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He’s been impaled.
He knows he’s been impaled, he felt the blade twist and pierce through his muscles, he felt the strain of his blood spilling over and could only regret. The pain was overwhelming to the point of making Arthur cry and slip into unconsciousness, a fragile human who was far too aware of how death felt like.
Instead of staying to hear John’s pleadings, he pulls further and further away from his body, safe in the darkness that spreads everywhere.
They haven’t even gotten far, they’ve barely scratched the surface of where the Black Stone could be, they just collected their first clues and a vanguard to proceed.
And yet, their progress was already being pushed back.
It’s frustrating.
When Arthur curses it echoes back to him from all angles. He shuts his eyes, the covers his ears, he simply breathes and hopes the sound will stop.
It doesn’t.
His own voice rings back in his mind, over and over again, and it’s more awful then the blood that always seemed to well up inside his mouth when he was stabbed through.
He might be drowning in his own words, his screams, maybe even his tears, but nothing breaks out.
Nothing breaks the excruciating sounds, until he hears the echo of free laughter. It’s so ill-fitting that it pushes him out of his near panic attack immediately, instantly focused on an outside element.
He opens his eyes again and uncovers his ears, and looks for the source of strangeness.
There is no John here, no gods, no Yorick, just him and someone. Someone he most likely knows.
“Kayne?” Arthur calls out, both hateful and disappointed with the clear desperation in his voice. He hasn’t recovered yet, he can still feel metal sitting between his ribs, but whenever he looks down, he sees nothing of it. There is no blood.
“Over here!”
It’s hard to name what cracks open within Arthur at the familiar voice, but it’s close enough to relief. His grey eyes finally catch the figure standing out in the black sightings, skipping over barefoot and happy, and holding something in his arms.
Arthur tries to look closer, to focus on the lineout of light careful hands wrapped around a child, a child he recognizes all too well. It can’t be her though, it’s not her, it’s not, she doesn’t look the same— What is Kayne attempting?
“I knew you’d need a break, so look what I brought you!”
It’s Faroe. Of course, it’s Faroe. Younger by a few years, obviously, but still his child.
“C’mon, Arty, hold your daughter. I know you want to.”
She looked exactly the same as he remembered. Yes, she was much younger then the age Arthur had lost her at, but it was still Faroe.
His darling Faroe, his starlight, his daughter.
Everything was in place and tucked around her lovingly. She had her blonde curled hair, the slightest of freckles around her tiny nose and curious, happy gray eyes.
Lost in the grief and joy Arthur felt, he simply watched as Kayne playfully blew air on her face, causing Faroe to giggle uncontrollably before pushing her without a warning into her father’s arms. She was warm and chubby, and happy, and alive. He had never missed her quite as much as he did now, while holding Faroe.
“Thank you.” His voice shakes, but doesn’t break, and Arthur can only bring his gaze up for a moment to look at Kayne with tears in his eyes, before returning to watching his daughter. He memorizes every detail of her cheeks, of the way she starts clinging to him and his shirt as he rearranges her in his arms, as he tries not to fall apart within her closeness.
“You’re very much welcome.” Kayne doesn’t mind the particular split of attention, rather satisfied with his own actions. He makes a turnaround on Arthur, ensuring they can be safely transported as he smiles. “Now, let’s switch places for a bit, it’s getting a little chummy around.”
His hands aren’t smeared with blood anymore, but decorated with rings that give a lovely golden shade, punctuated by small, red gems. Lightly, like he wants more to tease rather than explore, one of his hands loosely wraps around Arthur’s waist. It squeezes around and Kayne cackles at the surprised muffled whimper Arthur allows to escape. He’s flushed at the touch of pure electricity, wanting to snap back already, but Kayne’s switched his attention to Faroe.
“Make sure your daddy stays in one place, Faroe. I’d hate to lose such a piece of marvelous work.” The being comments with dazzling playfulness, fitting to his character, but somewhat misplaced in their situation. Faroe doesn’t quite understand what’s been said to her, but she babbles something in a joyous tone that works good enough as an agreement.
Arthur faintly wonders just how comfortable Kayne is with a child. It’s strange, considering his certain distaste and apathy towards humans, but it’s not an ideal place to question the other now.
