Chapter Text
The great thing about New York is that the drug store is always just a quick jog away– even less than that, if you know what you’re doing, and Charlie’s been hanging around this part of town long enough now to know what he’s doing. Which is to say, there’s not a whole lot of time between Arthur admitting that he tweaked his back, to them figuring out that Daniel’s medicine cabinet is shamefully understocked for a man of his means, to Charlie volunteering to pop out to the store while John helps get their resident martyr to take it easy, to him returning triumphant with a bottle of pills.
“I’m back,” he announces at the door– which opens without a fight, since apparently nobody bothered to lock it behind him when he left. He’s got mixed feelings about that: members of this household have already been shot through this door once, thank you very much, and between errant cultists and petty burglars, there’s more than enough reason to keep the door locked. On the other hand, Faroe’s out at school at the moment, Daniel’s doing his thing at the church, and Charlie’s pretty sure it would take a small army and a couple of tommy guns to touch Arthur when John’s fretting over him. He decides to sideline the reminder and just steps in, locking the door behind him.
“Brought some aspirin,” he announces. “German spies can’t seem to keep their mitts off it, so you know it’s the good stuff.”
He gets as far as the entryway when he hears a groan of pain from deeper inside, and suddenly all those sidelined fears about cultists and break-ins are back in play.
If something happened– if they managed to get one over on John– if they hurt Arthur–
Fuck, they only just got Arthur back. They can’t lose him now. Not now. Not after everything.
Charlie pads silently across the foyer and deeper into the house, following the source of the sound. And there, just a little further, just out of sight of the windows–
Is the King in Yellow. He’s got his tentacles wrapped around Arthur’s arms and legs, keeping him suspended in the air in front of him. Arthur’s stretched out like he’s on a medieval torture table, the King's massive clawed hands wrapped around Arthur’s chest and digging in. Arthur hisses and groans, and then there’s a pop of bone doing something it shouldn’t, so loud that Charlie can hear it from across the room.
He has to do something. Fucking hell, he has to do something, but he’s stuck here, frozen in place, he can’t move, he can’t move, if he moves the King will see him and then they’ll both be in his clutches, but he has to do something, he has to save Arthur, he has to–
“Oh, yes,” Arthur says almost drunkenly, his head tipping back. “That’s much better, John.”
And Charlie’s world snaps back into place. That isn’t the King in Yellow. That’s– that’s John.
Arthur groans again, and this time it doesn’t sound so much like a moan of pain as it does… something else. Maybe because it fades into a chuckle and a murmured, “I didn’t say you should stop.”
It’s hard to see his face– he and John both have their backs turned to him– but his hands are loosely wrapped around one of those tentacles, practically petting it, and his head is lolling. He looks– relaxed, or as much as he can be when he’s being stretched out by an eldritch entity’s tendrils, which is still more than Charlie thought was even possible. Is he somehow not aware of those king-sized claws pressed right against his skin? Does he not realize that the same appendages that can lift him into the air like he’s nothing can also rip his limbs right off his body? Does he not get that the teeth being rubbed against his neck could chomp right through it without a moment’s hesitation?
Is he all out of marbles to lose, or does he just have a fucking death wish, or–
Or is he just that sure that John won’t hurt him?
Charlie backs up, struck by how much he should not be here. He needs to leave, to get his head on right before he does something stupid. Something more stupid, anyway. These boys have Arthur’s back situation covered, so he isn’t needed, and–
And before he can get three feet, he backs right into one of those fancy decorated side-tables. He scrambles for half a second before he, the table, and an arrangement of tasteful knick-knacks go crashing to the floor.
Even as he’s falling his attention is fixed on John. He can see the precise moment John turns to face him, poised for a fight, the split second when protective fury turns to surprise, the flash of indecision when he reaches out and pulls back at the same time.
Then Charlie lands in a heap. Distantly he’s aware of Arthur’s feet hitting the ground– softly, carefully, less a thump than a tap– and then Arthur’s striding closer on those long legs of his.
“Charlie, are you alright?”
“I’m swell, kid.” Fucking hell, he made sure to keep his mouth shut, so why does he sound like he’s been screaming? “Just getting acquainted with the carpeting.”
“I– I didn’t hear you come in.” John’s voice comes at him from far away. He’s plastered against the far wall, wearing the mask that’s become his go-to look since Arthur came back. The shape is big and broad, but he somehow manages to squeeze nearly seven feet of bulk into a corner behind an armchair. He looks wrecked, and not in the good way.
