He doesn't feel the mask leave - he only notices the swish of fabric from John's own form coming into existence when he's already got a white-knuckled fist of his own sleeve from trying to find the fucking thing. And when the door opens his head snaps sharply towards it, gritted teeth half-bared in surprise at the sound and feeling distinctly, uncomfortably like some sort of feral fucking animal stuck in headlights.
He hasn't got the forethought to say anything between John backing off and actually leaving - but a small noise escapes him, just a quiet, strangled, surprised "John-"
And then the door is shut. And Arthur is... alone.
Alone, with this anxious buzzing under his skin and the fires of his frustration and- and fear, fine, finally simmering down to leave him cold and almost trembling and feeling sick up the whole length of his torso.
John left. Of course he fucking left, Arthur asked him to, but there's something that still makes him feel like he's just been slapped with the fact that he did. That he can. That he doesn't need Arthur here, that he can choose to do whatever he wants and Arthur has no say in what he does with that. He only chose Arthur because he was an easily manipulated idiot, after all - what is there to stay for?
Fuck.
He lifts his hand to scrub his face but the rings catch on his skin and suddenly they feel too tight, like they're going to cut his finger off, and he has to use his teeth to take the stupid fucking things off and he fucking hates that but he slams them down on his desk before he turns tail, yanking his coat off the rack hard enough that the entire thing wobbles dangerously, but he can't see it so it doesn't fucking matter. He just slams the door behind him as he storms out, aiming for the stairs rather than deal with the elevator blind. He needs a fucking drink.
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He hasn't got the forethought to say anything between John backing off and actually leaving - but a small noise escapes him, just a quiet, strangled, surprised "John-"
And then the door is shut. And Arthur is... alone.
Alone, with this anxious buzzing under his skin and the fires of his frustration and- and fear, fine, finally simmering down to leave him cold and almost trembling and feeling sick up the whole length of his torso.
John left. Of course he fucking left, Arthur asked him to, but there's something that still makes him feel like he's just been slapped with the fact that he did. That he can. That he doesn't need Arthur here, that he can choose to do whatever he wants and Arthur has no say in what he does with that. He only chose Arthur because he was an easily manipulated idiot, after all - what is there to stay for?
Fuck.
He lifts his hand to scrub his face but the rings catch on his skin and suddenly they feel too tight, like they're going to cut his finger off, and he has to use his teeth to take the stupid fucking things off and he fucking hates that but he slams them down on his desk before he turns tail, yanking his coat off the rack hard enough that the entire thing wobbles dangerously, but he can't see it so it doesn't fucking matter. He just slams the door behind him as he storms out, aiming for the stairs rather than deal with the elevator blind. He needs a fucking drink.