his body, fingers curled to contain – ah.
Arthur grins with a hint of embarrassment and says, "I, uh, should probably rinse this off." He splays his fingers meaningfully. Sticky clear-white fluid stretches between them.
John clears his throat and curls his own tacky fingers against his palms. "Um. Me too."
"But after..." Arthur gives John a look.
John doesn't understand. "After?"
"Ah, I could... reciprocate?" Arthur gives John a squeeze with his thighs. "If you’d like?"
"Oh! No – there’s no need. That was just for you."
Arthur stops short. "I see. That’s – fine. I understand." He sits up and untangles himself from John's lap. "Well. Thank you. I had a good time." He smiles politely.
John knows that tone. It's the 'thanks, but I don't need your help or charity, and by the way, fuck you' tone.
"No," John blurts, trying to catch the thread before the whole thing unravels. "I want that. It’s just that I already feel – good. So I don’t need… um. But maybe next time? If... if you also want... that." His face feels hotter than an oven. Why is this so hard to talk about? He just had his finger up Arthur's ass not five minutes ago.
"Oh!" Arthur smiles shyly. Quickly, as if afraid he’ll lose his nerve otherwise, he darts his clean hand down to squeezes John’s thigh. "Next time. Yes, I'd like that."
John tries to remember the last time Arthur smiled this much, and comes up short. He wonders if he'll see more of it, if they keep up like this.
He pulls Arthur into an embrace and smiles in return, mouth pressed to Arthur's neck so he'll feel it. "Me, too." The words don't sound like enough to his ears, and he hopes Arthur understands everything he wants them to mean.
"Ah. Um. One last thing..." Arthur's eyes are fixed in his direction, and there's still a flush in his cheeks.
"Yeah?"
"Can I... that is, would you like it if... can I kiss you?" Arthur asks.
It's John's turn to laugh. He pulls his friend in close. Their bodies fit together so nicely. Not like puzzle pieces; not like they were made for each other. Just two human bodies making room for one another.
"Yes, Arthur. Any time you like."
Later, Arthur curls up against John, taking up his space. It's rare for them to touch like this since they split. John hopes it'll happen more often.
"So." Arthur says, after they've whiled away the afternoon in bed, time fading and forgotten against the marvel of shared breath and entwined limbs.
"Mmm?" John's nose is buried in Arthur's hair. It's still strange to experience his friend from the outside. Did he know what Arthur smelled like, before?
"Does this mean you noticed? Back when we were together in my body. When I'd… y'know."
John's mind is too sluggish to piece together an answer, but Arthur's shame must still be slumbering, because he keeps talking.
"When I got off," Arthur continues, with a teasing huskiness. "I only did it a few times back then, but I really thought I might've gotten away with it."
John smiles. "I noticed. Stealthy as you were, I had nothing else to pay attention to, Arthur."
"But you didn't say anything!"
"I wanted to give you some privacy."
Arthur laughs and shakes his head. He turns to regard John warmly. "Sweet of you."
"I can be very sweet," John says smugly. "When I want to be."
Arthur gives him another kiss. What a joy it is, that John has already lost count of how many times they've kissed.
"You know," Arthur says. "I'm starting to think that's true."