Chapter Text
JOHN
John clicks their front door shut behind him as quietly as he can. He toes off his shoes, placing them soundlessly by the door, and he hangs his hat on the tallest spike of the coat rack.
And then he takes a moment, as he always does, to appreciate the life he sees before him.
The cinnamon sticks by the door are fragrant and sweet, and they smell like home. The early summer sun pours in through the open windows, making the pastel pink walls of the house glow warmly; the sunlight ripples over the small room, sending small specks of dust in the air sparkling like glitter. The kitchen is speckled with dots of yellow-green light as the sun peers through the fresh herbs that grow in the window boxes, and the kitchen table is a mess of loose papers from late night they spent organizing a to-read list for the new local library.
John quietly adds his handful of mail to the collection, save for one envelope.
“I’m back, Lilly,” John whispers excitedly, trying his hardest to keep his voice down. He tiptoes over to her spot atop the bookshelf to see her speeding through her new sea-garden, hiding in between the long strands of java ferns. John is immensely proud of her new five gallon fish tank. It takes up the entire top of the bookshelf, and it’s beautifully decorated with luscious greenery planted amid the multicolored rocks. The once solitary castle now blossoms like a regal flower from thick, waving foliage. And Lilly seems endlessly entertained.
John holds up the envelope for Lilly to see. “Look, Lilly! I’ve finally gotten a response!” he whispers again as Lilly wiggles through the seaweed. “What do you think? Should we tell him?”
Lilly swims to the top of her bowl to peck at the water’s surface.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
John and Lilly both turn their heads to follow the long trails of sunlight which, in the early evening hours, convene together in one spot: the couch.
The couch currently occupied by the one and only Arthur Lester, sun-soaked and gently snoring.
His red-blonde hair is ablaze in the light, and his skin glimmers gold in the sun rays. He lounges across the entire couch in his thin pajamas, looking as solid, strong, and healthy as John has ever seen him.
John feels, as he always does, nearly crushed by the weight of his love for the man.
John sneaks over to Arthur and crouches down to his level. Up close, John can see that Arthur’s stubble is starting to grow in on his chin, and his moustache needs its daily trim. Arthur is finally starting to wear small wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and around his mouth, and his faint freckles across his nose have turned deeper in color as he’s spent more time in the sun. John is enraptured with every small detail of Arthur’s beauty. And Arthur seems to only get more beautiful with time.
John thinks of one million lines of poetry he could recite to softly rouse the man from slumber, one million different caresses to pull Arthur gently across the ether, back into the waking world.
Instead, John allows his rambunctious heart to lead the way.
He squashes Arthur’s face between his hands and smothers him in a kiss.
“Mmmh—!” Arthur bolts awake, all of his limbs flailing wildly. He manages to wiggle out of John’s grasp, gasping for air, and John can’t stifle his laughter anymore.
“Jesus, John!” Arthur pants, propping himself up by his elbows. As he hears John’s rumbling laughter, Arthur begins to chuckle along. “Christ’s sake.”
“Sorry, Arthur,” John continues to giggle, not sorry at all, “I simply couldn’t resist.”
“Yes, that much is clear,” Arthur shifts onto his side to cup John’s cheek with his palm. John wonders if he’ll ever stop going dizzy at the feeling. “Are you trying to play Sleeping Beauty?”
“Mm,” John kisses the inside of Arthur’s wrist. “When I look at you, Arthur, I hardly have to pretend.”
“Flirt,” Arthur playfully shoves at John's face, but his cheeks turn a telling cherry red. He flops back down on the sofa, chuckling, “Lord. You know, I don’t remember the part of the fairy tale where Sleeping Beauty gets the fucking daylights scared out of her.”
John gives another kiss to Arthur’s cheek. “Perhaps you’re just not cut out to be a princess.”
“You wound me.”
John chuckles again, helping both of them up to standing. Arthur stretches his arms over his head, his joints popping with relief, and John takes this as an invitation to scoop Arthur up by the waist and haul him over his shoulder.
