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bluejayblueskies · 2 years

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deathless

Words: 4.6k Fandom: Malevolent (Podcast) Relationship: John & Arthur Tags: Ghost AU, Fantasy AU, Modern AU, Emotional Intimacy, Queerplatonic Relationships

Written for @malevolentfantasyweek for the prompt haunted! CW for death mentions, threats, and possession (initially against one’s will)

|| AO3 ||

In hindsight, buying the ridiculously low-priced house with build papers from the late 1700s and an appeal for condemnation on record was probably an ill-advised move. But Arthur still maintains that ghosts are not a typical nor rational thing to worry about when browsing real estate, and—well. His financial circumstances had been less than ideal after the whole falsely-accused-of-murdering-his-partner thing. Between the lawyers and losing his job and flat and the relatively high publicity surrounding the whole ordeal … he could barely scrape together the funds to move out here, slim as they were. His bank accounts are dry, his pockets empty. He’s managed to pick up a job in town at a bookshop, but the pay is nowhere near that of his previous job, only enough for the necessary food expenses, property taxes, and the like. Arthur, quite literally, has nowhere else to go.

So when he startles awake in the middle of his second night there to a voice hissing in his ear, “Leave this place,” he swallows, reaches for his earplugs, and lies on his side with his eyes firmly shut until his heartbeat calms down enough to allow him to fall asleep once again.

“That place up on the hill?” the bookshop owner says the next day, raising a thin eyebrow. “Didn’t think they were still letting people live there.”

“Yes, well—I do, and I just … wanted to know if you knew any history about it.”

The bookshop owner—Mr. Abernathy, Arthur recalls—shrugs. “Sure. Been here since the town was built back in … 1795? Something like that. Beautiful place once upon a time. Nobody’s quite sure what happened to it—death, maybe, but nothing that’s on record. Either way, it’s almost certainly cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Not a single person who’s moved into that house over the past century or so has stayed more than a few months. They hear voices, apparently. Keeps them up at night, wears away at their sanity. Pastor Emanual thinks it could be some sort of demon, but no blessing or exorcism has ever done much good.” Mr. Abernathy eyes Arthur. “If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s in your best interest to move. That place—nobody should live there. Should have been torn down decades ago.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m afraid moving is … not quite an option for me at the moment. I simply wanted some context so that if things do happen, I am prepared to handle them to the best of my ability.”

Mr. Abernathy stares at Arthur a moment more before shrugging and turning away. “All right. Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Can you shelve the new arrivals for me?”

“Certainly.”

As Arthur turns to head further into the bookstore, box in his arms, Mr. Abernathy says, “And Mr. Lester?”

Arthur pauses. “Yes?”

“You’d be wise to wear iron. Keeps the demons at bay.”

Arthur swallows. “I will … take it under advisement, Mr. Abernathy.”

Mr. Abernathy grunts and lets him be. He blessedly says nothing when Arthur slides him a few coins in exchange for a book on spirits and the supernatural. Just in case.

“That isn’t going to help you.”

Arthur is not ashamed to admit that he startles quite badly when the disembodied voice speaks into his ear yet again. He takes a shaky breath, then returns to his task of painting the symbol he’d found in the book on the doorframe in front of him. “Maybe not,” he says, feeling a bit silly as he talks to what is, by all appearances, empty air. “But it can’t hurt either. Besides, this is my house. I can decorate it how I please.”

There’s a long pause. Then, the voice chuckles, low and deep in a way that sends an unwanted shiver down Arthur’s spine. “Is it now?”

“Given that it is my name on the lease, yes, it is.” Arthur dips the paintbrush back into the bucket a touch aggressively, and the pale yellow paint within splatters across his trousers. “Damn.”

The temperature of the air around him drops without warning, and his breath fogs in front of him. “This is my house, not yours. It belongs to me. Leave, now.”

Arthur’s breaths are coming quicker than he’d like, and before he can think about the consequences of such a statement, he snaps, “Make me.”

The air is thick with tension, and Arthur can hardly breathe for it. For a moment, he is sure—absolutely certain—that he is looking at the last few moments of his life. Then, voice tight with ice-cold fury, the thing that haunts his home snarls, “You will regret this, Arthur Lester.”

The tension snaps like a thin rubber band, and Arthur gasps as the pressure on his chest lifts. He stands atop the kitchen chair he’d dragged over in order to paint the sigil, breathing heavily and trying to calm the rapid-fire beating of his heart. His knees feel wobbly, made of jelly. He sinks down to sit on the chair, putting his head in his hands and focusing on slowing his breathing lest he begin to panic in earnest.

