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He was alive. He was, he had to be, John could feel the rise and fall of Arthurs chest against his own, could hear his steadily beating pulse indicating the thrum of his heart.
It didn't matter what The King kept telling him, his voice bored and exasperated, Arthur was alive.
“Really. . . John.” The King sounded irritated to have to use his name, but he continued on, “When do you intend to stop with all this foolishness and do something with it.” His voice was pointed, and John bristled at the use of ‘it’ to refer to Arthur.
“Him. He’s not an it.” John curled tighter around Arthur, holding his dead alive alive alive unconscious body closer.
“It is not anything. I understand you are,” he paused, choosing his words carefully, keeping his voice calm like how one would speak to a child throwing a tantrum over a broken toy, “Attached, to it, but you’re just being silly to carry around a corpse, especially when there are much better uses for them.” The King flicked his wrist in the direction of the Dancers, and John's grip around Arthur tightened protectively at the thought of what he was suggesting.
John hated the Dancers, hated how The King twisted their limbs in unnatural directions they should not have gone in, moving them about in a twisted, mutilated, mimicry of a dance. The thought of his Arthur as one of them, just one among dozens of marionettes kept around for The King's amusement was sickening, he wouldn’t let that happen. Arthur would hate that, would rather die and he hadn’t yet he was alive, he was alive, than be just another empty cultist made to have another's will impressed on him, just like all of the other cultists he had always expressed his hatred for.
“You’re not stringing him up like a fucking puppet.”
The King’s annoyance was apparent in the very atmosphere but John didn’t care. Arthur was his, and he had no intention of letting The King ruin him anymore than he already had. There was a brief moment of movement, Arthur was shaking, presumably from whatever nightmares there were that now occupied his time, and John smiled slightly at the reminder of his life. Running his too long fingers through Arthur's hair, he tried to quietly soothe him, murmuring to him gentle promises of how everything was fine.
“This is just getting childish John, what's the point of continuing this little facade of yours? You know as well as I do that it is dead.” His tone was condescending, as if John was just blissfully unaware, or maybe just stupid. He wasn’t stupid though, Arthur was alive.
“Arthur’s not dead.”
Ignoring John’s insistence, with a flick of one of his wrists The King directed one of the Dancers over to the dais, and John flinched at their unnatural movements.
“Now, would you consider my Dancers to be alive?”
“They’re your puppets , of course not.” Arthur wasn’t like them, and he never would be, John would make sure of it, he wouldn’t let it happen. In response The King only hummed in acknowledgement, before turning to watch the lone Dancer as all of a sudden they seized their movements, collapsing to the ground, their limbs sticking out in ways they were not meant to do. It was disturbing to watch, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, left out to lay there mangled by its master.
“Look at it John. Do you see that?” His face widened into a cruel mockery of a grin. “It’s breathing. Just like your little pet is.”
No.
Stop.
“Arthur isn't like them.” Arthur was fine, he’d be okay, he was alive, he was alive, he was alive.
“The only difference is you’ve yet to attach his strings.” The laugh The King let out echoed throughout the room as he watched John begin to crumble.
“Fuck off.” There wasn’t his usual venom in the words, he just sounded painfully dejected, holding Arthur tighter as if that would fix anything at all. Arthur wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead because if he was dead then. . .
Well then John had killed him.
“I really did try and be patient with you, with all of this silly ‘John’ business, with this friendship,” The word was spat out with venom usually reserved for curses, “That you claim to have with your little human, I’ve even allowed you to keep him here when I should have killed him for his crimes. My goodwill has run out, and it is unbefitting of you to drag around his body like a comfort-toy a child is unable to grow out of.”
“Please. . .” John wasn’t even sure what it was he was begging for. All he knew was he couldn’t have killed Arthur, he had promised to keep him safe, had promised he wouldn’t let this happen.
