Chapter Text
“John comes back, owns your eyes, as he always did,” Kayne pauses and Arthur can almost hear the smile, “but! You. Remember. Nothing .”
His heart drops to his stomach.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. No first meeting, no journey into the Dreamlands, no memories of good ol’ Johnny boy. Nothing!” Kayne laughs, the noise ricocheting off the walls. “Now you’ll remember everything before John; what’s a main character without their tragic backstory? I’m not that cruel–well–maybe.”
Would it even be worth it if he didn’t remember? Their meeting wasn’t exactly…positive the first time around. It’d be just as confusing and disorienting, if not more.
“Come on, Arty,” Kayne sighs. “Look–I get it. You don’t want to lose your memories! Those precious little moments with John. But why not start over? You boys did it once. Why not do it again?”
“I…”
“Think of it as a fresh start, a new chapter, the remake of a beginning! None of the fights remembered, no memories of painful confessions. It will all go away. Promise!”
John would remember, John would know. Would he even tell him? Help fill in the gaps- all the gaps?
“Peace, Arthur,” Kayne croons, clearly mocking him. “Peace and John. That is what I’m giving you. And for such a small price!”
His fingers curl deeper into the floorboards beneath him, small crescent shaped divots forming underneath his hands.
“Do we have a deal?”
But John. John would be here. He wouldn’t be alone again. It wraps around his heart and squeezes .
“Yes,” he wheezes. “Deal.”
“Good choice, Arty.”
The coin clatters to the ground.
. . .
“Arthur?”
The first thing he notices is the wet thickness of blood.
”Oh fuck-what the fuck,” he hisses.
He tries to open his eyes but all he registers is darkness. Who turned the lights of his office off? Why is he-what is…he tries to think straight but all his thoughts are muddled and slow. And everything just kind of…hurts. Like he ran miles without any rest. And yet worse than that somehow.
“You’re okay—it’s gonna be alright, Arthur. I’m here now.”
And that voice . It pulls at his brain, stretching out to encompass everything he hears and yet he can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. In front of him? Behind him?
“Who…where?” He breathes, throat aching.
“It’s-it’s me, John. Remember? It hasn’t been that long, has it,” they let out a shaky laugh. “We’re going to be okay.”
He doesn’t know a John, is he supposed to? Arthur shifts, trying to sit up, but that feels like too much work and not worth the energy. His head pulses in annoyance and confusion.
“Careful-“
”Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! God.”
The voice goes silent, much to his relief. He rakes a hand through his hair and his fingers get stuck in knots, still lying on the freezing floor. The stickiness of his clothes just grates further against his nerves. At least he doesn’t feel like he’s bleeding out. Is this even his blood?
“And stop acting like you know me. That’s bloody bullshit and you know it,” he mutters.
“ Acting ? Did you hit your head too?”
He feels fingers brush against his scalp and he flinches.
”Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Arthur…”
“Stop. Just stop,” he groans.
He wasn’t going to get any answers from this basketcase, clearly. Taking a deep breath—that somehow also aches—he tries to sort through his mind.
Last he remembers he was in his office…and his office sure as hell did not have a fire going. The crackling of wood sparking wasn’t alarming the voice so that confirms the fireplace. Which means he isn’t in his office. And he’s injured—or was injured? In some room with a stranger.
His fingers feel at his throat, pulling the collar of his shirt off his skin with a wet squelch. But there isn’t a wound there, he isn’t bleeding out from his neck. A faint, raised scar lays next to his jugular.
He pauses, his brain finally catching up.
There’s a fire going.
And he. Can’t. See.
Arthur fingers shake as he reaches for his face. There’s nothing covering his eyes.
”What the fuck did you do ?” He snaps.
“What I did? I didn’t…is this because I chose to leave?”
”What is that even supposed to mean? I don’t know you, why would I care if you left or not? No, I want to know why I can’t see. Why I’m covered in blood. Why I’m wherever the hell this is!” His voice falters slightly, “what did you do to me?”
“You…you don’t remember me?”
”Jesus, is that all you’re going to take out of that? Answer my fucking questions damn it!”
“Okay, Arthur, okay. I’ll answer them. We’ll get through this,” the voice sounds almost broken, crackling like shattered glass. “I’m John and I’m…I’m your friend.”
“You’re not my friend,” he scowls. “Parker is.”
Wait…
”Where’s Parker?”
“…Parker,” they say, as if tasting something sour.
”Yes. Parker . Where is he, you bastard?”
“Arthur…he’s not here.”
”Well big surprise,” he mocks. “Where. Is. He.”
For once, the voice becomes quiet of its own volition.
“Well?”
“He’s gone.”
The word sinks into his chest and balloons under his rib cage. A shaky breath and it pops, empty once again.
"No- no . He was just here and-“
He can’t be gone, floats in the air unsaid.
There was a package-they had just gotten a package at the office. He was opening it up with Parker and now-now……
“Arthur?” Hesitant, careful. A trick. “Arthur. Breathe.”
He sucks in a breath even if it pains him to listen to the voice.
“What do you mean by he was just here?” A calculating pause. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
”You’re funny if you think I’m going to tell you,” he tries to sound angry, bitter. It comes out hollow.
Their sigh echos in the silence. But they don’t press further.
Maybe all of this is a terrible dream. He’s going to wake in his office to Parker poking him awake, drooling on his paperwork. He’ll be able to see again, nothing will hurt, and everything will be right again.
“The office.”
He jolts and then cringes when a dull ache emanates from his leg. That’s new.
“What?”
“The office. That’s-that’s the last thing you remember.”
His silence seems to be answer enough.
“You can’t be serious-what did you do ,” the voice drops into a low growl. “Arthur, you idiot. Don’t tell me you traded your memories for me to come back—fuck. It’s not like you can even tell me because you don’t remember. Damn it, Arthur.”
”Why are you acting like this is my fault?” He rubs at his face and feels the stubble on his chin. Huh. That wasn’t there this morning. “You know what? I actually couldn’t care less.”
“You should care.”
“No. What I care about is the fact that I have a scar on my neck that’s definitely new. That I can’t see, that there’s blood everywhere, that you’re here and Parker— Parker isn’t,” a thundering storm of rage and panic swirls in his throat. “I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. I don’t even know how you know my name for god's sake! And-and it hurts—everything just hurts and you’re not helping. So just shut the fuck up and let me be.”
“No.”
Is this bastard serious-
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“No I won’t shut up,” the voice sighs. “And we got off on the wrong foot. So let me start again. I am a fragment of a god, The King in Yellow’s heart. I am your friend and guide, for better or for worse. I am the voice in your head that no one else hears. The one that sees through your eyes and holds control over half your limbs. That is sorry that you don’t remember, sorry fo r things you don’t remember, and sorry for how this started off…again.”
The voice that is somehow in his head is the fragment of a god and controls what now-
His head is spinning. He might throw up.
“But you can call me John.”