That had … perhaps not been wise.

After a full week without incident, Arthur is feeling considerably less panicked and considerably more tired of the situation he’s found himself in.

“I don’t regret it yet,” he says, trying to sound casual as he stirs the soup he’s making. “Not that I’m trying to encourage you to enact your unholy revenge upon me—I like living, actually, and I also like all my body parts and such intact and where they should be—but I just thought I should say it. In case we aren’t on the same page about this.”

It takes almost ten minutes for the spirit to respond. “You are a remarkably irritating man.”

“I’ve been told so once or twice, yes.”

The spirit growls, low enough that it rumbles the floors slightly. “I’m working on it, okay? You think this is easy? I don’t have a fucking body!”

“And you are a remarkably tetchy … whatever it is you are.”

“Well what do you think I am?”

“If I had to guess,” Arthur says, setting his spoon down and retrieving some spices from the cupboard, “I’d say a ghost. Which sounds preposterous, but, well—here we are.”

“Congratulations. Your investigative skills are unparalleled.”

“No need to be rude.”

“There is a need, because I want you to leave.”

“Yes, you said. And I said that I’m still waiting for you to force me out. It appears that we’re at a stalemate.”

“We are not—”

The ghost cuts off with a frustrated noise. “… Fine. So tell me what I have to say to convince you to leave me the fuck alone?”

“I thought you were going to do something. Make me ‘regret it.’ Is that not on the table anymore?”

The ghost’s growl rumbles through the house, and Arthur barely catches the salt shaker before it tips off the counter and onto the floor. “Oh, it is very much still on the table. I just … thought I might be diplomatic first. Give you a chance to leave with your wits and your body intact.”

Arthur sets the salt shaker down on the counter and sighs. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t, so you may as well just give up now.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Arthur assumes the ghost has disappeared to wherever it goes when it’s not yelling at him. Then, just as he’s turning off the stove, the ghost says, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why couldn’t you leave?”

“That’s—honestly none of your business.”

“It is my business if you’re going to be staying here.” A pause. “If I’m going to allow you to stay here,” the ghost amends.

“You’re not ‘allowing’ me to do anything. This is my house—I bought it. It’s my name on the lease.”

“And it’s my bones buried underneath the floorboards, which makes it my house.”

That’s a … disquieting image. Arthur tries to put it out of his mind as he begins ladling soup into his bowl. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to share then. It’ll be our house.”

The spirit doesn’t say anything—just growls lowly, like it’s not pleased by the prospect but can’t think of a good argument against it.

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’ll be an adjustment for both of us. You’ll have to get used to having me around, and I’ll have to get used to talking to an invisible, intangible voice that I’m still not entirely convinced isn’t only in my head.”

“I assure you, I am very much real.”

“That is what a voice that’s only in my head would say, so I’m afraid I can’t put much stock in it.”

“You are infuriating. Get out of my fucking house.”

“I told you, I can’t.” Arthur collects his soup and sits down at the kitchen table—a round wooden thing that looks to be centuries old. “This is just how it’s going to be. I don’t suppose you can eat soup, can you? I’ve certainly made enough to share.”

The spirit’s irritated grumbling is answer enough.

Despite what Arthur likes to tell himself, he is not fearless, and despite what others tell him, he does understand how to be cautious and careful. Unfortunately, that does not equate to being any less stubborn or curious or impulsive or any of the other things that usually land him in situations such as this.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” Arthur snaps, trying to hide the fact that he’s fucking terrified underneath a thick mask of anger and frustration.

The voice comes from everywhere all at once. “Oh, Arthur. I did say you would regret it. You just assumed I’d forgotten.”

“No, I assumed we’d come to an agreement! You know, the one where you let me live in peace and I don’t find a way to exorcise you!”

“I recall agreeing to no such thing.”

“Fucking—bastard.” Arthur takes a few steps forward and promptly bangs his shin against something hard and unforgiving. “Fuck! Okay, that’s enough; give me back my sight you asshole.”

The answering chuckle makes Arthur grit his teeth. “No. I still don’t have a body of my own, so I’ve gotten … creative. This will have to do for now.”

“Do for what?”

A pause. “I want to leave this place.”

Arthur is breathing hard, on a knife’s edge between panic and fury. “What?”

“I want,” the spirit repeats, sounding irritated, “to leave this place. Surely that isn’t too difficult a concept for you to understand.”

