There's a small noise of surprise from Arthur - there always is, when he's manhandled, purely reflex - but when he's swept half-off his feet, his arms wrap around John's neck, holding himself up as much as pressing as much love as he possesses into this physical form, and he doesn't protest or fight it.

Instead he breathes slowly through the tight squeeze, lets John's bolero of freshly rerealised pain wash over him, his own piano a gentle anchor beneath it. He is here, he is here and he will keep being here because he wants to.

Because John Doe is everything to him.