Work Text:
Even old England smelled of crisis.
It had a stench of corroding plants, issues forgotten in the hunt for money, everything filthy and saddening folded into a scruffy-looking package.
People did what they needed to survive. It was familiar.
It was not Arthur’s home.
“You– you are such a chronic liar, you asked me to trust you, John! And I did! Time and time again–”
Arthur I did not mean to hurt you with my choices- I was going to tell you about being back in the Dark World.
The leading man shifts on his feet and roughens up, beginning to soak in the cold droplets of an incoming storm. He shudders against it, the words of the constant companion in his head only furthering the displeasure shown on his face. England can wait, Arthur needs to find out what the fuck is wrong with John's decision making again.
“Oh, piss off! You've had plenty of time for it, to explain things to me, to talk about the deal you made, about your problems with memory. We could have even had a conversation yesterday, before we left Marie’s!” Arthur snaps open like a string, bitter and honest. He's always been like that: rough in his anger, transparent, yet never exactly wrathful. More upset than anything, because how many conflicts with his best friend can he handle?
“But we didn’t. You didn’t say anything.”
So what, now you’re going to throw a tantrum about that?
“This is not a tantrum! This is a perfectly reasonable, human fucking reaction to being consciously lied to, multiple times, tricked and then, having my memory almost erased because of the same so-called friend.”
John huffs at his reasoning, a petulant thing, arrogant, as if placating an angry child, and Arthur boils over all the more.
Arthur I didn’t want to have your whole memory erased, you would’ve still remembered everything, including your life, your daughter. It was just one moment–
“Don’t. Don’t drag her into this argument, John.” Somewhere from behind Kayne cackles openly; his satisfaction giving an acidic taste to his and John's argument. He whispers amused: “Aww, Johnny, you’re really fucking things up between your partner and you. Watch out for the divorce papers!” and simply observes how Arthur ignores the comment, having more significant subjects to be furious about.
Right. Right. Arthur, I am sorry. I did not want you to be so upset after you found out, I didn’t want to– I didn’t want you leave me behind. I didn’t want to go back there.
“So, you would rather I had my latest memory wiped, because you can’t handle the consequences of your actions. Sure, I understand.” John's voice stammers something out quietly in a way Arthur can't hear, using sarcasm to tuck himself back under his layers. He does understand the fear of abandonment, he does sympathize with it.
Arthur.. let’s put this conversation off for later. We should focus on where Kayne left us.
He knows very well that John has a point, that they can't afford to fight and clash again in a new and strange environment — but his heart does not agree with reason. It clenches uncomfortably, staggers in pace, quickening to cause a state of worry, all due to lies. The explanations, the excuses, the avoidance, it sickens Arthur to a point of nausea. At times he gave up his choices for the fragment, he gave up the frustration of his bodily parts not belonging to him, he gave up on cracking open every mystery; he learned and waited, and talked, and had faith, no matter how broken it was.
“No. You didn’t trust me to understand John.”
Arthur–
“You didn’t give me a chance to hear it out, you didn’t think I would have forgiven you for it–”
Arthur, please.
“I trust you with my thoughts, John, I trust you with my memories, I trust you with my life.”
A hysterical laugh escapes him; the rain only strengthens the urge to cry and sob, and scream at the unfairness of his fate.
They've been at each other's side for months, weeks of spiraling from place to place, days of insolent, petty arguing and peace, on the quieter hours. They held on through fights, assassination attempts, kidnapping situations, they've been to the most literal of hell's and came out of it alive, came back together even stronger. And yet— Yet not as close as would be presumed. Not as close as Arthur had assumed, as he had hoped throughout their experiences, calling John his friend, his only friend after everything horrible they had both done.
“But you– you fucking bastard, you don’t even trust me.”
If there was ever a chance in the future for John to have a separate body, Arthur's sure he would have frozen in place now, if it wasn't for the tension cutting happy voice, yelling out “Pin drop moment guys, take notes!”.
The drizzle continues and Kayne shakes the raindrops off his hair, sliding the black strands of his hair back in place in an off-handed manner. It's specifically eerie to see someone act so casually under the "time travelling" circumstances, carrying on with a dizzying confidence that could depress the strongest of men (and probably slaughter the same men without thinking twice about it).
“C’mon gentlemen, I do love, love, loveee watching you and your marital issues acting up, but this is getting repetitive.”
Arthur swallows back the curses pooling into his mouth like saliva, sullied intentions tapping against the floorboards of his morality. He is not going to snap. He isn't. If he's not getting to keep any of his allies, friends, any of the slivers of comfort he gets, then fine. He'll just make do without them. He'll go back to grasping at straws, snapping feathers out of bird wings, being impassive and cruelly indifferent, unable to be torn. Arthur will force back the broken pieces of his reflection at any cost whilst his hands bleed from their keen edges.
