Archive of Our Own

A gentle breeze whistles against the glass of the window as the early morning light gleams down upon messy blankets and wooden furniture, the dust in the air reflecting the light as if miniature stars were hanging just beneath the ceiling. A quiet but drawn out breath fills the room, followed by a groan and the sound of the sheets being rustled and pushed aside. 

“Good morning John.” His voice was heavy with sleep and slightly crackly due to lack of use.
“Good morning Arthur.” The second voice doesn’t fill the room the way the first had, confined only to the space between the first person’s ears. “Did you sleep well? You weren’t tossing nearly as much as you have been.”
“Yes, it was quite lovely getting a night’s rest without a nightmare crawling its way into my mind.” Arthur turns towards the side of the bed, tossing his legs over before feeling for the edge and pushing himself up with one hand. “Is everything alright?” His right hand finds his left, gently resting atop the hand with a tight grip of his undershirt. Damn, he must’ve been exhausted if he fell asleep without changing into his pajamas. 

“What? Oh. I- yes.” His left hand relaxes and its thumb brushes the side of his right hand, attempting a reassuring gesture as much as it can manage with its limited space and control. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” Arthur smiles gently at the motion, pausing for a second before squeezing his left hand a little and then releasing, running his hand along the edge of the bed in an awkward half-bend to find the end. “Now, how about we get ready for the day and tackle our biggest challenge to date- the store?”
A groan fills his head before he had even finished the sentence, John’s distaste for the store an already established fact between the two of them. 

“Look, I know you don’t like having to read through sunglasses, but it’s the only way to keep people from questioning my eyes while also keeping us fed. We can’t afford to eat out for every meal every day!” 

“But Arthur, there’s always something we miss and-”
“ We miss?” Arthur stands a bit straighter, head tilting a bit in confusion. “I’m not the one with eyesight between the two of us. If you actually tried to read-” He goes to step forward and trips over a misplaced shoe, his left hand catching on the wardrobe he had been attempting to reach. 

“Arthur! God dammit, I told you where to put your shoes last night and you didn’t listen to me, look where that got you.” There’s a hint of care that pokes through the annoyance in the voice before the edge gives away fully. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes I’m fine. I just, well,” He smiles a little before beginning to poke fun at the voice in his head, “I wasn’t being told what I could see… Like usual.” His left hand lets go of the wardrobe and he fully falls, his right arm barely managing to keep his head from connecting with the ground. “Aye, what was that for?!” 

“Whoops.” John tries to stifle a laugh, a smile growing in his voice. “I forgot I only control one hand.”

“Oh bull.” Arthur grunts as he sits up, rubbing his side where he had landed on the shoe that had caused his initial fall, his hand moving to push the shoe until it thumps gently against the wall. “Help me up, will you? Or are you going to continue being childish?” Arthur enjoys when their arguments turn into playful teasing, it proves that they truly do care and that they can make it through anything. After everything they’ve been through, he’s glad to be able to bicker and it not have almost deadly consequences.

“Childish?!” Any sign of a smile in John’s voice disappears before Arthur huffs and both hands help him stand back up. 

“Don’t get started about that, I was just trying to lighten the mood after you dropped me. Let’s get dressed, alright?” 

“Fine. The dresser is to your left, the top drawer is th- no lower, there, yes. There’s slacks of varying colors in here; a black pair, a navy pair, and a khaki pair.”
“Khaki, please.” Arthur waits as his left hand grabs the khaki pair, his right closing the drawer when he feels the fabric hit his leg. The soft swishing sound of the pants fills the room as Arthur and John’s hands work in sync to dress their shared body, John’s foot slightly catching in the pants leg as the coordination between the two was still sometimes fidgety. The zipper is done up and button closed before Arthur looks back up and smiles, tilting his head side to side to stretch his neck. “How far to the closet, John?” 

There’s a long pause before Arthur notices the gentle feel of fingers on his side, tracing over what he assumes to be a healed scar. 

“John?” Arthur speaks softly, hoping to not startle John if he were not fully aware of himself or cause him to startle and clam up. “Are you alright, friend?” 

“Hm? Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Lost in thought.” John’s hand pulls away slowly, unaware he had been caught as he begins to assess the room he knew the layout of by heart. “A few steps forward and then, stop, good, I’ll open the door. Don’t lean too far forward, I don’t want to hit you with the door.” John and Arthur both knew Arthur didn’t need the guidance around his apartment, but giving John a purpose was enough to make them both not grow an odd sense of separation while still sharing a body. The cold brass of the door handle catches John off guard, a small hiss echoing through Arthur’s mind before he hears the soft squeal of hinges.

“What colors are there? Clean, preferably.” There’s a slight smile to his voice, using his own half jokes to try and distract John out of whatever had him so deep in thought. 

“White, white, blue, white, green, blue and white checkered, and, oh! White!” John relaxes as Arthur speaks, trying to pretend he isn’t remembering everything Arthur has sacrificed for survival, for him, this early in the morning. His tone picks up a joking feel, lighthearted and like a comedy trying to pretend it is serious. 

“What a difficult decision. Is white an option, perhaps?” Arthur’s smile grows as John talks, a fondness filling his heart as he is hit with a gentle wave of how human John is sounding this morning. How the mundanity has found a place in John’s life that wasn’t met with boredom or backlash.
“I don’t see any up here, maybe at the back of the closet there’s some?” John pushes the hangers of some colorful and some bright white shirts, grabbing the one at the back with a triumphant sound. “Yes, Arthur! A white shirt was hiding in the back of the closet!”
A laugh fills the room, twice as many voices filling Arthur’s head as their short sketch comes to a close. They begin to put the shirt on, much more fluidly than the pants, and John helps Arthur adjust the collar in the mirror he had conducted Arthur to turn towards. 