“Gah—! John!” Arthur laughs as he beats on John’s back. “What has gotten into you today!”
John deposits the man into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and suffocates him with another kiss. Arthur squeals and slaps at him until John finally relents and takes the seat adjacent.
Arthur heaves for air again, but he smiles brilliantly. “John, I said—”
“This has.” John pushes the envelope into Arthur’s hands.
Arthur’s face goes slack with surprise as his nimble fingers feel around the edges of the letter. “Is... Is this...?”
John’s heart leaps with anticipation. “It is.”
“Well! What are you giving it to me for?” Arthur cackles, pressing it back into John's hands. “Oh, John! This is so exciting!”
“I hope it will be,” John says, his confidence wavering. “With how the last few attempts went... Well...”
“Hey, hey.” Arthur cradles John’s face between his fingers. “Let’s not make assumptions, right? We haven’t even read it yet. It could say anything!”
“R-right,” John closes his eyes, briefly losing himself in the sweep of Arthur’s thumbs across his cheeks.
“But first—” Arthur gives said cheeks a little pat before he darts out of his chair, “—I have a surprise for you!”
“Hm?” John blinks. “A surprise?”
“Yes, yes!” Arthur feels his way through the kitchen, pausing at the pantry. He skims his hand across the top shelf until he grabs something that scraps like metal, shouting, “Aha!”
Arthur clutches a small tin close to his heart as he scurries back to his seat. “I bought us something special for the occasion!” He places the tin on the table next to them with great pride.
“What is...” John reads the label, “What the fuck is a ‘Jammy Dodger’?”
“Biscuits, John! Straight from the motherland!” Arthur bounces in his seat. “The shopkeeper told me they've started importing tins straight from the UK! God, you should have seen me jump when he said that.” Arthur pries off the lid with impressive speed, and he buries his nose in the tin.
“Oh, John!” Arthur shivers with delight as he inhales deeply. “They smell exactly as I remember!”
“These are...” John curiously takes the tin, and he sees neatly organized jam-filled sweets. “...Cookies?”
“Biscuits, John. They’re different. Do they still have the heart-shaped cutout in their centers?”
“They do.”
“Aren’t they lovely!”
“Quite charming, yes,” John agrees, taking a whiff. They smell sugary, fruity, and tart. “Are they raspberry?”
“God, I hope so! Sometimes they have strawberry jam, but I’ve always been one for the originals.”
“Hm,” John picks one up, inspecting it. The cookie — er, biscuit — crumbles lightly around its edges. “Well. I’m excited to try them.”
Arthur snags the tin from John and places it back on the table. “They’re as a reward, John. Be patient!”
John huffs, placing his biscuit back in the tin. “Yes, yes. Alright.”
“And, hey.” Arthur finds both of John’s hands and grips them tightly. “They’re a reward no matter what, right? A reward for trying again, right?”
John starts to feel uncertainty once again unfurl deep in his gut. “...Right.”
“And if they say no...?” Arthur prompts.
“...Then we’ll send them the next one.”
“Then we’ll send them the next one.”
John lets out a nervous exhale. Arthur squeezes his hands again and gives an encouraging smile.
“I love you, John.”
John feels his lips quiver. “I love you, Arthur.”
“Open it. Go on.”
John extracts his hands and finds the envelope underneath the biscuit tin. It’s stark white, addressed in very formal cursive script, and sealed with wax. It stirs a nauseating cocktail of excitement and dread deep in John’s stomach.
John slips his finger underneath the wax seal and shakily takes out the letter. He unfolds it, and he begins to read:
“Dear John Doe,
Thank you kindly for your submission to the New York Times Poetry Collective’s monthly magazine. We have reviewed your poem ‘In Search of Family’ for potential promotion in next month’s catalogue, and after careful deliberation, we have elected to—”
John’s heart flags like a flat tire. “—decline the inclusion of this poem in our ‘Featured Authors’ section. Thank you once more for your submission, and we hope to hear from you again soon. Signed—”
John doesn’t even bother reading the rest. He feels his body slump, settling like sludge. The thin paper falls from his loose grip and floats to the ground.