“Find something to do with it, or else I’ll find my own uses.” He was grateful when The King left, taking with him the unfortunate truths he had no desire to acknowledge.
Everything would be fine.
He was grateful The King decided to leave him alone for a while, small mercies in an otherwise terrible situation. He knew it wouldn’t last long, no he found too much entertainment in watching John stew in his misery to allow that to happen, but at least he was given that little bit.
Unfortunately, the reprieve didn’t last long, interrupted by another unwelcome visitor. The Dreamlands had a tendency to warp around their inhabitants, and John flinched as he felt the atmosphere shift, marking Kayne’s arrival, back to taunt him again presumably. Ignoring him never did any good, and John glared up at him with a frown.
“I’m not in the mood Kayne.”
He gasped in over the top mock offense, bloody hands pressed to his heart. “Why am I not allowed to drop in to check in on our intrepid little heroes!?” Grin twisting into a caricature of sympathy, he moved closer to peer down at Arthur, tutting at how John tried to shield him from view. “You really have done a number on the poor thing, haven’t you?”
“Fuck off.”
“Just telling the truth. I mean, I know it’s been a while since I last stopped by he’s just-” He snapped, and John growled at the splatter of blood that ended up on him from the movement. “-Gone!”
“Arthur’s not gone.”
“Whatever you say buttercup. Now really, I could have done something if you weren’t so rude all of the time, but now? Well it really must suck knowing you’ve killed him.” John wished he could just write it off as another attempt by Kayne to get a rise out of him, but he couldn’t convince even himself of that. Arthur may still be breathing, he could still hear his steady heartbeat against his own chest, but well.
Fuck.
“. . .Please.” He hated how pathetic he sounded, knew it was futile to plead with Kayne yet he had to try. “You-You could fix him. Leave me here, kill me, whatever you please, but just help him.”
“Hmm. . .” He moved closer, and John resisted the urge to yank Arthur away from him, allowing him to tilt Arthurs head up before dropping him to go limp once more. “No!” Kayne just cackled at that, like Arthurs death was just another sick fucking joke to him.
“Kayne.”
“Couldn’t even if I wanted to! Which I don't. Whatever made him, him, well it’s long gone. Really he’s quite useless at this point, not much else you could do except well-” With a flick of his wrist, Kayne guided up Arthur’s left hand, the one that had long been John’s.
“Don’t. Please.” Careful not to yank too hard on him, John pulled his hand back down, placing it to rest against his chest. “I’m not going to do that to him.”
Kayne just rolled his eyes at that, yet complied nonetheless and John sighed in relief at feeling Arthurs arm go limp again. “I suppose that there’s one thing I could do.”
“Please, anything for him.”
“Really, do you even listen to me! He's as good as dead, nothing to be done about that. You however, well I’m sure Hastur dear would love to have his bleeding heart back.”
“No.” He couldn’t do that, couldn’t leave Arthur, couldn’t lose who Arthur had made him. It hurt, existing like this, of course it did but it was his penance to pay for Arthurs sake, and he couldn’t just give up on that.
“Artie here is a done deal, and are you really going to spend the rest of your existence clinging to a corpse?”
“Please.”
“And wouldn’t it be so much easier this way? To just forget?” He couldn’t, couldn’t just give up after everything he and Arthur had gone through for this. John didn’t deserve to forget, didn’t deserve to be able to move on from what had happened, what he had done, however unwittingly to Arthur.
After everything, he couldn’t just forget it all, return back to square one. There would be no one to remember Arthur, no one to mourn him if he allowed himself to let go of it all. Arthur deserved mourners, he deserved to have people who would be there for him, who would fondly reminisce on who we had been. It was his own fault Arthur didn’t have that, and now would never have it.
Maybe it was easier this way.
“. . . Would Arthur be okay?”
Kayne just laughed at him again, “He’s already not okay, you took care of that.”
“I know.”
He knew.
He wouldn’t have to know for much longer. Perhaps that was for the best.