“After all this about you wanting me to leave, now you do?”

“This is different. I’m not leaving for good; I’m just … stretching my legs, so to speak. If you’re not going to let me exist in peace, the least you can do it help me get out of this fucking house for the first time in centuries. Consider it … rent.”

“Rent?” Arthur says in disbelief. “Fuck you. You don’t own this house, and you do not own my eyes. Give them back.”

“No.” Then, when Arthur’s breathing starts to come quicker and more ragged: “Relax, Arthur. This isn’t permanent. I can choose to leave your body whenever I want, and everything else besides your eyes still belongs to you.”

“Oh, yes, because that’s reassuring. How do I know you’re ever going to leave at all?”

“You don’t. You’ll just have to trust me when I say that I will.”

“Bullshit.”

“Arthur, listen to me. I am fucking tired of this place. Imagine you’re stuck here, year after year, with no body. No way to leave. Nothing to do but linger at the boundary between life and death and try to let yourself fade enough that the days don’t pass by at an agonizing pace. Forgive me if I’m desperate for a change of scenery.”

“Then why try to force me to leave? Surely having somebody around is better than having nobody?”

“I get a bit … territorial.”

Despite everything, Arthur can’t help but laugh at that. “Territorial?”

“My body is attached to this place, Arthur. I’m tied to it. If it burns, I burn. So yes, I’m a little bit fucking territorial.”

The thought crosses Arthur’s mind, just for a moment, that it wouldn’t be difficult at all to find enough petrol to set the entire place alight within minutes. But it’s not a realistic notion. Aside from the fact that he would be well and truly fucked then, with no savings and nowhere to live, he’s not entirely sure what would happen to him with the ghost still attached to his body. Would it be pulled away cleanly, or would it bring his eyes with it? Best not to risk it.

Besides, it’s … it wouldn’t be the same as killing the ghost, not really, given that it’s already dead. But it certainly feels like killing. And despite all their disagreements and the whole … eye situation, that thought doesn’t sit well with Arthur at all.

“Fine. I suppose that makes sense.” Arthur feels his way along the wall to his couch, sitting heavily and running a hand through his hair. “So … what, then? You’re going to use my eyes to see things?”

“Unless you know some other function that they possess.”

Arthur laughs wryly. “Right. Of course, right. This is … fuck. Okay. I have to go to work in a few minutes and I can’t fucking see, but this is … this is fine.”

“Relax. I’ll guide you.”

How do I know you’re not going to run me into doors for the fun of it? Arthur does not say. He doesn’t want to give the ghost ideas.

They’re halfway to town before a thought occurs to him. “If we’re going to be sharing a body, at least for the time being, I’d like to know your name. You know mine; I feel it’s only fair.”

The ghost is quiet for a long moment, long enough that Arthur begins to worry that it’s gone and he has truly, actually lost his sight. Then, quietly: “I don’t remember.”

“You … don’t remember?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” the ghost snaps. Then, after a moment: “When you’ve spent as much time between worlds as I have, things begin to … slip away. Identity, personhood. I remember … very few things about myself. I was a man, I believe; I think I lived alone, though that’s just an extrapolation based on the fact that as far as I know, I’m the only spirit inhabiting the house. Beyond that…”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and he means it.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Still. To not remember anything about oneself? I imagine it’s quite a lonely existence.”

“It … is.”

“Mm. I suppose you’re a John Doe then.”

“A what?”

“Oh, it’s—it’s a moniker given to unidentified individuals, often … deceased ones. John Doe. Sort of a … catch-all name for those who have none.”

The ghost hums. They walk in silence for a few more moments before it—he, Arthur supposes—says, “John.”

“Hmm?”

“My name. You can call me John.”

“Well,” Arthur says, smiling despite the truly unusual situation he’s somehow landed himself in. “It’s nice to meet you, John.”

Things become … not routine after that, but something close to it. For the first week or so afterward, Arthur wakes in a panic, momentarily forgetting his current situation in a haze of I can’t see why can’t I see oh Jesus Christ oh fucking god. John soothes him every time, which is—a bit strange at first, but Arthur gets used to it. He supposes one can get used to anything with enough time and exposure.

He’s able to move around much more deftly than he thought he’d be able to, largely due to John in his ear guiding him around corners and through doors. (Though the third time Arthur stubs his toe on something, accompanied by John’s deep, rumbling laughter, he begins to suspect that this is John’s way of being humorous.) Perhaps it’s because John has only seen the inside of the same house for hundreds of years, or perhaps the man is a poet at heart, but the descriptions Arthur receives of a town he’d perceived as average at best are nothing short of eloquent.

