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They haven't spoken since the last bite, the last desperate crack of teeth against bone, sucking out the marrow, chasing any morsel of loose flesh. Faust's bones lie on the packed dirt floor, stark in the darkness of the pit. They're not going to take the bones, John knows. Not for a good long while, if at all. They will leave them here, a reminder of death screams into the silent night and fingers crushing eyes like ripe tomatoes and teeth tearing into flesh. (As if John can forget, as if he doesn't see Faust's death still every time Arthur closes his eyes).
"Arthur?" It's hard to talk. John's thoughts feel sluggish, a mass of rotten pulp that will not be coaxed into words.
He wants to say, "Are you okay?" but that's a stupid fucking question.
He wants to say, "I'm sorry," but that didn't work the last however many times he said it, so why should it work now?
He wants to say, "Fuck you," to blame Arthur for the screams and cracking bones that play on like a broken radio in his mind. Maybe fighting would be better than this.
He wants to say, "Please talk to me. Say something," but what right does he have to ask that? What right does he have to ask anything?
Instead they sit in the dirt, Arthur's shoulders hunched, no sound except Arthur's deceptively steady heartbeat and muted screams of predator and prey somewhere in the distance. John's fingers idly trace lines in the dirt, patterns and swirling shapes, anything to wipe away the feel of spongy flesh beneath his fingerpads.
He doesn't notice Arthur's hand making it's own journey across the prison floor until fingers brush up against his. Bony and rough-skinned, nails jagged and fingers covered with scrapes from countless fruitless attempts to scale the pit's walls. John stills his motion, his fingers shuddering at the touch. He waits for Arthur to realize what he's doing, to jerk away again as if John's stolen hand is a devouring flame.
Instead Arthur moves closer, resting his hand on top of John's and squeezing tightly, so tightly it almost hurts but it's a good kind of hurt where John feels safe and contained in the shelter of Arthur's grasp, pressing against him at all sides so he will not fall into the deeper swirling pit of memories and regrets. John waits, pulse bounding in his fingers, but Arthur's hand remains.
John rotates his hand in Arthur's grip so he can do the same, squeezing Arthur's fingers tight as he can and hopes his touch says all the things he can't right now, the need and the anger and the care and all of it. He hopes Arthur gets some comfort, despite it all. There's nothing else he can give. He only knows how to take.
(He thinks again of hands gripping Faust's head in a vise and fingers boring into eyes until everything goes empty, and clutches tighter.)
(Maybe he also wants it to hurt, a little bit.)
Arthur's shoulders shake as he sobs, or maybe John is the one who's sobbing. Arthur's nails dig into the back of John's hand but that's okay. The pain is okay. Beneath the unforgiving Dreamlands sky, they cling to each other with everything they have.