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Exhaustion set in.
God, sitting down had been a mistake. Though he thought he'd soothe his aching muscles for whatever lay beyond … all Arthur truly wanted to do was curl up on this kitchen table and rest. Everything throbbed in pain; Arthur could scarcely track it down to a specific body part anymore. Only two areas escaped: his left arm and his foot. Everything else, Arthur's brain whined, hurt.
A more sympathetic excuse not to help the cultists than his previous one, but an excuse nevertheless.
They’d fallen into silence as Arthur ate, one elbow propped on the kitchen island. He could smell the pantry, now. Long-ago stews that had sat over the hearth, potatoes mouldering in the corner, the faint, earthy smell of vegetable rinds.
He ought to be tripping over himself to get to the food, ought to be shoving it all into his mouth without a second thought.
But – no. There would be time for that, later. When he’d earned it. When there was nothing left for him in Addison.
The apple was an indulgence, as it was. And christ, was it the best apple he’d ever eaten. Soft, sweet. It melted against his mouth; there was scarcely even a need to chew it. It was tempting to reach for another, and another, until he’d gone through the entire bowl. At least the soft ache of his half-rotted teeth was enough to keep him grounded.
As well as the traces of blood he’d tasted around every bite. Though he’d scrubbed off the eye matter, and the blood, and the gore … well, there had been rather too much of it lately for Arthur’s liking.
John had gone quiet, after quietly entreating him to enjoy his food. He was grateful for the silence. For the first time in days, probably, Arthur’s own thoughts weren’t sharp enough to cut him. Every passing thought felt oddly soft; without consciously realizing it, a foggy haze filled his mind, and he … and ...
His head started to dip.
John caught him. His hand crossed over Arthur’s body to grasp his right shoulder, startling Arthur back up. “’m fine, ‘m fine,” he mumbled, shaking his head. The apple core was put on the table. Dinner over. “Sorry. I’m awake.”
When’s the last time you slept?
“I …” The inn? If you could call that sleep, regardless, that drunken … no, he remembered being drunk. More akin to poison, that. “Oh! Not that long ago, actually. When I was brought here, I … it took some time for me to wake up.”
When you were brought here.
“Yes. Yes, Uncle brought us here.” Arthur yawned. “There was, ehm, when the creature attacked – you know about that. I’m sure I’ve told you.”
Actually … actually, yes. Perhaps he could take this time to explain all that had happened. John deserved an explanation for what the past few days had been like, if nothing else. Things felt more open between them, less strained through Arthur’s single-minded vengeance.
And … he missed talking to John. Really, actually talking to him. Anything in the world. He had the oddest urge to ask John to describe every vegetable in the room, or perhaps he could tell John what little he remembered of the plot of Blood and Sand! Christ, did John even have any concept of film? Not like they’d had time to sit, and they …
They didn’t really have time, now.
Later, though. Definitely.
John didn’t let go of his shoulder. Instead, he readjusted his grip – John’s thumb pressed firmly in the hollow of Arthur’s collarbone, the rest of his fingers creeping across the curve of his torso. He could feel his forearm pressing against his chest like a seatbelt.
Another laugh bubbled out of Arthur. He scarcely recognized the sound. What man did that carefree chuckle belong to? Certainly not the wretched Arthur Lester.
“I promise, I’m not going to fall asleep and shatter my nose.”
I believe you. It’s not that.
“Then what …?”
His left arm nestled closer to his chest. John squeezed his thin shoulder, but whatever message he was trying to imply, Arthur didn’t understand. He carved off a thin piece of apple flesh with the curve of his thumbnail and chewed it thoughtfully. Perhaps he ought to finish that glass of water before he went down. God knew he’d need it.
It’s been a long night.
Oh – yes. Arthur swallowed. “Yes, I suppose we did?” He wasn’t sure what John was getting at. Scarcely the first time they’d been near death. That hadn’t surprised him as much as … “I should say thank you, John. For saving us, up on that ledge.” For saving me, for what came after.
No. That’s not – no. Of course I was going to fucking save us, Arthur. I don’t have any intentions on going to the Dark World.
“Neither do I.”
Good. John’s sigh tickled the edges of Arthur’s mind. His thumb had started to rub in the hollow of Arthur’s collarbone. I’m starting to realize how long I was gone, Arthur, even if I don’t remember the gap. We’d only just been reunited, and if we died, because I failed to –
“It wouldn’t have been your fault.” Arthur’s voice bridged no humor. “It would have been mine.”
It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.
John didn’t go on. Arthur didn’t know how to press. Hadn’t there been a time when he’d been halfway decent at understanding John? Perhaps he was looking at their history through rose-coloured glasses. Trying not to sigh in frustration, Arthur reached for the cup of water and took a long drink from it. Surely if something were wrong, terribly wrong …
Why did you shake my hand? When I first came back?