It’s a … surprisingly endearing quality. Equally as surprising is the fact that Arthur feels endeared in the first place by the ghost possessing his eyes. But it’s…

Well.

He likes John. It’s a feeling that grows over the weeks, despite their frequent arguments and the reality of the situation looming over them and the fact that John can really be a right prick when he wants to be. (Though John would tell him that he can be the same. Has told him, in fact. Many times. They should not be memories that Arthur is fond of, but he is.) Arthur gets the impression that, underneath all the snarls and prickliness, John is … longing for something, something he’s scared he may not ever get. Identity, maybe. Or freedom. It comes out when he talks about his history with the house, when they speculate about who he was, when Arthur takes a trip to the local courthouse and spends an afternoon digging through the records in an attempt to find something that sparks recognition within John. (Nothing does, and John leaves the encounter sullen and snappish. Arthur picks up a book that night and has John read it to him, and that becomes folded into their routine as well, another thread in the tapestry of their relationship.)

In their third week together, fifth since Arthur moved into the house, Arthur tells John about why he came here, to Harper’s Hill. He tells him about Parker and the accident and the trials and the near bankruptcy. He’s not sure how he expected John to respond—with a joke? With a half-hearted platitude? With a dismissive comment? He didn’t expect John to say, “I’m … sorry I tried to force you to leave,” more earnest than Arthur’s ever heard him before.

Something in Arthur’s chest tightened at the words, refusing to loosen even as the weeks rolled on.

It all comes together a few months after Arthur moved to Harper’s Hill, when Mr. Abernathy makes a comment about Arthur ‘spending so much time talking to himself.’ Arthur, who had genuinely forgotten that that was something other people might take note of, makes up an excuse about it helping him focus and ignores John’s hissed, Don’t tell him about me! because, Of course I’m not going to tell him about you, John, come off it.

Mr. Abernathy doesn’t look entirely convinced, but all he says before returning to the back storage room is, “You ought to find some friends, Mr. Lester. It can get awfully lonely talking to yourself all the time.”

And when Arthur has to bite back an, I’ve already got a friend, it clicks.

John is his friend. His best friend. They’re closer than perhaps even he and Parker had been, which is … a thought Arthur decides not to linger on, given that Parker’s death is still a bit of a raw subject for him. It’s something Arthur doesn’t put much stock in at first, because as well as they got on once the initial hostility faded, John is still technically possessing his body against his will.

… Is it against his will anymore?

(That’s another thought Arthur tries not to examine too closely.)

Still, he can’t seem to forget about it once it’s occurred to him. So one night after they’ve shut their book—Gulliver’s Travels, which John had picked out from the bookshop after significant needling from Arthur to just pick a fucking book, John, for Christ’s sake—Arthur decides fuck it and broaches the subject. “John, can we … can we have a discussion?”

“Of course,” John says. If he has any indication of what Arthur means, he doesn’t show it in his voice.

“Right. I wanted to talk about … my eyes. Our eyes.”

John’s voice is guarded when he says, “What about them?”

“I’m not—asking you to leave if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried. Why would I be worried? The leaving will be on my terms, not yours.” A pause. “If you’re worried, I assure you, I still have no intentions of making this a permanent situation.”

“Right. No, yes, you’re right—this isn’t permanent.” Arthur laughs, a bit wryly. “Honestly, though, I—I can’t really remember clearly what it was like to be able to see things, it’s been so long. I’ve … grown used to it.”

“Have you.” John doesn’t sound judgmental or skeptical—just a touch curious.

“Yes. I suppose one can get used to anything given the right motivations. But, regardless, that … that wasn’t what I meant either.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I—I suppose I meant that…” Arthur hesitates, considering. This isn’t something he can un-say, and he wants to be sure of it. “I suppose I meant that I am … glad to have met you. We’ve come a long way since our first meeting, I believe, and I … I don’t know. I think we get on well, don’t you?”

“I suppose we do. Arthur, if you are trying to tell me something, would you please just quit dancing around it and just say it?”

“Right, yes, of course. Well, you know that it was … difficult to adjust at first, to not having my sight. There are times when we still don’t quite see eye to eye—er, no pun intended. There are things I miss—not being able to see the sunrise, for example, or needing the illustrations in books described to me—but there are also things I … I have come to appreciate, like the way a book feels when read aloud and the nuances of the sounds around me. And I do mean it when I say that I would rather this not be a permanent situation, I do, but I also…”

“Arthur, for fuck’s sake, just say it.”

