Chapter Text
How about we spend the night here? Instead of trying to drive so recently injured. I’m sure the Larsons have some first-aid supplies around here somewhere. We don’t want to crash our car again.
Arthur let out a laugh. It was dry and ragged. “I almost forgot about that. That poor baby. Do you think she’s doing all right?”
I don’t know, Arthur.
“Yeah, it’s just-“ he sighs heavily, leaning the side of the motorcar. “You’re right. I need rest. Let’s go rob Larson of everything he owns.”
-
Arthur lets John guide him through the little rituals, elements of everyday life like brushing his teeth and washing himself. They find a needle and some vodka, and John sews Arthur up again in the light of a guest bathroom while he babbles something incomprehensible about the meaning of key signatures and orchestra.
”We” -hic “We shou- go to the orche-sta one day. You wou- like it. Iss pretty. I made somethin for a conchert once.”
Yes. I’m sure it is, Arthur. Now move the towel to the left, we can go to bed after I finish the part and we get on the bandages.”
They stumble their way over to a guest bedroom, close to the garage. Arthur, even in his drunken state, insists on propping up a chair underneath the handle and locking the door.
”Double security.” he slurred.
Arthur was out like a light the moment the covers were pulled over his shoulders. At least the bed was comfortable.
-
John would often daydream while Arthur slept. It was a nice way to pass the time, and any given memory of his time as the King in Yellow could prove to be useful in their journey to become separate.
He would lie awake (not that John ever slept), one of his only connections to the world around him closed off for the next 4-10 hours, and reach back to before his conception as an individual soul. All his time as the King felt hazy and subjective; a recollection of rhymes, emotions, and impressions rather than events. Additionally, it struck John how utterly childish he’d been, how utterly childish the King was. Every so-called “higher being” Arthur and he had met so far in their travels was no more emotionally mature than a toddler, and John, or rather Hastur, had been no different.
It had expanded for expansion’s sake, born beyond the reach of entropy and yet reveling in each new draught of power that fell into what was already a vast ocean. It never satisfied the King for long. John remembered fine linens, detailed robes weaved with gold that must’ve taken years to create, and exquisite pieces of music and art. All forgotten in some infinite storeroom in an ever-changing castle that had driven countless architects mad with frustration and confusion. The only real emotion other than boredom that he could remember were ones of vindication, when the King won wagers against other Great Ones or stole items of value, rage, when any creature that should’ve been wholly within its power escaped it, and fleeting interest in momentary indulgences. There was nothing other than the endless worlds to conquer, more minds to be turned to worship, and the eternal, burning hunger for more, more, more. Looking back, John could see how utterly pointless it was.
The King had no need for universes full of people who worshiped his name before they knew how to walk. It had no need to stick people in fucking pits in the goddamn ground and starve them for months. It barely even derived a sense of satisfaction from its actions. John, frankly, pitied the King. Perhaps it was the fragment that lacked whatever sense of duty or purpose propelled his progenitor on his path of destruction. Either way, John enjoyed his life (it had a life now, instead of mere existence) with Arthur, fraught with danger as it was, more than any single experience he’d had as the King in Yellow.
And then, another dream. More secretive, one that John nursed like a pint of alcohol he wasn’t supposed to have, a train of thought whose track he only treads in private.
A body.
Not a human one, ideally. It would be nice to be able to disguise himself as one, but John had seen far too many flaws in their design to willingly take one. The beings that populated Earth, albeit charming in appearance, were startlingly static. From what he gleaned from Arthur’s mind, most creatures on the planet spent the beginning of their lives progressing to adult status and then deteriorated from there. Humans, admittedly, had clothing and hairstyles and a fun little practice where you could persuade a body into switching its primary hormone. However, all of the life in Arthur’s world seemed so still to John. It remembered being somewhat understimulated once it first took Arthur’s eyes. Everything looked so boring, and barely anything moved or bent or shifted imperceptibly in shape bit by bit until you beheld a form entirely different from the one that was there a moment ago. John hated the idea of being forced to be the same thing forever. Also, humans secreted far too many liquids and slimes, most of which were uncontrollable.
There, his hand still, Arthur’s body lying in one of Larson’s many guest rooms, John returns to his fantasy.
It wanted a form distinct from the King’s. A form that took inspiration from all the beautiful creatures of Earth.
First of all, John wanted hands. Using tentacles as the primary mode of physical manipulation was only really effective when you had the strength and size to back it up. Hands were symbols of humanity, of the land and air rather than the sea and space. He couldn’t possibly sustain a body as large as the King’s, and besides, John wanted to be able to interact with the world of humans. He’d need a cloak, obviously, but-
John hears something slam against the door, making a muted *thump* and a rattling sound that must’ve been the chair that Arthur had shoved up against the door handle earlier that night. Then, a moment of stillness.
It happened again, this time with more force, accompanied by the sound of muffled cursing. Thank fuck for the chair.