“‘S fine.” Charlie tries to wave him off with one hand while Arthur pulls him to his feet by the other, which leaves neither one free to paw at his cigarette case. “You two were otherwise occupied. No worries here.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Arthur says, and then his eyes go unfocused for a second, listening to something Charlie can’t hear, but he can sure as hell guess what’s being said, especially when Arthur gets that look of sympathetic understanding.
Of pity.
“It’s fine,” Charlie says, as if his face isn’t going hot with shame at the fact that this needs to be explained at all. He digs into his pocket and grabs the bottle of aspirin, the pills rattling in his shaking hands. “I– uh– got you that. If your back needs any more help. But I should–” Fuck. “I should take a walk. I’ll see you both around, alright?”
And before either of them can argue about it, he’s already out the door.
Charlie thought that by now he’d be pretty damn good at putting this shit behind him. He’s out, he’s here, he’s got a door with a lock on it and a handful of protective talismans and John’s reassurance that he’ll rip Yellow to pieces if the prick so much as looks in his direction, and then a small arsenal in the safe by his bed just for good measure. Nothing’s getting to him, and anything that tries is going to be in for a hell of a fight.
Weirdly, it isn’t a fight that’s sticking in his head right now.
It’s the way Arthur looked last night in John’s clutches– utterly relaxed, comfortable in a way Charlie’s never seen him. It’s the honey-warmth of his laugh in response to whatever the hell John murmured into his head. It’s the absolute ease with being picked up and handled that way, so complete that he had to be told that someone else might find it alarming.
It’s the flash of envy as he realizes that he wouldn’t mind knowing what that feels like.
The conversation is stilted and awkward at first, but that’s a given. All these years later and he’s still not any good at talking about what happened to him in the Dreamlands, even indirectly, and it doesn’t help that he doesn’t have polite words for half of what’s going on with John’s anatomy.
The long and the short of it, though, is that he’s fucking tired of being scared of John. He’s tired of John walking on eggshells in case he spooks him and feeling like shit every time something happens. He’s fucking sick of letting the King in Yellow have a say in who he hangs out with or how he spends his time. He wants to do something about it. And thank fuck, John and Arthur are onboard for that.
It’s a good thing it’s both of them, and not just because there isn’t much John will do these days once Arthur’s put his foot down against it. John’s still antsy about being alone with Charlie when he’s all big and eldritch.
Even with the two of them and a whole lot of planning, the first experiment together is best described as fucking awkward.
Charlie feels like he’s a stray cat that the two of them are trying to feed. John is mostly human with the exception of a single exposed tendril, which is outstretched and motionless. All of him is stock still, like some kind of weird dadaist statue, his face pointedly turned away to stare at the far wall of the room (as if he isn’t watching Charlie from the corner of his eye the whole time). For a while there, Arthur is saying a bunch of nonsense that’s probably supposed to be soothing but just comes off as a bit condescending, until he shuts up halfway through a sentence. Charlie probably has John to thank for that.
Even with all the care they’re taking, Charlie has to work up his courage to reach out and touch that tentacle.
He’s felt them before. The King’s done all sorts of things to him with those fucking appendages. Some of them left scars so bad that Charlie still keeps the bathroom mirror covered when he showers; some of them Charlie can’t even comprehend, much less remember.
But this isn’t the King, he reminds himself. This is John. The only time John’s ever touched him with one of these things, it was to keep him from falling down a flight of stairs– to help him, only that, and then he put him down quick as anything and backed the fuck away, apologizing as he did. He’s used those same appendages to pick up Faroe so gently she didn’t even wake up from where she was sleeping. He’s used them on Arthur in whatever way he does that made sounds like that come out of Arthur’s mouth.
This is John, and John isn’t going to hurt him.
He swallows and crosses those last inches between the tentacle and his fingertips.
It feels… weird.
Almost human in its warmth, but even when it’s perfectly still there’s a sense of movement, like that time he and Noel got to hold Freddy McCreedy’s pet corn snake, and he could feel the muscles shifting and stretching under its skin as it curled lazily around his hand. There’s motion in the patterns on his skin, too– they’re shifting and twisting into one another so slowly that he can barley track the movement, except that the shapes he sees there one moment aren’t there anymore when he blinks his eyes.
Still John doesn’t move, not even to look at him.
Charlie picks the tentacle up, hefts it in his hand— it’s heavy, corded as it is with muscle, but he can feel how John is accommodating his exploration, utterly pliant as he lets himself be handled.
The thought lights a spark of— something— low in his belly, and he yanks his hand away.
“Did you want to stop?” Arthur asks with that tone like he’s repeating John’s words.
