It had been real weird, how Peter found his way back.
He’d thought he was dead. (He tries hard not to think about that.) But it was like Arthur was a light. A trail in the darkness for Peter to follow.
And he had followed. He’d needed to follow. He’s not sure if it’s for his own sake, or if…
He remembers the way he died. Remembers his eyes feeling like they were about to pop out of his head, looking up at Arthur, slender and immovable, staring down at him with cold, ferocious eyes that weren’t his—the thing behind them wasn’t him—while he’d gagged and clawed and choked and—
Well.
Peter hadn’t been ready to go. And even more, Arthur had needed him. Holy shit, Arthur had needed somebody, anybody, and he didn’t have anybody and Peter had died in terror, because…because hell, everybody dies. But not everybody has that happen to them.
Sometimes, in his dreams, he thinks he remembers the places he walked through, on his way back.
But there hadn’t been any dramatic revelation or fireworks display. He just…stepped out, one day (out of where?) and there’d been Arkham, and Arthur, and…and, well, John. But that awful light in his eyes was gone, replaced by something warmer, less terrifying.
Oh, Arthur. He’d just been a little raggedy scrap of himself by then, scarred and scraped thin and wasted away. Still going, because Peter is pretty sure that willpower of his could keep his body going past death. That’s a thought he used to have sometimes about Arthur and boy, he regrets it these days, because he’s more than a little afraid it might be literally true.
Sometimes Peter sees how soft John’s eyes get when it comes to Arthur and he wonders if it was really Arthur’s light he was following, or if John knew Arthur needed somebody too.