[ Ah, it's nice to have a friend who texts like a normal person. ]
Dear Ossie stop if you would believe it I once knew my way around a wardrobe somewhat and I find I would like to revisit those days stop I cannot think of a better pair of eyes for the job stop P.S. no such designs semicolon if it makes an appearance consider this written permission to run faster than me
A time is named, and at that time (he's discovered that his phone can set alarms!!) Arthur knocks on the door to Ossie and Giles's cabin.
He looks tired as fuck, in a baseline constant existence sort of way, but alert; and when the door opens he smiles in greeting. His outfit for now is an oversized sweater, despite the tropical autumn heat, and his cheekbones look like they're trying to escape his face.
Ossie's answer takes a second too long to come, and Arthur has the sinking feeling that-- yep, there is is. His smile gets forced, and then he lowers his face to rub it tiredly with one hand.
"Bloody well yes me as well- what happened? You look- well-" 'awful' will sound overly harsh so he just kinds of makes a noncommittal noise that he hopes conveys his concern.
"Come in- I shall not be advising on so much as a pocket square before you eat something."
Behold: the sound of Arthur realising he can't honestly say he ate yet today, because he was already forgetful about it and that was before his metabolism and appetite got twelve kinds of fucked up.
He says, non-committally, "A-are you sure you want to watch me eat," which translates to 'I don't want you to watch me eat'.
"I've no particular desire to watch you eat," not specifically watch in any case, that's usually far more of an affair, and he discusses it with the relevant parties first.
"If you want privacy, I can certainly oblige it," there was a cat fellow who used to hate being in the company of people while he was eating back in London after all.
"But please. Just something small. It would make me feel better."
Ossie, Arthur reflects, is being not only sensible but kind, and Arthur is being not only a dick but an asshole.
"Yes," he says, embarrassed, "all right, I-I..." An exhale. "Sorry, I, I was caught by surprise." Because he keeps making the mistake of thinking that he must no longer look like death warmed up, and people's reactions keep proving him wrong.
Arthur is ushered successfully, preoccupied. Oh no this is going to be a from-scratch thing, lovingly toiled at over a hot stove, oh he is going to feel like a real prick if he doesn't finish it now--
"Something easy," he says automatically, since that's what people kept saying to him. And it did turn out to be true. "That is, er... I don't want to impose too much-- per-perhaps fruit, or something..."
Something very terrible has happened to Arthur, king of the don't-mind-if-I-do, when he's offered any free food he could name and all he can think of is uhh fruit maybe.
"Are you sure? Of course, we can do fruit, but something more substantial? A grazing plate, perhaps? No imposition at all, you understand, I was going to have something when I got back from assisting you," he's being as gentle and firm in his shepherding as a dowager aunt.
"What about drinks? Tea? Coffee? I was just about to ask for a pot of tea for myself."
Arthur, while being shepherded like a particularly socially pressurable sheep, has to wonder whether it's his imagination or whether Ossie's hand is kinda sliding on his shoulder. Did Tommy's suddenly get a silk gloves section or what.
"Well, if it's not... that- that is, if you were going to anyway..."
He should be remembering to eat now more than ever -- he's never going to shift this malaise if he doesn't -- so maybe accepting Ossie's offer is worth the mixed feelings and the vague sense of dread. And the food will be good. And he'll avoid the inconsistency of the restaurants -- it's the inconsistency that really gets him; when the food arrives he can deal with it, but when he goes looking and doesn't find it, it scares him so badly that you'd think there wasn't a mostly-stocked buffet a few doors down. And that's why, no matter how much Crichton complains about it, there are loaves of bread multiplying in their wardrobe, and bottles of water taking over their bathroom cupboard.
His voice is keeping up appearances, but his face has slipped unintentionally into a flat-eyed and dull expression.
"That would, tea - tea would be nice as well. Thank you."
He should lie and say he's just not been feeling well. He should leave and figure out an excuse for it later, much later. He should hold everything that happened tight to his chest, in his mouth, on his tongue, and choke on it.
But he remembers, at one and the same time, that Ossie has also experienced being snatched away, and that his own holiday to somewhere even worse than the ship lasted many times longer than Arthur's. And he is overwhelmed, suddenly, with the need to connect with someone on this. John is gone. Parker is dead. Crichton is... Crichton. He has friends here, but he still feels so fucking disconnected from everyone, like the lines mooring him to humanity have been cut, and he's grasping at them while they slip through his hands.
"I, er," he says, his voice wandering.
"No. I... no." It takes a lot to just... say that, bluntly, without it being a self-effacing jab, or at the end of an emotional outburst. "I, er..."
He probably should have supposed that this was something more than just feeling poorly or losing one's appetite.
"Arthur," he says carefully, softly, "it's alright. I can ask Giles to leave if you'd like, if you want to talk about... this. But you don't have to, either. Can you take a deep breath for me, please?"