“You can have my eyes,” Arthur says, all at once, like an exhalation.

There is a long pause, during which all Arthur can hear is the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears. Then: “What?”

“You can have my eyes,” Arthur repeats, steadier, surer of himself. “If you’d like. Perhaps when we’re here, in the house, I could … we could separate, as you’re able to exist on your own, but for the rest of it … I’m willing to be this for you. Your way to be a part of the world outside of this place.”

“You’re … you’re sure?” John sounds hesitant. “Arthur, this isn’t a decision that you should make lightly. Taking possession of your eyes the first time, it … it took most of my strength. I likely would not be able to do it again by force should you find some way to cast me out. But if you are willing, it…”

John trails off. “If you give me permission,” he says slowly, “I will be able to repossess you any time you are in this house. You cannot take it back. You may … you may come to regret it.”

“Maybe,” Arthur concedes. “Maybe not. But honestly, John, it’s been some time since I felt genuinely disquieted by your presence. Perhaps if you had some control over the rest of my body, I might feel differently, but even if I did come to regret it … my will and actions would still be my own.”

“But not your sight.”

“No, not my sight. In any case, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t believe I’ll regret it.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

“No, but I know you.”

“Do you? We don’t even know my real name, Arthur. We know nothing about me.”

“I know that you like to read,” Arthur counters. “All kinds of books, but with a particular soft spot for adventure and happy endings. I know that your favorite spot in town is the bluffs overlooking the lake because you like the blue of the water and the way the wind stings your eyes when it’s strong enough. I know that your favorite flavor of ice cream is strawberry because, even though you can’t taste it, you like the color of it, the vibrant pink. I know that you snap when you’re upset or scared and that you regret hurtful things immediately after you say them but double down regardless because sometimes your conviction in yourself is all you have to defend yourself with. I know that you care about other people—the lady who lives next door whose flowers you admire, the elderly woman struggling with her groceries just the other day who you insisted we help, the young boy who nearly fell off the cliffs while chasing after his dog last week and would have done so had we not stopped him in time.

“And,” Arthur says, feeling all at once terribly vulnerable, “I know that you’re my friend. I trust you. You … you mean a lot to me, John. I can only hope that you may feel the same.”

There are a few beats of silence, during which Arthur worries his thumbs along the edges of the book pages. Then, softly: “You are my friend as well, Arthur. If you’re sure about this—"

“I am.”

“—then … all right.”

Arthur isn’t quite sure how to describe what happens then—a tingling feeling deep in his skull, a sensation not unlike that of falling off a very tall cliff. Then, between one blink and the next, his world—for so long nothing but nothingness—explodes into color so bright he’s blinded by it.

“Ah!” Arthur presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, but he can still see the light-shadow of the lamplight burned into his corneas. “Fucking hell, John.”

John chuckles, low and rumbling. “My apologies.”

“You might at least try to sound more convincing,” Arthur grouses. “Fuck. Where’s the switch? For the lamp.”

“To your left—no, your other left, Arthur. A bit higher—yes, you’ve got it.”

The lightbleed from behind his eyelids vanishes as he flicks the lamp off. Arthur tentatively opens his eyes again to darkness—not pure black like has been his reality for the past few months, but close enough that it’s familiar.

“Well?” John says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from everywhere at once yet also like he’s speaking directly into Arthur’s ear. It’s exactly the same as it’s always been, like nothing has changed at all, and Arthur smiles.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and heading toward the door that leads to the porch, where he knows John will be able to follow. “Let’s go look at the stars. Perhaps you can describe them to me.”

“But you’ll be able to see them yourself.”

“True.”

“Then why—”

“Humor me.” Arthur opens the door and steps out onto the porch. He sits on a wooden swinging bench set up near the edge, padded with worn pillows. They’d bought them second-hand a few weeks after John became Arthur’s eyes, so he’s never seen the faded, cherry-red hue in person. It’s somehow duller than he’d expected, and he doesn’t think it’s a consequence of the faintness of the moon and starlight. “Well?”

John sighs, in that exasperated way that Arthur knows by now hides fondness. “Fine. Above us lies the night sky, black at its center and tinged blue around the horizon where the light of the sun still bleeds into it. The stars are many, forming glittering white constellations that overlap one another and create an impression not unlike that of a river, or perhaps an ocean. To our left, a purple nebulous cloud can be seen, glowing a pale yellow near its center, like there is a great storm brewing somewhere deep in the cosmos. To our right lies…”

As John continues to speak, describing the world around him like it’s something wondrous, Arthur closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and smiles.

