The honesty gets him to emerge from under the turntable stand, which is where he ended up. He's more octopus-shaped than anything, having read about them since talking to Jamie. He pulls himself up onto John's lap.
The first thing I remember outside of the Dark World... the very first thing was Arthur... testing me. I didn't know anything, but I pretended to, and he played along just enough that I thought-- I thought he didn't know anything either. But then he told me what I was. Wh-what we w-- what we thought we were. He tried to make me remember. There was... was never a minute where he didn't want you instead of me. I don't know how to not... think you're better than me.
Touch will always, always be soothing. It's probably his favorite of the senses, if he had to pick, which is a helpful thought to have, since a dozen poets, singers, and colors occur to him all at once.
I like touch best of the senses, probably. I think. My favorite plants are begonias. And crab apples. Oh, I love Klimt! And Emily Dickinson, and Sarah Harmer, and-- lilac. The color. ...Or maybe robin's egg blue.
And if someone said they were going to give you a book of Emily Dickinson poems or show you a Klimt painting, and you got excited to read or see those... and then they handed you a book by Frances Sargent Osgood and showed you a painting by Alphonse Mucha...
He doesn't answer right away, thinking it over, trying not to let his metaphorical knee-jerk reaction (shapeless, aggressive resentment) blot out the usefulness of the comparison. He does understand (mostly). He does. But--
It wasn't my fault. I wasn't making any promises. I didn't make any deals. I told him to send me back if I wasn't what he wanted and he said no.
It's not the unhinged rage he came to the barge with, by any means. He cares about Arthur too much now for that. But there's still a broken bridge between his empathy and his grace for others.
That gets a good, slow nod. He's pleased Edwin picked up where he was going. But he's still missing the perspective.
It wasn't your fault. He's going to make sure that's clear. And Kayne is the one who made the promises.
A sigh.
And you're forgetting that he knew where you'd end up if he sent you away. Whatever threats he made, he'd never want to send either of us there. In fact, he promised he wouldn't.
That is a surprise. And it hurts, in that old scabby spot where everything Arthur tends to hurt.
I... I told him to send me back to the Dreamlands and he said if he sent me anywhere it would be to-- He couldn't do it anyway, he lied, but. He didn't promise me that.
John-scritches are a goddamn soporific. It's only the amount of practice he's had at keeping this shape that keeps him from going squishYallow as he settles against his brother. Safe. It's his favorite feeling. That he can say with confidence.
...which is when the rest of John's point clicks, sort of.
Arthur... thought he was saving his friend from a monster. Thought he was rescuing someone he loves. And he got me instead.
And- I can't say he's told me this, it's just a guess...
A short pause as he looks down at his brother.
He probably called you Yellow because he needed something to call you, but you weren't John 'yet'.
He keeps petting and scritching and keeps his voice low and steady.
Choosing the name John was an important part of becoming who I am, being someone who was different from the King in Yellow. It was a choice in and of itself. And if you were ever going to grow into someone, you needed the chance to make that choice.
He looks down.
A seed isn't better than a plant. But they have different names for a reason.
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The first thing I remember outside of the Dark World... the very first thing was Arthur... testing me. I didn't know anything, but I pretended to, and he played along just enough that I thought-- I thought he didn't know anything either. But then he told me what I was. Wh-what we w-- what we thought we were. He tried to make me remember. There was... was never a minute where he didn't want you instead of me. I don't know how to not... think you're better than me.
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Do you have a favorite poet? Or a favorite singer? What about a favorite color?
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I like touch best of the senses, probably. I think. My favorite plants are begonias. And crab apples. Oh, I love Klimt! And Emily Dickinson, and Sarah Harmer, and-- lilac. The color. ...Or maybe robin's egg blue.
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How would you feel?
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It wasn't my fault. I wasn't making any promises. I didn't make any deals. I told him to send me back if I wasn't what he wanted and he said no.
It's not the unhinged rage he came to the barge with, by any means. He cares about Arthur too much now for that. But there's still a broken bridge between his empathy and his grace for others.
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It wasn't your fault. He's going to make sure that's clear. And Kayne is the one who made the promises.
A sigh.
And you're forgetting that he knew where you'd end up if he sent you away. Whatever threats he made, he'd never want to send either of us there. In fact, he promised he wouldn't.
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That is a surprise. And it hurts, in that old scabby spot where everything Arthur tends to hurt.
I... I told him to send me back to the Dreamlands and he said if he sent me anywhere it would be to-- He couldn't do it anyway, he lied, but. He didn't promise me that.
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Remember when I said he was full of shit?
Because he's getting the feeling that Edwin thinks that Arthur's threats are honest.
No matter what he said, he wouldn't have done that. He was probably trying to control you or make you cooperate.
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That was pretty explicitly part of the deal. 'Do as I say, or else.'
He slowly shapes himself back into the cat-squirrel-thing he tends to occupy, leaning against John as hard as he can.
I don't understand why he lies. I-I mean I do, I understand why lies can be useful, but...
But, but, but. Lies are so fucking much to keep track of, fam.
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It's a tool. He's used it effectively before.
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...which is when the rest of John's point clicks, sort of.
Arthur... thought he was saving his friend from a monster. Thought he was rescuing someone he loves. And he got me instead.
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John nods.
And- I can't say he's told me this, it's just a guess...
A short pause as he looks down at his brother.
He probably called you Yellow because he needed something to call you, but you weren't John 'yet'.
He keeps petting and scritching and keeps his voice low and steady.
Choosing the name John was an important part of becoming who I am, being someone who was different from the King in Yellow. It was a choice in and of itself. And if you were ever going to grow into someone, you needed the chance to make that choice.
He looks down.
A seed isn't better than a plant. But they have different names for a reason.
He smiles a little.
I'm glad you're Edwin. My brother.
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Aloud, since it won't carry all the complicated everything he's suddenly feeling:
"I-I like Mucha."
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"I do too. They're both good."