Archive of Our Own

It’s a bitter night in Arkham. A cold winter, like all of the other ones in Arthur’s cold life. A silent snow blankets Massachusetts, feeling like it could stretch on from sea to shining sea. But it’s warm inside Arthur’s room. Or, it would be, if he hadn’t plunged the room into darkness, head poking out of the window. The flurry had stopped a while ago, and now a playful wind nips at his cheeks, his ears, his nose. It makes his eyes water, blurring the lamps and light dancing through the windows across and all down the street. 

He blinks, water resting itself on his bottom lashes as his vision clears. He stares down at the snow covered pavement. Two pairs of footsteps lay marked into the glistening white, erratic and messy from this point of view. One of the pairs belongs to him. 

“Oh, Christ, Lester!” A voice comes through the door as it swings open, allowing the chill that had stepped into the room to curl around another victim. Here’s the other pair, the other half of his wintery night. Parker shoots a playful grin at Arthur before dramatically scowling and making his way over to the bedside table, placing down two mugs. 

“If you’re trying to freeze yourself,” Parker continues, walking over to Arthur, who smiles at him, “there are better ways to do it.”

“Indulge me,” Arthur prompts, letting Parker loop an arm through his and nudge him away from the window that gets promptly closed. “I like the cold!”

“I know. It’s because you’re British,” Parker says, mockingly rolling his eyes. “It’s in your blood.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Arthur says as he and Parker move around the room to light up lamps once more. The warmth and light flicker back into the bedroom, and Parker gives Arthur a look he can’t read. His head is still reeling from the cold. 

“Well, you just like odd things,” Parker reiterates, attempting to shake the chill out of his arms. 

“I do like you, you know,” Arthur points out, sitting on the bed and picking out one of the mugs Parker brought in. The tea, made perfectly to Arthur’s liking, warms his fingers and sends a tingling all down his arms when Parker sits next to him. 

He shakes his head, reaching for the other mug. “Well, fuck you, too.”

Arthur gives a wry smile. “I mean, really, who drinks coffee right before going to sleep?”

“I still have to walk all of the way back to my own home, you know,” Parker points out. 

Arthur sips his tea, allowing the warmth to carry the question that had risen within him back down his throat, swirling and ebbing away in his stomach with a burning. Parker had indulged him enough, already. Dancing in the snow on their way home, a drunkenness lingering within the both of them is all he should ask for. The snow hadn’t even started up again yet, their waltz was still immortalized into the snowtracks. 

As immortal as anything can be, anyways. 

“The caffeine will almost certainly be just kicking in by then,” Arthur retaliates instead. 

Parker waves a dismissive hand. “No, no, it has an opposite effect on me. I swear. It makes me more tired.”

“Well, then, you’re more at risk of being kidnapped! What would I do without my partner by my side?” 

“Then you’ll just have to find out what happened, and save me.”

Arthur takes another sip of tea. It’s too hot. Has it been burning his tongue this entire time?

“You’re welcome to stay, you know,” He says before he can think himself out of it. But he’s never been that brave when it comes to Parker, and quickly clarifies. “On- on the couch, if you wanted.”

Parker glances over at him, face a mixture of surprise, bordering on something else. Arthur’s insides squirm waiting to see it fall, to turn sour, to look away in an awkward disappointment. 

Parker opens his mouth, face morphing into one of more amiability than Arthur’s anxieties had suggested. Arthur leans closer, desperate for the answer.

He doesn’t get it.

Instead, he twitches awake. He’s made aware of multiple things at once. One, the ache in his shoulders, in his leg, covering his whole body. The persistent ache that only gets added onto with every passing day, every passing injury. Two, the rough smell of decay and dirt. A mixture of dry air and stone walls that encompass this prison he still has never had the privilege of seeing. Finally, three, the heavy presence in his mind that drops off lower, curling around and in between his ribs, tangled along his spine. The same presence that has been there for months. The same presence that makes it so when Arthur opens his eyes, it is still just as dark as before. 

“Arthur?” John asks, voice rumbling from some deep concave where he made his home in Arthur’s psyche. 

Arthur hums, blinking a few times and rubbing his eyes, ignoring the grumble it gets him. 

“Morning,” Arthur says, voice cracking softly with sleep, despite how fitful it was. 

“Morning,” John greets back as a formality. 

“Anything for us today?” Arthur asks. 

“Well, Arthur, I can’t see if you just keep staring at the ceiling.”

Any trace of Arthur’s good mood burns up like mist in an early sun as he lets his head turn to the side, towards the place where food gets dropped. 

“Some…type of meat,” John says, unsure. “A thigh, maybe.”

“Wonderful,” Arthur says, not reassured by John’s lack of confidence. He sits up, pausing for a moment before working up the motivation to stand. When he does so, too many of his joints and bones crack, a testimony to the Hell he’s been put through. 

“Stone?” Arthur asks. 

“By your foot- no, other one - there,” John says. Arthur reaches down and grabs it, letting John direct him where to scrape the newest tally mark. 

“That would be…” Arthur starts. 

“Forty exactly,” John says. 

“Ten days, four times,” Arthur mumbles plainly. 

“Thank you for the wonderful observation. Next you’ll say it’s five days, eight times.” 

Arthur debates closing his eyes and going back to sleep, just to annoy him. 

“No water?” Arthur asks, already knowing the answer.

“Not today, no.” If Arthur pretends hard enough, maybe he could pick out some sympathy from John’s tone. He bites back a sigh, and maneuvers onto the floor where he can eat. 

He tears into the unidentified meat, cringing away at how rubbery it seems. 

“Is this fucking raw?”

“Looks cooked enough.”

Arthur groans and bites into it again, shifting under the uncomfortable dry air. 

“Jesus, it’s so fucking hot down here. And here I thought dungeons were supposed to be cold and rotting.”

“What, do you like the cold?”

Arthur heaves a sigh. 

It is a bitter night in Arkham. Arthur loves the cold. Parker says it’s the British in him. Arthur asks him to stay.

Arthur blinks heavily to snap himself out of it, and rolls his shoulders. 

“No,” He answers. “It’s just…you think they would’ve figured out something.”

“No, Arthur, they wouldn’t have,” John points out, exasperation heavy in his voice. “It’s because they’re fucking torturing you.”

“I know they’re fucking torturing me, John, I’m not an idiot,” Arthur snaps, “God, you are the worst person to banter with, do you know that?”

“Forgive me if my conversation skills aren’t exactly up to date. I’m trying to keep us alive.”

“And look how good of a job you’re doing at that one!”

“Maybe it would be better if you weren’t fucking up at every turn and listened to me even a couple of times.”

“Maybe it would be fucking better if you didn’t do half the shit you did. I don’t know how much you think you can worm your way around this, John. This is your fault. This is you who is doing this to us. I know I’m fucking bad, okay? But you? You’re the worst. Don’t ever fucking forget that.”

And maybe Arthur had struck a chord, or maybe he had figured out the one thing to shock John into silence, or maybe his brain had finally learned how to silence John, but there was no response. Arthur tears angrily into the meat and seethes over everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life. It gets boring fast. 

“Did you dream?”

“Let a man finish his food first, John.”

John ignores him. “Did you dream?”

Arthur sighs, biting back the rage that threatens to crawl up his throat again. It was useless here, and they both knew it. The most they’re doing these days is fighting and then replanting whatever they had burned down. 

