There are so many reasons. There are so many. Physically, he tucks little tighter underneath John's chin. Internally, the cascade of why colors his form in dim shades of emptiness that move over the surface of his being like spilled oil over water.
He's afraid he'll take so long to graduate that the Admiral will let him disappear. He's afraid John will get tired of waiting, that Arthur will graduate, that Astarion will, that they'll both get their deals and then Arthur will leave and John will go too because it's Arthur. He's angry, so angry about his own ignorance, so angry that John would be glad he doesn't know things, so angry at humans, humanity and its seesaw of hypocrisy. He's angry that the only time he's ever felt strong is in a dream. He's scared that no one will ever look at him and see anything but a knock-off of John, that he'll find out the people who love him do so because of how like his brother he manages to be. He's scared of never measuring up in John's eyes and angry for wanting to so fucking much.
It's true that I-- I hate humans sometimes, when I forget how many are my friends.
It's harder to admit it to John than it was to admit it to Hunter. He winds in on himself a little, preparing to be scolded or told that doesn't make sense.
And... the future things are all possibilities, that's why they scare me.
You're allowed to hate humans. And you're allowed to remember that you love some of them.
And of course they're possibilities. But anything can happen. It can also not happen. If you're going to prepare for one, shouldn't you prepare for the other?
He goes miserably silent at that, caught between connecting those emotional dots and refusing to because of Larson. Refusing to, because he was right about knowing things being a way to protect himself. He knew nothing, and he suffered, and so did everyone else.
Yes, because they do things that are worth hating. It's okay to get angry. It's okay to hate some things they do.
As long as it doesn't make you blind to the good things they do. Or blind to the wonderful things they do. Or stop you from loving humans that give you reasons to love them.
John can't address the other parts. But also. Edwin. That isn't how he meant it, kiddo.
He's not sure how to articulate it, but at least this time his silence is clearly a struggle to find the words, not an attempt to avoid answering.
...
All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I'd started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And—sure enough!—I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold.
It's only a very small piece of the poem, but it's enough to describe the feelings, he hopes.
It is. Which is why John's going to gently point out-
He forgot all the trees.
To clarify-
The man in the poem. He saw 'a wood'. But he didn't see the trees. Didn't reach out to touch one, get to know it. Look at the branches. Look at the leaves or the needles. The bark.
He feels small because everything is so big. But he's not seeing that all the big things are made of smaller things, smaller parts he can touch and affect and come to know.
He's looking up at the sky and seeing how big it is but he doesn't realize that it's made of smaller pieces that are all around him.
It's not that he can't touch it. He is touching it. He's just so used to the feel of the air on his skin that he forgot it is touching.
But-- when you notice the trees, when you start to pay attention and get to know them, how... how do you keep yourself from... getting overwhelmed by how many trees there are? And what if you can't find the... the right tree, because there are so many?
He's losing his grip on this metaphor a little.
The bottom line is that this King in Yellow half can fit so much anxiety in there, John.
How many trees can you touch at once? Only a few without stretching. And how much time or attention are you really giving to learning them if you try and touch all of them?
But the one thing I'm not afraid of is the idea that I'm doing anything less than my absolute best to try and help people here and look out for the ones I love.
I know I am. And I can't know what I don't know. So I don't worry about that.
But I worry about whether I'm using what I know I can do and what I know I can affect the best way possible. And about whether I'm being who I want to be with my words and my actions.
[ He'll pet the little body in his arms so gently. ]
Worrying about the things you know you can do has an end. You either do them or you don't. They work out, or they don't and you learn better.
Worrying about all the things that could ever happen and how to handle them and whether you could do this or that or something else? That has no end. And because you can't act, it isn't even helpful.
[ He'll lean down and nuzzle his brother close for a moment, just pouring in affection and support. ]
I know you're trying your best, Edwin. And if you fear you aren't? That's how you know you are. You'll get it. I know you will.
The little bastions of anger and defensiveness and resentment and uncertainty all start to dissolve under John's uncomplicated tenderness.
Quietly, experimentally, Yellow holds this moment in mind and touches the edge of a withered bit of gray inside him. The edges of the injury smolder, then glow, and chew into the dimness like a fire prepares ground for fresh planting. It's tiring, and it doesn't do the whole job, and he loses his grip on it all a little when the gray starts to remind him of Larson. Larson's voice, Larson's orders, Larson's threats. But he manages a little bit, at least.
