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Trick or Treat Exchange 2021, Anonymous, stonekey
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2021-10-31
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I had the swirl and ache

Anonymous

Summary:

He is also grateful that Arthur is unaware of how much he enjoys the simple pleasure of being touched. Arthur recites a poem for John as he drifts to sleep.

Notes:

The poem Arthur recites is To Earthward by Robert Frost.

Work Text:

Simple things are what give John the greatest pleasure: The stratified layers of leaves in a tree, water rippling in hypnotic light-tipped patterns, white-tufted clouds surprising him in a clear sheet of blue sky. The smell of gasoline and coffee. Leather smooth and cool against his fingertips, or the rough grain of bricks, or the unbelievable softness of a flower petal. He does not tell Arthur everything he sees or touches or knows, but that doesn't mean he doesn't bask, when he can. The world of the living is beautiful beyond his understanding, and he is grateful for every stolen second.

He is also grateful that Arthur is unaware of how much he enjoys the simple pleasure of being touched.

Arthur doesn't touch him often. Usually it is incidental, a matter of needing both hands to perform a task—Arthur dressing or undressing, pulling his shoes and socks off with a relieved sigh, or drawing a sock over his foot, so that the fingertips of his right hand slide up his left foot, ankle, calf, leaving heat in his wake and goosebumps that Arthur cannot see. When they shave, John holds Arthur's jaw, and is proud of how steady he keeps his hand though the sight of Arthur in the mirror makes him feel weak, these days, in ways he doesn't fully understand.

Entangled, he thinks, when he helps Arthur button a shirt and their fingers brush, sending an electric pulse through John's mind, both physical and immaterial and altogether infuriating. They may never be separated. More and more, John questions if he even wants to be. It is difficult to fathom having his own body—and when he does fathom it, he finds himself preoccupied, above all else, with what it might be like to touch Arthur's left hand, what pulse he might send through Arthur if he did.

Sometimes, John touches Arthur on purpose, and focuses on the nebulous state of Arthur's mind when he does, seeking answers. He does not dwell, brushing the outside of Arthur's thigh as they walk, or scratching Arthur's side, or, when he is feeling particularly daring, running their hand through Arthur's thick hair. It is the last that makes Arthur's mind react the most, stretching toward John, attentive and curious and, underneath it all, afraid, and so it is the thing John does the least, treasuring Arthur's reaction each time, secreting it away to turn it over and over in his mind while Arthur sleeps.

It is not such a simple thing that he craves from Arthur. He knows that.

So, when Arthur touches him, he holds his peace. He does not ask for anything more than what Arthur gives him. He decides, early on, that he will not beg Arthur for anything, except perhaps to survive, to listen to him, to watch his step—to live, for both of them.

So—when Arthur touches his left hand, in wild woods on a crescent-moon autumn night two months after their journey began—when Arthur does so slowly, with just the tips of his fingers, as if he is not sure he can, or should—John stares at their pale hands in the inconstant glow of the firelight, watches goosebumps rise on his wrist and forearm, and struggles to compose himself, thinking he should say something, and that he should say nothing but wait and see where Arthur's fingers will go in the dark.

Arthur traces the forefinger of his left hand, down into the over-sensitive crook of his thumb. John curls Arthur's toes in his shoe, holding all of his tension in his left foot, where Arthur cannot feel it. "I keep thinking this must get easier," Arthur says. "But it doesn't. It just gets harder in different ways."

"Harder how?" John asks, as neutrally as he can, when Arthur's fingers are sliding back up his forefinger, and down again, between his index and middle finger. He struggles to keep his hand from shaking under Arthur's.

"Just...harder. I don't know." He rolls the middle knuckle of John's ring finger between his forefinger and thumb. "And once that seemed too much; / I lived on air / that crossed me from sweet things..."

"Is that poetry?" John asks. He turns his hand palm-up and stares, hypnotized, as Arthur continues his steady exploration, tracing the subtle lines in their palm with his nail. It is nearly overwhelming.