“I did. It was nothing important, though,” Arthur finally concedes. 

“How do you know?” John pushes.

“I just do.”

“Arthur,” John says, a warning tone in his voice. 

“John,” Arthur returns. “It was nothing. It was a memory, more than anything.”

“It could be important.”

“It isn’t.”

“But it could be! Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Because, it just isn’t, okay?” Arthur tries to snap, but the words sound exhausted, even to him. “I know it isn’t. It’s personal. I thought we agreed that I only had to tell you as much as I wanted. And that I could finish eating, first.”

“I didn’t agree with either of those. You just said that that was what we were doing now.”

“Yeah, and it still doesn’t matter.”

“Arthur,” John insists, “This place is a fickle thing, who knows what’s going to help us escape. It would be easier for you to just tell me what you dream of.”

“No!” Arthur throws his hands into the air. “Do you ever let me have things? Do you ever shut up?”

John growls low in Arthur’s mind, it feels like a ripple effect. “I’m not going to die here because you were too emotional-”

“You aren’t going to die!” Arthur fights the urge to shout. “He’s not going to let us die, he’s certainly not going to let you die! You’re not even the one suffering here, you’re not the one starving, or experiencing severe dehydration, or fucking anything else! If you hate it so much, why don’t you just hand us over? And I’ll be killed and you can be reunited and we’ll all be on our way.”

“Is that really what you think I want? After all of this time?”

“You could have fooled me!”

“No, Arthur, no! I want us to get out of here together, I thought that was clear!”

“Maybe it’s not fucking worth it, John! Did you ever consider that?” Arthur was yelling now, snarling at the wall in place of a shadowy figure. He wasn’t thinking of what he was saying, wasn’t following his own line of reasoning. Letting whatever fall out of his mouth and deal with the consequences later. 

That was how it was done, these days.

“What isn’t?” John bites back.

“Me!” Arthur shouts. The word doesn’t echo, but it feels like it should. 

John doesn’t respond for a second, which stretches into a long minute. After a couple of moments, Arthur realizes he isn’t going to answer. He backs away from the half-eaten food, not having the stomach for it anymore. He lets the words hang in the air like a mistake. 

“He’s wearing you down. He’s wearing us down.”

“I know he is,” Arthur says. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Guide me back to where we sleep,” Arthur commands. 

He can feel John’s stir of confusion, a brush of emotion against his mind. He wants to recoil. 

“What? You can’t go back to sleep, we have to-”

“We have to what, John?” Arthur says cynically. “Argue some more? Shout at each other?”

“You’re going to go back to sleep.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to- to-”

Arthur can’t guess what the fuck John may even be trying to say. “I’m going to dream,” He cuts John off instead. 

“About what? ” John takes the out, shifts the topic from whatever he was choking around. 

“Hopefully something useful. Bed?”

“Turn around. More. More- stop. Walk forward. There. To your right. Will you tell me?”

“We’ll see.”

“Can you even fall asleep?”

The question was a good one, Arthur’s never been one who could sleep as much as he wanted to. Naps escaped him in favor of the capitalistic world he rearranged himself to thrive in. The last time he slept this much was…

A shiver runs through him, and he folds his arms over his chest. He places his right hand over his left, minding the missing pinky, and lightly drags his nails up and down the skin he can’t feel. John exhales heavily, despite this now becoming a regular occurrence. Arthur scratches a little longer before placing his hand entirely on John’s. 

“Talk to me,” He commands. 

“What about?”

“Anything,” Arthur closes his eyes. “Talk to me.”

John settles down, a weight spreading and seeping into the corners and divots of Arthur’s consciousness. He begins speaking, talking of something that was familiar. He speaks of hospitals and comas, and an aching loneliness. He talks about a Dark World and a book. Arthur’s asleep before John can get to the part about not wanting to be alone again. 

“They say you shouldn’t work past 9PM,” Parker’s voice comes through the door of the office. Arthur glances up, tired eyes gazing wearily at his friend.

“That’s eating. You aren’t supposed to eat past 9,” Arthur corrects half heartedly. 

“Well, I have some bad news for us, then,” Parker says, walking in further. 

Arthur’s brow furrows. He can’t take anymore bad news. Whatever comes out of Parker’s mouth next might just shatter him. 

A warm hand is placed onto his shoulder. 

“Not being serious,” Parker adds on. His voice is softer now, and it startles Arthur with how close it is. Arthur glances at his partner through his eyelashes. He has a fond look painted on his face, but it’s mixed in with concern. 

“Come on,” Parker continues, “We’re going to get dinner.”

“What? Now?” Arthur questions. 

Parker’s grip shifts so he’s pulling Arthur out of his seat, or at least trying to. Arthur, on the other hand, is desperately trying to stay seated. 

“Pa- Peter,” Arthur says, catching himself. “It is late. And I should work on this.”

Parker shakes his head. “No. Nope. You’ve been at this desk for far too long, Lester.”

With a vicious tug, Arthur finally has to stand up or risk being sprawled across the floor. Angrily, he yanks his arm out of Peter’s grasp. 

“Leave it, will you?” He snaps. 

Peter blinks at him once, twice. His gaze hardens. 

“Arthur,” He starts. “I, as your friend, want you to get out of this damned office.”

“And you, as my friend,” Arthur retorts, “should know when to leave me the hell alone.”

“Arthur,” Peter starts, sharper. There’s a pause as he takes a quick, steadying breath. It’s a habit he picked up after…everything. To stop grief from making him say impulsive things. Maybe Arthur should’ve picked it up, too. 

“Arthur,” Peter starts again, a faux calm forced on. “I know this case is stressing you out. But I don’t want you wasting your life away at this desk. And you don’t have to go with me, if you really don’t want to. But don’t talk to me like I’m not trying to help you. I’m doing this because I care about you.”

Arthur sits and stews, thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for the general population if he sat and wasted away at this desk. Hell, maybe he’d even get some good put back in the world at it. Make up for everything he’s ever done.

At Arthur’s silence, Peter’s tone softens ever so slightly. “Staring at these pictures when you’re too stressed out to even think won’t help anyone.”

The hand returns to his shoulder. Arthur’s resolve gives, and he leans into Parker, standing next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur starts, “But I can’t stand the idea of us sitting there, relaxing, while these people are suffering.”

“It’s tough work,” Parker agrees. His thumb runs over a seam in Arthur’s jacket. The heat of it sears all the way down Arthur’s left arm, and he tries not to shudder. “Really, out of all things, you wanted us to be private investigators?”

Arthur swats at him, no venom in the action. “You agreed to it.”

“You always coerce me into bad ideas,” Parker teases. 

Arthur tilts his head back to catch Parker’s eye, looking down and smiling at him. The office light dances off of him, like something holy. 

“You’re right,” Arthur relents, closing his eyes against the sight. “Let's go eat.”

Parker’s hand disappears only to reappear on Arthur’s arm, hauling him upright. 

“There we go, Arthur, not so hard, was it?” Parker says. Arthur’s eyes flicker open to see him grinning.

“Don’t push your luck, Peter,” Arthur says. He allows himself to fall against Parker’s side as the duo head to the door. 

“Parker,” Comes the reply.

“What?” Arthur asks.

Parker gives him a kind look. “Well, you can call me Parker.”

“I thought you wanted to be called Peter now?”

