For this chapter:
Character(s), Pairing(s): USUK
Rating: T
Warnings: Language. Off-screen character death, another short chapter
Chapter Summary: Arthur suddenly understands practically everything.
Chapter Summary for real: In which the puzzle is no longer a mystery but a mismatch of pieces.
A/N: Ahem; I am a Homestuck Holmesian and I am not ashamed. Also; I seriously need to develop a plot soon. Enjoy, my lovelies!
Chapter 7: 'Cause Living With Me Must Have Damn Near Killed You (How You Remind Me; Nickelback)
It seemed to Arthur that the world was out to get him. Oh, of course it wasn't, he wasn't that important to the Grand Plan's success or failure. He was a blip in the otherwise monotonous stream of humanity, and he'd long since contented himself with that knowledge. Of course, knowing that he was hardly worth the effort of the world to destroy him made the feeling no less potent nor any less real; indeed, it only seemed to intensify the feeling.
A week had passed since he wrote the note to himself begging him to get the people he cared for out of Saint Hetalia before trouble hit. Of course, having hid the note behind the living room mirror, he had done no such thing, preoccupied with the desire to locate and exorcise the creature – the demon – possessing his every waking moment. It had latched on in the forest by the Asylum – by the lake – and clung.
Gilbert wasn't strong enough – Matthew, too, was too weak – to dispel the spirit with his own, though it wasn't for lack of trying.
Alexandrus asked me to look after you.
"And what a fine job you're doing. I haven't had a decent sleep in days. I'm dead on my feet, so kindly piss off and haunt your cousin or something."
Asking for peace and quiet was a bit of a ridiculous idea, really, and true to form, no sooner had Gilbert vacated the chair in the far corner did Alfred bound in, papers in hand and a smudge of ink on his nose.
Such smudges were distracting and adorable, and when Arthur drew the younger to him, Alfred went willingly, not questioning, never questioning.
Alfred was warm and soft skin over solid muscle, rigor mortis in living skin, eyes so sky blue as to be black with thunder on the horizon, lips chapped and wet with a bemused, indulgent grin and Arthur had never loved something so much in all his life, doubted he ever would, but Arthur chose to follow Alfred's example and not question, choosing instead to wrap himself tight about long limbs and narrow hips, feel broad ribs and rugby shoulders, hold him close and whisper to never let go.
"Never," Alfred replied, hand in the small of Arthur's back, the other forearm bracing himself. "Yours, always yours."
Arthur laughed breathlessly, back arching and seeing lightning break the thunder of Alfred's eyes.
The world had, he thought later, hair damp and skin red from the pressure of the shower, stopped trying to destroy him, at least for the moment, whilst he caught his breath. Oh, it didn't stop moving, but it stopped actively trying to kill him.
"What was all that about?" Alfred asked abruptly, because he didn't believe in tact at the best of times, and his tone was too innocent to be even halfway genuine.
"You know exactly what that was about," Arthur griped back, rolling onto his side to face away from the American as he took his seat at the desk. He didn't know why he bothered, his back was a no less skinny sight than his chest.
As if responding to the self-deprecation – oh, of course he did, same heart and all meant they had the echoes of each other's emotions – Alfred said, "I hope you haven't stopped eating entirely."
The room flashed white for a second and Arthur bit his tongue against the Tuc cracker and a bit of beetroot yesterday and the I had a Ryvita, two weeks ago that threatened to slip off his tongue, because Alfred wasn't in the mood to appreciate such humour. Shame really, it was a perfect opening.
Instead, he shrugged idly, and turned his gaze to the ceiling. "If I lose any more weight," he told the flocked wallpaper up there, "My organs will pack in. So the doctors say anyway, but I've proved them wrong before. Remember when they were convinced I had HIV? Oh, what a laugh we had then."
"That wasn't funny. Your weight dropped so quickly, and what with you just being out of prison… Art – fuck sake – you shouldn't joke about that. About any of it."
