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Arthur, wake up, I need you to listen to me.
Arthur. Arthur!
Arthur opens his—oh, rather, their—eyes. It’s all the same to him, of course, and he’s still not used to this feeling, this… darkness. Every time he wakes up, though knowing perfectly well what would happen when he opens his eyes, he still hopes. Sometimes he hates himself for this, but self-hatred is too well-know feeling to him, unlike all enveloping darkness and helplessness.
Arthur, for fuck’s sake, wake the fuck up!
“I… I’m awake. What is it, John?!”
His voice is a bit hoarse from sleeping, and he coughs, sitting a bit higher on the bed. It takes him a few seconds to remember that he’s in Frank’s house, in Dreamlands, and the concept of sleeping in the Dreamlands is funny, even considering everything that's happened.
Your dream. I could see it somehow. I thought I’d wake you because it seemed rather… Personal. I didn’t want to invade more than I already have.
Arthur blinks. His… his dream, what was his dreaming of? He’s suddenly can’t remember, and sharp panic slides through his body. No-no-nonono, not this, too. Not the dreams. Oh. God, he can’t lose his dreams, too…
Arthur, listen to me. Snap out of it!
John’s growl steadies him a little, and he takes a slow breath in, trying very hard not to spiral into the panic again.
It was not my intention, and if you care to hear what I think—I think it’s not permanent. I think it’s because of this place, this… domain. It makes me stronger somehow. And makes you—weaker. Humans are not meant to stay in the Dreamlands for a long time.
It… it makes sense, actually, — Arthur thinks, not voicing it out loud yet, — this place is meant for dreams. For… creatures of the dreams. For the King in Yellow. The fact that he managed to stay sane through all that happened to him here… Probably most of his sanity now comes from John, as weird as it sounds. Arthur inhales. Pauses. Then exhales slowly.
Then he relaxes back into the mattress.
“Thank you, John, — he says quietly after some time, — for waking me up. For being… honest.”
Of course, Arthur.
They sit in silence for some time. Odd sounds of this world, coming from outside the house, doesn’t bother Arthur as much as they probably should. He feels… calm. It’s a strange feeing, he hasn’t felt it for a while now. He wonders if it’s overall exhaustion, or this place, or whatever else, but he doesn’t truly care now.
He also feels sad, but that’s another well-known feeling for him.
And then he feels a soft, gentle touch on his cheek. He jumps a bit, blinking rapidly, before his brain realizes that it’s his own hand. Well, John’s hand, currently. And John caresses his cheek, his jaw, his temple careful, unsure, and so very gentle. Arthur holds his breath.
“John, I…”
The movements stop abruptly, and Arthur catches John’s hand, pressing it’s back to his jaw. Awkwardly intertwining their fingers. His own fingers. It’s so very strange, and at the same time—so very soothing.
“It feels good, John. Thank you.”
John hums in his head, and they sit like this for some time, before Arthur brings their hands to his lips and placing a soft kiss at John’s open palm. He can feel the outlines of roots, snailing from his little finger further up, their shape weird.
“Does it hurt?” He says, his lips still pressed to the hot skin.
Not as it did before. More as sight discomfort now.
John’s voice sound thoughtful, soft. Almost… caring.
Then Arthur feels John’s fingers outlining his lips, and Arthur parts them involuntary, exhaling sharply. It’s… strange. But more strange, that he feels… excited. Feels longing.
“John.”
He whispers, his voice suddenly almost gone, as John’s fingers caress his lips, sliding inside his mouth just a little. It feels… like kissing. Arthur licks at the fingers, and it’s John’s turn to exhale.
His body burns, he wants more, he wants… John. It’s all consuming realization, that he wants not just human touch—John is anything but human—no, he wants—John. He wants not only hear him inside, but also feel him. He…
Fuck… Arthur…
John’s voice is full of desire, full of promise. Arthur wants him in every way he can have him.
Fuck! Arthur!
There’s an instant change in John’s voice, there’s only worry and command.
We need to move. Now. There’s something behind the door. Something… oh, God, I saw the flicker of it on the window, hide, now!
Arthur rolls from the bed, hissing when he hits his elbow at the floor, and crawls under the bed. When all this would be over, when they come back to his world, to their world, he knows he wants to do this again. And not just this—everything. He wants John, and he’s sure as hell wants John to know this. He’s done with lies, he’s not gonna lie to John, or to himself. When they return. And he doesn’t let himself turn the “when” into an “if”, even though the voice—his own stupid doubting voice—tells him to.