Parker shrugs. “I guess. In a professional setting, sure. I don’t know. I like the name Parker, if it’s you.”

It was convenient that it was one of Arthur’s most favorite things to say these days. “Well alright then,” Arthur answers. “Parker,” He adds on. 

Parker’s arm slides around him, and the pair head out the door. 

Arthur wakes slowly, in a rare post-sleep haze. He swallows dryly, debating whether it would be worth it to open his eyes. 

“Arthur?” Comes the voice. 

Arthur sniffs, and out of courtesy alone opens his eyes. “Morning, John.”

“Good morning,” John greets back. 

“Day?”

“It’ll be the 54th. It’s only one more than yesterday, you know. Unless you’re hoping to fall into another coma and skip a few months.”

“I can dream.”

Poor choice of words, he can immediately feel John’s interest stirring. 

“Did you?”

Arthur avoids the question. “Anything for us today?”

John makes an impatient noise, but when Arthur tilts his head to allow the entity to gaze at where they receive things, he obligingly answers. “A leg of some sort. Think of a drumstick. Oh! There’s water, too.”

Arthur immediately hauls himself up and to the water, taking a long, greedy gulp. 

“Don’t make yourself sick,” John warns. 

“I won’t!” Arthur protests, reaching for the piece of food. Maybe he was in higher spirits today, but this one seemed to have the texture of something cooked enough to be edible. He bites into it with enthusiasm. 

John, blessedly, is silent as he feasts. Arthur mulls over his question. He had been dreaming about Parker more and more often since the first time. It could be of some relevance, but Arthur couldn’t possibly see how. Besides, to bring it up would be…a sore subject to say the least. There’s something in the idea that makes his skin crawl, makes him itch to fight. Parker’s loss was still an open wound, festering. 

“What’s wrong?” John asks suddenly. 

Arthur, habitually, raises his right hand to wipe his face, but it comes away dry. He isn’t crying. “Nothing,” He answers. 

“You seem…sadder, is all,” John elaborates. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” Arthur shakes his head slightly for emphasis, enjoying the annoyed grumble it gets. “Nothing’s wrong. Should we tally?”

“If you want. Up and about five steps to your right, then forward. There. Yes. No- a little higher. There we go.”

Arthur stands idly with the stone in his hand. One of the worst things about the prison was the waiting. He lets John guide and nudge him back to the place where they rest, sitting and not-really-staring ahead. The silence in between conversation or fights, where the other thinks about what to say next. What to do next. If Arthur wasn’t yelling, or trying to think of some cockamamie scheme to escape, or sleeping, he was waiting. His mind was catching up to him, and he hated it. He runs his hand subconsciously over John’s, feeling out the familiar long fingers. 

He was wasting his life away here. 

“You talk in your sleep, sometimes.”

The sudden conversation takes him by surprise. He sits up a little straighter. “Sorry?”

“You’ve been dreaming about Peter.”

Arthur is quiet. The way the name falls out and sits there is too heavy, too much like deadweight. He hates it. 

“W-well-” Arthur starts. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asks. 

Arthur wishes John was in front of him only to break his gaze away and stare to the side, or at the wall, or do anything that could alleviate the pressure of this conversation. That’s always what talking to John felt like. Backed into a corner, a hand grabbing his chin roughly and forcing him to stare head on at his issues. 

Parker’s thumb runs over the seam in Arthur’s jacket. Arthur crumbles.

“It wasn’t important,” Is what Arthur finally settles on. 

“Why are you dreaming about him?”

The insistence, which on the odd chance has the ability to be endearing, scalds Arthur now. He scowls. “I don’t know, John. Why does anything happen?”

“It’s just more frequent than anything else, is what I mean. For something not important.”

There it was. There’s the interest. There’s the reason John’s actually concerned. God forbid he actually cares about Parker or feels bad for what he did to him. (Arthur logically knows that there was a chance John did feel bad. But it was easier to cling to this instead, easier to arm himself with.) No. He only asked because the dreams about Parker pushed away other dreams that could be about more important things. 

“Maybe it’s because he was my best friend,” Arthur grinds out. “And now he’s dead and gone.”

There’s a thick silence, and Arthur revels in it for a moment. 

“You’re grieving.”

“Yes! Wait, what?” Arthur questions, the sincerity of the observation taking him off guard. 

“Ever since your partner died, we’ve been constantly on the move. You haven’t truly had a chance to sit down and grieve for him until now.”

“And what? You think that’s what’s causing the dreams?”

“Is it not?”

Arthur sighs, leaning against a wall. “I don’t know, John. All I know is… yeah. All I know is I miss him. I’m grieving him, okay? I don’t know what stage this falls under. But it’s happening.”

John hesitates. Then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur wants to tell him to shove it. To shut the fuck up and never mention Parker again. 

“Don’t,” Softly comes out of his mouth instead. 

“Okay.”

Arthur waits, searching for the right words to say as he runs his hand over John’s, fingers tracing the outline of the palm quickly as he thinks. 

“It’s just…hard to believe,” He says, eventually. This is a stupid idea. A terrible idea, to talk about grieving Parker with his literal murder. Parker would throttle him for this. 

“Denial,” John unhelpfully comments. 

It felt like all of the stages of grief were imposing down on Arthur recently, tearing him all open to see how much can fit inside. He might vomit it all up to see if it’ll help. 

Arthur ignores John. “I still keep thinking that maybe he’ll swoop in like- like some sort of knight. It’s dumb, irrational. I know. I know he’s gone. But if anyone was going to get us out of here it would be him. You don’t know that, but I do.”

“He’s just a human.”

“So am I!”

“You’re different.”

“No, no, I’m not, John. That’s the thing. You’ll never get it. Parker was twice the man I ever was. It’s hard to even conceptualize he’s gone. Like if I just wait long enough, last long enough, he’ll come back to me.”

“Bargaining?” John asks. 

“Are you just trying to label my grief,” Arthur asks flatly. 

“Am I not supposed to be doing that.”

Arthur sighs, and brings up a hand to his hair. It’s grown too long since John came to him. He doesn’t know how to care for it, and winces at the feeling of the tangles that snag his fingers. 

“Come on,” He says, readjusting to sit up straighter and fold his legs under him. “Help me with this.”

“With what?”

“My hair. It’s all tangled. Help me work out some of the knots.”

John makes a noise, caught halfway between a sigh and something just generally confused. Arthur’s left hand does, though reluctantly, float up to meet his right. It’s a little too rough, a little too clumsy, but together they get out at least some of the knots. It takes a long time. Arthur’s legs cramp and his hands get tired. They have to leave and give up on some parts where blood and viscera have caked in. 

“Why are we doing this?” John asks quietly, suddenly.
“Why?” Arthur repeats. He laughs, a little mirthlessly. “Because it’s what Parker would have done.”

The sunlight imprints a nice pattern onto Arthur’s arm as he wakes up. He’s never been ashamed of how he looks, on the contrary, Arthur knows he’s attractive. So he spends a few minutes waking up slowly, twisting his arm slightly in the sun. He watches, inquisitive, as the light shifts and moves along his skin and through the curtain. It gives a pale glow to his skin, something a little too early to be golden yet. A breath of the sunlight, really, and Arthur loves it. 