“I’m going to take that as a vague compliment.” Is what Arthur says, pointedly trying not to pull Faroe closer to protect her from an indestructible source of chaos. Kayne’s never had any qualms about breaking the social rules of not breaching another person's personal space without permission, especially not if it was Arthur he could get close to. It was bothersome, yet Arthur can never seem to push him away. Because could he even do so? Could he really afford angering his deal settler?
“You should. I don’t often hand them out with genuity.”
No, the answer was, he couldn’t. All initial discomfort of his own and fear for Faroe’s safety aside, the physical touch never seemed exactly violating. Pushing, yes, certainly testing Arthur’s limits, but not violent, when it could be.
Kayne doesn’t give a warning as their surroundings change, as Arthur chokes on transparent tangles of rot and air, of thunder willing to paralyze his blood and muscles, only to sway and slide back into place as if nothing was different. Except it was.
No longer were his surroundings a depthless back. They appeared to be in a home now, a cozy family house, a child cradle in the kitchen and plenty of items as well as food around. The walls were a pleasing light green color, adorned with wooden shelves and a white stone counter.
“Well, we can’t have daddy dearest losing his motivation so soon, can we?” Kayne cooes in a way that feels plain patronizing towards Arthur, no matter how it feels like a hot liquid being spilled over his insides to burn up and shudder. He guides Arthur to the chair while maneuvering Faroe to a high baby designed one, first ensuring that she gets her fair share of milk. His sleeves are rolled up and in his hands he has a warm bottle that he carefully presses towards Faroe’s mouth and chubby hands. She takes it and shakes it a few times for no sensible reason other than to watch some droplets of milk drip out before Kayne resigns and guides her into drinking from it too.
Arthur isn’t sure what to do now that he has the image of Kayne providing fatherly care to Arthur’s daughter, but it does not help whatever hot wire has placed itself in his stomach. He just watches as Kayne makes sure Faroe doesn’t choke on the milk, as he attaches a bib under her chin, and then proceeds to gently brush her hair back. He’s careful with Faroe, with Arthur’s heart and it may be causing irreversible changes to the human’s psyche.
All he knows is that he needs to cross his legs over themselves and push closer to the counter. For his dignity to survive.
“You need food too, Arthur. You can't function off pure adrenaline.” Kayne comments with a cold sincerity that must be fake. It sounds improbable and strange, and he’s being given a strangely intense look, and nothing seems to light up in his brain except the alarm of ‘listen’. Arthur feels pinned and overanalyzed, and known to the point of ugly human grief being exposed to the air of judgement. Kayne’s eyes seem intent on dissacteing him, on consuming the thin fragments of his stubbornness and promptly replacing them with reluctant obedience.
“Now, be a dear and open your mouth.”
He follows the command without a word of protest, swallowing the fruits he’s offered. He chews lightly on the tangible taste, on the fact Kayne’s fingers are covered in a cloying sweet scent, and pretends he doesn’t notice the fingers wandering past the edges of his red lips. The sensation of those along with rings being pushed down his throat is– it’s wrong. It’s improper and vile, and Faroe is right next to him.
He feels like melting and collecting to make a puddle of misery.
“I feel like we’re playing house.”
Arthur says after noticing he and Faroe are now profoundly sated and full of contentment, all ensured by Kayne. He feels petrified at the thought of being treated as a husband once more, after all, he’s already been fed; he doesn’t deserve the patient treatment. Still, still so, he wanders about it. By his side is his daughter, though by technicality not his, the child that is on its way to happily doze off. If the situation were any more appropriate, he’d smile.
He still does, but it comes out more unsure and confused than anything.
“Oh, we certainly aren’t. But I can always change that, if you’re amenable darling.”
Arthur makes an incomprehensible sound at the notion, shifting to carefully pick up Faroe and lull her into a nap. Her warmth is a pleasant distraction and anchor from the whirlwind that Kayne seems to start, calmed by his own instincts to care for her instead. He can’t quite hide the soft flush in his cheeks, but he very well can gently coo at his daughter. He can ignore the satisfied, near debased, grin on Kayne’s lips.
“You’re joking.”
“Not this time. I don’t mind motivating you in a different way than relaxation.”
He considers covering little Faroe’s ears and promptly cursing the living hell out of Kayne. It’s a bad idea though and so he doesn’t go through with it, even if it is tempting. It wouldn’t do good to expose Faroe to hate crimes so early in her life.
“I’m fine.” Arthur responds instead of doing what he thought about, done with being complacent and now immeasurably curious. “I have questions though.”