John feels Arthur’s hand rest on his shoulder, but John doesn’t look up. He stares at the floor, watching the wood grain turn warped and blurry through his tears.
“John. Love,” Arthur says quietly, giving a small shake to John’s shoulder. “John.”
John wants to answer, but his body gives a reflexive sniff instead.
Arthur sighs under his breath, and he uses a long finger to guide John’s chin upward to face him. There’s deep sadness in Arthur’s eyes, but he puts on a brave smile.
“We’ll send them the next one, yes?” he says as he wipes a tear from John’s cheek.
John nods, but he hardly feels reassured at all.
Arthur gives him a small peck on the nose. “I’m sorry, John. I know you were hopeful about this one.”
John’s voice strains when he says, “I really thought this was the one, Arthur. That poem meant everything to me.”
“I know,” Arthur whispers sadly, “I know.”
“That was the one I wrote for Sharon, for Jack, for Lilly, for you—” John loses control over his voice. “That was my poem about my family, Arthur, how I found you all, how I’ve grown with you all—”
Arthur wipes away another tear. “I know, love.”
“I— It’s the best thing I’ve written so far,” John closes his eyes, forcing a surge of tears down his face, “I was so proud of it, Arthur—”
“You still should be, John.”
“But they— They didn’t like it, Arthur! Why didn’t they like it?”
Arthur’s face falls with heavy sympathy. “I don’t know, John.”
“I—” John snivels, “I don’t think I can write anything better, Arthur, that was— They’ll never like my poetry if they didn’t like—”
“Hey. Stop with that!” Arthur’s voice turns icy. “Don’t you say that about yourself. You are an incredibly talented poet, John.”
“But, Arthur—”
“You are gifted in the art of poetry; do you hear me? You bleed words. And what’s most impressive about you, John,” Arthur grabs John’s arms and joggles them roughly, “is that you always keep writing. No matter how many rejection letters—”
“But this is the fourth, Arthur—”
“You always find a way back to writing!” Arthur says with finality. “When you keep writing, you keep improving. Yes, ‘In Search of Family’ was marvelous, certainly my favorite so far, but it’s not your peak. It’s not your final chapter. It’s just a poem that unlocked something deep within you, John.” Arthur slides his hands down John’s arms and laces their fingers together. “It showed you how to write for another person, how to write for an audience. It's your new trajectory, John. Your new voice! And each poem you’ll write after will be more true to you in ways you can’t yet understand.”
John sniffs again, each of Arthur’s words further wringing out his heart.
“You’ll continue to write, John. I know you will. And then...?” Arthur raises his eyebrow expectantly.
John’s voice is barely intelligible, but he replies, “And then we’ll send them the next one.”
“And then we’ll send them the next one.”
John throws his arms around Arthur’s slender frame, and Arthur embraces him with equal passion. Arthur pushes his cheek against John’s, waiting for John’s tears to stop falling. Arthur always waits.
“Alright, alright,” Arthur says after a while, slowly untangling them. His gentle smile returns. “Let’s put a pause on feeling sorry for ourselves, yes?”
John clears his throat, wiping his face one last time. “Okay, Arthur.”
“I do believe,” Arthur scoots the biscuit tin closer to John, “that a celebration is still in order?”
John huffs half a laugh. “Alright, Arthur.”
“Come now, John!” Arthur’s voice turns animated once more. “Tell me you aren’t dying to try the world’s greatest treat!”
“‘World’s greatest’, hm?” John puts on a skeptical tone. “I think that will need some corroborating evidence.”
“Let’s, then!” Arthur’s impatience seems to win out, and he stuffs a biscuit into his mouth. His eyes cross, and he practically moans with joy as he chews. “Oh my god!”
John finally does smile a bit, and he takes a biscuit for himself. The shortbread is flaky, crisp, and buttery, and the raspberry jam is just the right balance of sour and sweet.
“Mmm,” John agrees. “Oh, these are quite good.”
