Work Text:
Finally. Finally this… human he is bound to, Arthur Lester, is awake, and maybe he can figure out what the fuck happened. It had been aggravating, to say the least, just laying there, unable to move, unable to do anything after he killed the other man. He hates feeling helpless.
"Where am I? What happened?—Fuck, what was that?" He hears Arthur's breath catch, and sees him visibly flinch.
Don't you remember?
Arthur yelps, left hand grabbing his right shoulder. "Jesus Christ, what did you do to me?"
What are you talking about?
"Pain… my arm, and then my shoulder, Jesus Christ that hurts, feels like… It doesn't feel like there's blood, but… what did you do ?"
Nothing, friend, he grits out as smoothly as he can. He needs Arthur complacent. Calm down. The last thing they both need is Arthur losing his mind before they've even been able to do anything.
"Who are you?"
In the resulting chaos, hiding a body, running from the police, seeing the man in the pallid mask in J.D. Ackerman Rare Books, killing Eddie, and everything that follows, he quickly, easily forgets what ostensibly felt like an insignificant moment in his very long life.
It's during the quiet of the car ride to Harper's Hill that he can't help but notice Arthur's… well, he doesn't know what's normal for Arthur, but it's getting a bit distracting that Arthur keeps trying to touch his right shoulder with his right arm.
Why do you keep doing that? he says finally, shattering the silence that had settled between them, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Hm? What?" Arthur says distractedly.
You keep moving your right arm. Is it hurt?
"No. …Well, I don't know. You can't see anything there? Is it swollen or… does anything stand out?"
No, looks normal to me.
"Right." Arthur pauses, pursing his lips, contemplative. "And my shirt and jacket would prevent you from seeing the skin," he finally adds, quietly, almost to himself.
Why would that matter?
"It wouldn't," Arthur replies all too quickly.
Soon enough though, he spies a car on the side of the road, and then they have a child, a cackling old woman, and a wraith to worry about.
A doctor and two nurses are examining Arthur's unconscious body shortly after they're wheeled back into a plain, utilitarian-looking room after surgery. From what he can gather, they don't hold out hope Arthur will wake up anytime soon. He hears one mention this John Doe had no identification papers on him and they need a physical description for police records. He tenses at this but there's nothing he can do. He is, in every sense of the word, trapped. Confined to a single arm that he cannot even move when others are around. So, he just listens to their chatter as they record height, approximate weight, eye color (he gets a brief glimpse of a neatly-dressed young woman, black hair tied back in a bun, when she opens their eyes), and hair color.
The nurses work together to peel back the top of the hospital shift Arthur has on after surgery to examine them for scars and birthmarks. "That's interesting," one of the nurses says after a moment. He hears a shuffling of feet.
"Dear me, is that two soulmarks? Or one spread out across two locations? Either way, that's odd. Please note that."
Soulmarks. He internally frowns, puzzling over the word and what it might mean. It feels familiar, or at least it feels like it should be familiar, but he can't remember what they are. It's frustrating, as frustrating as everything else in this whole situation. Just add it to the fucking list.
"The first one, on his upper arm, says 'Where am I?' The second is, or maybe the first continues, on his back right shoulder 'Don't you remember?'"
An abrupt, intense feeling of possessiveness rises up in John as she reads those words, but it washes away as quickly as it appeared, leaving John bemused.
He can hear the scratching of pen on paper as someone else records the information but no one discusses it further, and he's soon left alone to mull over what any of it means. The gaps in his knowledge about this world are infuriating; he can recall idioms but not the word for a fucking wheelchair. Ah well, it gives him something to do while he waits (hopes) for Arthur to wake up. All he can do now is absorb information.
With no other choice, he lets himself get settled into the routine set for him. A nurse, he likes to think it's the one with the black hair he got a brief glance at previously greets him by a name (his name?) every morning and putters about the room. Once, she settles by his bedside and sighs.
"John, you have someone out there for you, don't you?" she says, voice gentle. "Your soulmate must be looking for you. I hope she finds you soon. I bet she will."
He would never admit it, but something within him aches at her words.
Arthur, fucking finally, wakes up. It's invigorating having him back, and John relishes being able to see again, move again.
As they're rowing out to the island (assuming they can find it), John finally remembers to ask. He had been musing over it for so long, it was almost odd to be able to voice his question at last and hopefully get answers.
Arthur, what is a soulmark?
Arthur inhales quickly at the question, and misses a stroke of the oar he controls. "Oh, uh, it's a mark on the body people sometimes get, which signifies who their–their soulmate is."
What do they look like usually?