Oh no. He's being patient and understanding, Arthur's own personal kryptonite.
He obliges with a deep, slow breath, and then blows it gradually out again, and he wonders how on earth he went from zero to coming apart at the seams so quickly. He can feel himself starting to tremble. He had shaking hands when Parker talked to him like that as well, though not for the same reason.
"I-is Giles here now?" Arthur would very much like to know who he's having a normal one in front of. "I'm sorry, I... christ, you- you didn't ask for this."
"Not in the room, no. It's quite alright. Here- let's get you over to the couch."
And while Arthur is setting himself down, Ossie will dig through his pocket for his Blackbird Bishop brooch. You know, again. It's fine, two is hardly indicative of a habit. Right?
"Another couple of deep breaths, if you wouldn't mind?"
Another room is all right, Arthur tells himself, as he lowers himself slowly onto the couch. He can keep his voice down*. He's not going to ask the man to leave his own home just so that Arthur can have a breakdown in it.
Where does Giles actually get his ingredients from? he wonders suddenly, and not without urgency. Where does Ossie get his little biscuits and crustless sandwiches? Where do they get their cups of tea? From their personal cottage somehow, or from the ship? He's been trying very, very hard not to think of the ship as having dwindling supplies -- there's food in the buffet, there's drinks in the bars, he's been told the lights are on -- but when meals are skipped in the restaurants and the dining hall, it's hard not to see it as the visible hairline crack of a deep and foundational splitting. And he doesn't know if that's paranoia. He doesn't know. It must be: everyone else seems to eat and drink without worry, as far as he can tell. But he often thinks about the ship becoming its own shrinking, gasping pit, and the stories of sailors lost at sea without anything to eat, and the gnawing that makes you think you'll lose your mind.
He only manages to nod, this time, and his breath makes sounds in his throat as he breathes in. and out. and in. and out.
*down here is a space for you all to put your Doubt emojis.
"At your leisure, whenever you feel sufficiently prepared for it... Can you tell me what the matter is?" he asks, slowly and gently and cautiously.
He clears his throat in the specific manner that Giles used to when one of his Aunts was in and on the war path. It doesn't specifically mean 'go out the window', but that was often how Ossie (usually hungover or half-asleep) interpreted it.
"Just preoccupied," Arthur says with half a breath. The lie is automatic, and against his wishes, and doesn't even have the decency to be convincing. He shakes his head, performs the arduous task of breathing in, and then on the out-breath corrects himself: "No, no nonono. No. Fuck."
It is, per usual, taking a hot minute to get from 'making the decision to say' to 'saying', and even now Arthur feels the urge to hedge, to find safety in secrecy. He's done it before. He's built a whole relationship on it before. But that was a worse and more buried secret than perhaps even the worst moments of the pit.
He takes a few more seconds and another breath to gather himself.
"I never- I don't think I ever told you about the- the King in Yellow. No, I- I'm sure I didn't."
There's no particular inflection on the name, but his hands are more expressive, the right (his other right) pushing down into the couch seat, the left (wooden finger and all) curling into a shaky sort of fist.
There are altogether too many capital letters in that sentence for Ossie's taste. A few other thing there too that give him pause- the deflection, then the distressed backpedalling. One thing at a time.
"Arthur," he says gently, never feeling the weight of these feathers more than this moment, "wherever you think you still are... you're here. In my cottage. And I promise you, it is as safe as anywhere can be. Anything you need to prove to yourself that you're not there, I will provide it. It's alright."
Ossie could have reacted to this shit in so many ways. He could have been annoyed, he could have been impatient, he could have stepped back from the interaction and rejoined it whenever Arthur was ready to be fun as promised. Instead he's helping, acting like Arthur is worth his time and attention and energy even when Arthur has little to offer in return.
And he's seen that in people, he believes in it, he's done his own poor imitation of it. But it's always a little overwhelming to have it pointed at him.
This is probably how religious people feel whenever they see Jesus in a piece of toast.
Arthur lifts his right hand towards Ossie, fingers open, a clear gesture to take it. But he can't stop and focus on it. He can't stop telling this story for long, or else he won't start again. He goes on rapidly, muttering.
"A god who was trying to enter my world. He- it's a very long story, but he ended up dragging me into his instead. Couldn't bring me to heel, so he decided I would be softer i-if I was hungry. So he made-- he made sure I was hungry. Thirsty. Scattered. And every so often I think that I am once again healthy, before I remember that I was never so tired, and that my face never got such reactions."
And that's the shallow end of it. That's only what's immediately relevant.
"You understand." He's not begging, mind. But it's a faintly desperate question.