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolentfantasyweek #my writing #my fic

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suttttton · 2 years

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Dessert

A fic for @malevolentfantasyweek day 5: Vampires, in which arthur really, really wants his vampire boyfriend to bite him

AO3 link in source!

John is playing the piano, Arthur notes with a smile when he comes through the door of their little home. Not too badly, either, but that shouldn't come as a surprise. He's been practicing for months now, with little else to occupy him in the long daylight hours when Arthur is at work.

Arthur eases the door closed behind him, and is careful to keep his steps quiet as he navigates the familiar path to the lounge. He doesn't go in immediately, just hovers in the doorway, listening. He doesn't want to disturb John's focus.

"You're getting better," Arthur says when the song ends. As he speaks, he hears John gasp, startled by his sudden presence. He laughs. "It's only me."

"Christ, Arthur, I didn't know you were—when did you get home?"

"Just a few minutes ago," Arthur replies. "Same time as always."

"I—I didn't—" John sounds flustered, like he'd lost track of the time entirely.

Arthur moves his hand to the light switch on the wall, and sure enough, it's switched off. The curtains are drawn, too, no doubt, obscuring the fading early-evening light. Most days, John likes the room to be bright. The only reason he would close the curtains is if he was feeling particularly light-sensitive, which means—

"You shouldn't come any closer," John says, confirming Arthur's theory. "When the sun goes down, I'll go out and feed, but until then you should stay away."

Arthur narrows his eyes, feeling slightly annoyed, then takes another step into the room, sinking down onto the plush chair near the door. "What if I didn't?"

"That would be exceedingly stupid. It isn't safe." John plays a familiar melody, a piece he's been practicing lately. Arthur stares in his direction, weighing his options. Then he gets up, crosses the room in a few long strides, and settles next to John on the piano bench. "Things have been a bit boring lately. Maybe we need some danger."

John startles again, his fingers coming down hard on the piano keys. "Jesus Christ, Arthur," he snaps, getting up and moving to the other side of the room. Arthur swivels on the piano bench to face him, following his voice. "This isn't a game!"

"I know that!" Arthur says. "But what else am I supposed to do? You won't talk to me about any of this!"

"What is there to talk about? 'If you come near me, maybe I'll kill you'? Is that what you want to hear?"

"You know that's not what I mean," Arthur says, getting to his feet and taking a step towards John.

"Stop," John says.

Arthur tilts his head challengingly and takes another step forward.

"Arthur!"

"No! I'm not afraid of you!"

John growls as Arthur takes another step forward, but Arthur is blocking his path to the door. He has nowhere to go. Arthur feels a surge of perverse triumph as he moves to close the distance, and then—

Arthur flinches as something heavy flies past his head> It makes a thump as it hits the wall behind him before falling to the floor. He stops, staring at John in shock. "Did you just throw a book at me?"

"Yes," John growls. "Get. Out."

Arthur wants nothing so much as to stand his ground, maybe throw a book at John, see how he likes it.

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, and John shouts, "Arthur! Leave!" His voice is all hard fury, words that Arthur couldn't resist even if he wanted to.

"Fuck you!" he says as his feet take him out of the room, feeling nothing but an incandescent rage of his own. He has half a mind to turn around and go back to the lounge as soon as his feet release him, but of course as soon as he has the thought, he changes course. By the time he has any control of where he's going, he's outside, twenty blocks from their house, and the temperature has dropped ten degrees with the sunset. He's certain that by the time he makes it back, John will be long gone.

***

He tries to go to bed, but he can't sleep. He keeps turning the scene over and over in his mind, worrying at it until he's sure it will drive him mad. He wants to hold on to his anger. John had thrown a book at him, after all, and then mind-controlled him for good measure. But... Well. It hadn't been entirely unprovoked, had it? They've talked about John's bloodlust before, and John has made it very clear that he doesn't want to even be tempted to feed on Arthur.

Perish the thought! Arthur thinks bitterly.

He wonders what John is doing right now. If he's found his victim. If he's bitten into them, holding tight to them as they struggle to get away. He wonders if they're screaming. If they would even want to scream. He feels his anger coming back. John doesn't need to go out once a month to terrorize a stranger. Arthur lives with him! John could easily feed on him.

But no. No, John would rather throw books at him than risk tasting his blood again.

Bastard.