“I’m sure you won’t mind indulging me a little as I answer.”
“Within limits, sure.” Kayne gives him a blank look at the words before giggling and tugging the two men up, with Faroe safely tucked in Arthur’s embrace. Her breathing was a safe, quiet sound between them, unnaturally unfamiliar. She needed some proper rest, just like her father.
“Then let us move to the bedroom to talk. We have to put your starlight to sleep.”
And so, they leave the kitchen. As they walk side by side, a pattern of bare feet and socked feet moving, Arthur finally pays proper attention to the rest of the house. The walls are bright and open, shelves and small lamps added on a few stable wooden surfaces, freeing slivers of light that make everything visible in a soft fire hue. On the shelves Arthur can see books he recognizes the names of and some that he cannot, books for children and books for composers such as him. The carpet underneath his feet is fluffy and unmoving, and a shade of yellow that speaks to his love of the sun.
He feels like this is how he’d arrange his home after finding the Black Stone and receiving his due.
It feels right.
Faroe snores in her sleep and he doesn’t have the heart to even touch her until they move to the bedroom. Kayne leads them in quietly, somewhat calm and eerie in an appeasing way while he watches Arthur tuck his own daughter to bed.
“Goodnight, darling.” Arthur whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of Faroe’s light curls before shifting back. He looks at her for a few minutes more, an urge to plead and sob building within, even as he strongly pushes it back, strangles his own sorry with bloody hands of guilt.
He lets Kayne wrap his hand around Arthur’s wrist to be firmly led out. He doesn’t have the energy to thank him for it though.
From there, they venture back to the kitchen, unburdened yet weighted down. Kayne does not enjoy the particular feeling of it so he simply reaches to will a wine bottle into his hand, pouring himself and Arthur a glass. It gives them both time to reassess their position and roles, and Arthur the time to collect his stuttering breath.
“So… From what I’m getting, this is my break?” He starts off with the simplest question for now, hopeful the answer isn’t his imminent failure. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out that he’s permanently ruined his chances of a normal life and that this is the beginning of his torture. It would fit his nightmares.
Watching his daughter for the last time, forgetting everything just for some nonexistent, worthless goal, to lose everything he had left.
“Yes! Didn’t the literal child I temporarily stole for you not make it obvious enough?” Kayne responds with a smile that borderlines on mocking. It does nothing to help ease Arthur’s conscience that suddenly rips past his previous repressed emotions.
“That’s good to know– Wait, you stole her? Where’s Faroe’s actual father?” He takes the glass of red liquid offered to him and downs it immediately in one go within asking the two questions. His fingers twitch and slide over the handle of it, trying not to grip it too harshly with nerves. Kayne’s happy smirk is one of the worst things he considers seeing as of late.
“Dead. But you shouldn’t worry too much about it, she’ll be fine.”
There’s a lot to unpack within that answer, but Arthur doesn’t have the emotional capacity to explore it. It implies that Kayne is pointedly aware of what every other version of Arthur does and how it proceeds, and even past Arthur, with people that are alive when he isn’t. It doesn’t make sense for Kayne to keep watch over them, but then again it does make some sense for him to be interested in Arthur, in the Arthur that can’t ever seem to permanently kick the bucket.
“Alright then. Why are you letting me have a break?”
“Well, Arty, I can’t have you breaking down so early on in your journey. It’s no fun!” Kayne adds on with glee that can only be taken as staged care, drinking from his own glass more mindfully despite the fact alcohol as such, does nothing to impede his processing abilities.
“Especially with all the drama you still have ahead of you. Not counting all the more possible ‘stabbing’ experiences.”
“Drama? What drama?”
Kayne groans, licks the wine off his lips and stares at the other man with obvious disgruntlement.
“Oh, c'mon, don’t play such an idiot, Arthur, it makes you ugly.”
He sighs in a long, drawn out way, sat upon the kitchen counter with leisure as Arthur sits upright, tension riding up his spine. Without glancing twice at the human, Kayne spits out the answer as if he were answering a petulant child, satisfying a rather explainable curiosity.
“I’m talking about your unresolved conflict of interests with John.”
Arthur pointedly tries not to choke over his mouthful of alcohol, distracted by the sweet taste and watching his host. His thoughts backtrack and fall over themselves to remember every conversation he’s had with John previously, before they met Yorick. They’ve agreed to move past it, not forget.