He does get bored of it eventually, though. He tucks his arm back against him, and turns around. Nestling deeper into the covers, he wonders if he can get in a few more moments of sleep before something forces him to get up. The sheets move comfortably against his bare skin, and the idea isn’t too far fetched for a moment. Then, he is gasping softly and sitting upright in the still morning. 

Peter Yang is in his bed, sleeping. 

Which isn’t that odd of a sight, in itself. Parker has stumbled into his bed on more than one occasion, usually making sure Arthur made it through the night. Failed vigils that ended with Arthur shaking his friend awake in rumpled clothes and confused, sleepy blinks. 

But now, Arthur can see the way the pale sunlight traces down and over Parker’s back. There’s the outline where Arthur is sitting up and blocking it, an outline of too-messy hair and sheets touching too-bare skin. 

Parker sleeps on, entirely unaware of the sunlight that’s curling around his bicep like a kiss. Unaware of the memories that are hitting Arthur like a train. There’s nothing to pin it on, either. No alcohol, no distressing times. 

No regret, is the thing that sticks out most of all to Arthur.

Mostly, Arthur just wants Parker to stay. It’s something that seems unrealistic to him. To want to stay with Arthur, really? Why would Parker want that?

(His brain sufficiently provides enough evidence that would convince a dead man for why Parker still would want him, even after this. Arthur, conveniently, ignores it.)

Arthur lays back down, feeling like a ghost in his body. This was insane. This was sinful, even. Arthur should be staggering out of bed, should be shouting, should be pulling on his clothes and screaming at the top of his lungs all the way to church to a God he certainly isn’t very attentive to. 

Parker shifts slightly, and the sun curls around the nape of his neck and lights up his hair. The best Arthur can manage to do is turn away and face the wall instead. 

If that’s what he wants to do, he can hardly begin to fathom what Parker will feel when he wakes up. Disgust? Regret? Would he do all of the things Arthur just imagined, would he push Arthur away and quit? Leave him all alone in Arkham, Massachusetts, in a bed too big for himself?

His brain doesn’t let him guess what would happen after that. The thought is too painful. 

Maybe he could pretend to still be asleep. Parker would wake up and see his sleeping figure, resting despite the sun beating down on him. Parker would sigh, pitifully, and get up. Dress, leave, and never come back to this house. But he wouldn’t quit. They just wouldn’t talk about it, is all. That’s fine. Just a blip within their lives. They stay together and then what? Then nothing, of course. Parker would be a little more distant, but he wouldn’t leave Arthur all alone. Parker would never do that. 

And Arthur would love him. 

And Arthur does.

It’s a realization that should destroy him. He half expects to blow up on the spot, or to disintegrate into ash, or to be flung around the room like a doll. Nothing happens. He exhales slowly, and lets the realization dance across his mind again and again. An old routine, thin and faded without him even realizing, like a pair of old shoes. 

His eyes close at one point, blocking out the world to let his racing mind pivot from one point to the next, wondering about what would possibly happen when Parker wakes. He doesn’t hear the ruffle of sheets, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Parker’s fingers run through a tuft of Arthur’s hair. 

Arthur turns, and Parker pulls his hand back. There’s a beat, a pause. Arthur, wide-eyed and waiting. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Parker says eventually. His voice cracks with sleep and he gives a halfhearted smile that only tugs up one corner of his mouth. Arthur wants to reach over and pull him into a hug or a kiss. 

Instead, Arthur huffs a laugh, or something similar. Something to mask the fear he has woven into his bones like it belonged there. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Arthur says, rolling over fully to see Parker. 

There’s another pause. A moment where the two assess each other. Arthur sees Parker’s hand raise again, and follows it with his eyes as far as he can until it runs through his hair again. Parker smooths it down in silence, while Arthur watches him. Parker is looking decidedly anywhere else, getting out of the conversation. 

Arthur wants to speak. Part of him is working up the courage to ask the one word that will get him a yes or no answer that may impact the entire course of his life. Another, simpler part of him, wants to move forward and drape his arms around Parker and go back to sleep. 

When Parker has combed and smoothed down Arthur’s hair to an amount he deems acceptable, his hand traces down Arthur’s face. It rests idly in the crook of Arthur’s neck, his thumb mindlessly rubbing back and forth at the hinge and corner of Arthur’s jaw. 

Parker finally meets his eyes, and there’s a sadness there. Something that seems so foreign, but like it belongs. 

“I should go,” Parker whispers into the still morning. 

The sun has moved high enough to coat both of them in a burning light. It feels like a fire against Arthur’s dark hair. It feels like an ending. 

He won’t stand for it. 

Cautiously, he lifts his hand and puts it over Peter’s, trapping it where it is, against Arthur’s throat and jaw. 

Peter stills until Arthur maneuvers his fingers to drag Peter’s thumb back across his own skin, clear instruction. Keep going. 

“Stay?” Arthur asks. His voice, now, feels holy. It cracks on the word, like it’s shattered into pieces. 

Parker nods anyway. 

“Arthur? Are you awake?”  

Arthur groans and rolls over instead of answering John. There’s a sigh that rumbles from within him, but Arthur couldn’t care less about annoying the entity. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Arthur ignores him still, opting to try to drift off. 

“Don’t go back to sleep. They gave us water.”

Arthur sits up suddenly, head snapping instinctively to where he would see the bucket if he had his vision. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Arthur says, “They gave us water yesterday.”

“Well, maybe they were feeling generous.”

“John. Did they give us water or not?”

At the silence, Arthur frowns. “John,” He prompts. 

“No. But how would you have known that if you hadn’t woken up?”

Arthur heaves his own sigh, wanting to flop backwards and back to sleep, but knowing from experience that the entire ordeal would hurt his fragile body a lot more than he was accustomed to.

“Is there even food yet? I feel like I woke up too early,” Arthur complains. 

“There will be food soon, if I’m not wrong,” John soothes. “Until then, why don’t you add another tally?”

Arthur grumbles something incoherent under his breath and gets up, groping around for the stone. He lets John guide him to scratch another mark into the wall, a stellar diagonal line in contrast to the other four. Maybe they should celebrate, pretend whatever food they get is cake and make a party of it. 

“What is that?” Arthur asks impatiently. 

“60,” John replies. 

The number crushes any hope and motivation Arthur had out of him with one fell swoop. He can feel his own shoulders sag. 

“Okay,” Arthur whispers, dropping the rock. It doesn’t matter where it bounces or lands. He can find it tomorrow, with John guiding him, like every other day in this hellhole. 

“Did you-”

“God, can I just have one fucking moment?” Arthur snaps. John goes quiet, and Arthur can feel the shock pulsing out from him. 

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?” Comes the sarcastic drawl. 

“There is no right side of the bed. There’s barely any bed,” Arthur seethes. 

He’s sick of the contrast. He can’t tell what’s worse these days, waking up in a sweating mess from a cryptic dream about beachsides and cliffs, or waking up from an amazing dream and having to readjust to reality. If it was up to him, he’d stay in a dream with Parker forever. 

But that’s exactly what the King would want, so Arthur refuses to let the thought take up any space within his mind. He banishes it without hesitation. 

He stretches in the meantime. Paces. He lets John complain about how it makes him nauseous. 

“Okay,” Arthur says eventually, sitting back down after his bout of restlessness gave way to depression once more. “I had a dream. Nothing of importance.”

“Peter,” John says in response, because that was what it meant these days when Arthur said his dream wasn’t important. It means it was of Peter, and it means that it’s something Arthur still doesn’t want John to taint. 