He knows he isn't being fair. John is allowed to have preferences. If he wants to bite random strangers every month, Arthur has no right to stop him.

John has fed on Arthur exactly one time, and Arthur has thought about it every single day since. He didn't even know John then, but he'd felt so close to him, close in a way that none of their interactions since can compare to. It had felt like religion, like communion.

It's a sweet memory. He misses it. He wishes he could experience it again, now that he knows John, now that he loves him. Now that he has context for it beyond a random attack. Apparently, though, it isn't going to happen, no matter what Arthur does. He knows he's being unfair, but still Arthur can't help but feel bitter anger whenever he thinks of it.

***

Arthur is still awake in the early hours of the morning when John comes back, which is a nightmare. The last thing he wants is to talk to him while he's still warm with someone else's blood. He lies as still as possible, listening to John make his way around their room. He feels the bed shift as John climbs in beside him, and Arthur tries to keep his breathing deep and even.

"Arthur, I know you're awake," John says. Bastard.

"It isn't fair that you can hear my heartbeat," Arthur says archly. "You should pretend you can't. Go to sleep."

"Is that what you want?" John asks, and he's got that tone is his voice. All sincere. Arthur rolls his eyes, then rolls over to face him. "You threw a book at me."

"You deserved it."

"You—!"

"Arthur," John rumbles, and Arthur feels him shift, laying his hand flat on the bed. An invitation.

Arthur lets out an aggravated breath, but he lays his hand out top of John's. John curls his fingers, stroking them up Arthur's palm. He traces his thumb over Arthur's wrist, pausing for a moment at the pulse point before lacing their fingers together.

"I need you to listen, when I tell you not to get close to me."

"Yes, yes," Arthur mutters.

""For what it's worth, I'm sorry," John says, trying to make peace. "I shouldn't have thrown a book at you. You kept getting closer, and I didn't know how else to stop you, but—"

"Did you enjoy your meal?" Arthur interrupts, stopping John before he can keep rambling about how terrible it would have been if he'd bitten Arthur for a change.

"... It was fine?" John says, clearly confused by the change of subject. "It... It was a woman. Older than I would have liked, maybe sixty years old? But she was healthy enough. She lived right down the street, had only left her house to get some eggs from the shop. Her grandchildren are visiting tomorrow, apparently."

"Do you think she'll be well enough to entertain?" Arthur asks, because he knows it's a question John will hate.

"She seemed fine when I left her."

"Good," Arthur says lightly.

"Hm," John says, and they lapse into a silence that feels... unbearably cold. John is tracing his thumb up and down the side of Arthur's hand, their fingers still interlaced. Lost in dark thoughts that Arthur had sent him into.

Arthur begins to feel guilty. Damn him.

"I'm sorry too," he says. "You told me you wanted me to stay away. I shouldn't have crossed that boundary."

"Thank you," John says.

"I just don't understand why you're so disgusted by the idea of feeding on me," Arthur continues in a moment of madness. In the silence that follows, he feels his face go very, very red. Why had he said that?

Finally, John says, very softly, "What?"

"Forget it," Arthur says. "It doesn't—Just go to sleep."

"You—I'm—Where did you get the idea that I'm disgusted by you?"

Arthur pinches his lips together. "John, you threw a book at me today because you were worried I would trigger your bloodlust."

"Because I was afraid of hurting you!" John says.

"Yeah, that's what you say," Arthur counters. "But you've fed on me before, and it was fine."

John is quiet for a moment that seems to stretch on and on and on. Finally, "Arthur, what are you talking about? It was not fine! You stuck a knife between my ribs!"

Honestly. When is John going to stop bringing that up? "Yes, but it all worked out, didn't it?" He jostles their currently-intertwined fingers to prove the point. "No one died. You didn't bleed me dry like you claim to be worried about."

"You can't honestly expect me to believe that you don't know what's changed."

"How would I? You don't tell me anything!"

"Arthur."

"What?"

John is quiet again, and Arthur can feel his eyes on him, searching his face. Arthur turns his face away. "Really?" John says quietly, after a moment. When Arthur doesn't answer, he says, "You really don't know."

"All I know is that you'd prefer to gorge yourself on strangers than on me," he growls.

John laughs at that; he actually laughs. Bastard. "You're jealous," he says, sounding delighted, and Arthur rolls his eyes. "Jesus Christ, you're actually—"

"Yes, thank you, no need to rub it in," Arthur mutters. He tries to pull his hand away, to tuck it close to his chest and maybe get some fucking sleep. But John won't let him go. Instead, he pulls Arthur closer, the opposite of what he wants. "John!"