“I told you!” Arthur says with a mouthful of a second biscuit. “My lord, John, how I’ve missed these!”
“You used to eat these often?”
“Oh, yes,” Arthur laughs, going for a third. “I used to try to convince my mother to let me have a whole tin for dinner.”
John chuckles, his heart stirring to see Arthur lost in his childhood nostalgia. Arthur's zest for life is absolutely infectious.
By the time John reaches for another biscuit, he sees the box is nearly empty.
“Wha—! Arthur!”
“Hm?” Arthur says with half a biscuit sticking out of his mouth.
“You’re trying to eat the whole tin now, then?”
Arthur nods enthusiastically.
John harrumphs, and then he bites off the end of the biscuit between Arthur’s lips. Arthur jumps in surprise as crumbs fly everywhere.
“Hey!” Arthur cackles, trying not to choke.
“If you’re not going to leave me any, I’ll take them by force.”
Arthur tuts at him, wagging his finger. “You think I didn’t buy multiple boxes, John?”
John blinks at him. “You did?”
“Mm-hmm.”
John looks at him suspiciously. “...How many?”
Arthur covers his smile with his hand. “I may have bought out the stock.”
“You’re joking.”
“There’s a reason the shopkeeper informed me before anyone else,” Arthur says in a sing-song voice as he slyly takes the last biscuit from the tin.
John chortles with disbelief, and then he takes a shark bite out of the biscuit in Arthur’s hand.
“Hey!” Arthur slaps at him haughtily.
“What’s wrong, Arthur?” John chews innocently.
“Would you stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“Oh, you insufferable—” Arthur tries his best to hide his smile. “Stop taking my biscuits!”
“Make me.”
Arthur pins him with a devilish grin. “Oh, you’re going to regret saying that.”
John’s blood catches fire. “Is that so?”
Arthur leaps from his seat and tackles John to the ground, smashing their lips together in a bruising kiss.
John doesn’t regret anything.
Five tins of biscuits later, and the two men are sprawled out on the couch, rubbing their aching bellies.
“Perhaps having biscuits for dinner—” Arthur burps, “—should have stayed a childhood fantasy.”
“I feel horribly sluggish and also somehow sugar high.”
“Are my hands shaking?” Arthur searches for John’s hand with his own.
“I can’t tell if the answer is ‘no’,” John says, squeezing Arthur’s fingers, “or if my hands are just shaking, too.”
Arthur laughs a bit crazily. “Would you believe we still have six more tins left?”
“Eugh, I really don’t want to think about biscuits anymore, Arthur.”
“Yes, that’s fair.”
John hiccups, and his stomach complains in response. His insides seem to be having a civil war. He readjusts himself to lay on his side, sending both men scrambling to stay on the sofa.
“Oof— John, stop moving— You’re gonna make me sick—”
“If I don’t move, Arthur, I will be sick—”
“I'm serious, John, cut it out—”
They finally settle in a heap, Arthur laying fully on top of John, and they let out a miserable exhale together.
“Thank Christ neither of us are working tonight,” Arthur presses his face into John’s chest.
John tries to sink further into the couch cushions. “I think I would have called out at this point.”
“And leave Charlie all by his lonesome?”
“I can confidently say that Charlie would rather me puke at home than at the bar.”
“Ah, you may be right about that one. However,” Arthur says coyly, “if I didn’t show up either...”
“...Then there wouldn’t be a single guest to serve anyway?”
John can feel Arthur’s smile through his shirt. “Not to sound too self-important, but—”
“No, no. You’re right. The bar isn’t quite seasoned enough for a regular crowd yet, but entertainment always pulls numbers.”
“Look at you. Applying for assistant manager?”
John chuckles, and then immediately regrets it with the way his stomach lurches. “I think I’d be obligated to take the surname ‘Finley’ at that point.”
Arthur laughs and then also seems to regret it. “Why he named the bar with ‘two family names’ when he owns it independently is inconceivable. How many times a day do people call you that!”
“Considering the way Charlie introduces himself, you can assume the numbers yourself.”
