SPRING BREEAKKKKK;

[howtheyshine]

He's in the dark. He's in the dark again. A pocket of alive-darkness that he can feel the edges of, he can feel the void that waits.

Well hello there, Yellowhead. We haven't been formally introduced. I'm....

Call me Carmichael.

The laugh that bubbles through the name makes Yellow's soul creep.

You're Kayne.

A silence ripples outward from the nothing-space the voice takes up, a silence deeper than the emptiness of John's unoccupied body. Yel-- Edwin, Edwin curls in on himself, tightening into a tiny knot of spectral energy.

He said the wrong thing, he said the wrong thing, he's going to get hurt--

And how, my little poppet, did you know that.

I-I...

Actually. Know what? Doesn't matter. Sorry to pull the plug on that little experiment so abruptly, but see, I made a deal with your better half--

John!

He can't stop himself. He realizes how stupid the flare of hope is a moment later, when that oppressive empty cold bleak dead cold silent dark silent dark comes creeping back up between him and the voice of Kayne.

I made a deal with him to get him back to Arthur, which means you needed to clear the way.

Of course, I can't be bothered to babysit you.

So you've got a couple of options, here, kid.

Well, two. Which is more like one. Unless you want to go back to the Dark World, in which case--

No-- No, please, I don't care what you want, I'll do it, just--

Okay, okay, Jeeee-sus, stop groveling. It took John a few good centuries to get to that point.

Yellow goes quiet, cowed.

There's this guy I want you to meet. He's like the worst version of Arthur got all the color sucked out of it and given eternal life.

Wh... What?

Well, technically you did meet him. I guess now he gets a chance to meet you, since he's so fucking eager to lick the feet of a god.

The unhinged laughter rings in Yel-- Edwin, Edwin, Edwin's ears as he feels the world get abruptly smaller and his senses get stripped back to shadows.

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[howtheyshine]

Tentacles of shadow and starlight rise around Arthur to meet the invisible limbs of the thing Larson commands. They block it, hold it back. Arthur gets to his feet--staggers to them, really, hands still clutched against his stomach.

The dream-Arthur scoffs. "You've dealt with his kind."

The venom is aimed at Yellow, and even though he orchestrates it himself it still hurts. Confusingly.

"You haven't dealt with John. Or me."

[lestercraft]

Another tremble, but it's not a bad dream, not yet. Not while Larson still believes he has the upper hand.

"Make no mistake, Arthur, I've dealt with your kind plenty of times. And it's been so rare that I've applied such a direct application of force to get them to co-operate with me. You should be flattered, really, making me break the mold like this."

But since he can do what he wants, he just draws a gun, aiming it at Arthur's head.

"It's a pity. Your repartee had finally gotten interesting."

And without hesitation, he pulls the trigger.

[howtheyshine]

The bullet goes through Larson's throat.

There's no drama to it, really. Reality just tilts slightly, the way it does in dreams, as all of this starts to feel familiar to Yellow. Not the events, but the creation of them. The ability to create them. Reality tilts, and the gun is in Arthur's hand, and the hole in Larson's throat sputters blood with every breath.

[lestercraft]

It's the abstraction of hurt, of knowing what that sort of wound can do that makes Larson clutch at his throat, choking as he looks down in shock at the blood pouring down his chest, as his legs give out to drop him onto the deck, as he looks up at Arthur--

That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

And with a jarring lurch, Larson wakes up.

[howtheyshine]

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Larson's sudden burst to consciousness was not part of Yellow's plan either. He feels John's presence, so frustratingly close, but that means John is close. Which means Arthur is, which means Larson's version of the dream is entirely too close to potential reality. He has to do something, he has to do something--

Thoughtlessly, Edwin flings himself against the wall in Larson's mind, not sure what the metaphysical impact will do but willing to find out.

[lestercraft]

He's still shocked, frazzled by the unexpected nightmare so his defenses are reduced - but not down.

And when Edwin slams into the wall it's like a bolt of electricity through them both, lighting every nerve end on fire and Larson suddenly buckles in alarm, curling up and grabbing his head with both hands like it's going to explode if he doesn't.

[howtheyshine]

It hurts. It hurts in a way that isn't pain but isn't not, something he feels in whatever dark matter makes up what he is right now.

He snarls, the noise silent outside of Larson but loud inside his head.