“Yeah.” Charlie says too quickly, and wipes a sweaty palm on his pant leg. “Yeah, I think that’s enough for one day. Thank you both. For letting me try this.”
“You’re welcome any time, Charlie,” Arthur says for both of them. And then, a little more himself, “We’re here whenever you need us.”
“Thanks,” he says again, shaky for reasons he doesn’t understand. And then he blurts out, “Maybe we can try this again sometime. Once I’ve had the chance to get my head on right.”
“Of course, Charlie.” And Arthur gives his shoulder a squeeze that Charlie feels long after he’s gone home.
It really shouldn’t come as a surprise at this point.
Yes, he’s attracted to John. Has been from the start.
Only at first it was just memories of Roland and Delphine putting a rosy spin on his wishful thinking, and then he spent too much time wondering if that was all some unintentional leftover manipulation from the King in Yellow. Then came Spain, and then, listen, after weeks on the run and eating scraps out of the garbage, he was ready to suck off just about anyone who offered him a real home-cooked meal— and John Doe is a damn fine cook. The first time he saw John with a body of his own, John was looking like Arthur, who isn’t exactly hard on the eyes, and now this new face he’s wearing isn’t exactly a step down in the looks department. At this point Charlie can’t even tell himself that it’s a case of wires getting crossed: he’s just plain into John.
He just never thought that part of John was on the same circuit. It’s one thing when John looks and mostly acts human, but this? With all the eyes and the teeth and the claws and the bits that very much also belonged to the King?
Except this isn’t the King. The way he moved, the tenderness when he nuzzled Arthur, the utter care he took while Charlie got close to him— those are all so obviously John that it’s nearly impossible to mistake him for anyone else. And if that eldritch, impossible body is John’s, and Charlie’s into John… then apparently he’s willing to give claws and tentacles some more consideration.
That train of thought gets derailed halfway into their next session.
“You’ve got your statue impersonation down pat,” Charlie says, when he thinks he’s spent maybe a little too much time feeling up John’s appendages, “but I think I’ve got the hang of this. You can actually, you know, move.”
He thought he had the hang of it, anyway. He’s okay in those first few minutes, when John is just flexing the tentacle, when he lets it brush haltingly over Charlie’s hand. It’s a lot, but it’s manageable. He’s got this.
And then he feels the tentacle wrap around his wrist, and just like that he’s back in the Dreamlands: the King is looming over him, getting a grip, finding the perfect place in his arm for the bones to snap–
“It’s alright, Charlie,” Arthur says, and when did he get over here? He’s behind Charlie, chest warm against his back, one hand heavy and grounding on his shoulder but still loose enough that Charlie could wrench away if he wanted. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”
It takes a second to remember how that's done, and another to get the hang of that old familiar rhythm, in and out and in again, before he trusts himself to talk.
“Fucking hell,” Charlie croaks. “I’m sorry. That was—”
“It’s alright,” Arthur repeats firmly, but he isn’t the only person Charlie’s apologizing to.
John is backed across the room again, making himself small and hiding behind a sofa like it’s a shield.
“I’m sorry, John,” he repeats, forcing himself to look John in the face, or at least in his human mask. “Maybe I was less ready than I thought I was.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” John says, that deep voice of his so very soft. “Do– do you want to stop?”
A shudder rattles Charlie’s bones, but it’s softened by the press of Arthur’s chest against his back.
“No,” he says after a moment. “Just— just give me a second, and I’ll be game to try again.”
“Alright,” John says, unsure but willing to trust him– and ain’t that something?
Arthur shifts behind him. “Shall I— ah—”
“I wouldn’t mind you sticking close, actually,” Charlie says. “You’re— uh— this is helping.”
The way he’s wrapped around him, Charlie is viscerally reminded of another moment years ago, Roland pressed almost exactly like this against Delphine’s back, his arms wrapped around her to cup her breasts while Charlie buried his face between her thighs. It’s maybe not the kind of memory any of them are intending to invoke right now, but it beats the hell out of the other visions that are jostling for Charlie’s attention. He focuses on that memory, the good one, puts himself in Delphine’s place, tries to convince himself that the adrenaline in his system is just the thrill of something exciting and new.
“Charlie? Are you ready for him?” Arthur asks in a low velvety voice which isn't hurting the comparison in the least.
Charlie shivers. “I'm all yours.”
Arthur can feel Charlie trembling against his chest, and he pets his hand over Charlie’s bicep, just to give him some fragment of comfort. Hopefully that shaky breath is a good sign. At least he’s breathing.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs into Charlie’s ear. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“You’ve got me,” Charlie repeats back to him.