John’s world quiets just a little as his, no, Arthur’s eyes flick down to the scar on the right side of his face and then to the healed laceration across his throat. He looks back up as Arthur’s hand holds his own, having been unaware of his hand beginning to feel the texture along the edge of the scar.
“Sorry, there was some fuzz of some kind on your neck, probably from the pillows or blanket. I was just brushing it away for you.”
“Fuzz, is that what we’re calling scars now?” Arthur pulls John’s hand gently down in front of their body before letting go of it, his tone having gone back to the gentle worry it had donned earlier that very conversation. 

“Arthur, why would I lie to you about fuzz on your neck?” John hides the vulnerable feeling from being caught behind his voice, letting his hand move before finding its place at his, no, Arthur’s side. 

“Because you are hiding something personal from me. Probably about your feelings or some memory.” Arthur’s tone is more blunt than he intends it to be, but he continues his sentence anyways with the hopes John understands it isn’t his intention to be rude. “If it’s another deal with Kayne you’re hiding, I may just go back to The Order and get on that table myself, though…”
John’s voice catches when he goes to retort, the ideas of separating from Arthur and betraying his trust again both fighting for purchase in his mind. “Kayne hasn’t shown up since England, He won’t be bothering us for a deal any time soon.” He hopes to avoid the question, but unfortunately, Arthur’s interrogation tactics have come to bite him. 

“So it is something personal or emotional. John, I thought we weren’t going to keep secrets anymore?” Arthur feels for the foot of the bed with his heel, finding it and gently sitting himself down before taking John’s hand in his own. His thumb traces gently over the back of John’s wrist with a caring touch.

“Arthur, It’s unimportant. I, I feel it unnecessary to delve into it all this early. You don’t even have your tie on yet.”His voice is soft, almost embarrassed at the tone Arthur takes with him. When Arthur grabs his, no, Arthur’s left hand and caresses it, he can’t help but to have a lump form in his throat. Does he even have a throat? Would he ever have a throat of his own? 

“John, please.” 

“No, Arthur-”
“John Doe, you used to be the King in Yellow and you can’t even handle a slightly emotional discussion with the grubby human you’ve been stuck inside of for who knows how long?” His voice intensifies for the point before he realizes his mistake, calling John the King in Yellow. He lets go of John’s hand and sets his own on his leg. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I shouldn’t bring up your past-”

“No, it’s fine Arthur. I,” John pauses, taking a moment to gather himself before closing his, no, Arthur’s eyes, “I should be more open about this. And even then, the reason I’m so afraid to bring it up is because it’s about being with you.” He sets his hand on Arthur’s hoping for any comfort it could bring him.

“Oh-” Arthur’s input is small, overshadowed with John’s voice in his head.

“I don’t feel I deserve you, Arthur. Or at least that I don’t deserve the trust and respect you give me. Your friendship.” His hand is tense on Arthur’s, afraid of both somehow hurting Arthur with his delicacy and himself with his honesty. “You have fought and struggled and clawed to keep us alive; you’ve died for us. You’ve died for me. You’ve died because of me, and here you are treating me like your friend and someone you can trust-”
“John.”
“-No Arthur. I am not John, I am the King in Yellow and I have caused you hurt and pain and I’ve taken everything from you. I don’t deserve your pity, either.”
Arthur’s hand pulls out from under John’s and he kicks himself internally for expecting Arthur to provide him comfort. He sighs and moves his hand back to the bed next to Arthur’s left side, hoping that something would happen. Maybe Kayne appearing and theatrically hurting John more before separating them and tossing John wherever Noel went, maybe Yellow somehow appearing and stealing him back again, maybe the Dark World itself opening up and swallowing just him and returning Arthur to complete control of his body and eyes.

“Now you know that isn’t true.” 

“What?” Arthur’s hand pries his eyes open and forces John to look at the mirror, eye contact with the eyes he feels disgust for taking from Arthur.
“You were not willingly attached to me. And now you’re afraid of hurting me? Guilty of being ‘responsible’ for my death…s?” The slight hesitation of the plural s causes a brief spark of amusement to rise in John, but it doesn’t last in the sea of distraught it floated in. “That doesn’t sound like the King in Yellow. That sounds like John Doe, humanity’s finest friend.” Arthur smiles, and for a brief moment John feels as if Arthur is the one looking at him from the mirror, the compassion in his words pulling the plug in the despair of his mind and allowing it to drain away.

“Finest? I don’t get ‘best’? Or even ‘greatest’?” His tone is melancholy but still has the humor at the heart of it, the reassurance slowly settling into him. Arthur smiles a bit more and lets go of Arthur’s, no, his eyes, the golden brown remaining visible to the outside world. 

“It’s a title, John.”
“That is the joke you don’t catch?” His tone flattens, and they both laugh at Arthur’s missing of John’s tease. 

“Oh come on you big sap, let’s get a tie on before you melt completely or end up remembering what we’re doing today and somehow find a way to delay us further.” Arthur stands and steps to the dresser again, foot careful to not step on any stray shoes again. 

“Delay us from our task for today? Wh-” He cuts himself off with a groan as he remembers their plans for the store. He opens up the drawer of ties as Arthur speaks to deaf ears about the same, “It’s not that bad,” argument he makes every time. John picks an off-white tie to mismatch Arthur’s outfit just enough, his small way of retaliation against the store. 

Not all mundanity is appreciated by John, and Arthur is none the wiser.