“Kayne.” He speaks up after carefully licking the dry blood smeared over his lips. It's a filthy taste, metallic, but somewhat perfect for the state of mind Arthur will have to switch to.
“Yes, Arthur?”
Kayne steps out towards him and waits, the swooshing of clothes brushing against itself a light sound in the awful weather.
He's turned towards you, Arthur, with an intrigued grin on his face. The rain is still dreadfully falling, but he seems untouched by it, only having the slightest of damp, wet hair. His hair is as curly as in our first encounter, accompanied with a familiar suit, dark and fitting to his frame. Maybe it's just our sight being funny, but his image seems to– glitter. Somehow. He's claimed himself to not be human, of course, no matter how close he looks like one, but there is just this faint sense of uncanny in him.
“Can I have an hour or two to spend alone before I go off on a goose chase after the Black Stone?” Arthur asks with all the sweetened politeness he can muster up, seemingly surprising both John and Kayne in their presumptions.
“For what exactly?”
“So I can have some bloody time-off from the parasite in my head.” I'm sorry, what?
“You can choose the details of it, I really don't care, I just want a break from everything.”
Kayne hums a jolly tune under his breath, weighting over the possibilities of such a break happening. He's already shown Arthur enough of the carrot end of his quest, isn't that enough? Hasn't he already shared enough of his knowledge with two miserable cut-outs of people?
“You’re asking for a price-y favor, doll. Are you sure you want me to decide on it?” He asks and prods in a playful demeanour just because he can. The gleam of fear is always amusing to see, to observe the exact moment of paranoia's seeds budding and growing out. “Arthur, you think you can handle being left alone with me? Doesn’t the prospect scare you?” They take roots and entangle with the ones already present, strengthening to a vine shell of suspicion. It'd be much more pleasurable to watch that wall burn, stoked in copper flames, prayed open by a sinner's hands.
“Aren’t you afraid of what I might do to you?”
Kayne asks, close, closer then appropriate in regards of social norms; imposing, breaching the expectations set up but not in any set out way harmful.
He wants to see Arthur pry his hands and arms into a gorgeous batch of roses and come out bloodied, having pulled out the flowers one by one, a scar for each thorn.
Arthur, don’t-
“I am. I really am, but I’m willing to take that damn risk.”
It's an ideal response. Arthur will be such a delightful experience.
“Why don’t we make this conversation a little bit more private, Arty?” Kayne offers, his steps smooth and steady, brushing against Arthur’s left side of scruffy clothing. The drag of Kayne's fingertips along Arthur’s neck side as he moves must be intentional– it has to be. It must be fear that pumps his blood at the action, nothing else but fear of the long, black-painted nails digging into his skin; Arthur reasons with himself, sucking in a sharp breath the second the touch disappears.
Something has swayed in him, frail, deadly.
Arthur is very familiar with the sense of danger, specifically the adrenaline coaxing experiences— but this does not quite feel like Death clawing at his back. This feels sticky, a tangle of webs attached to each of his limbs and tugging forward, into the arms of a familiar stranger. There is something smoke-like about Kayne's movements, perhaps more of a shadow puppeteer then a malicious God. He guides and leads a show in which Arthur is everyone's favorite puppet. It's far, far off from an ideal situation or a safe one. He knows for a fact that this bloody playful spider will soon crawl over his body to wrap up in a perfect cocoon, wholly encompassing. Arthur will be devoured by him.
But as it happens now, he'll act along the script; spite being his tenor, his pain's voice and taunting echo.
He’s not going anywhere with you.
The fresh reminder of John’s presence is nauseating, accidental, Arthur’s bleeding over layers of mistrust and ichory betrayal almost tangible, a truly, truly unfortunate situation for John.
“Shut up John.” Arthur sighs, exhausted as he is, and doesn't comment further. He can hear the way Kayne moves around him instead, most likely with the rain making streaks of the blood, a grin at the open cloudy sky– an image of leisure satisfaction. Unlike Arthur or John, for Kayne's actions, there are no present consequences and he is more than well aware of it. To say he is a God would be to lie.
Gods, even the cruelest of ones, would show mercy to their followers.
Kayne would about sooner watch any followers of his be peeled open and dissected, like a helpless animal, as long as the process was flashy, entertaining; a stomach full of sharp scalpels and shiny clamps.
Yet again, he's no TV show host, no radio host, no circus leader, most certainly not human, in the strangest image of one.
