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'John.' Arthur's voice is low, hesitant.
'Mmm?' They're sitting on the low seat, beneath the large window. The radio plays faint strains of music from the other room, hazy and far-off.
'Would you... mind describing the view to me?' John reads to him, sometimes. The newspaper, or books Arthur's fondly deemed 'the classics.' Often poetry, and John loves when Arthur will recite some back, voice warm and rhythmic. And of course, he still tells Arthur of his surroundings, directions and occasional scathing commentry on passers-by. But Arthur doesn't often ask John to simply describe the city for the sake of it. He thinks, briefly, of that first night, rattling around in a cab and inside of a body he wasn't used to, trying to soothe his panicky host by describing the glittering lights of Arkham.
'...The sun hangs low in the sky, Arthur. It butters the sky in light yellow that fades into deeper and deeper blue as the arch of the sky rises. The horizon is faint pink and orange at the edges, bleeding together and staining the few clouds with glowing colour. The sunset bathes the city in hazy gold, softens the lines of the rooftops.
I can't... Oh! Arthur, there's a star! It's very faint, glimmering against the dusky light.'
'Hah, really? There's a rhyme about the first star... let's see...' He clears his throat, tilting his head slightly as he thinks. The last, fleeting yellow rays of sunlight stretch through the window to brush Arthur's face and cast lengthening, stark shadows.
'Hmm... Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might... Something about making a wish tonight.'
John blinks.
'A wish?'
'Mm.'
'Why do humans send prayers to stars?'
Arthur laughs. 'I don't know, John. It's just a thing you do.'
'Oh, well.' John stares up at the small light. He directs a quiet thought at it, then pauses as though waiting.
'Have you done it? No, wait, don't tell me, that ruins it.'
'What? Why?'
'Huh, you know, I'm really not sure.'
John scoffs lightly, always impressed by humanity's capacity for nonsensical sentiment.
'Fine. Well, it's the only thing that high in the sky. The clouds are lower down, brushing rooftops.They're smooth, eggshell white, and stained with rosy light in their underbellies.
The buildings of the city stand jagged and tall against the fadin daylight. Like teeth, uneven and gappy. They're sharp but indistinct, and in some places, light catches of glass and glints oddly, shards of brilliant white.
Below, the lamps aren't on yet, but they'll be lit soon. There are a few people moving through the streets, some hurrying from place to place and others swaying or staggering.' Arthur gives an amused hum, but John is being swept away by the tide of the city and rushes on;
'Shadows pool in every corner. It makes everything in the streets look cooler, dark and blue-ish, in contrast. But there are patches of glowing bright orange. Light spills out of windows onto the darkening streets. We can't hear it, but I think... It seems like it would sound lively. People laughing and singing and dancing. It seems like it would be joyful.'
John trails of, suddenly self concious. He glances at Arthur, but his head is tipped back, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. He stretches out a hand, grasping John's and lacing their fingers together. His are warm and firm. Slightly bony, too, slotting in neatly between John's knuckles and pressing lightly.
'Thank you, John.' The last vestiges of daylight stream in as though clinging to this moment for as long as possible. They catch dustmotes, shimmering specks that weave and dance, hanging in the soft light. John gazes out the window, chasing every hint of life, his bright, burning eyes hungry enough for him and Arthur both.