This time he doesn't throw himself at the barrier, quite. He doesn't try to reach for any particular sense, doesn't try to force or pry his way into the pieces of Larson's mind that those defenses safeguard. He reaches for open air the same way he reached for John, the move driven by fury and panic more than any logic. He doesn't care about seeing more of Larson's awful, twisted brain. He wants out. He wants out.

--and then he is. Somehow.

He can see Larson's bedroom. He can see the house, sense the space around him, chart the eddies of air, feel without feeling the way he could when he was in his crown on the Barge.

Yellow snarls again, victorious, and-- jerks to a halt as he tries to abandon Larson entirely.

He can't. He can see, he can be, but there's something about it that feels like a match held against wet paper, like it doesn't hurt now simply because it doesn't hurt yet.

He has roots in Larson's mind and he can't pull them up on his own.

[lestercraft]

The noise Larson makes sounds like he just got all the wind knocked out of him in one violent swoop, the instant Edwin blossoms out of him to fill the room. It's a strange existence; his shadows are still attached to Larson, an inescapable anchor to this dimension, his own existence pressed against the thinnest walls of it, present but not here. A shadow on the cave wall of human understanding.

And Larson seems... paralyzed. Trembling like he's in pain, breathing so hard he might well be hyperventilating; and with what looks like a massive effort on his part, he manages to twist around, crane his neck enough to look at what the fuck Edwin is doing.

[howtheyshine]

Oh, the vicious pleasure at seeing Larson trembling on the floor. Even if he's still powerless beyond appearance, even if this means nothing real, there's such satisfaction in it after the way the man spoke to Edwin before.

When he speaks himself, his voice is unfamiliar in its reverberation. The snarling layers making Edwin feel like he could crush Larson from the inside out.

"Oh, Wallace. That looks uncomfortable."

[lestercraft]

It's hard not to be awed by it, really, and despite the paralysing pain there is awe in his eyes. And behind that, whirring thoughts, as new schemes, new machinations on how to get power, skipping the step of proof completely with this power the King has...

Which. Hurts.

But despite that, Larson manages to shuffle, slowly and shakingly onto his hands and knees, and presses his forehead to the freezing wooden floorboards in supplication. "Y-your majesty..."

[howtheyshine]

Edwin-- Yellow-- recoils from the deference, snarling again.

"Fucking stop doing that. S̸͈̪̖̳̐̈́̊̓̀̕t̶̳̂͜͝͝o̴͓̒ṕ̸̖̗̻̃̕ ̵̨̭̩̬͚̅̄̄̓̚ǐ̷̻͖̻̈͊͂̂͠ţ̵͈͔͇̱͝ͅ.̷̟͆̽͂̎ I'm not your majesty. I'm not the fucking King."

[lestercraft]

The vicious edge of that command makes him flinch, an almost electric pulse of unreality that slams against the iron wall of his guard, rattling the tenuous connection.

"But you are--" his breathing is ragged, as he tries to lift his head from the floor. "H-hurting me, sire. Your only anchor to this realm."

[howtheyshine]

That gets his attention. Or rather it sends a surge of fear crackling through him, blatant enough that it would be hard for Larson to miss it.

It's difficult to pull himself back down toward the darkness Larson leaves for him. He has to feel out how he even did this, now that he's not just acting from helpless fury. Draw himself back down and in along the lines of shadow still tangled in Larson's being.

It doesn't help that he doesn't want to go back in there.

But slowly, the image starts to diminish, get more distant, smaller, less overwhelming, until Yellow's presence is back in the chamber of nothingness behind Larson's walls.

Stop fucking calling me your majesty, sire, whatever the fuck. My name is È̵̛͉̘͔̟̤̻̞̇̅̈̓͋̒͛̽̓̐̃́̋̉͗͂̊̋́̀͛̏̍̚͜͠͝d̸̢̛͈͇͚͙̮̣̠̭͕̾̂͌̓́͛̈́́͆̇̉̚͠w̸̢̮̹̘͔͇̺̺͍̝͖̩͈͉̙̝̺̗̹͇̱̽̀͠ͅį̴̨̤̭͉̻̩̯̟̱̙͉̱͂̉͆n̶̨͈̮̯̹̿̀̑̓̊̈̎̐̌͂̑̀̒́̌̓̐͛̕͝