Arthur. Friend. Please, Kayne cannot be trusted. He's unpredictable.
The wind is picking up into a warning howl, the longer Arthur ignores his voice of supposed reason. Maybe he still has another chance in him to give out, maybe there is still hope to be saved from under the rubble, maybe there is still some love from pain to be scraped off. But, maybe, at this degree, he doesn't care about it. He doesn't clean the dirty dishes in the sink, he doesn't take a wet rag to clean off dust collecting on the shelves of his patience, he weeps, and scowls, and leaves the house that once was his empathy.
“Not far off from you then.”
Arthur murmurs out, defiant against his previous attachments. It's not what he would like under normal circumstances, it's not something he would have considered a month or two ago, hell, he wouldn't be anywhere close with taking the hand of a devil. Nevertheless, exhaustion is a stronger motivator than worry, molding and redirecting past statements into requests. He can almost hear the scuttering of bugs, the torn out sobs of a friend he cannot remember the name of, losing Collins, seeing Yellow thrown away like a piece of trash, Larson's blinding, and Noel's abrupt disappearance to die off alone.
He owed it to the Butcher to turn away, he owed it to Charlie, he owed it to the worthless experiences of cut-off swears and injuries.
But Arthur Lester has never been a good man.
“Come on. Take my hand, Arthur.”
With the last ounce of guilt he can offer, he takes Kayne’s hand, dark nails scratching at his skin, leaving red marks.
Kayne, strange, moody, unpredictable, pulls Arthur forward, slipping cold hands around the other's waist. He grins excitedly, easy, puffed up pridefully— the being's embrace is shockingly warm, casual, but he can only handle so much of it, that unfamiliar safety, before tears start to collect and Arthur has to bury his overwhelmed sniffles. The drizzle had turned into a crying haul, similar to his own state. Silent tension is slit masterfully in half, just by the sound of Kayne snapping his fingers once. After all, he has to ensure he keeps his own end of the agreement, right?
John's consciousness loses all of its sensations at once, cracked up, shoved aside and locked behind a glass wall.
Arthur sees again, afraid, frustrated, teary from relief.
Fate can wait a few moments more.
Break time turns out to be a deranged date of sorts— yes, yes, a decisively not sensible idea, but Arthur goes along with it. He goes through a surprisingly tame dinner of talking with Kayne through nonsense about his past work as a composer, of talking about mundane human domesticity, of his favorite carnations, along with the other man adding unexplained details about world's unsolved mysteries, speaking to him of thunderous justice as a pet, incoming wars like a cinema, having humanity as a catalogue of freshly naive topics. Arthur's mind pulls further and further away from the fact that John can perfectly know what they're talking about, can see it, but cannot be heard by Arthur, muzzled like a dog.
Kayne enjoys the thought of it a bit too much.
They shift from a dining area, to a Victorian ballroom, vast, lavish, beautifully decorated with golden ornaments. There, they dance for what seemingly feels like hours, no directions and freely sweeping across the floors; blood, crimson streaks following them. Arthur stumbles through the first few dances, full of a bright happiness that isn't entirely making sense, but it's the first he feels so thoroughly, completely and deeply. The shallowness of regrets is gone, erased by a fast tempo of Polka and the gracefulness of a Viennese Waltz- he's never learned the steps to them before, he's not sure where the music comes from for it either, yet he doesn't feel bothered, his sense has been mercifully blinded.
Arthur and Kayne are midway through a Tango, that is far too intimate for them to dance to, when he realizes how deeply he's lost himself.
“How do you do that?” He asks, breathless, transfixed on the way their body's bend together and stretch. The music seems to have hiked up in tone, confident, vibrant, giving their movements a more pronounced, fluid tempo. Kayne's face is impossibly close to his, knowing and untroubled with their predicament, no matter how many times he leads Arthur's body into a spread out spin.
“Do what?”
Kayne has him pressing against his chest again and again, moving back and forth in a rhythmic argument, only getting bolder with how Arthur has to wrap one of his legs around Kayne's midways and trust he won't be dropped.
“Bend reality like that- Like it's nothing but a flexible rubber band.”
“It's not that I'm bending it. I'm simply using perfect momentums to my advantage.” Kayne responds to him in a simple manner, the smug of his arrogant facade showing. It ticks Arthur off, the damning smile, but he holds onto the other for life even so, addicted to the symphony between them.
Like this, just the two alone of them dancing, Arthur can easily stave off reason, focusing on the staked fury of being wrapped up in an deep-seated affection that didn't begin with him. Not romantic, not platonic, not socially fitting or right, not reasonable— Something, in the most exclusive of understandings.