But John taints anyway. 

“I don’t understand why you dream of him so often,” John immediately launches into another anti-Peter spiel, and Arthur bites his tongue quite literally to avoid flying off the handle. 

“He’s important to me.”

“Was.”

“John!” Arthur immediately shouts with a venom. 

It’s almost as if he can feel John shift and recoil before readjusting, attacking from a different angle. 

“I’m just saying, Arthur,” John says. “He had to have been very important to you for you to still be dreaming about him.”

“It’s only been a few months. You even admitted it was part of grief. How long do you think this takes?” Arthur spits. Then, after a pause where he processes his own words, continues. “And I don’t want to stop dreaming about him, you prick! It’s one of the only good things I have down here!”

“Oh, are you sure it’s not the only good thing?” John antagonizes. 

“Actually, yeah! It is! It is the only good thing I have now,” Arthur snaps. “Since you’re being so wonderful.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t grasp the concept of your infatuation with a dead man perfectly, Arthur,” John retorts, “But how important can he be? What even was he to you?”

“That’s none of your fucking business, why do you even care?” Arthur answers, voice rising.

John matches him step for step. “Because he’s the reason you’re making no new moves to get out of here! So you can sit here with your head in the clouds and dream about him while I have to rot!”

“That’s not true!”

“It is! You get to sleep and escape to him, you’re running into a ghost’s arms, Arthur, and then getting upset when they’re dead! So, tell me, what the fuck even was he to you to have you acting like this?”

“Fucking- everything! He was everything, John! He was all I had left,” Arthur snaps, finally breaking. The waste of water down his own face from his emotions only adds fuel to the fire. “What the fuck is it to you? Why do you care? It doesn’t matter anymore, because you fucking killed him! Okay? Are you happy? He’s fucking gone, and I don’t have anything anymore. Like you fucking wanted.”

“That’s not what I wanted!”

“Well, what did you want?”
“What I wanted back then was not important!”

“Then- fucking- what do you want now?”

“To escape! You’re the only thing holding us back!”

“If I’m so useless to you, then kill me!”

There’s a break in the shouting match, a moment full of breaths. Composure, maybe. Or consideration. 

“I’m not going to kill you. Why do you suggest that so much?”

“I’m not suggesting it,” Arthur answers. “I just don’t see the point of keeping me alive if I’m so annoying to you, and I’m entirely at your mercy anyways.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Arthur.”

“You already have. Have you not been paying attention? That’s the entire fucking point. It’s just a blatant lie, too.”

John doesn’t have an answer to that one. 

“Are you going to go back to sleep?” He asks eventually. 

Arthur so desperately wants to say yes. 

Arthur wants to speak. Stay. The word is God.

“No. Can’t sleep now,” He mutters. “Besides, I haven’t even eaten yet.” 

“The food isn’t here.”

“That’s fine. I can wait with you,” Arthur murmurs softly into the quiet morning. 

His left hand comes up and cards through his hair, and Arthur jumps away for a moment. Before John can drop his hand, Arthur leans back. The long fingers work out knots that may have formed through Arthur’s tossing and turning. They fall down and fit around Arthur’s throat, just briefly, before brushing up. They push the long hair off the back of Arthur’s neck, pulling the mass back as if to tie it up before letting it drop again. Arthur just sits and lets John play with his hair in some odd form of apology, occasionally helping him work out a knot. 

“I can’t wait until we get a proper brush,” Arthur says gently. 

John makes a noise that could be a laugh. “Maybe you could shower, first.”

“That’d be nice,” Arthur agrees, feeling something like blood clumping together a lump of hair. 

“And nice food,” John adds.

“You can’t even taste it,” Arthur points out. 

He can imagine the shrug. “Better nutritional value.”

“Oh, I don’t know what you could possibly mean,” Arthur chimes back sarcastically, “I’m sure mystery meat from mystery creatures carries more protein than I could dream of.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, a place where an argument can be. 

Something has to fill a hole eventually. Might as well be Arthur. 

“Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he isn’t important anymore,” He breaks the silence in two with his soft voice. 

The hand in his hair freezes and drops before anything else happens. Then the reply, “But he isn’t here anymore.”

“But I wish he was,” Arthur tries to explain. “That’s the thing. He’s supposed to be.”

“No, he isn’t,” John says as if just pointing out an objective truth. Arthur wants to cry. 

“Yes, he is,” He argues back. There’s no fight in him anymore, he’s just kicking up dust to try to- to do something. Best case scenario? Have John understand. Worst case scenario? Go back to sleep. 

“His place next to me is empty,” Arthur says. “Not in the sense of- I don’t want him here suffering with me. God above, no, I’d never want that. But where he’s supposed to be in my life is just a hole. I can always feel it, caving in and consuming. I was just able to ignore it for a while, when everything was thrown around. But now it’s all settled and the hole is still there. And I keep hoping that these dreams and my thoughts will appease it. I’m just shoveling something into the void, hoping it’ll work. There’s no life there, though. There’s no blood there, no love there. No him. I want him.”

John murmurs something. 

“Hm?” Arthur hums, trying to catch it. 

“You have to know some French,” John says. 

“Me? No, I don’t. What does that have to do with anything? I was trying to have a serious conversation with you, John.” Arthur feels cold tears in his eyes and wipes them away. Why did he even bother? He already knew how this would go. It would’ve been better to let sleeping dogs lie. 

“I know,” John responds, “But you had to have picked up this phrase from somewhere.”

Arthur huffs, wanting to roll his eyes and also scream at the same time. “What phrase?” He asks, only to indulge.

“Tu me manques.”

“Tu me manques?” Arthur echoes. 

“I miss you. The more direct translation would be, though, ‘you are missing from me.’”

Arthur pauses. “Oh.”

“I thought it was relevant.”

“It is,” Arthur says. “I must have picked it up from a book somewhere. Poetry, maybe.”

“Is it accurate?”

“What?”

“The phrase, about Peter. He is missing from you.”

Arthur swallows. His throat is dry. He hasn’t had water in too long, and he misses Parker, and he can’t stop crying. 

“Yes,” He says. “He is missing from me.”

  There is a spider in his sink. It rests gently on the lip of the drain, moving around at a snail’s pace, curiously. It isn’t even the size of an inch. He could scoop it up now. It would skitter across his hand and down his arm if he wasn’t careful, but he would put it on the counter. Watch it bolt out of sight. 

It is crushed by the water from the tap, instead. Arthur doesn’t even think about it, turning it on to wash his hands and letting the body of the spider disappear with a blink. He dries his hands and looks back at the sink, as if the spider would still be there. As if it somehow magically would’ve survived, or risen from the dead. 

No spider. 

It doesn’t even matter, Arthur tells himself. There’s no reason for him to be focusing on this so much. He wipes his hands on himself as if cleansing them again. No reason at all. 

He exits the bathroom and walks into his kitchen. Parker is standing there, making some food. It’s something Arthur’s unfamiliar with, maybe. It feels like it should be familiar, but the scent of whatever is cooking is escaping past him. All of the words Arthur keeps reaching for to attach to it dissipate into thin air. He doesn’t feel real. 

He still doesn’t feel real even when Parker is talking to him. He can make out the words, and can understand them as well. He’s talking about cooking with eggs, and then buying food, and how he saw some new shiny invention being advertised, and how he doesn’t trust credit. 