"Yes. Robert Frost, you remember him. It just came to me. God, I miss poetry." Arthur sighs and drops his hand to his chest. The sudden absence of touch makes something shiver and stretch with yearning inside of John. "How did it go...I had the swirl and ache / from sprays of honeysuckle / that when they shake gathered dew on the knuckle. No, hold on..."

"It's been a long day," John says. "You'll remember things more clearly after getting some rest."

Arthur ignores him. "Let's see...Love at the lips was touch / as sweet as I could bear; / and once that seemed too much; / I lived on air / that crossed me from sweet things..."

To hear the word love in Arthur's voice—to hear it in this quiet place, as they lie, safe enough, in sweet-smelling grass under the stars—makes something inside of John squeeze. John lifts their left hand to Arthur's face. He wonders how close he can get without Arthur knowing—and wonders, too, what Arthur would do if he ran his finger across his lips. "The flow of—was it musk / from hidden vineyard springs / downhill at dusk?" Arthur says, his voice heavy with sleep. His breath is warm against John's fingertips, and the movement of his lips like kisses just out of reach. Above them, leaves sway in a breeze John can't feel. "I had the swirl and aches / from sprays of honeysuckle / that when they're gathered shake / dew on the knuckle..."

He lowers his hand, instead, and lets it rest on Arthur's chest, next to, but not quite touching, Arthur's right hand. He uncurls his toes and steadies himself. Arthur is exhausted, and dazed, and trying to remember a poem he may never read again with his own eyes. John is being vulgar. He lets Arthur's eyes drift shut and listens to the wood crackling apart in the fire and Arthur tenderly reciting lines.

"I craved strong sweets, but those / seemed strong when I was young; / the petal of the rose / it was that stung. / Now no joy but lacks salt, / that is not dashed with pain / and weariness and fault; / I crave the stain / of tears, the aftermark / of almost too much love..."

Their right hand moves to settle over their left. Insignificant, perhaps, except Arthur did not need to move it at all. Arthur's heart beats under John's palm, steady and sure, and the vibration of Arthur's words rumble through his chest through their shared hands. John is glad to not have a heartbeat, for it would spell his thoughts under Arthur's touch.

"The sweet of bitter bark / and burning clove. / When stiff and sore and scarred / I take away my hand / from leaning on it hard / in grass and sand, / the hurt is not enough: / I long for weight and strength / to feel the earth as rough / to all my length." Arthur lapses into silence; the poem must be done.

John gazes at the sliver of a moon and the stars that shine through the canopy of trees. Arthur rubs his thumb against John's hand, once, twice, then stops, but the prickling in John's skin does not, nor does his desire. "Beautiful," John says. "Though I'm not sure I understand it."

Arthur doesn't answer immediately. He traces along John's knuckles until he reaches the wooden pinky, then follows its thin line up until he reaches flesh again. He stops there, letting his fingertips linger at its border. "That's the thing about poetry, John. You bring your own understanding to it. What do you think it means?"

John hesitates. "Recite it again," he says, selfishly, just wanting to hear Arthur say love again.

Arthur obliges, speaking more slowly, lending each line weight. As he does, his hand stays perched on John's. "So," he says, when he is finished, "what do you think?"

"I don't know," he says. "It makes me think of love as a painful thing, only...it makes the pain sound sweet. But pain is pain. Perhaps this is a human thing beyond my understanding."

"I don't think so," Arthur says. "After all, it's about desire. And you have plenty of that. A desire to live...a desire to experience beauty and pleasure—and pain, too." He taps the wood pinky, as if that proves his point. John has to concede that it is a good argument. "I think you have a desire to feel at home. Bound to Earth."

Bound to you, John thinks. He hums in thought. "Perhaps. It is lovely, either way. Thank you for sharing it, Arthur."

"Of course, friend," Arthur says. His voice is low and soft. His mind is settling in on itself, and his hand grows heavy over John's. "Goodnight, John."

"Sleep well," John says, and thinks the words he can't yet say.

He breathes in the sweet smell of living darkness, and luxuriates in the simple weight of Arthur's hand on his. He recites the poem to himself, over and over, committing the lines to memory; when he is satisfied, he presses his palm into the earth until it aches.