Arthur meets John’s eyes and gives a small nod to go ahead.
John takes a timid step closer, then another, before he finally reaches out.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” John promises just as the tendril makes contact with Charlie’s wrist. His movements are feather-light, barely touching at all where the tendril glides over calloused skin, carefully avoiding the map of his scars. There’s a soft hitching of breath, but Charlie doesn’t try to run or fight the way he did before.
“Are you still with us, Charlie?” Arthur asks, giving what he hopes is a grounding squeeze.
“Yeah.” He’s still breathless, his nod belated. “Yeah, I’m good. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, John starts to wind a loose loop around Charlie’s forearm.
“Say the word and I’ll let go,” he promises, but he isn’t even waiting for that much of a signal. He’s watching Charlie carefully, his gaze ticking from his eyes to his mouth and down to a dozen different markers, searching for the hallmarks of fear.
He’s anxious, he informs Arthur silently. But he isn’t panicking.
Arthur gives Charlie’s chest another brief squeeze, just to remind him that he’s there.
I think he liked that, Arthur. The hairs on his neck are raised where your breath hits his skin. His mouth hangs open just slightly.
The tendril slides against Charlie’s palm as it continues to coil around his forearm, encouraging Charlie to grip and put a stop to it at a moment’s notice. Charlie’s fingers close around it, but his hold is loose, soft, feeling more than holding.
He seems to be… enjoying this?
Arthur raises his brows.
He’s staring at me, Arthur. His pupils are wide and dark. His pulse is racing, but his breaths are shallow and rough. He’s licking his lips– quickly, as if he thinks I won’t notice. He looks…
Arthur hums a single note in Charlie’s ear– the only answer he can give.
It isn’t lost on him that Charlie smells good. Or that he’s pressing into Arthur’s chest like he wants to burrow inside of it.
“I’m right here, Charlie,” he murmurs, giving his shoulder another squeeze. “I’m right here.”
Oh, he liked that. His breath hitched, and his tongue is flicking out to wet his lips. I— I want to kiss him, Arthur.
John isn’t the only one. But given what happened when John touched his arm a little too suddenly, Arthur doesn’t foresee that ending well.
“We’re not going to do anything you don’t want, Charlie,” he croons. “Are we, John?”
“No. Of course not.”
“That’s right.”
But Arthur, just look at him! John is practically whining now. His trousers look painfully tight, his knees are parted for me. For us, he adds, a sly note creeping in to his tone, damn him. Arthur adjusts his stance slightly so his own erection won’t grind against Charlie’s backside.
“So if there is something you want, you’ll need to tell us.”
“You—” God, John wasn’t exaggerating: Charlie sounds absolutely breathless. His free hand fists in John’s shirt. “Come here. I want to–”
There’s only the slightest hesitation before John obeys– just long enough for the tendril to disappear before he closes the distance between them.
Arthur still has Charlie pulled flush against his chest, and so he can feel the precise moment when Charlie goes boneless and pliant beneath the kiss– and the moment when he rallies to surge against John, meeting him with a desperate urgency. Arthur’s breath catches. His fingertips dig into Charlie’s skin, pulling him closer, tighter against himself, holding him steady as he grinds into him. Charlie writhes against him, pressing his ass frantically against Arthur’s erection. There are too many clothes between them, too many layers, he wants to peel them back and feel the hot wet skin against his.
Charlie moans, the sound reverberating and echoed in John’s mouth. Both John’s hands are cupped around his jaw, pulling him closer.
Charlie, he sighs. Oh, Charlie, you feel—
In Arthur’s arms, Charlie goes stiff as a corpse.
“Charlie?” Arthur asks, pressing a quick kiss to Charlie’s neck. “Are you alright?”
Charlie doesn’t answer. Arthur’s still gripping him tightly enough to feel Charlie’s heartbeat pounding under his fingertips— impossibly, dangerously fast.
“Fuck.” The word falls from John’s lips as he pulls away, his face ashen. He lets go of Charlie like he’s been burned, his hands out in front of him in surrender. His eyes flick to Arthur, wide and pleading. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”
“It's alright,” Arthur says, circling around to stand in front of Charlie without ever letting him go. “Charlie, you're alright. You're here with us– you're safe.”
“I didn't mean to get inside his head,” John pleads. “I wasn't trying to— to hurt him.” He stumbles backward. "I'm sorry. I--- I didn't mean to."
By the time Arthur gets Charlie back to himself, John is gone.