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Arthur Lester is not losing his humanity anymore. He is not overcome with bloodlust, he is not killing another person out of pure rage, just because they reflect what he hates — himself — and he is not going to hit bedrock.
But he hasn't killed his old habits. He hasn't killed the dwelling, the self-loathing, the dread filling up his stomach every time he crosses paths with the past.
And that's going to cost him something, he's well aware. He's been aware ever since he left Larson's.
"So, a bath, just to freshen ourselves up, and then we're on the next train to New York," John says, voice reverberating in Arthur's skull. It's become a peaceful thing over the months, the warm vibrations running down his bones and wrapping around him like a hug.
"Right." Arthur nods, feet pelting on the carpeted floor of the hotel room.
"Right," John parrots.
Arthur turns to his left and swings open the door. The bathtub is a simple thing. According to John, it's covered up with some ratty curtain and the standard shampoos and soaps that a cheap hotel gives its residents. Arthur strips, lets the water run, and settles in.
That. That's when it starts.
The liquid is creeping halfway up his shins now, he feels it, but his heartbeat rises faster. He clenches his jaw, grips the side of the tub, tries to relax into it, but the nagging is back. He's taking a bath. He's taking a bath and he's not drowning. He's taking a bath and he's alive.
Faroe wasn't alive.
So why should he be?
John's quiet, as always — it's not like there's much for him to say, anyway, and they've come to a comfortable agreement to not chat unless necessary when Arthur was naked. So, what's he going to say if the water goes just a bit higher? The tub's big enough, it's not like Arthur's going to let it overflow… but…
The water rises up to his chest, probably filling up two thirds of the tub if he could eyeball it. Normally he'd wrench the knob shut now, but he waits one more second. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Is John's breathing getting louder?
Seven. Eight. Nine. Done. He switches it off, the coldness lapping at his collarbone, and he sinks in further, chin touching the surface. His chest is heaving, under the pressure — not of the bath, no, but of the guilt itself. This is what Faroe felt, but worse. This is what she felt, but with the promise of death looming over her and the innocence of her youth fading with each second. She was waiting for him. Waiting for her father, a baby needing their parent when they needed it most. And Arthur never came. And Arthur let her drown. And Arthur failed.
And Arthur continued living despite that.
He's sinking lower now, water seeping into the cracks on his chapped lips, the salt remaining on his tongue. He clamps his mouth shut, inhales sharply, and lowers himself further, further, further…
"Arthur?"
John's voice doesn't stand a chance against the muffled, gentle swish of water clouding Arthur's ears as his eyes squeeze shut and the deep, icy sea swallows him whole and keeps him in its throat. This is what Faroe felt. The rising pulse, the compression, the fear, the fear, the fear. Nobody's coming to save him because nobody came to save Faroe. Nobody's coming to save him because he didn't save Faroe. Nobody's coming to save him because if he couldn't save his fucking daughter, why should he save himself?
He doesn't deserve life. She didn't deserve death. He doesn't deserve life. She didn't deserve death.
He doesn't deserve life.
She didn't deserve death.
He doesn't deserve life.
She didn't deserve death.
He doesn't deserve life.
She didn't deserve death.
He doesn't deserve —
"Arthur!"
A hand — John's, or at least, the one that he controls — clenches Arthur's jaw and shoves it upward, forcing his mouth towards the surface. Arthur thrashes, flails, lets his jaw open and the water comes rushing in, and the coughing only gets worse when he finally breaks the surface and splutters, throat constricting. He hacks and gasps for any slip of air, spitting water back into the bath.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur," John says. "What the hell was that for?"
"I-I-I… I…"
"Okay, okay," he amends, voice softening. "But Arthur, really . What was that?"
He lets his cracked breaths bring more air into his scratchy throat before he answers. "I don't… It's… It's a…"
"It's a what, Arthur?"
He inhales shakily. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course John would say something if he literally tried to drown himself, what a dumbass. Arthur leans back against the tub, letting his muscles relax as much as possible (which is very little) before coughing a bit more. "It's a… habit. Not a good one. You know, me and baths… um…"
John pauses for a moment before sighing. The soft, quiet sigh that means it's going to happen, John will say the one thing he doesn't want to hear right now —
"Oh, Arthur…"
There it is. The pity. The sadness. The humanity that Arthur taught, and really, bless John's heart for that, bless him for being so kind, but it hurts. The constant sympathy for what he did. He doesn't need it. He… he doesn't deserve it. Not after everything that happened.
"John, please…."
"Arthur, I'm sorry." Of course he'll continue. Of course he will
"I-I just" — Arthur chokes back tears — "it just…" Deep breath in. "When Faroe first… When I… the first time after it happened, and I tried to take a bath again, I wanted to know what it felt like. What she felt like, suffocating like that. Drowning, knowing no one was coming to save her. Or, hell, maybe she didn't know, and she was still hanging on that thread of hope that I'd arrive, and I-I don't know what hurts more, but — but I just wanted myself to be put in her shoes. Because I deserved it. I deserve it."
The tears are falling into the bath, and if it keeps going at this rate, the water might rise enough on its own to actually drown him. "So, I tried. I sank under the water, held my breath for as long as possible, and when I was on the brink of passing out, I… I came up. I wasn't supposed to, you know. I was supposed to stay down there and let my lungs fail, but I-I just couldn't. And I still can't." His hands come up on his own, wet fingers wiping at the tears, like that'll dry his face any more. "I can't, John. And, sometimes, you know, it's kind of enough, knowing that I got the feeling of her suffering, but other times — most times — it just… isn't. I suffered, like she did, but I lived. I lived, John, and that's the fucking problem. I-I know what we said about hitting bedrock, and moving on, a-and everything, I really do, but it's just… I can't get over it that easily. I just can't. I can't, I can't, I can't! And it's still eating me up inside, it's still hurting, and I'm climbing from the bedrock, but sometimes, you slip on the way up, and that's just what's happening —"
"Arthur."
The interruption hits him like a car on a street he's been walking across for hours. "What? What is it?"
It wasn't supposed to come out like that, with so much bite, but in the haze of… everything, who really gives a fuck?
"I understand," John says. His voice is soft, so soft, so goddamn soft and quiet and tender and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts —
"Climbing up again isn't easy. Not when you've fallen so far. It's okay to slip. It's natural. It's… it's human. What's important is that you get back up again, and I know you will. You've hit bedrock before, and you got back up. You can recover from this, no matter how much time it takes. I promise. Dwelling isn't forever if you don't make it forever, and you won't."
"Are you really sure?"
"Positive. And, Arthur, can I tell you something?"
He nods, because it's the most he can manage right now.
"Faroe would want you to get better. Faroe wouldn't want to see her father like this, hurting himself in shame. She wouldn't. She'd want you to break the cycle, to forgive yourself, because the habits aren't going to fix anything. It won't get her back, and it won't get you anywhere."
It's not making the tears stop — quite the opposite, actually — but the words nip away at a tiny piece of biting ache in his heart. John's right. Factually, he's right. Emotionally, the words still hit hard and Arthur's brain is still churning to absorb them, but the warm, soothing knowledge that John is right is enough for now.
Dwelling won't help.
Dwelling won't help.
Dwelling won't help.
"Okay," is all he manages to get out. "Okay. I-I… I understand."
"Good. And, one last thing."
He scrubs at his face, as if wet hands will fix wet skin and wet eyes. "Go on."
"I love you. And I'm not going to let you drown."