A moment's confusion passes across Arthur's eyes as Ossie takes his hand. He just can't place the fabric -- it must be fabric, if only because it's not skin. But that's not important right now. Arthur clings to that hand like a boat clings to an anchor in a storm.
If only he could take Ossie's sympathy as if it's deserved. But he realises, now, that he can't leave the story only half-told, not when it makes him look in some way innocent. It curdles in him, the same way it curdled whenever anyone -- with the mistaken impression that he had no hand in his own suffering, or hers -- said they were sorry about what happened to Faroe.
Of course there's the fear that Ossie will repeat this. But there's also the recklessness of self-destruction, of the feeling that Arthur would deserve that anyway.
"That's not all," he says. The words stick in his throat, and pull out heavy tears with them.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2023-10-07 12:34 pm (UTC)Dear Ossie stop if you would believe it I once knew my way around a wardrobe somewhat and I find I would like to revisit those days stop I cannot think of a better pair of eyes for the job stop P.S. no such designs semicolon if it makes an appearance consider this written permission to run faster than meno subject
Date: 2023-10-12 08:19 am (UTC)Dear Arthur
Not a thing on this ship would make me happier stop
Name your time and I'll be there stop
P.S. you are a true gentleman comma but I don't run anywhere if I can help it
Ossie
no subject
Date: 2023-10-12 09:05 am (UTC)He looks tired as fuck, in a baseline constant existence sort of way, but alert; and when the door opens he smiles in greeting. His outfit for now is an oversized sweater, despite the tropical autumn heat, and his cheekbones look like they're trying to escape his face.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-21 11:36 am (UTC)"Arthur, my dear fellow, when was the last time you ate?"
no subject
Date: 2023-10-21 12:55 pm (UTC)"Oh, not you as well."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-21 11:26 pm (UTC)"Come in- I shall not be advising on so much as a pocket square before you eat something."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-22 07:09 pm (UTC)Behold: the sound of Arthur realising he can't honestly say he ate yet today, because he was already forgetful about it and that was before his metabolism and appetite got twelve kinds of fucked up.
He says, non-committally, "A-are you sure you want to watch me eat," which translates to 'I don't want you to watch me eat'.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-23 08:45 am (UTC)"If you want privacy, I can certainly oblige it," there was a cat fellow who used to hate being in the company of people while he was eating back in London after all.
"But please. Just something small. It would make me feel better."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-23 09:15 am (UTC)"Yes," he says, embarrassed, "all right, I-I..." An exhale. "Sorry, I, I was caught by surprise." Because he keeps making the mistake of thinking that he must no longer look like death warmed up, and people's reactions keep proving him wrong.
"Thank you. You're-- very kind."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-23 10:33 am (UTC)"Preferences? Cuisine or dish? Giles really is a marvel in the kitchen, anything you can imagine he'll give a good shake at."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-23 10:54 am (UTC)"Something easy," he says automatically, since that's what people kept saying to him. And it did turn out to be true. "That is, er... I don't want to impose too much-- per-perhaps fruit, or something..."
Something very terrible has happened to Arthur, king of the don't-mind-if-I-do, when he's offered any free food he could name and all he can think of is uhh fruit maybe.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-25 02:59 am (UTC)"What about drinks? Tea? Coffee? I was just about to ask for a pot of tea for myself."
cw touching on disordered eating (in this tag and probably ongoing)
Date: 2023-10-25 11:55 pm (UTC)"Well, if it's not... that- that is, if you were going to anyway..."
He should be remembering to eat now more than ever -- he's never going to shift this malaise if he doesn't -- so maybe accepting Ossie's offer is worth the mixed feelings and the vague sense of dread. And the food will be good. And he'll avoid the inconsistency of the restaurants -- it's the inconsistency that really gets him; when the food arrives he can deal with it, but when he goes looking and doesn't find it, it scares him so badly that you'd think there wasn't a mostly-stocked buffet a few doors down. And that's why, no matter how much Crichton complains about it, there are loaves of bread multiplying in their wardrobe, and bottles of water taking over their bathroom cupboard.
His voice is keeping up appearances, but his face has slipped unintentionally into a flat-eyed and dull expression.
"That would, tea - tea would be nice as well. Thank you."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 08:49 pm (UTC)"Arthur?" that's not a face he should be making, that is distinctly a not-good face.
"Are you feeling alright, my good man?"
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 09:20 pm (UTC)But he remembers, at one and the same time, that Ossie has also experienced being snatched away, and that his own holiday to somewhere even worse than the ship lasted many times longer than Arthur's. And he is overwhelmed, suddenly, with the need to connect with someone on this. John is gone. Parker is dead. Crichton is... Crichton. He has friends here, but he still feels so fucking disconnected from everyone, like the lines mooring him to humanity have been cut, and he's grasping at them while they slip through his hands.
"I, er," he says, his voice wandering.