“Oh, wait, wait— What is it again?” Arthur clears his throat, putting on his best New York accent. “‘Welcome to Finley and Dowd’s! Charlie Dowd, at your service— I’ll be takin’ the becks, and my boy Johnny will be takin’ the calls!’” Arthur laughs at himself. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
John snickers along. “Yes, Arthur. Though your accent leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Oh, please,” Arthur blows a raspberry at him. “The American accent leaves a lot to be desired. You all bastardized a perfectly good language.”
“We could be worse. We could be Canadian.”
“Oh god, John, please stop making me laugh. You’re going to end up with vomit in your hair.”
John politely shoves Arthur away from him. “That’s it. We’re officially having salads for lunch tomorrow.”
“Eugh,” Arthur sits himself up, holding his stomach. “I don’t think I’ll ever need to eat again, actually.”
“Good luck explaining that to Daniel tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Arthur suddenly starts to fidget with his fingers, his shoulders reaching for his ears. “Uh, I actually. Um. I wanted to talk to you about that.”
John doesn’t like that tone of voice. He sits up too, taking a second to breathe through the sickening wave of vertigo, and then he scoots beside Arthur. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, John,” Arthur says lightly, as he does when he tries to obscure the truth. “I just... I wanted to bring up something we mentioned a while ago.”
“What does that mean?”
Arthur presses his lips into a line. “I know you’re hesitant about this...”
“Yes?”
“A-and we haven’t really talked much about it, but...”
“Arthur, for the sake of my nerves, can you just spit it out?”
Arthur takes a rallying breath. “I want you to come to dinner with us. I want him to meet you, John. To finally have you as... Part of the family.”
John feels a chill of anxiety fly down his spine.
“...Oh,” he says softly, already hearing his voice start to tremble.
“N-not tomorrow, necessarily—” Arthur says, rushing to grip John’s hands reassuringly. “B-but I’d like to make a plan with him. When I see him tomorrow. I’d... I’d like to schedule a date.”
“R-right...” John breathes slowly, trying to keep the nausea at bay.
“I-I mean, it’s been months, right?” Arthur says, giving a lopsided smile. “A-and he says he wants to meet you! Really, he does!”
“Y-yes.”
Arthur’s shoulders start to droop. “You’re... You’re still nervous.”
“I-I—” John feels a violent shudder course through his body. “I can’t help it, Arthur, I’m—”
“It’s okay, John— Hey, it’s alright.” Arthur loops his arms around John’s middle, and John instinctively curls around the smaller man. “Just... What makes you so nervous?”
“I-I’m scared that...” John swallows. “I’m not good at hiding things, Arthur, I— Jack says I wear my emotions on my sleeves, and I’m afraid that I’m going to slip up, l-like I did—”
“John,” Arthur interrupts with a scolding tap on his back. “You’ve been doing great at the bar. Charlie doesn’t suspect a thing! And neither do the guests!”
“Yes, but—”
“You’ve bartended through each of my performances without a single slip-up. And I perform three times a week there!”
“I know, but—”
“We have a solid story, John. Everyone believes you’re my aide— And it makes sense that you might show a bit of care about me, being my caregiver after all, and—”
“Arthur—” John pushes the two of them apart, holding Arthur firmly by the shoulders. “Listen.”
Arthur’s face turns a shade of green from the sudden movement, but he nods, “S-sorry. Okay, sorry, John. I’m listening.”
John slowly guides Arthur to rest against him again, waiting for Arthur’s color to return to normal. “Bartending is my trade, Arthur,” he says quietly as Arthur tucks his head into John’s neck. “I’ve gotten good at wearing a ‘work mask’ because I’m confident in my work. It’s an easy, well-tread routine I can use as a distraction.”
John places his chin on top of Arthur’s head, sighing gravely. “I’m not confident in my people skills, Arthur. I’m afraid I’ll use you as a distraction to quell my anxieties about ‘being normal’ around Daniel.” John feels his intestines moil and writhe. “And then I’ll slip up.”
