Arthur Lester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lestercraft) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-10-10 11:43 am
lestercraft) wrote in singillatim2024-10-10 11:43 am
Part Two: The Detective
Who: Arthur Lester and others
What: Recovering from the Forest Talkers (emotionally) and existing (generally)
When: October!
Where: Milton mostly
Content Warnings: General Malevolent warning (Lovecraftian horror etc) to S5
What: Recovering from the Forest Talkers (emotionally) and existing (generally)
When: October!
Where: Milton mostly
Content Warnings: General Malevolent warning (Lovecraftian horror etc) to S5
no subject
Not to mention that this is a miserable place to live alone. He sees a few dime novels that haven't finished rotting, an abundance of cat-shaped urns and ash trays: clearly a perfectly comfortable home for its former owner, may she rest in peace, but hardly fitting for its current tenant. Just abject piles of misery depicting the life of someone he could in no way whatsoever have saved.
"Someone who- who sees you for who you are, anger and pain and all. And you've done a damn rotten job of hiding any of that from me," he points out with soft humour. "You deserve to live somewhere that doesn't make you miserable just to exist, and I--"
And he stops, abrupty, interrupted by his own movements and the harrowing creak of a board underfoot that he recognises all too well. Long enough for the shock of realisation to hit him - not long enough to escape, and the floor cracks, collapsing beneath him and taking him down with it.
1/2
I have someone to lean on, he wants to say. I have someone, and I wasn't good enough to keep them.
Except - all at once - the floor splinters.
2/2
Two emotions flood through him at once: urgent concern, and poisonous guilt. He focuses on the first, scanning Arthur for injuries. The crawlspace beneath is blessedly shallow, but still doesn't make for a comfortable drop.
no subject
On the downside, there's definitely something wrong with his ankle from the fall and he's still winded from his breastplate slamming against his chest and splintering more wood, but when he coughs it doesn't have the expected sting of a fractured rib.
"'m alright," he wheezes, but he's moving slowly as he pushes himself up a little, just to stand upright - partly so he doesn't break any more floor, but also because that fucking hurt. "Floor was- rotted through, must've... there must have been a leaking pipe, waterlogged the place. Not- uncommon, out here, or so I've heard."
no subject
Not that he ever expected to have any of those.
"Sorry, I didn't-" He flinches with his full body every time he looks down at the mess, and seems torn between offering a hand to help Arthur up, and pulling out his own hair. "It- it looked safe enough to me. I'm sorry."
He finally settles on sticking out his hand.
"I can- I'll fix it. There's some boards out back."
no subject
He slumps to rest both elbows on the remaining floor to breathe for a moment, and even with that light pressure he gets to see more of it splinter threateningly, and his mouth presses lightly.
"This is- i-it's a crawlspace, isn't it? A proper one." Alright, that's - that's something. "Do you know where the exit for it is? It might be safer for me to go under the house, rather than push up here and risk more floor collapsing."
no subject
What would that even look like? He's not sure he's seen a crawlspace before. Just dank cellars, and the basement he spent his teenage years in. Nervous energy thrums through him, and he bounces on his heels.
"Probably under the porch. That way." He shoves a finger out towards the way they came in, and steps back up onto the flimsy boards.
no subject
This feels ridiculous, having to scoot himself back into the dark, moldy underside of the haunted cabin. But at least it's true to form, and if he focuses on that then it's easier to not focus on the knot of claustrophobia trying to tighten like a noose.
no subject
"Found it!"
Another scuffle of noise, and dim light filters in, patterned by the trellis that lines the porch's underside. Charles, crouched on hands and knees, scoots back to give Arthur the needed room. A cobweb is caught in his hair, and even in the shadows beneath the porch, it's clear that his face has regained its color. The distraction of Arthur's fall seems to have broken whatever had dragged him into an echo of his death.
no subject
It turns out army crawling is difficult with a fucked ankle and a breastplate, but he manages to half-crawl his way out through the frozen mud and crystallised spider webs (and possibly the body of a small animal he steadfastly refuses to identify) to the exit with a grateful smile at Charles.
"There we are, then! Right as-" and he cuts himself off with a hiss as he tries to stand up. "Fuck- w-well, alright, at least."
no subject
He sticks a cold hand out to help Arthur. There's a forced lightheartedness in his demeanor, but no longer a layer of hurt simmering through the cracks; it's been buried down too deep, leaving only a discomfort that's been shoved to the side. Arthur may be able to see through him now, but there's no denying that Charles is practiced at this game. After all, this a boy who managed to hide his worst pain from his closest friend for more than thirty years.
no subject
"Ah, you break your legs enough times, they never forgive you," he comments dryly, accepting the help enough to get himself up on his good ankle, and gingerly test the other. "Hurt my ankle during the fall, that's all. I'll be fine."
no subject
"Sorry, it's- I'm-" You fucked up, you fucked up. "I'm sorry. I should've noticed it."
Or kept Arthur from coming here in the first place. Kept from meeting him in the first place, maybe.
"How- how can I help?"
I'll fix it, he hears. I'll make it better. And then, in another voice, sharp and cruel: You never made it better, and then you died.