Some water stuck in his trachea. Arthur coughed, each movement making his head pulse with pain. “I was relieved to see you!” He exclaimed, a little hoarse. “I thought I made that clear.”
Yes. I know that. But why did you shake my hand?
That was much harder to answer. “Well, it’s what people do after not seeing each other for a long while.” He could anticipate the next question. “Some people like physical contact, I suppose. Whether it’s a reassurance, a-a symbol of care, a sign that you see them as equals …”
Which one was it for you?
Arthur had to think on it a moment. “All three. And a comfort. While I didn’t relish the thought of losing the hand again, it was worth it to have you back.”
A comfort, John mused. Arthur could feel his pointer, middle, and index press against his right shoulderblade. His little finger hung limply against the back of his shirt.
“Yes, a comfort. Shaking your hand was a comfort. I …”
Oh.
Oh.
An embrace. Not the most traditional of embraces, true, but John was – as best as he could, perhaps without even fully realizing – embracing him.
Arthur’s lips twitched, and he soon failed to suppress his smile. God. When was the last time anyone had ever hugged …?
No. No, he couldn’t let himself dwell on that, now. He could be grateful for what he had now. He could be grateful for this, this … this amazing, wondrous, tender display of humanity from a person far, far better at it than him. Strike that, from his friend.
He put down his now-empty glass of water. After a second’s worry about logistics, Arthur raised his right hand, and –
“Oh, fuck!” Arthur whined.
Careful! What are you –
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Scarcely like he had forgotten the injury he’d suffered, but it had joined the muted agony of everything else on his body. His hand fell upon the bandages covering his left shoulder; his arm had crossed over John’s own.
To anyone walking in the room, it must have looked mad, this Dracula-esque pose. Arthur dipped his chin to his chest and, without aggravating his injuries further, pressed his fingertips against the hard bone of his shoulder.
“We’re okay,” Arthur reassured in a low voice. “We got out of there. We’re on our way out.”
Nothing at first, though he could feel the weight of John’s hesitation. Yeah?
“Yes. Yes, we’ll get everyone out of the mines, and then we’re leaving this place,” he enthused. “We’ll get the answers we need. We have the home advantage, here.” Arthur squeezed his left shoulder again. John’s grip tightened in turn. “We’ve got each other, John.”
We have each other. The words seemed to ripple against the barrier between his mind and John’s own, echoing in his ears. I have you.
“I have you,” Arthur emphasized. Christ, one of them was certainly more valuable than the other, at this point. If John hadn’t been there – if Yellow had remained in his place … he suppressed a shiver. “See them try to separate us.”
Though he had meant it in a more metaphorical sense … well, Arthur found that he was not daydreaming of their eventual separation as he once had. He had just gotten John in his mind, again, and he was not keen on losing him. Not until he had all the answers. Not until he knew John would be safe.
Let them fucking try, John sneered, giving Arthur’s shoulder a triumphant shake.
“Even the King in Yellow couldn’t manage. Not really.”
I came back.
“You came back, and I haven’t felt more whole in days.”
It was a confession that Arthur hadn’t really expected to come out – at least, he hadn’t expected it to seem quite so grim. He wondered if he ought to clarify it, perhaps move the subject along, but …
I don’t remember ever being part of the King in Yellow. But, Arthur … John’s voice pitched lower, rumbling in a familiar manner through his mind. I have never felt more like myself than when I’m part of you.
Christ, if he had any more tears to shed, they’d be coming out then. As it was, Arthur’s genuine exhaustion won out, and he could only smile. He dropped his left shoulder and instead reached for John’s wrist. “I’m glad to hear it, friend.”
How tempting it was to just sit there. Arthur let himself indulge a while longer. John didn’t pull away from his shoulder, the warmth of his hand reassuring in the cold, brisk dawn.
Sometimes, things could just be nice.
They would be nice again. They just had to get out of this fucking town, but first, there were some cultists desperately in need of their help.
Arthur was scarcely going to be the one to pull John’s hand away. Instead, he let his head fall to the side, his stubble scratching against John’s fingers. “We should get going. The longer we wait, the hungrier that monster becomes.”
We need to get down there before another person sacrifices themselves. John finally released him. Arthur pointedly ignored the pang of loss, the way the cold seemed to leech into his shoulder again.
Best to search around a bit before heading down.
He pushed himself up from the bench, making it creak against the stone floor. “Once more unto the breach,” he remarked fondly. His knife was still in his bag; they could do with the lighter for illumination. The flute … yes, the flute would be invaluable, if he could figure out how to make it work before the monster ate them both.
Dear friend, John finished, and Arthur smiled.