Arthur’s just nodding along, giving one word answers. The words feel out of place and clumsy in his mouth. Hollow and meaningless, like everything could shatter into glass at one moment. One tiny wrong movement, one flick of the hand and he’ll be drowned like he deserves. 

The thought takes him by surprise, but he can’t even find it in himself to take it back. 

“Okay- are you alright?” Parker finally asks. 

Arthur just nods and goes, “Of course.”

Parker tilts his head, giving Arthur a slightly suspicious look. “You kind of seem to be out of it.”

“I…” Arthur almost agreed. Would it be worth it to worry Parker? Would Parker prefer to be worried? 

“I killed a spider,” He says instead. 

“You killed…a spider?” Parker echoes. “Congratulations?”

“It was- no, I just-” Arthur, frustrated, tries again. “It was in the sink.”

Parker gazes blankly. Arthur feels like he’s standing on the other side of a railroad from Parker, from his emotions, from a coherent explanation. There’s something blocking him from feeling frustrated or distraught, and something blocking Parker from understanding that there’s more to it than just a spider. 

It feels like trains keep flying by, breaking up their signal, breaking up everything around them. Arthur doesn’t want to lose it. 

“I turned the water on and it was gone. It was dead and I killed it and the water was running,” Arthur blurts out. He leaps out onto the tracks, sprinting towards Parker, arms out and begging. 

It takes Parker a moment. Parker, poor Parker, who has the gall to look confused for even a split second more before a horrific dawning on his face. He turns off whatever the hell he was cooking and crosses the room, bringing Arthur into his arms like he was nothing but a bunch of broken pieces. 

Arthur doesn’t hug him back, doesn’t even register that he’s being hugged. He lets Parker rub circles into his back and mutter things next to his ear. Arthur doesn’t bother trying to pick them out, too focused on the sound of water running through pipes and the feeling of a towel on his hands. 

He’s only aware his vision blurs with tears when they slip down his face with a cold smear following. Soon after, hotter tears follow, slipping down and away without any pause. 

The train hits him. 

Arthur takes in a shaky breath, slowly coming back to reality. He worms one arm loose only to grab a handful of Parker’s shirt, breaths coming in staggered gasps, faster and faster. 

Parker’s grip on him tightens, the whispers become quieter but more insistent. Arthur can finally hear them, through the rage of his emotions. 

“-you’re okay you’re okay I swear you’re okay now Arthur can you hear me are you listening to me can you let me know if you can hear me I’m telling you you’re okay and I’ve got you now-”

Arthur gasps again and nods. He tries to form words but they fail him. Parker nods against him as well, and it’s then that Arthur can register that he’s crying as well. The two of them are shaking like two leaves on a branch. 

They stay there, together, for a long while. The sun is far too low in the sky when it’s over. It isn’t even done, not really. Arthur’s body is simply too tired to continue. He pulls away gently, one hand still clutching onto Parker’s shirt. 

Parker’s hands come up and smooth back Arthur’s hair. His thumbs wipe under Arthur’s eyes and disrupt tear trails, clear away the stains. 

Arthur swallows thickly and looks up, tired. 

“Let me deal with the spiders from now on?” Parker tries to crack a joke. Arthur tries to fake a smile. Neither are as good as they would hope. 

“Our food’s gone cold now,” Arthur answers instead, leaning into Parker’s touch.
“‘S alright,” Parker says. “I don’t think either of us are hungry.”

Arthur hums wearily in agreement. 

“Come on,” Parker says, dragging his hands down from Arthur’s face to grab his hand lightly, as if breaking contact for even one moment would be disastrous. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

Arthur wants to protest, but can’t find it in him as Parker guides him to his room before leaving to go clean the kitchen up. Arthur changes shakily, not bothering to do anything else except crawl into bed. His head is buzzing with fatigue, but it won’t let him sleep. The lights are off and there’s a quiet city surrounding him. He feels like the only one awake. 

Parker slips in quietly, and Arthur feels the weight of the bed shift before it’s lifted suddenly.

Arthur cracks open an eye, seeing Parker staring with a conflicted look on his face at the bedside. 

Arthur lazily reaches one arm out to him, and Parker grabs the extended hand without thought. 

“Stay,” Arthur begs. Parker pauses, then nods once. 

Arthur lets his hand drop and eyes close again, staring at nothing as he hears fabric rustle as Parker borrows some clothes. Then, the sheets shift as Parker climbs in next to him. It feels like he’s miles away. Arthur wants the contact and wants to be alone the exact same amount. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, dozing slightly as he listens to Parker breathe. 

“Don’t,” Parker says, a bit too sharply. It cuts. Then, he tries again, softer. “Don’t apologize.”

“It can’t really be easy,” Arthur continues. 

“What can’t?” Parker asks.

Arthur pauses, sleep-deprived brain struggling to figure out how to phrase this. “Sometimes I feel like I’m cursed. Like everything around me has to go up in flames while I don’t have anything happen to me in return. I’m just a boy who struck a match once, and his whole life has been running away from the following flames.”

Parker doesn’t say anything, so Arthur continues. “And I feel, constantly, like I’m running on borrowed time. That’s there’s only so much that can happen to me. I think every time that this is the thing that will break me, and I just keep getting broken. I think it can’t get worse and it always does, like it’s trying to prove it to me. Like someone out there is seeing how much I can be pushed, how long I’ll stay down. It can’t be easy to stay near something like that. Thank you for staying.”

Arthur waits for a response. The perfect words that will fix his life. 

Parker just sighs and rolls over, wrapping an arm around Arthur and pulling him close, suddenly. His breath fans over Arthur’s skin, and he shivers. 

“Always,” Parker mutters against his skin like some sort of holy inscription. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

“You’ll be staying for a while, then,” Arthur says weakly. His head swims. 

“Good,” Parker says. “I’m going to make sure we don’t lose anything else.”

Arthur wakes up quietly. John hums a good morning that Arthur doesn’t react to at first. His mind feels like it’s going a million miles a minute, reeling whatever his dream was. Processing, catching Arthur up to speed. 

“Why are you crying?” John asks. 

Arthur wipes a hand under his eyes. “Nothing,” He answers. “No reason. Bad dream.”

“Wha-”

“Peter. It was about Peter, John,” Arthur says. It hurts particularly this morning. Something here has been heating up and up, and Arthur feels as if it’s about to come to a boil. 

“Ah,” Comes the disappointed drawl. Despite how good Arthur thought the conversation topic of his old partner was going, sometimes it seems to revert back to right where it was. 

John shifts, impatient, frustrated. That seems to be more recurring, these days. They’ve been in this place for too long, the two of them both constantly shifting and writhing. Not knowing what to do with the energy, they lash out at each other, just to have something to do. 

“67,” John growls, “67 days here.”

“Wonderful,” Arthur says. “Want a celebration?”

There’s an audible growl, and despite himself, Arthur gets goosebumps. He may have been stuck with this entity for months, but it doesn’t make it any easier to face off when he gets angry. It’s something even more horrific knowing what he is- or used to be. 

“We could leave. We have ways to leave. We have plans,” John spits. “Why won’t you let us?”

“I don’t know, John, maybe I don’t want to fucking die!” Arthur doesn’t bother with the buildup, going straight into shouting. 

“You won’t! The only thing that can kill you now is you being hung up on Peter.”

