lestercraft | TLV: IC Inbox

[ It doesn't really matter if he's there or if he has to go at top speed towards where he can guess Arthur is. Either way, either option, John's first priority is getting to Arthur and putting his mask against his fingers.

He hates that he hesitates a moment before doing it. He really, truly does. ]

[ It's me. It's... the John you came here with. ]

[To Arthur's credit, he doesn't flinch. Only one John had the mask, the others just slid in. If they deigned to acknowledge him at all.]

I know, John.

[But he doesn't take the mask. He pulls away a little, instead letting his hand roam in his jacket pockets for his cigarettes, going through the gentle, methodical routine of lighting up.]

[ There are never times when John is glad that Arthur can't see. But there are a lot of times when he's glad that Arthur can't see him. It's so much easier to know that the way his mask shivered once Arthur pulls away is something only he's aware of.

He floats away a little himself.

There's a part of him that wants to lash out, that wants to express the hurt and the emptiness and the awfulness that he's feeling with loud words. But the very idea just drains him and he

Can't.

He doesn't have a body, doesn't have tear ducts. Doesn't have a heart to hear thudding in his ears. He has one hand and it's not even his, really. He doesn't know what to do. So he'll just...

Wait.

He fucking hates waiting. ]

[It's not like Arthur's doing much better, really. He's just got a lot more experience in schooling his reaction. He's had to practice his cool, emotionless face since he was a child. He's well versed in keeping his movements small, shoulders stiff to keep the shaking from rattling down his arms and hands, that special kind of stillness that doesn't give anything but cold, sullen silence.

The only real tell that he's struggling to keep it together is how many attempts it takes to light the lighter.

It's only after he takes a deep, long pull of his cigarette, lets the bitter, tarry smoke coat his lungs and tongue, exhales it out his nose so he can think about anything besides blood, that he finally seems to settle a little. Only a little.]

I'm not upset with you, John. I'd like to make that clear, you- you didn't do anything wrong, whatsoever.

...well, that's a load of horse shit but I appreciate you saying so.

[ The amount he does not like being on the outside of that stillness can be seen from space. He feels bisected and vivisected, broken into pieces in those and a dozen other ways. ]

[That gets a snort.]

Don't give me that shit. You might have been the King in Yellow but you have made an active choice to be better than that. My hatred of the King is distinct from my frustrations with you.

And I wasn't talking about the King.

[ Comes out a little sharp. Less sharp than it might have been. ]

...as far as I'm concerned, I'm held to the same promise I made to you in that pit. That wasn't him. That was me.

[Being on the outside means that John gets to see when Arthur flinches, just a little, at the mention of the pit, and jerks his head away from John's voice a fraction.]

And what good were you when he was running around turning people mad?

[The snap is sharp, too quick. An obvious and cutting redirection from having to think about the fucking pit.]

[ Silence. A longer silence. His voice isn't snappish when he answers, but it is... tired. ]

I did fuck all, Arthur. I didn't think that was up for debate.

[Arthur stays quiet for a while himself. Takes another quiet drag.

God, he hates that this is a conversation that needs having.]

...you aren't him, John. Not- not yet. You aren't beholden to anything we haven't discussed ourselves. Here and now.

But I know those things now. I can't un-know them. I... I wish you could have trusted me with them in time on our own, even if-

Even if it's clear I didn't deserve it.

[ He growls, but it's at himself. ] I proved I can be a stupid fucking asshole with it.

Which means... that promise holds.

A tremor runs across Arthur's shoulders as he tries not to react.

"I know what you're like, John. And I... I made a choice- to trust you, with that. Knowing you, knowing that you're- t-that when I hand you a knife, there's every possibility it will end up in my own back." He gestures idly with his cigarette. "It's something I've had to just- a-accept. So we can work."

"Well, I don't accept it!" and that's the first real growl. He realizes what he's doing, how he's making the same fucking mistake again and he pushes his volume down, does his best to settle himself.

"I need to do better. I will do better. You shouldn't have to think your-" his voice falters a little, "you shouldn't have to worry about that. You shouldn't accept it."

"Acceptance is not forgiveness, John," he snaps back. "Knowing you can hurt me doesn't excuse you from doing it, it just makes you a fucking arsehole and me look like an idiot. But I am going to keep fucking trying, because maybe one day we won't fucking kill each other over it."

There's a long silence then.

"Then nothing's changed. I'm still the scorpion on your back."

That shouldn't hurt as much as it does. But part of the reason it does is knowing how he'd fucked up, the terrible mistake he'd made. The ways Arthur was right.

At the same time, there was all of the work he'd done here, all of the ways he'd tried to make their friendship real and not... necessity. Not 'work'. Not Arthur struggling to put up with a thing that he's 'accepted' will hurt him.