"Usually all black letters. The ones I've seen look like tattoos. Social norms dictate that they're kept private if someone has one, so I haven't seen many, honestly."
What do the words mean?
"It's—always something your soulmate has said."
If John had a face, his brow would be furrowed. He mulls over Arthur's response. The words on Arthur's arm seem odd in that light; they're abrupt, nothing meaningful.
"Why do you ask?" Arthur asks, strangely cautious, after a few moments.
You have some. The nurses mentioned them as they were examining you and I was, well, curious.
Arthur is silent at this and John wishes more than anything that at that second he could see Arthur's face to discern what he may be thinking.
"Some?" Arthur asks finally, an odd lilt to his voice.
Yes?
"More than one?"
Yes, Arthur. They were interested in that too. Why is that? Is it unusual to have two?
Arthur falls silent again and John can tell by now when he's thinking. "Yes, it is unusual, but, um, not unheard of. Did–did the nurses mention what the soulmarks said?"
You don't know?
"No, I don't , John. Why would I ask otherwise?" Arthur spits, suddenly acrid. He's scared, John realizes with a start.
Let me try to remember. The first said—it said, 'Where am I' and the second, on the shoulder said, 'Don't you remember?'
Arthur is once again silent at this, before muttering to himself, "must be a mistake."
I don't think I'm misremembering, but I suppose it's possible.
"No, sorry, not that, John," Arthur says with a sigh. "I'm sure you're right. I mean, um, about the marks."
For a while, the only sound that passes between them is the gentle lapping of water against the rowboat. John finds himself contemplating those words that make up Arthur's soulmarks. They sound achingly familiar, but he cannot place them, like a prize that's been placed just out of reach.
It isn't until Arthur nearly fucking dies, again , that he realizes. As the residual feeling of abject panic and terror at the thought of losing Arthur still echoes through him, he finds himself questioning how he even got to this point, how he found himself caring at all about this insignificant human beyond what would happen to himself if Arthur died. It's then, finally, he remembers with a jolt why those words felt familiar. They were the first they ever spoke to each other.
The idea of it all at first, and for some time after, feels ridiculous, absurd, to him. Him? Arthur's soulmate? He didn't have a body of his own, so it would make sense Arthur's words would then show up on Arthur himself. In fact, since the day they first met, Arthur's body had become more and more their body anyway. But still, he is… something that has come from the Dark World, and Arthur is, well, Arthur.
With the revelation that he is, in part, the King in Yellow, it becomes even more preposterous. He is a fragment of a god, how can he and Arthur be soulmates? Why this human, out of anything in the universe? He knows his other half, if and when he found out, would laugh himself silly, and John burns with embarrassment at the thought. But then again, he asks himself, why should he be ashamed? He has found something precious, something the King would never hope to acquire. The King himself had acknowledged how tightly they had been bound together; it has become increasingly difficult to tell where Arthur ends and where he begins. Arthur is his , he is Arthur's. But he realizes it also means he has something to lose.
Initially, he gives it time. He's still processing the information; he knows Arthur must be as well. Arthur's smart when it comes to putting clues together, and so if John's figured it out, he knows Arthur must have as well. Hell, he might have suspected something long before John, being more familiar with how all of this works.
As time goes on though, as they traverse the Dreamlands, Arthur continues to avoid mentioning it and John reluctantly follow's Arthur's cue. He knows Arthur is reticent to share certain things, Faroe especially, and he has a feeling this topic falls under a similar cloud. It will come up, it has to come up, when the time is right.
John listens, horrified, as Arthur finally shares what happened to Faroe, the words spilling from his lips like a man at a confessional. John had previously deduced that Arthur's reluctance to share the story with him meant it was a traumatic memory for Arthur, but John couldn't begin to imagine the amount of guilt Arthur must feel, that he carries with him always.
He and Arthur… they've both done terrible, unforgivable things, and they were trying to live in spite of that. Maybe that's what truly binds them together.
You won't fail again. I won't let you, he finds himself reassuring Arthur.
Arthur opens his mouth, to deny or say something else John will never know, because John takes the plunge. He may not get another opportunity, after all.
Arthur… I know we're soulmates. I–I know you don't want to talk about it, for whatever reason, but you and I, we're bound in more ways than one, and I–I don't want this to go unsaid forever. Especially if—
The creature snarls in the distance.
Fear jolts through John. I may not know all the implications of it for humans, he says more quickly now, but soulmates are supposed to be two halves of a whole, right? I'm here for you, Arthur. No matter what.
"Jesus, John, you certainly picked a good time to bring this up."