“Why does it always come back to him with you?”

John laughs sarcastically, and it’s shockingly human. “With me? You’re the fool who keeps dreaming about him, crying over him, pitifully whining as if it’s doing anything.”

“Stop,” Arthur warns. 

John, of course, doesn’t. “What will it take for it to click that he’s dead now? That there’s no use in keeping us both here when we need to escape? Tell me, Arthur. What do I need to do? Tell you how he died exactly? Tell you how it felt, how he screamed and gagged and was helpless?”

“Stop!” Arthur yells. He wishes he could cover his ears, but the voice bounces around the confines of his mind, it sinks deeper and deeper into the crevices of his soul. 

“Do you even know how he died? Would it help if you did?”

“You killed him!” Arthur snarls. He covers his ears anyway, squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Open your eyes, Arthur,” The command comes. Arthur refuses. 

“He was stubborn, and it didn’t work on him. He brought the book in and read it. That’s why he was crying for you, that’s why you were reaching for him. And yet you were still stupid enough to look at the book. Even after seeing it tear Peter’s mind to pieces, something I couldn’t latch onto, something-”

Arthur’s eyes fly open and out of desperation he grabs his left hand in a tight grip, crushing the fingers. A preemptive strike most of all, worried that John would try to choke him out again or something similar. 

“Stop it!” Arthur screams. “Don’t you dare talk about him!”

John hisses and thrashes in his grip. “He was just as stupid as you!”

“No! No, John, I’ll kill us both!” Arthur shouts. John falls still, but Arthur continues, words spewing out of him like bile. “Do you hear me? I’ll return you to the fucking King if that’s what it takes. I’ll kill us both, slowly, and you’re going to have to watch it. You’re going to have to watch me die! And then, when you’re back with He Who fucking Made You, you will never forget about me. And you will try, and try, and try, but I will haunt you! I will haunt you until the ends of times if that’s what it fucking takes for you to understand!”

“I’m not going to believe your stupid lie,” John snaps after a moment. 

“Do you want to take that risk?” Arthur’s voice shakes, his entire body shakes. There’s tears falling down from his eyes and onto John’s hand. He still has it in an iron grip, and he can’t tell who’s fault it is that it’s trembling. 

John doesn’t respond for a long moment, and eventually Arthur lets go of him. If John wanted to kill him then he can. The King can fucking win. Arthur doesn’t care anymore.

They sit in a silence that stretches for hours. Arthur doesn’t move. He waits. Waits for the other shoe to drop, for them to recover, for him to fall asleep. He shakes all over like a single leaf on a branch. 

He jumps when he feels John’s hand begin to work through a knot in his hair. He pulls back quickly, and John’s hand chases for a moment, as if believing that it was an instinctive movement instead of a voluntary one. When it registers, though, the hand drops. 

“Don’t speak about him again,” Arthur says eventually. His voice is leagues softer than it had previously been. 

John doesn’t respond. 

“I mean it,” Arthur continues. “I don’t want his name in your mouth ever. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to get to talk about something as wonderful as him. You can’t tarnish him anymore. I’m taking the power away.”

Nothing. 

“John,” Arthur prompts, finally threading some venom back into his voice. 

“Okay.”

Arthur’s not done with the complacent answer. Isn’t satisfied with it. He wants John to feel bad about Parker. He wants him to grieve. 

“After Faroe died,” Arthur starts, “He was all I had left.”

There’s a tension merely at Faroe’s name. Arthur can feel it everywhere. He wishes he could go back to sleep. 

“I could barely do anything,” He continues. He goes to reach to fiddle with his hands, to run his fingers over John’s again. He stops himself, and constrains the awkward fidgeting to his right hand alone. “I wanted to just sleep forever, or until everything I knew was gone. 

He didn’t let me, though. After the third day, he made me drink something that wasn’t alcoholic. I hated it. The water down my throat felt so nice, so I vomited it back up on purpose. And he sat with me and made me drink it again. Then, I ate something, finally. It was greasy, and terrible, because this was before Parker really learned that my stove’s back burners always heat unevenly. But it was something. And he let me rest.”

“He took care of you,” John observes. 

“Don’t comment,” Arthur commands. “Just because I’m telling you about him doesn’t mean you get to talk about him. You get to listen and think, silently. You get to know what you took from me.”

Silence. Arthur takes a shaky breath, and carries on. 

“So, he took care of me. Made sure I could do the basic functions of a human being, that I wouldn’t keel over and die one day. Made sure I brushed my teeth enough to not have to later spend a fortune fixing them, stuff like that. Eventually, one day, he wanted me to shower.”

Arthur pauses. Lets the sentence linger. 

“I couldn’t do it. The water started and I sank to the floor. Don’t even remember what happened next, only that I was dry and in bed and he was sitting at the bedside. A few days later, about a month after her death, he suggested that he could help wash my hair. It took a lot of convincing. A lot of compromising. But eventually I sat with my head tilted back in the sink. He washed my hair for me. That’s all there was to it.”

Arthur swallows, and his voice takes on a more awestruck tone. Somewhere between admiration and grief. “I remember the feeling of it, I remember feeling terrible the entire time during it. I remember, though, looking up at Parker while he did it. He looked so concentrated, like this was the most important thing in the world to him. Like I was the most important thing in the world to him. He looked down, and met my eyes one time during it. Just nodded. Like an acknowledgment, before going back to work. All of his focus was on me, and taking care of me. I didn’t know it, but I would have done anything for him, then. I could have torn the entire world to shreds. I could have stopped myself from tearing the entire world to shreds.”

Arthur shifts slightly. He holds his breath for a long moment and then exhales slowly. “I also distinctly remember wanting to hold his hand. To this day, I don’t know why. I just wanted to feel a warm hand in mine, I guess. A live one. But it was so remarkable to me. It still is. He didn’t need to do that. He just cared about me, enough to want me to be clean again. When I did eventually take a shower, he sat outside the bathroom door as well. I know now that he loved me. I believe it and everything. I wish I could have put that love to rest.”

Silence. It stretches on and on. Arthur’s waiting again. He’s always waiting. 

He sighs, like he’s finished his story. “I guess you know, now. That’s what’s gone. That’s why I can’t leave.”

The words are spoken slowly, like they were carefully picked out. “I appreciate you telling me that.”

It could be the pause that lingers before and after the words. It could just be because Arthur knows John better than anyone else now. 

“You want to say something,” Arthur observes. 

“...Yes.”

“Say it,” Arthur says. 

“No.”

Arthur leans against a wall. “Why not?”

“Because,” John sounds caught between a careful misery and a wild frustration, “You asked me not to. You wouldn’t like it.”

Arthur hums in acknowledgment. Lets the sentences linger.

“Yeah,” He agrees. “Say it anyway.”

John pauses, like he was worried about failing the test. Hesitating before walking straight into the trap Arthur openly invited him into. 

  “Do you think Peter would have liked me?”

Out of all the things he could have said, Arthur was not expecting that. 

His immediate gut reaction is No, of course not. Are you even serious? But then, of course, the doubt creeps in. 

He’s silent as he runs the idea across his mind over and over again, becoming less and less repulsed each time. In an alternate timeline, maybe. One where John wasn’t quite John, and Arthur wasn’t quite Arthur, and a million other different factors came into place. In a place where every impossible perfect scenario came into being at just the right way. One where Parker, of course, was alive. And safe. 