Not Arthur probably thinking it's what he deserves.

He tries to push all of the emotion out of his voice as he moves on. He doesn't think they're going to change each other's mind here. And focusing on it-

After all of that, he doesn't have it in him to go at Arthur.

"How far ahead did you go?"

Arthur's mouth presses into a thin line, but his shoulders just. Slump. And he folds his right arm across his chest, gripping his upper arm with only two fingers so he doesn't lose his half-gone cigarette.

The new memories muddied things. He thought he knew himself, his own mind, but he knows now. He loses. To the King, to Kayne, to Larson. Having John in his life has taken every good thing he has, every possible thread of happiness and shreds it to pieces. Even before knowing him. Emily hadn't even done anything, just the misfortune of existing in his presence.

And yet, he knows. Time and time and time again. He will choose John. Always. Because he can't lose anyone else. Because John cares, as much as he hurts and as much as Arthur curses his name. Because Arthur wants him to keep being better, more empathetic, more... human.

And he doesn't care, apparently, how much he'll pay to keep it that way. To keep John.

He fucking hated destiny.

"Larson's manor. The- Yellow, a-and Matthew. We were making our way back to collect our things and hunt Larson down."

"I went farther," he reports. "We were driving to New York in one of Larson's cars."

That's all he says. He'd wanted to say more. He'd wanted to tell him about how it all happened. How he'd made the deal with Kayne. How Arthur had almost bled out. How John had stitched him together.

How they'd saved those people. How he'd trusted Arthur against all logic.

How he knows in that moment in the car, Arthur had trusted him.

But unlike all the suffering, all the mistakes, that doesn't feel real right now. A lot of things don't feel real right now. So he'll stick to the facts.

Edited 2022-12-22 02:55 (UTC)

It'll be easier later. When he hasn't just spent the week in some bullshit fight-or-flight adjacent mode, with all his shame on display and all the horrors to come boring a hole in his mind like a hot coal through snow. When the fact he fails and fucks up constantly in the future doesn't sting as sharply.

Whatever John is, he's not a scorpion. Or perhaps, whatever he himself is, isn't in a spot where a single sting is enough to kill it anymore.

"I-I don't--" His voice finally quavers, despite himself, and he grips himself tighter, a sharp self-admonishment. "Fuck. I don't want to remember this."

John disagrees. Mostly because now he knows more about what's to come. He knows about Kayne, an entity who has interest in Arthur. He knows about his deal, and about Arthur's. He knows about Yellow.

And because even with all the hardship, all the pain, all the terror, all of everything, at least he was there for Arthur.

"Should I-" he pauses and he doesn't know what he wants to say. He doesn't even know what he can offer. All of the things he's learned and tried here feel insufficient. Childish. "...do you want me to go?"

"No."

It comes out too quickly, but he doesn't flinch this time.

("Why not?"

"Because I can’t lose another person!")

He's not there yet. But they are more than they were, when they first arrived on the Barge. Have spent longer together, now, up until the- the pit, and done so in peace and luxury. They have earned this ease of existence, and they can handle all the fuck-ups and bullshit the Barge brings with it. Together.

He grips his cigarette in his mouth, so he can hold his hand out for the mask. Steady and waiting.

There's no hesitation for him either. Because he hadn't needed to see all that to know he'll choose Arthur every time. He's known that for...

Well, rather longer.

He brushes the mask by his fingers before sliding up to settle snug against his left arm as the life returns to it.

That's when he feels like he can say-

[You do save those people in the cave. All of them.

You choose that.]

His tension settles, fractionally but noticeably, when John's voice is back in his head - and more so when he hears that, and the next exhale of his cigarette is more of a sigh of relief.

"Good," he says. His voice stays quiet, just... appreciating the moment. And John for who he is. "I... th-the truth is, I can... here and now, I can see how I got to where I did. Why I was... what sort of monster I became, that I- I wasn't just willing to, to just ignore them and let them suffer - I wanted to. I-I couldn't-- there wasn't space in my mind, for anything less than. That."

[...you were much better after you had an apple.]

Look, it sounds stupid but he'd seen the difference it made. Packed lunches might very well be in Arthur's less horrifying but more immediate future.

That gets an abrupt scoff of laughter; and it's like a dam bursts, and giddy waves of quiet laughter bubble out of him, as that built-up tension finally finds release.

"Y-yes, I-" There's a hitch as he tries to control his breathing so he can speak. "I-I-I do tend to feel more- more myself on a full stomach."

[We'll look out for that. ]

Quiet determination and soft amusement; the usual delight at Arthur's laughter when it isn't at his expense.

[There is one other thing I want to settle. If you think you're up for it.

...it's not a bad thing. At least, I hope not.]

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