It's coming. And I didn't see you addressing it.
Arthur gasps as the sound of the creature nears. "Fuck off," he mutters, not unkindly. "We'll talk about this later."
They fucking did it, they killed the giant, and survived, once again. Surviving appears, as more and more shit is thrown their way, to be their specialty. John is just grateful they get a moment to breathe, and a chance to talk, no matter how brief. And Arthur is true to his word.
"You know, I have to say, I was really impressed with you back there. You kept my head on straight. And at times I forget how far we’ve come. It’s so difficult for me to think beyond my own experience and–and my own desires to see again. And I–I really appreciated what you said about Faroe… and you're right, I have been avoiding talking about…" Arthur sighs. "Us. What we are. It's… I've struggled to grasp what we are to each other. I'm sure you've guessed I was in denial about it for a while, maybe I still am a bit. I… never thought I'd have soulmate, I don't even think I deserve one, and trying to wrap my mind around having one that's, well…, in my mind and not," Arthur pauses, wincing, "human has been difficult. Thank you… for being patient with me."
Of course.
"I still don't really understand it, what it actually means, but I guess whatever happens, we'll figure it out together."
John moves his hand to rest on Arthur's.
Together.
John is fucking scared out of his mind. John knows the other voice in Arthur's head is the King trying to wedge them apart, why can't Arthur fucking see this? They're supposed to be in this together, and Arthur's being an absolute imbecile, listening to the whispers, letting himself doubt John, doubt their relationship or whatever they have together. Arthur's right, what they have is built on trust, but there's some things he's been too scared to share with Arthur, things he never wanted Arthur to know, things that he just wanted to move past. Things that might change how Arthur sees him… Well it's too late for that now.
Feeling trapped in a corner, Arthur paying no mind to his pleas to not trust the whispers—the King—John falls back to protecting himself, letting his fear get the best of him, and lashes out. He digs the metaphorical dagger of Faroe into Arthur's heart. It hurts him that he's hurting Arthur this way, a bone deep ache that goes to the very core of him… but it also feels good . He has no say other than a hand and a leg: he can punch, he can choke, but this feels infinitely more satisfying.
John laughs. I always said you have the cold calculated demeanor of someone not to fuck with. And what sort of human has a piece of a malevolent god as a soulmate? What do you think that says about you?
"Fuck. You," Arthur grits out through his teeth. "We’re done! I am through trying with you."
Tumultuous emotions be damned, John laughs again, cold and dark.
They don't talk about it, beyond John apologizing and Arthur harshly setting ground rules to not mention any of it again. John acquiesces because he knows he fucked up, he crossed a line and these are his consequences. He accepts them with no argument.
Weeks stretch into months. They're once again focused on surviving, but the prison pits are a different kind of survival. No immediate, threatening danger, but instead the slow, persistent inevitability of starvation and madness. It feels like they're losing pieces of themselves here, bit by bit, as their sanity and will to continue on are slowly stripped away. During these times, Arthur spends a lot of their time sleeping, an attempt to conserve the little energy they have and escape from their reality.
And as Arthur sleeps and dreams, John lets his own thoughts drift to things he had otherwise set off limits to himself. It felt, at those times, that he had nothing to lose by thinking them. He isn't delusional; he knows Arthur, at best, resents having him as a soulmate. But in the privacy of his own mind, he allows himself to imagine something very different. Them, together, back on Earth, well-fed, nothing chasing them, wanting nothing. Sometimes he has a body of his own, sometimes he is still bound to Arthur, the precise details are always hazy as if obscured by how unobtainable this future feels, but they are always… at peace. It soothes something in John when he lets himself fall back to these thoughts, lets the harsh reality of their current circumstances disappear just for a little while.
Every so often, when Arthur wakes up and refuses to share his dreams, John can't stop himself from foolishly wishing (hoping) this is something Arthur dreams of as well.
Despite everything that's been said between them, the cold, hard truth is they only have each other. John knows this and he thinks Arthur does too. That is now, and for the foreseeable future, the only thing they can count on.
He catches Arthur, sometimes when Arthur can't sleep or he's woken up from a nightmare, clutching at himself, hand gripping his shoulder tightly. It's an queer feeling as Arthur's fingers brush up against his shoulder before digging his fingernails in; it sparks something in John, something beyond the pain he knows Arthur must feel from it. He knows he has no feeling in that location of Arthur's body; it's more like something inside him flashes, low and warm, almost comforting. But it can't be comfortable for Arthur; John wouldn't be surprised if he was digging in his fingernails hard enough to break skin. The first few times John catches him, he quietly asks Arthur to stop. Arthur's been hurt enough as it is, he doesn't need the extra, self-inflicted pain.