"No. I... no." It takes a lot to just... say that, bluntly, without it being a self-effacing jab, or at the end of an emotional outburst. "I, er..."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 09:48 pm (UTC)He probably should have supposed that this was something more than just feeling poorly or losing one's appetite.
"Arthur," he says carefully, softly, "it's alright. I can ask Giles to leave if you'd like, if you want to talk about... this. But you don't have to, either. Can you take a deep breath for me, please?"
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 10:08 pm (UTC)He obliges with a deep, slow breath, and then blows it gradually out again, and he wonders how on earth he went from zero to coming apart at the seams so quickly. He can feel himself starting to tremble. He had shaking hands when Parker talked to him like that as well, though not for the same reason.
"I-is Giles here now?" Arthur would very much like to know who he's having a normal one in front of. "I'm sorry, I... christ, you- you didn't ask for this."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 10:44 pm (UTC)And while Arthur is setting himself down, Ossie will dig through his pocket for his Blackbird Bishop brooch. You know, again. It's fine, two is hardly indicative of a habit. Right?
"Another couple of deep breaths, if you wouldn't mind?"
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 11:19 pm (UTC)Where does Giles actually get his ingredients from? he wonders suddenly, and not without urgency. Where does Ossie get his little biscuits and crustless sandwiches? Where do they get their cups of tea? From their personal cottage somehow, or from the ship? He's been trying very, very hard not to think of the ship as having dwindling supplies -- there's food in the buffet, there's drinks in the bars, he's been told the lights are on -- but when meals are skipped in the restaurants and the dining hall, it's hard not to see it as the visible hairline crack of a deep and foundational splitting. And he doesn't know if that's paranoia. He doesn't know. It must be: everyone else seems to eat and drink without worry, as far as he can tell. But he often thinks about the ship becoming its own shrinking, gasping pit, and the stories of sailors lost at sea without anything to eat, and the gnawing that makes you think you'll lose your mind.
He only manages to nod, this time, and his breath makes sounds in his throat as he breathes in. and out. and in. and out.
*down here is a space for you all to put your Doubt emojis.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-29 11:53 pm (UTC)He clears his throat in the specific manner that Giles used to when one of his Aunts was in and on the war path. It doesn't specifically mean 'go out the window', but that was often how Ossie (usually hungover or half-asleep) interpreted it.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-30 07:49 am (UTC)It is, per usual, taking a hot minute to get from 'making the decision to say' to 'saying', and even now Arthur feels the urge to hedge, to find safety in secrecy. He's done it before. He's built a whole relationship on it before. But that was a worse and more buried secret than perhaps even the worst moments of the pit.
He takes a few more seconds and another breath to gather himself.
"I never- I don't think I ever told you about the- the King in Yellow. No, I- I'm sure I didn't."
There's no particular inflection on the name, but his hands are more expressive, the right (his other right) pushing down into the couch seat, the left (wooden finger and all) curling into a shaky sort of fist.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-30 11:16 am (UTC)"Arthur," he says gently, never feeling the weight of these feathers more than this moment, "wherever you think you still are... you're here. In my cottage. And I promise you, it is as safe as anywhere can be. Anything you need to prove to yourself that you're not there, I will provide it. It's alright."
no subject
Date: 2023-10-30 12:47 pm (UTC)And he's seen that in people, he believes in it, he's done his own poor imitation of it. But it's always a little overwhelming to have it pointed at him.
This is probably how religious people feel whenever they see Jesus in a piece of toast.
Arthur lifts his right hand towards Ossie, fingers open, a clear gesture to take it. But he can't stop and focus on it. He can't stop telling this story for long, or else he won't start again. He goes on rapidly, muttering.
"A god who was trying to enter my world. He- it's a very long story, but he ended up dragging me into his instead. Couldn't bring me to heel, so he decided I would be softer i-if I was hungry. So he made-- he made sure I was hungry. Thirsty. Scattered. And every so often I think that I am once again healthy, before I remember that I was never so tired, and that my face never got such reactions."
And that's the shallow end of it. That's only what's immediately relevant.
"You understand." He's not begging, mind. But it's a faintly desperate question.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-02 03:59 am (UTC)"I do," he confirms, "I understand, Arthur- that's-" he finds himself at a loss for words.
"I'm so sorry."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-02 09:56 am (UTC)If only he could take Ossie's sympathy as if it's deserved. But he realises, now, that he can't leave the story only half-told, not when it makes him look in some way innocent. It curdles in him, the same way it curdled whenever anyone -- with the mistaken impression that he had no hand in his own suffering, or hers -- said they were sorry about what happened to Faroe.
Of course there's the fear that Ossie will repeat this. But there's also the recklessness of self-destruction, of the feeling that Arthur would deserve that anyway.
"That's not all," he says. The words stick in his throat, and pull out heavy tears with them.
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