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Arthur lay back, hands still fisted in the sheets above his head and legs still wrapped around John's thighs. He and John panted in time together, John just barely holding himself from laying his full weight on top of Arthur.
The moment of stillness was broken as John's tentacle-like prick squirmed its way out of Arthur’s hole and back into John’s sheath. Arthur whined at the empty feeling, closing his sightless eyes, as John rested his forehead on the smaller man’s collarbone.
Being separate had been the goal from the start, but the reality of not being in the same body was far more overwhelming than either had anticipated. Most days were fine, but there were times when all John wanted was to crawl back under Arthur’s skin and curl around his beating heart, secure in the knowledge that they had finally carved out a little life here in Arkham where the King in Yellow would not bother them. That the wards in place on their little home, not to mention the ones carried on their persons, would keep him from interfering with them again. Times when Arthur felt the crushing silence of being alone in his head, and would trade back his hand and foot for the company and constant descriptions of his surroundings.
Moments like these, in the aftermath of their coupling, were sometimes the closest they felt to that space these days. Where John would shift to lay alongside and partially on top of Arthur, his head tucked into the crook of the PI’s neck, breathing against his ear. Arthur would run unsteady fingers through John’s hair, catching in the tangles he’d made earlier and trying to work them out. They would remain like this for as long as they could, before eventually, inevitably, either John’s distaste for bodily fluids or Arthur’s need to go to the bathroom won out and they were forced to separate and head to the bathroom.
Outside of these moments or when they compressed their two full-grown forms into their apartment’s single bed, which had barely been designed with one full-grown body in mind, they did not discuss this desire to return to the closeness they’d once shared. Arthur had awkwardly walked John through most of humanity’s expectations, and had been clear on what was thought of anyone who was light in his loafers. When John had protested that neither of them even wore loafers, Arthur had snapped back something about flowers that left John even more frustrated and confused and the resulting argument had left them on unspeaking terms for the rest of the day. Their reconciliation at bedtime came with a mutual agreement on communication and acceptable contact.
In the late afternoon sunlight, John began to shift against Arthur to make his way into the bathroom. He could feel the cooled, rapidly drying tackiness of his own lubricating slick gluing his legs and Arthur’s together, and Arthur’s own ejaculate was no better. He went to slip out of their bed, but Arthur’s hand grabbing his stopped him short.
“Drawing yourself a bath?” Arthur asked. John paused to consider; he’d been planning to dampen a washcloth and wipe himself and then Arthur clean, but a bath would probably benefit them both more.
“Yes, Arthur. Would you like to use the tub when I’m done with it?”
Arthur heaved himself up. “No, I think I’ll join you today. If you’ll have me, that is.”
John considered arguing that their tub barely held him and they’d never fit, but stopped himself. He considered sitting in the warm water, holding Arthur and being held in turn, and something in him softened. “Alright, Arthur. But you’re letting me wash your hair.”
Arthur huffed, but a smile tugged at his mouth. He followed John to their cramped bathroom, still holding his hand.