"Oh, hush," he chided, waving an idle hand. "Love, I'm not going anywhere. Not whilst this – this spirit – not whilst that's still here. It needs me to keep it alive, on this plain. Whatever."
"Art," Alfred started, and then stopped, sighing and saying nothing.
For a long moment, they lingered in silence, and then Arthur pushed himself to his elbows, frowning at the concave muscle of his stomach for a second, picking out his ribs, before flicking his eyes up to Alfred's hunched back.
"I'm sorry," he said, though really, he was nothing of the sort. "I know how bad you stress."
"How bad I stress?" Alfred repeated. "Dude, I'm so chill about this, you've no idea. I'm like an ice cube. It's none of my business, right? You weighing god-knows-what and shaking so badly sometimes I wonder how you haven't broken your arms yet, and how it feels like death to touch your skin because you're so cold, all the time and I wonder, I really, really wonder, how it is that you haven't keeled over out of sheer exhaustion because I can get away with not sleeping, I'm dead, but not you, you need sleep more than anybody, and how many hours have you got this last week? Five? Six hours? If that?"
"I – It's too loud."
"Then let me quieten it down."
"You can't, Al, it's not – the demon, it's in here," he tapped his temple with a knuckle and felt a laugh bubble deep in his throat. Still with that laugh in his voice, he added, "It's always been here. The Gateway, it – it was already open, it was already here."
"I don't understand."
"I am the demon."
"What."
"You heard me perfectly. I am the demon. Al – shit, read every note I've written since Matthew died, and then read notes I wrote twenty years ago. The pattern is there right in front of us, and we've been missing it without the visible difference. I. Am. The. Demon."
Alfred stared at him. Arthur stared back, and he could see the horror of the realisation dawning across those no-longer-smooth features, his skin wax and creased with the stress of too-much-age in a too-young-body.
"Oh God."
"Hardly," Arthur quipped, and grinned a cracked smile at the filthy look he received in response.
"Arthur," Alfred whispered, and scrambled from the chair to throw his arms about the Englishman and squeeze him tight.
Arthur patted his spine, felt the harsh edge of bone beneath his clothes, and sighed into the shoulder pressed against his face. "I'm alright, love. I'm fine. It's all fine."
The room was white. The room had been white for the last five minutes, and the Ghosts had been screaming incessantly for the last half an hour.
Arthur heard about Romulus long before Alfred took the call. It was only a matter of time, after all, and he had been waiting for the knowledge since the 23rd April. But the thing was, he knew from a first-hand source. He heard about the death of Romulus Vargas from Romulus Vargas himself.
That was the thing about Clairvoyants. They were mediums, psychics, links to the Otherworld. They could look upon the Dead and see them for what they were; lost, and alone, and very, very scared. They could take the cold, immaterial hands of those that had passed on but remained behind, trapped in a place as immaterial as they were, and walk them through into the golden fields of heaven.
Arthur had been doing that for most of his life. At eight years old, a friend of his in England, back when he'd lived there, had died in a car accident. It had taken him all of five minutes to work out what was different about his friend, and five more to work out how to help him. Having done so, he Opened the Door and helped the little boy walk through. It was the first Ghost he redeemed, and it still clung to the forefront of his mind whenever he had a thought to spare towards the topic.
Being the only Clairvoyant on the island – to the best of his knowledge, Peter had taken on none of the traits, which was odd, Arthur thought, the power had been growing in the family since his mother bore William, and then for it to suddenly stop with Peter? There was something off about that, but he supposed there was a reason for it, not that it was one he necessarily understood – Ghosts flocked to him. Some were new, some were old, some were older still, but all spoke to him, begged for his help, sought vengeance and peace all at once, clamouring for attention. Some voices rose louder than others, and some were drowned in the cacophony, but he answered each and every one, seeking the children before the adults, and for twenty years, he had devoted himself to helping them.
Now, there were less than two dozen from the two hundred.