"Why do you care?" Arthur asks tiredly, after the third or fourth time over that many days John catches him at it.
I just do, John responds cautiously. We don't need another injury, we're barely holding on as it is.
"Right." Arthur is quiet for a moment before exhaling. "Can you even feel it?"
Not the pain you're causing, no. If you wish to hurt me, maybe try my leg or arm.
"But you can feel something."
Yes, John admits hesitantly. It's… almost nice.
Arthur laughs brokenly. "Of course it is."
Is that… normal?
Arthur shrugs, outwardly projecting apathy. "Guess so, yeah." His hand, trembling, clenches into a fist..
So if I… John moves the hand he controls to their right bicep.
"Stop," Arthur hisses. "Don't…"
But he's a second too late, and John's hand brushes Arthur's mark before immediately pulling away at Arthur's words. Arthur freezes at the touch, before letting out a shaky breath.
John internally frowns. Arthur is so fucking stubborn, why can't he let himself feel good for once. God knows they deserve it. But he knows by now to not press further with Arthur, and he doesn't want to cause another argument. Arthur, as ever, has other plans.
"John, why do you care so much about being my–my soulmate? You're always the one to bring it up. I would have thought…" Arthur sighs, "you would feel above it or something, I dunno."
Without thinking, John snaps back, Why does it matter so little to you?
"John," is all Arthur says, the single broken word somehow conveying Arthur's anger, distress, exhaustion.
Sorry, John finally says quietly, hesitantly. Let's… talk about something else. After all, they had miles to go before they slept, and an argument like this wasn't going to help either of them get out of here.
The embargo Arthur had set on discussing what had happened between them is lifted without warning by Arthur himself. John couldn't fault Arthur for his timing; they had fucking finally escaped from the prison and now both had the luxury to think a little farther into the future.
It's an enormous relief Arthur finally brought it up. When it comes down to it, John can't bear the thought of Arthur continuing to carry the hurt and pain John had caused. And he can't bear Arthur seeing him as nothing but another monster.
The relief of having the conversation does little to make it any easier though.
I know… I know I accused you back then of what being my soulmate must say about you, but, truthfully, Arthur, I see it as the opposite. You asked not too long ago why I care so much about being your soulmate. It–it matters to me because of what it must signify… or what I hope it signifies. Only humans get soulmarks. And if I have one, if I've had one from the second I met you, that must mean that I have a chance. I can change, I can be better. It doesn't make any of it any easier, but it's like a talisman. It's comforting to have that constant reminder.
I am trying to become the thing I should've been a long time ago. It doesn’t come without blood, it doesn’t come without cracked ribs and broken bones. I am clawing my way, stumbling in the dark just as you are, toward a better version of myself. I am fucking up as I move there, but that doesn’t make me a monster. That makes me… human.
"John," Arthur says, hushed. "You... Don’t—"
I don’t need you to care for me, and I don’t need your pity. But I need you to know I’m sorry.
"I accept your apology. John, I—" Arthur exhales. "I know I said I was still processing… this," Arthur hesitantly, carefully says, gesturing back and forth between them and empty space between them. "I feel like–it's not as confounding to me as it once was. It feels more… natural. But I wanted to say—I don't—I don't object to having you as a soulmate."
Wonderful, John responds dryly.
Arthur cringes. "Sorry. I just mean, I'm coming to accept it. Us." After a moment's hesitation, Arthur reaches up to gently place his hand on their shoulder, over John's mark, and John immediately feels that honeyed warmth he had previously gotten a glimpse of seep through his being. It feels like acceptance.
He's gone. He left, he's gone and Arthur feels that separation like a bone-deep ache, a sharp, hollow pain centered in the very core of himself. The stark contrast of having something, someone, with you, by your side, and then suddenly they're no more leaves him feeling hollow. The twisted, clawing pain of loss echoes through him every time his heart beats, bringing him back to when he lost his parents, his wife, Faroe.
He knows, logically, that John is still out there somewhere, that he hasn't lost John the way he's lost everyone else. But with how unlikely it is that he'll ever see him again and how horribly bereft Arthur feels now that John is no longer within arm's reach, he might as well be dead. And John is currently in extreme danger; Arthur, by now, has a pretty good idea of what the King was capable of to get what he wanted. John losing himself, what made John John and becoming part of the King again would be akin to death.
The sudden loss of John makes everything suddenly feel so simple. He needs John. And he'd do anything to get him back.
Out of options, desperate, he flips a coin.