Major spoilers for Malevolent part 55 and maybe 56
So this was just meant to be a couple paragraphs on Arthur's feelings after 55 if he'd actually gotten some time to process it, and then it turned into this. I've never written a fanfic before because I'm not very confident in my writing skills, but that's basically what this is. I haven't re-read it or edited it because then I probably wouldn't post it, so it might not be great. But anyways
Could you imagine if Arthur and John were somehow able to just live a normal life after 55? Arthur tries not to think about what John did—no point, after all—but every once in a while, during a sleepless night, his mind wanders there. He thinks of all those Arthurs screaming, of all those Faroes left alone in a house filled with gore. John's his best friend and he loves him, but in those moments he also fears him.
John claims it wasn't him, but wasn't it? The Dark World doesn't add anything to you, merely amplifies what's already there. Arthur knows—he knows what the Dark World can do to you. He killed a man for gods sake! But this... this was more than just murder. He imagines Faroe—his little girl, all grown up—kneeling in front of the desolate corpses that were once her family. How many are there? How many Faroe's got to grow up with a loving family who cared for her, only to have it violently ripped away?
Arthur feels anger bubbling up inside of him. He wants to hurt John—wants to break his bones, claw the skin off his arm, gouge out his eyes, make him feel every ounce of pain felt by all those Faroes... but no. Arthur forces himself to stop that line of thinking, for that part wasn't John's fault. He keeps reminding himself of that. John didn't know where the Arthurs were coming from, only that they existed for him to kill. That thought soothes the anger somewhat, but oddly brings back the fear.
John would never do that again, Arthur knows, and when he said he'd rather John kill versions of himself than other people he'd meant it. But still, the thought of John of all people doing those things to him... it fills him with a sense of pain and dread. John is his person. The one he loves, trusts, and relies on. The fact he did... that to Arthur—killed and tortured so many versions of him—and enjoyed it... He was under the influence of the Dark World, of course, but it was merely amplifying feelings that were already there. The fact that John was able to experience any remorse, to stop what he was doing at all, must mean that John—his John—was in there somewhere, doing those horrible things. Right? He so badly wants to believe that he wasn't, that this was a different person entirely, but he can't. He feels sick.
He can feel John there in the back of his mind, in his hand, his toes, his eyes. He's so close, so close and Arthur just wants to get away, to be alone for just one moment. He wants nothing more than to just get up and leave, to walk away, but he knows that won't do anything. He–
"Arthur?" John's voice, soft and normally such a comfort on nights such as these, does nothing but fill him with nausea and anger and disgust. "Arthur, you're hyperventilating. Are you–"
"Stop it!" Arthur turns so his left ear is against the pillow, and covers the other one with his hand, though he knows it won't do anything. "John, stop!"
"I don't know! I don't know. I just–" He removes his hand from his ear, and turns onto his back. "I don't know." John, clearly sensing he isn't going to be able to get any words in, says nothing. A few precious moments before Arthur speaks again, slightly calmer now. "I need to be alone."
"Arthur," John's voice sounds pained, and with more than a little guilt, "you know I can't leave."
"Yes," Arthur sighs. "Yes, I know." More heavy silence, and Arthur begins to feel embarrassed about his childish outburst earlier. "You don't know what it's like, never having a moment to yourself. I mean you practically get to be alone every time I sleep. But for me you're always there, always conscious."
"I'm sorry." And Arthur can tell from his tone that he genuinely is. A beat, then Arthur feels a hesitant hand rest atop his own. Arthur pulls away as if burned.
"I'm sorry," he says, perhaps a little too sharply. "I'll try to get some sleep. I'll probably feel better in the morning."
"Okay." John's voice is strained, barely audible if not inside Arthur's own head. Then, even softer, "Goodnight, Arthur."