"Shh," John says, in a tone that sends a chill up Arthur's spine, a tone that whispers listen. He strokes his hand through Arthur's hair, and for a moment Arthur loses himself in the touch. Then John leans down close and whispers, "Isn't it obvious that I want you more than anyone else?"

Arthur swallows, still unable to speak.

John continues, "The last time I fed on you, you could have been anyone. You were a stranger. But now you're everything to me. You don't think that would make a difference? Arthur, if I bit into you at the height of my hunger, I don't think I'd be able to stop myself. You would taste so fucking delicious."

Arthur takes a breath. "I trust you."

Jon laughs, and Arthur feels his hand come up to his throat, over his jugular. "I know. It's not your trust I need."

"I want it."

"Idiot."

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but again John says, "Shh." And then, "Tonight I'm already sated. If you want to satisfy your curiosity... It should be safe."

Arthur feels his mouth go dry. "Yes. Yes, okay."

He lets John maneuver him, tilting his chin up. "Breathe," John says, his breath ghosting over the soft flesh of his throat, and Arthur gasps, his breaths shaky with anticipation. "Good," John says lightly, and Arthur wants to say, "Fuck you," but then John is biting into him. It hurts more than he's expecting, more than he remembered, less like a needle and more blunt-force. He'll have a massive bruise tomorrow, he's sure. Then John starts to drink, and he lets out his breath in a high, pained whine. He closes his eyes, drinking in the sensation, a sweet, dull kind of pain.

Then John stops, pulling away, and Arthur feels his absence acutely, grabbing his shoulder to keep him from retreating further. That can't be it, can it? He thinks desperately, and his mind is still reeling so much from the sensation of it all that he barely hears John say, "Are you okay?"

Arthur nods, keeping his neck bared, hoping that John will come back, will keep going.

"It sounded like it hurt," John says, sounding concerned.

Arthur growls. "Of course it hurt!" he snaps, lifting his head, and oh that's a mistake. Because John can see perfectly in the dark, so he can see the desperate look in Arthur's eyes, the flush in his cheeks. He can hear his frantic heartbeat, too, practically reading his mind on a glance alone.

"Arthur. Do you like this?" he asks, and Arthur knows he is doomed. It's clear from his tone that he is already smugly aware of the answer.

Arthur feels himself go fully red, and he turns his face away, flopping back against the pillow. "Yes, if you must know, so if you wouldn't mind getting back to it..."

"Oh, Arthur," John rumbles, and does not get back to it. What is he doing? Just watching?

Arthur lets out a breath and swallows his pride. "Please, John," and he hears John's breath hitch.

Then John licks him. "John!"

"What?" John says, feigning innocence. "You're bleeding quite a lot right now. It's running down your neck in rivulets, a few drops pooling in your collarbone..." He licks him again, from the aforementioned spot in his collarbone to the sore, bruised spot where there is still an open wound. Arthur whimpers at the pressure on the bruise, and at the maddening pleasure of it.

"Please," he says again, and this time John latches on again, pulling blood from the wound in long, deep drags.

He squirms a bit, overcome with the feeling of becoming part of John, and John shifts his weight, pinning Arthur more thoroughly. He appreciates the pressure, the immobilization. It's easier to relax, in a way, when there's nowhere for him to go. He can't move his hands, he can't move his legs. He can do nothing but lay back and let John devour him.

He feels Jon squeeze his hands, and he squeezes back. It's only then that he realizes he's saying John's name, over and over.

Too soon, John pulls away, and Arthur can hear him licking his lips. "That's all," he murmurs.

Arthur makes a protesting noise, but John silences him with a kiss. "Come on Arthur, we don't want you to pass out."

Arthur laughs as John presses another kiss to his cheek, then lays down, resting his head on his chest. He feels a bit hazy, delightfully light-headed. And tired. He digs one hand into John's hair, and John makes an approving noise. His other hand is still intertwined with John's.

Arthur's eyes flicker closed. "Is it okay if I sleep?"

"Of course," John says softly. "I can't believe you've been up all this time. It's almost morning."

"Good," Arthur says, feeling very relaxed with John laying on top of him. "I want you to be here when I wake up."

"Of course I will," John says, and Arthur isn't sure if he responds, the tunnel of sleep closing in on him. "You are everything to me," John continues, softly enough that it doesn't disturb Arthur's rapidly-approaching slide into sleep. "And you are delicious."

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