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None of it is 'now' things.
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He's afraid he'll take so long to graduate that the Admiral will let him disappear. He's afraid John will get tired of waiting, that Arthur will graduate, that Astarion will, that they'll both get their deals and then Arthur will leave and John will go too because it's Arthur. He's angry, so angry about his own ignorance, so angry that John would be glad he doesn't know things, so angry at humans, humanity and its seesaw of hypocrisy. He's angry that the only time he's ever felt strong is in a dream. He's scared that no one will ever look at him and see anything but a knock-off of John, that he'll find out the people who love him do so because of how like his brother he manages to be. He's scared of never measuring up in John's eyes and angry for wanting to so fucking much.
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For the future: if you had to prove without a shadow of a doubt that any of them would happen, show evidence... could you?
Or is it just a possibility?
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It's harder to admit it to John than it was to admit it to Hunter. He winds in on himself a little, preparing to be scolded or told that doesn't make sense.
And... the future things are all possibilities, that's why they scare me.
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And you're allowed to remember that you love some of them.
And of course they're possibilities.
But anything can happen. It can also not happen. If you're going to prepare for one, shouldn't you prepare for the other?
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Where would he even start???
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He should know. John knows, probably.
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All you can do is your best in the now. Just like conversations, like we talked about before.
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So he tries, clumsily, to redirect.
Is it really okay to hate humans?
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As long as it doesn't make you blind to the good things they do. Or blind to the wonderful things they do. Or stop you from loving humans that give you reasons to love them.
John can't address the other parts. But also. Edwin. That isn't how he meant it, kiddo.
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Just in conversations like the one with Richter. ...The pre-murder one.
He's silent again, struggling with the knot of feelings around there's no way to plan for all the bad things.
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There's no fight against that. Feeling that intensely... it's going to happen. There's nothing wrong with that.
What's wrong, though?
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...
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I'll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And—sure enough!—I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I 'most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold.
It's only a very small piece of the poem, but it's enough to describe the feelings, he hopes.
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He forgot all the trees.
To clarify-
The man in the poem. He saw 'a wood'. But he didn't see the trees. Didn't reach out to touch one, get to know it. Look at the branches. Look at the leaves or the needles. The bark.
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No... No he didn't.
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He's looking up at the sky and seeing how big it is but he doesn't realize that it's made of smaller pieces that are all around him.
It's not that he can't touch it. He is touching it. He's just so used to the feel of the air on his skin that he forgot it is touching.
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He's losing his grip on this metaphor a little.
The bottom line is that this King in Yellow half can fit so much anxiety in there, John.
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What's the 'right' tree?
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He noses gently at John's collarbone.
Are you never afraid of... of all the things that could happen? All the bad things?
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But the one thing I'm not afraid of is the idea that I'm doing anything less than my absolute best to try and help people here and look out for the ones I love.
I know I am. And I can't know what I don't know. So I don't worry about that.
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He also knows he himself is not. A new little blossom of shame roots itself into a dark corner, to suck up whatever negative thoughts come its way.
But how do you not worry?
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But I worry about whether I'm using what I know I can do and what I know I can affect the best way possible. And about whether I'm being who I want to be with my words and my actions.
[ He'll pet the little body in his arms so gently. ]
Worrying about the things you know you can do has an end. You either do them or you don't. They work out, or they don't and you learn better.
Worrying about all the things that could ever happen and how to handle them and whether you could do this or that or something else? That has no end. And because you can't act, it isn't even helpful.
[ He'll lean down and nuzzle his brother close for a moment, just pouring in affection and support. ]
I know you're trying your best, Edwin. And if you fear you aren't? That's how you know you are. You'll get it. I know you will.
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Quietly, experimentally, Yellow holds this moment in mind and touches the edge of a withered bit of gray inside him. The edges of the injury smolder, then glow, and chew into the dimness like a fire prepares ground for fresh planting. It's tiring, and it doesn't do the whole job, and he loses his grip on it all a little when the gray starts to remind him of Larson. Larson's voice, Larson's orders, Larson's threats. But he manages a little bit, at least.
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