"You show up here-- agh," says Arthur furiously, interrupted by the noise he makes when John's fist hits the side of his ribcage. He grabs at that spot, finding fabric, plentiful rough fabric-- are those robes? Is John wearing their fucking robes? You know what, that's not important right now.

"I'll make you wish I could kill you--"

With the sleeve in his grip, Arthur climbs it hand-over-hand back up to John's head, and aims a wild punch at where he thinks John's face must be.

It doesn't perfectly connect. He manages a glancing blow against something hard and angular that jars his knuckles even as he feels it move under them. Arthur growls out an "Ow," and pulls his bruised fist automatically back towards his body, and only then realises: the mask? The fucking mask as well?

He's now holding onto the throat of John's robe with only one hand, his leg tangled in John's arm.