“We already argued once about him agreeing to have my memory erased–” He starts unsurely, waiting for Kayne to guide him with his impatience as he does.
“What? No, no, no, Arty, I’m not talking about that.” The being refrains from continuing although Arthur looks considerably less relaxed in their kitchen. His mind feels slightly fuzzy, but it’s nothing compared to the pain he experiences in the past. He’s overlooking something, clearly, however he doesn’t know what exactly.
“Then what are you talking about?”
Something was shining at him from the horizon.
“After you finish your assignment, both of you will be rewarded by me with having separate bodies. Additionally, if you still wish to, you’ll get your daughter back.”
The explanation was simple, short enough. Finish the deal, receive your carrot. In Arthur’s case, the carrot was Faroe and freedom.
“So..”
As for John, the carrot was– Could it be him?
“Soooo?” Kayne elongates the word, miffed and ruffled at Arthur’s slow processing. He tilts the glass in his hand, watching it be filled up again to a bigger amount he could consume. Alcohol certainly wouldn’t make patience easier, but it could ease his annoyance.
“So, by that logic, John could also request something...”
It’s him. It has to be Arthur.
“Yes! And why do you think I consider it a conflict of interests?”
God, why does it have to be him?
“Because when we’re done with this, I might wish to never see him again. And he might use the call for equal rewards and demand to be tied to me.”
It chills Arthur to realize it only now, to consider all the aspects of the arrangement, to consider his relationship with John and their own separate feelings.
“Bingo! Congratulations, Arthur, you just won 100 points on your deductibility exam! You’re such a smart boy.”
The exclamation comes off as dreadful to him, more sordid than the rest of his scarred memories. He can feel Kayne’s depthless gaze on him, he can imagine the web slowly slipping under his guarded walls to squeeze and paw at his flesh. He’d prefer it to the binding of a golden friend.
He can’t trust the implication, he can’t believe it, but Kayne never says anything without a reason. He does as he wants and implies what lies forgotten, but he doesn’t lie.
Kayne’s closer, much closer than he ought to be, almost pressing to his side, but Arthur doesn’t care.
“Would you grant him it?”
He asks and pleads with his gaze, he waits and shivers, and tries not to tremble as he openly turns to face the other man.
“What?”
“Would you agree to tie him to me, even if I refused?”
Kayne’s warm, heating, unfair. He is nothing in terms of people to Arthur, even as he reaches far above them. It makes the closeness all the more numb. It makes it all the more tempting.
“Well. That’d depend on my mood, of course!”
The eye contact cuts off for a moment as Kayne pretends to think about it, watching and teasing the limits of Arthur’s desperation. It’s frail, glassy and cool. It’s perfect for molding with scorching heat.
“But, I have to say, when we first confirmed the rewards of our deal, I never said John would be getting something out of it too, excluding his own body and all that.”
“So, what you’re trying to say is, you could do that if he really begged for it, but you would rather not?” Arthur hopes he’s right, he hopes he’s reading right the clear cut hunger of Kayne’s canines, of his eyes, his being. He could sink his teeth deep into Arthur’s throat, he could chew at the soft meat of it and lick at the scar there, and he would be allowed it, be welcomed, so long Arthur received his gift by the end of it.
“I probably won’t at all. He’s bothersome and noisy, and I don’t particularly enjoy his whiny demands.”
The answer makes him laugh, it makes him shudder and lean over to Kayne, resting his forehead against the man’s arm. He feels sick, it is wrong, disgusting on many, many levels, but this god let him see Faroe again.
This god let him hold his daughter.
“And somehow between us two, I’m more likable? The guy that caused his own daughter’s death? The one that beat about three people to death and killed many more?”
It doesn’t feel real. None of it does.
Kayne cackles freely, unbothered by Arthur’s own doubts, tangible and bright.
“What can I say! You’re just my type, Arty. Miserable, angry, and undoubtedly beautiful.” He looks at Arthur like he can’t get enough of whatever entertainment he’s providing. He looks at Arthur as if he were his favorite piece of art, of a beautiful animal that wants to rip out of its binds.
“What if– What if my wish wasn’t to bring my daughter back? Would you still grant it as part of the deal?”
His mind jumps at the prospect, at something, a fire that stokes and drags itself higher, burning through inhibitions.
“Within interesting reasons, sure. I would be mildly surprised though.”
“What if I wanted you to shape John into a God like the King in Yellow? What if I wanted him to be tied to it, to give him a new duty and people so he wouldn’t follow after me?”