Their personalities would’ve sparked off of each other. He can imagine how Parker would complain about John. They would’ve made Arthur’s life hell. Would he have loved it, anyway? The two of them, not quite the same versions he knows now, bouncing off of each other. Pretending desperately that they didn’t like each other. Could they have been happy? 

Arthur catches the runaway train of thought quickly, stamping it down and under his heel. This was dangerous. This was a dangerous line of thought. No matter how alluring, it was something that could have never existed. 

“No,” Arthur says simply. 

Silence. Arthur waits. 

John doesn’t speak again. 

Arthur is walking on a cliff. It’s beautiful, a perfect climate. It’s a little too cold for many other people, but he loves it. The sky is cloudy, and a thicker storm sits heavily on the horizon. Wind buffets him gently as he walks through tall grass. There’s salt in the air and the sound of waves crashing violently nearby. This is a familiar place. This is a place where all things end. 

There’s a slow sense of acceptance in the walk he takes. He’s never been here before. This is not a memory. This is not one of those dreams where he relives some perfect memory with Parker. Something is about to happen to him. Maybe another fire. 

The hill he walks on rises more, the sea gets more and more violent the closer he draws. Eventually, he reaches the crest, and sees Parker. He’s sitting with his legs splayed out, resting on his hands behind him. He stares out over the edge of the cliff, where waters too dark to be real hit the rockside hard enough pieces come away. There’s a white foam cresting away that disappears on the black, jagged slate. It’s too far down to even dream of coming up to them, but Arthur shivers anyway. 

Parker glances up at Arthur, who’s just standing next to him. Gestures with one hand for Arthur to sit with him. Arthur, reluctantly, does. He pulls himself up into a ball to contrast Parker’s splayed figure. Hugs his knees to his chest. For the first time in a long time, he prays.

He waits for Parker to say something. 

Parker is content to just watch the waves. Arthur glances at them as if they hold something he doesn’t.

“Is this real?” Arthur eventually asks. 

“Depends on your definition of real, mostly,” Parker says. 

Arthur tears his gaze away to stare at him. Parker looks back. He looks younger than Arthur remembers. More boy-ish. Maybe it’s the dream. 

“This isn’t one of your memories, if that’s what you mean,” Parker eventually continues, looking back over the cliff. 

“But are you really Parker?” Arthur asks. 

“This isn’t some eldritch bullshit,” Parker answers. 

Arthur’s grown wary of non-answers. “Are you really Parker?” He stresses

Parker pauses. Tears up a handful of grass and throws it over the edge. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I was always a bit of a skeptic.”

Arthur waits. 

“No,” Parker says. “But I’m close enough to whatever was left of him that it shouldn’t matter to you. I’m not some horrific monster trying to wring some information out of you, Les. I’m just an echo.”

Arthur heaves a sigh that feels too big for him. 

“Oh, come on,” Parker says, giving him a lopsided grin. “Don’t look so disappointed to see me.”

“This isn’t real,” Arthur says. 

Parker drops some grass onto him. “See? Told you it depends on your definition of real. Out of the two of us, you were even less inclined to believe in ghosts.”

“Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Ouch.”

“Stop it,” Arthur begs, quietly. 

Parker pauses, then nods. “I’m not making this any easier on you, am I?”

“Are you just part of my subconscious?” Arthur asks. 

Parker shrugs. “I’m just sitting here, Arthur.”

Arthur pauses. Waves keep crashing onto the shore. “At least you’re an accurate depiction.” 

“Yeah?” Parker asks. 

Arthur turns to face him, and nods. “You have the same cowlick in his hair. And the same small scar behind his ear.”

“Well, now,” Parker says, playing at being humble, “Those could be anyone’s.”

“Would I be dreaming of anyone else?” Arthur asks. Another pause. “I miss you, Parker.”

He’s tying stems of grass into knots. He exhales shakily and nods. “Yeah. I miss you, too, Arthur.”

Arthur wants to close the distance between them. To lurch forward into Parker’s arms and curl up against him, pitch the two of them over the side of the cliff together. But he can’t. There’s a certain finality to the action. If he ever wants to get out of this place, he can’t. 

Like Parker knows what he’s thinking, he nods. “You have to let go of me eventually, you know.”

“You say it like it’s easy.”

“Now you’re just putting words into my mouth,” Parker scolds lightly. His smirk is familiar, something seen over lifetimes. Arthur wants to cry. 

“I’m sorry I-” Arthur starts before Parker puts a hand up to signal a stop. 

“There are a million different things you could be apologizing for right now,” Parker says, “And I don’t want to hear any of them. I never have.”

Arthur nods and swallows. “Does it have to be now? I don’t think I’m ready to lose you.”

Parker gives him such a sad look that Arthur is convinced that he’s about to be told that he has to let go now. That he has to wake up and never think of Parker again. 

“Not yet,” Arthur says. His voice cracks, and selfishly, he adds the thing he can never deny himself. “Stay.”

Parker sighs. 

“Yeah,” Parker says. “Yeah, not yet. It’ll take a while. But Arthur, you can’t stay in this place with me. You think you’re leaving me behind.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. 

“What I’m going to say is going to hurt you,” Parker says. His hand twitches, and Arthur refrains from grabbing it. 

Parker gives him a level look. “You left me behind a long time ago. In that office.”

Arthur doesn’t flinch, but takes the words like a pill. Swallows them down where they take root to be tended to later. 

“Do you know John?” Arthur asks, because of course all things come back to John. 

“I know of him,” Parker waves a hand. “We’re not on the best terms.”

Arthur laughs and tears up at the same time. 

“You don’t want my apology,” Arthur says. Parker nods in conformation.

“I wish things were different,” Arthur tells him instead. 

Parker pauses and Arthur fidgets, running a hand over his left one over habit as he waits. 

“I told you a long time ago that I would stay as long as you’ll have me,” Parker starts eventually. “Now, I’m asking you a favor. Please, let me linger. Keep me around as long as you need. I’d love to be selfish with you.”

“Do you experience the dreams, too?” Arthur asks. “The memories?”

Parker gives him an almost wounded look. “Arthur,” He starts, “I can’t answer that. To tell you would be telling you too much. It’d be telling you that I’m something that exists outside of you. This is fragile.”

“I know,” Arthur sighs. “I’m so sick of waiting for things to get better, Parker. I’m sick of waiting for things to pass.”

“I know. I wish things were different.”

Arthur scoffs at the reuse of words.

“Will you be around when I sleep again?” Arthur asks. 

“As long as you’ll have me,” Parker answers again and again and again.

Arthur stands up, and Parker mimics the movement. He points down to where the cliffside slopes lower and lower into a boardwalk. Arthur faces it and his head tilts as something about it pulls at him. 

“Arthur,” Parker says, voice deep and quiet. Somehow it pierces over the waves. “You know I love you?”

“I do.”

“Then that’s all there needs to be.”

“Parker, I-” Arthur turns around to look at him, only to see nothing. Just a cloudy sky. The wind whips at him viciously now. 

Arthur’s breath catches slightly before he turns back towards the boardwalk. The storm is rolling in, slowly. He begins to walk.

The skin around his fingertips is torn slightly from where they kept missing the jump. Arthur runs his thumb over the wounds on both hands lightly. It’ll heal in time, without him even noticing. All he can do now is wait.