Arthur sinks deeper into John’s arms, humming sympathetically.
“I can’t ruin this for you, Arthur,” John says into his hair, “your relationship with Daniel is too important, and—”
“John, please.” Arthur turns around to lean his back against John’s chest, wrapping John’s arms around his stomach. “You’re not going to ‘ruin’ anything.”
“You don’t—”
“Let’s just— Let’s just look at things another way, alright? We can find a way to navigate through this, I know we can. A-and I’d really... I’d really like you to meet him, John, so...”
“I...” John breathes in the scent of Arthur’s new shampoo, citrusy and sweet. “I know. A-and I would like to meet him, too. I do.”
“So, let’s problem solve?”
“...Okay, Arthur.”
They wrap themselves in silence, taking a moment to think. Arthur occasionally wiggles in John’s grasp to find a more comfortable seat, and John strokes his fingernails across Arthur’s arms.
But all John can think about is the flurry of nerves in his stomach.
Eventually, Arthur murmurs, “Were you a confident bartender when you first started?”
“...Uh. What?”
“Day one on the job at Jack’s. Did you feel like bartending was an ‘easy routine’?”
John frowns. “No? Of course not. I’d just started.”
“You needed practice, then.”
“Yes?”
“So,” Arthur presses closer, nuzzling his cheek into John’s chest, “how about we practice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe we can rehearse,” Arthur says, gaining energy as he goes on. “We’ll straighten out the details of our story, and you can practice telling it. I’ll play Daniel, asking you questions about yourself or about your work, and you’ll recite your lines. We’ll do it until you're confident!”
John squeezes Arthur closer still. “I guess... That could work.”
“With enough practice, speaking with Daniel will be a ‘well-tread routine’! It’ll be second nature!” Arthur pats John’s forearms excitedly. “When you finally meet him, you’ll feel like an old friend. And he’ll love you, John— Right away, he will! I’m sure of it!”
John feels that small, pestering twinge in the back of his brain that reminds him that he’s estranged, in a way. An outcast from the masses. An alien. “He’ll love my mask, you mean.”
“Well—” Arthur audibly clicks his mouth shut, and then he exhales slowly. John feels the energy drain out of the smaller man. “...Yes. You’re right. He’ll love the mask you wear. For a while, at least.” Arthur reaches up to find John’s jaw, and he rubs this thumb across it. “But maybe not forever. Maybe one day...”
“...We won’t have to wear masks?”
“I hope so,” Arthur says, trying to sound optimistic. “He might... Come around.”
John kisses the tips of Arthur’s fingers, waiting for the rushing current of bitter anxiety to finish its course through his body. John still feels so new to this world of hushed secrets and masquerades. He considers himself lucky that he was never one for socializing, even before he learned who he was.
“Well,” John sighs heavily, “it’s a good idea, still. To rehearse, I mean.”
“I think it can only be beneficial.”
“Hm.”
“Would you like to start tonight?”
John combs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, contemplating. “...Yes. Yes, I think that will at least help my blood pressure.”
Arthur tilts his head back and grins. “Are you sure that’s not just the biscuits talking?”
“Hm. Good point.” John sweeps Arthur into his arms, earning himself another gigglish yelp, and he turns them on their sides to lay like spoons on the couch. “Perhaps a nap first. Let me finish digesting.”
Arthur stretches out languidly, though his shoulders still bounce with laughter. “Mmm. That sounds like a wonderful idea to me.”
“You say that as if you weren’t napping earlier today.”
“One can never have too many naps, John.”
“Twenty minutes, you think?”
“Thirty.”
“You wake me up, then.”
“In that case, I’ll see you in the morning.”
John chuckles as he helps Arthur snuggle up comfortably. The sunlight from the windows has long since started to dissipate, and John leans into the pooling warmth between them. He rubs a gentle hand up and down Arthur’s arm as he listens to Arthur’s breathing even out.
And then John lies wide awake, clutching Arthur close, ruminating on waxed-sealed rejection letters and slipping masks.