The question goes unanswered for a few minutes, left sharp and guided on their conversation frame. He’s not sure where the idea of it came from, but it’d be fair. It wouldn’t be right to make that decision behind John, it involves too many aspects that could go wrong, but Arthur–
It’s his last straw.
He cannot continue things with John in the future if he can’t even comprehend his own faults.
For most of the things he did apologize, but were his apologies coming from a genuine place of understanding? Did he really understand that coercing Arthur to kill Oscar, his friend, was wrong?
In a lot of situations he babbled on and on about wanting to be separated and wanting to be freed from sharing a body with Arthur. So, why the possessiveness? Why be so insistent on coming back?
“Oh, I knew you could be sly, Arthur, but this seems undoubtedly cruel, even for you.”
Kayne comments on it with the excitement of a child, happy to see his toy do something new. His gaze is wild and sparkling, frightening to a mere human, but somewhat calming to Arthur. The joy makes him look human.
“That’s not– I don’t want him to be trapped, I just–”
“Ah, hah. No need to explain yourself with me.” Arthur’s shushed and quieted with a quick motion of holding his chin straight and steady. He flinches at the touch, at that scolding expression, yet does nothing to move away. He stares back at Kayne and fails to pretend he doesn’t see the small flicker of interest. “I have to say, I find that delightfully attractive. It’s likely I’d agree.”
It comes as no surprise that besides invading Arthur’s personal space, Kayne also tends to flirt with him offhandedly. The only problem with it is that to all extents of chaos, it seems genuine.
“I think you just have a bad taste in men.”
Kayne caresses the growing stubble on Arthur’s chin and tilts his head, sure in everything he does, his desire as simple as an urge. It doesn’t mean anything and it shouldn’t, but something between them longs. And whatever that is, it may come from them both.
“Do I really? Because to me, it seems my type is fairly interested in repricorating.”
It intertwined from all sides and angles, oozing like thick honey, nauseating with its amount. It’s sugary and sticky, and promising of rich deception. Arthur would like to taste it on Kayne’s lips, to drink it up, to swallow and take more, and be grateful for the offering.
“Maybe.” He chances, nervous, but Kayne doesn’t let him retreat.
“Definitely.”
“Fine. Probably.”
He agrees because there isn’t much he can say to disagree. His body is at the temperature of a star, burning up and threatening to burn out minutely, coming apart. He doesn’t have anywhere to run. He’s powerless. He’s frozen in place.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
Maybe he doesn’t need to escape.
“Yes.”
Kayne simply pushes his body closer, meeting the other man’s and shifting against it. He’s slow in his movement, waiting for the time Arthur leans back or tells him ‘no’. It doesn’t come.
There is some smug relief in the next of his suggestions, of a thinly veiled command.
Arthur has to ask for it.
“And what do good boys say when they want something?”
And so he does.
“Please, Kayne.”
The words are trampled at their finish, a mouth taken over by another, the dark of everything human meeting the light of apathy.
He can’t trust the entity kissing him, he cannot trust it not to change, but he can allow it to stain him forever with sick desire. It’s not anything new. It’s just more tangible.
Arthur presses back into the kiss, yearning for more and mellow to the core with the intensity, overwhelmed by every sensation. He lets Kayne bite at his lips, swallow up his every whimper of shallow greed and trembles happily at the gentle yet tight hold of his hands.
He swears he won’t let this attach him.
He swears to himself and swears true all while losing his own moral compass.
He almost sobs in displeasure when Kayne pulls away. The cry doesn’t break through though and a pair of hands caress the sides of Arthur’s body. It’s teasing and grounding at the same time.
“There we go. Much better, don’t you think?”
The tone is light, bringing up reality to the lid of a pot with mixed ingredients. Morality lays at the bottom, want is the liquid in it and uncertainty is an unmistakable spice that was added to it too. Nothing quite fits, but there is nothing from stopping Arthur in ruining his life just a little more.
“You really have this all planned out, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do.”
It’s obvious this is all part of Kayne’s plan. The wounds, the strain, the effort, the drag of the journey. The poison of his arousal and the affectionate hold. Everything is arranged.
Arthur’s conscience is right, Kayne’s all of a slicing dagger coated in sweets.
He’ll cut his tongue and throat on it.
It’s addicting.
He wants it all, even if covered with his own blood.