The second the Tango is finished, his legs are swiped off from the floor, forcing him to wrap them securely around Kayne's slim form. His eyes are otherwise occupied, taking in all of his dance partner's flushed greediness; the gleam of hunger is unmistakable and Arthur prides himself in its commence. Kayne has him pinned against a cold pillar, head falling back to let the being have a go at the revealed neck, tempting a joyous predator.
“This is an awfully generous payment of you, Arty.” The dark-haired entity teases in a familiar tone of thrill, following the inner veins of Arthur's neck upwards, towards his face. They share a short, fervid look, a spark of passion alit in perhaps the worst of moments for it, in regards to future events.
Kayne kisses Arthur like a deathly vice, drinking in the crumbs of anger, injustice as well as bitterness inside the human vessel of Arthur's self.
Arthur sucks in a honed breath of air, crowded, surrounded and caged in, allowing Kayne's canine teeth to graze his lip; he's kissing him with an inhumane heat, teasing but inviting at once. He can feel himself giving in to the bitter taste of blood, to the shameful drag of desire in his veins. He's forgotten how intimate touch is— too focused on the painful aspect of things.
“Please– please.” He's pleading quietly into the fervently exchanged kisses, each one giving Arthur a glimpse of electrical knowledge, pulling him at Kayne, who only coos softly in response.
“You really needed this, didn’t you, Arthur?” He asks with a playful undertone, arranging them more carefully so as to not have Arthur directly getting bitten into. No matter how tempting the thought of eating Arthur is. At least in the non-cannibalistic sense.
“You’re so loud. Can’t even hide how much you’re enjoying this session. Who knew that to beat Arthur Lester you only needed to wine and dine him properly.” The idea of it is somewhat demeaning, casual in the most of ways, although still a teasing comment that fully deserves Arthur’s mumbled response of “Dick.” in a disgruntled tone.
He hadn't expected Kayne to genuinely laugh at the remark, fluttering long lashes against his skin and hiding his face into Arthur's neck. The sound of it seems softer, more real, as if all his previous "joyful" expressions were a mere act. It does something to his heated body, causing a shudder of curious eagerness that is easily picked out by the other. Instead of continuing the kiss afterwards, Kayne simply leans closer to Arthur's ear, measuring his voice that reverberates suggestively into the quiet, deliquesce atmosphere–
“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get to that too.”
Kayne carefully lowers him to the ground, but doesn't let go, once more that impossible evening snapping his fingers.
Their surroundings sway, vibrate in colors that hurt Arthur's vision, before stabilising to a shocking sight and place Arthur wouldn't willingly return to.
A church.
The stained glass is a pleasant vision, giving Kayne and Arthur shades of golden and yellow; certainly mismatched yet suiting their visions of each other.
“Let me give you a memory to permanently engrave in your mind.”
Let me leave a mark on your soul.
You might yearn someone else, but in this moment, this very minute, your being is mine, I belong to you in heart.
No one else can have that space now.
The web stills and Arthur's breath catches— For once, for once in miserable months of being ruthlessly hunted, he goes down willingly.
Candles burn candidly, the warm light of them helping Arthur pick out a place to set aside his body and mind. It's ironic that the location they've switched to is a church, especially a church so greedily lavish. And though it should incise a thread of shame to pull through Arthur, should make him recoil and think with disgust; it only feeds his child-ish pettiness. The dripping liquid heated inside his veins by the sun sizzles and quietens, viciously satisfied.
He lowers himself onto the milky carpet, laying back with a deep exhale, strung up, until the tension drowns irreversibly, staring back into depthless black eyes that follow his movement. He's offering himself up on a silver plate, indecisive and pliant, awkwardly open, and there's a hundred ways he could position himself better, a thousand more things he could've whispered into the dry air, but the voice says:
“Gorgeous.”
And Arthur's goes lax.
He goes through various stages of pleasurable denial, shattering tens of times under the touch of his partner, whimpering a name that does not quite belong, but does fit the most of all in their complexity.
From the actions of that silver-tongued man, he sobs and cries out into the pristine, now sullied, atmosphere of a holy place; he receives forgiveness from the cruelest of forms and yet is grateful to Kayne for it all the same. The other simply holds him through the bouts of lust, love and regret, sure in his momentary kindness, maybe a blessing in a tainted human disguise.
Arthur won't ever quite feel like himself without the spite of their yearnings and ferocity.
He despises the concept of being bound to Kayne, spits on it like an uncouth teenager, curses the image out of his mind.
But humanly— desires it like nothing else in the spiraling hate.