ARTHUR! he yells, ARTHUR WAKE THE FUCK UP! SOMEONE’S TRYING TO BREAK IN!
Arthur, the inconsiderate ass, rolls over and mumbles something indiscernible.
ARTHUR! John tries again. His friend tosses his head around, and for a moment John can see the dark silhouettes of the mini-chandelier (who puts a chandelier in a bedroom?), the dresser, chair, and a thin sliver of light coming from underneath the door before Arthur’s eyes shut again. Something slams against the door again, and John can hear the sound of wood cracking and splintering, whether that be the door or the chair.
ARTHUR! GET UP! It disentangles Arthur’s hand from under the covers, dragging the limb to his face. ARTHUR! UP! NOW! John shoves the wooden pinkie as far up Arthur’s nose as it can go and finally, and finally, its eyes open all the way.
“John!” Arthur snapped, “What the fuck are you-“
WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS ARTHUR, SOMEONE IS TRYING TO BREAK INTO OUR ROOM. GET THE DAGGER.
“Wha-what?” John feels his head snap back and forth across the room, a useless gesture for Arthur, but it lets John see where Arthur put down their bag.
ARTHUR, GET UP! Someone is trying to break down the door. I estimate you have about a minute or two to get ready. Your bag is on the dresser. If you stand up with your back to the bed, it’ll be about six steps away.
“O-okay. I-I um. Fuck.” As Arthur stands up and crosses the room, John feels the world shift, vision coming to center on the dresser top. Reach your hand out in front of you. To your left Arthur. Shift your hand a bi-Yes.
Arthur’s hand tightens around the knife handle, shaking slightly as he rounds towards the sound of splintering, “Didn’t Larson leave for New York? Who is this? Did-did he come back? Why would he come back?”
I don’t know, Arthur. I barely know what Wallace Larson looks like. Get ready; the door is almost broken. Do you want to try and fight them or do you want to run?
“Let’s try to run. I don’t think I-I don’t think I can win a fight right now.”
Ok. Good. Get our bag then, we don’t want to leave it.
The sound of wood splintering and cracking comes to a peak, and a gaping hole appears in the center of the door in front of them, letting the light from the hallway into the darkened room.
Arthur, they’ve broken through the door. I can see someone’s torso, but the light flooding in from the hallway masks any details. A hand is reaching through the hole in the door, Arthur. It’s pushing the chair away. The door is beginning to swing open. Get ready to push past them and run.
For a few moments, Arthur stood there as the figure revealed itself. The shadow in the doorway became a man, who stepped forward and flicked on the light.
Arthur, a young man stands before us. He’s average height and wearing an indigo vest embroidered with some sort of geometric pattern over a white shirt. He looks..mildly frustrated. Like someone building a house of cards that was just knocked over. There’s an axe in his hand, but he’s holding it limply at his side. He’s stepping forward, Arthur. Run on my mark.
“Well, Mister Lester,” the man says, “I suppose I’ve underestimated you.” He swings the axe to his other hand and rests it on the floor, leaning against it as he places a hand on his hip. “You‘ve reall-”
Now Arthur!
Arthur takes off past Larson, running out of the door as fast as he can, which is about the speed of a jog. It’s impressive, considering that he was bleeding out not less than a day ago. Unfortunately, Larson, at least 5 years Arthur’s junior, not bearing a gut wound, and with legs that had never been snapped in two by an eldritch entity and healed haphazardly by another, followed behind. He catches up easily, grabbing Arthur’s hand (John’s hand) and yanking them back. Arthur flails wildly with the knife in Larson’s direction, and John starts to inform him where Larson but Arthur manages to slice the dagger across Larson’s hand.
John barely sees the result before Arthur is up and running again, but it thinks it saw a line of red springing up where Arthur had cut, most severe on the pinkie finger. It could see the bone, stained pink and yellow with blood where the flesh had fallen away.
They get about as far as the next bend in the hallway before Larson shouts something at the top of his lungs, something that crackles and whips through the air like a lightning bolt or a whip or the antenna of a massive insect. Arthur crumples like a puppet with its strings cut, falling face-first toward the floor. John puts its hand out to grab at a doorknob and catches it; its hand jerks painfully in its socket but the fall is softened.
Arthur? Are you awake? ARTHUR!
No response. Arthur is breathing, at least. His eyes are still open too, John can see Larson approaching.
The man’s pinkie finger has been entirely disconnected from his hand, and he holds it between his thumb and forefinger like a dirty handkerchief. Larson kneels and grabs Arthur’s head, peeling the eyelid back and peering down into John’s pupils. He reaches somewhere out of John’s vision, maybe into a drawer or something, pulls out a pallid mask, and holds it in front of his face. There’s a bloodstain on it, in between where a mouth would be and the left side of the chin.
Fuck.
Larson makes a noise of utmost satisfaction, like someone on the verge of solving a puzzle.“So,” he says, “there is still a piece of him in there.”
FUCK.