Romulus had come to him early on the morning of the 3rd May, resplendent in the white shroud of the dead, looking younger than Arthur had ever seen him, every crease of his eyes and brow smoothed into white gold, his laugh lines cutting grooves into the ever-present stubble and his eyes had been blank, mere pearls in the bed of silk that was his soul.
Hello.
Arthur smiled. "Redundant, but do go on."
I'm dead.
"I had noticed, yes. Do you need help crossing over?" he asked, joviality gone. It was rare a Catholic came to seek his help. There must have been an injustice in the death for any to come to him, heathen as he was.
Romulus' reply was laughing.
No, it's quite alright. I just thought I'd stop by and let you know, tell you that I settled all of my affairs and that the boys will come to talk to you about my will later today. I have cut you into the business so that you might be better protected.
"I see," Arthur hummed, though he didn't; what need was there for it?
You have nothing to do within the business. It is merely a precautionary measure should any of my hands question their orders. They do love to question the orders of a dead man. I'm sure Lovino will set the records straight should any of them wish to take issue.
"Why are you really here?"
I see why the Alchemists want you. I can see you now, Arturo, I can see what you really are.
The very edge of Arthur's lip quirked upwards, and with a slight, measuring tilt of his head, he said, "And what am I?"
You are as a Saint. More than man but less than God, suffering for the good of others, tearing yourself apart from the inside that you might save the ones you love. You are a good man, one of whom any would be proud.
"A Saint?" Arthur grinned. "That's something I've never heard. Well. Any news on the Alchemists whilst we're on the topic?"
They are here, in the town, and they are coming closer to you still. Seek the ones you trust, and seek their loved ones. It is their enemies that you must identify.
"Convoluted, but okay," Arthur said, sitting straight now, the white of the room almost blinding. The fire burned lazily in the hearth, its embers laughing at the frowns upon its audience's faces. "Where should I begin?"
That would be telling now, wouldn't it? There is one you trust above all others, seek them out and seek the one they love most.
"Francis," Arthur said. "You want me to start with him?"
Yes. Think Arthur, the answer is there before you. In his car, there is a sign of the love he carries in his heart of hearts.
Arthur thought about it, picking himself out of his chair and going to the window.
You're a skinny bitch, you need to eat more.
He laughed, genuinely laughed, and traced a finger over the angel carved into the window pane. "The air freshener," he said, palm flat on the glass, condensation curling around his fingers. "The girl."
Yes. Jeanne.
"Her enemies? Fuck, Rome! Who would hate a schizophrenic girl?"
The Alchemists. Jeanne is like you, only her eyes have turned upwards.
"She can see angels?"
She can see angels. Michael, in particular, is fond of her.
"Does she know about me?"
The girl has regular conversations with angels, and her personal tutor, for he specialises in teaching the mentally ill, is Francis. Of course she knows about you.
Arthur cast a deadpan look over his shoulder, but Romulus only grinned. "Okay," Arthur said. "Okay. I'll talk to Francis later, see what Jeanne's told him. Say, Rome."
He is safe. The demon has not touched him. Oh yes, I know about that. I can see it deep within your mind, curling hateful and black, disgusting in its tendrils, spreading through your body will all the grace of Cantarella.
A sigh fogged the glass, picked the angel out in stark relief. "Thank fuck."
Romulus smiled at him, a bland little smile of easy peace.
You will be alright, in the end. You were always going to be alright in the end. Say hello to Gilbert, won't you? And tell him from me that Lukas loves him still, and will see him soon. Do not allow the demon to take hold of you, Arthur. It is dangerous beyond any danger you have ever faced, but
"What?"
But Romulus was already gone, and the room was bleached, the fire dead.
++End Chapter++
NOTES::
Arthur, stop quoting Peter Kay.
The demon is Lord English trololol /shot
Any historians or Assassin's Creed fans out there? Cantarella is a poison made famous by being the Borgia family's secret family recipe. It's likely – according to the ever-reliable Wikipedia because I don't care enough to find the references in my Borgia history book – a type of arsenic, making the posisonee appear asleep for four hours, after which they presumably either wake up or snuff it.
