Chapter Text
John was, to his own surprise, in one of the elevators which was located within his apartment-complex. Which was ... concerning. He had never sleepwalked in his life. Even within the episodes he experienced when he didn’t take his medication on time, he never lost time to them.
What was far more concerning however was, that everywhere he looked, the objects around him had a yellow tinge to them, like they were illuminated by a strong heat lamp which was located far above him where he couldn’t see.
The shadows were all the darker for it.
“What the fuck is going on? Am I dreaming?” But the yellow rooms didn’t give him an answer, so John stepped out of the elevator to look around. If no one would give him an explanation, he'd have to find the answers to his questions himself.
The premises he was in had a resemblance to his apartment-complex but everything was bathed in this yellow light. What made this place even more eerie were the many burn marks on the walls resembling human bodies.
A shiver ran over Johns spine. Where was he?
John continued his journey, even as these soot-like figures stared at him with inscrutable eyes.
He didn't know how long he had been walking along the corridors, only that after a while the yellow light above became brighter and brighter until he could no longer see anything anymore.
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John opened his eyes.
He felt as if he had been paralysed and John needed a few seconds to orientate himself and to understand what was happening.
Apparently he had fallen asleep on the couch and was now sporting a neck pain because of that. When John massaged his neck to ease some of the pain, he heard something clattered to the floor. He immediately sat up and was looking around to identify the source of the noise. The only thing amiss was a book, laying half opened on the floor next to him.
It was the book, which was sent to him by accident.
‘The king in yellow’
In the last few days he left the unpacked book on his desk, firmly in his decision to find the legitimate owner; until yesterday.
Yesterday his curiosity got the better of him and he took the book in his hands, made himself comfortable on his couch and started reading in it.
‘This will be the last time that I read something that doesn’t belong to me.’
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John paced in his living room so violently that one had to fear he'd turn the floor into a floor with a ditch, if he continued.
He simply couldn't make sense of this dream or the last one. Perhaps his new medication was to blame for the crazy dreams? Or he was just overworked.
The happenings of the last few weeks left him adrift with nothing to hold on. He just ... needed to get out! He needed to clear his head, and he certainly couldn't do that in his apartment - where the rejections were piling up on his kitchen counter and nosy neighbours wanted to tell him what to do.
He just needed to get out, onto the street, away from all the problems in his life. This accumulation of problems in the last two months probably was the cause for these strange dreams to happen.
With this train of thought in mind John got up from the couch and started packing a leather bag with all the materials he would need for the next hours: pencils, a sketchbook, and his trusty eraser.
To escape his problems, at least for a short while, he would go to the nearest large park to draw freely. To let his mind run free.
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After John took his medication for the day, he looked for everything else he would need for a day outside.
When John finally wanted to unlock his apartment door, he noticed that his keys were not where they should have been: in his coat pocket.
‘Where are my keys? Did I leave them in the studio?’ After searching every pocket of his coat, John hung his head in disappointment; he had no choice but to make a detour before he could leave his apartment.
John turned away from his apartment door and made his way into his art studio.
John didn't have to think long about where his keys should be. The only place he kept items from his regular household, when he brought them into the studio, was the open 'balcony' that extended halfway above his studio. On this balcony he had set up a drawing table, and on this table he left important things when he didn't want to lose them in his studio.
He gave his finished statue only a fleeting glance as he climbed the stairs to this specific table.
‘Hello, keys.’ thought John as he held the keys triumphantly into the air. Now nothing could stop him to take his deserved free time.
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John closed the door to his apartment. The leather bag containing his drawing materials hung over his shoulders.
This time he didn’t hear any music coming from inside the composer’s apartment. When he was already at the end of his corridor, he heard the tell-tale creaking of a door which was opened.
‘Oh no.’
“Hey you, I’m talking to you!”
John retreated his steps until he was standing before the open door of apartment number 1291, then he let out a long suffering sight and answered: “Can I help you?”
“What did you do to my friend?!”
Before, John had just stared at the floor between him and the apartment door, but now his entire focus was on the door and Mr. Smith behind it. “What?”
“You remember how a few days ago I had some folks over?! They saw some of your sculptures and they started having ... thoughts!” the old man gestured wildly in front of his face.
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was so taken aback that he started to stumble over his response: “They’re all ... in my studio. Did, did you break ... into my studio?”
The old prick just continued to bark: “Just keep that door shut, nobody wants to see that disgusting shit! What if a child saw it? You’d turn them blue and pink!”
John nodded as best he could. “I’ll keep the door shut.”
“Good. Better yet, get a real job. Like plumbing, my shitter is clogged. Now piss off!” and with these magnificent last words the old prick slammed his apartment door shut.
Once again, the confrontation with the old man left John feeling uneasy. Therefore, he left the house as quickly as he possibly could.
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When John finally found himself at the gates of Prospect Park, he let out a huge sigh. When was the last time he'd been truly in nature? Well, this wasn't exactly real nature, but it was the closest thing he could find in such a big city.
During the first month in New York he explored his neighbourhood and found this park. It was the best place to free his mind of his thoughts and find, at the same time, inspiration.
The cold autumn wind swept through the entrance gate. He pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his neck.
Now John just hoped that his regular seat was free and then he could relax for the rest of the day.
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The leaves of the weeping willow shone golden in the sunlight. And under this willow was his bench. Well...not ‘his’ bench more like the bench where he usually sat when he came here. It was mostly hidden by the branches of the tree but this fact turned out to be an advantage: it was protected from the forces of nature. This also allowed John to hone his drawing skills unseen.
Now John sat down on the bench, his leather bag right next to him. He took a few minutes to close his eyes and just take in the scenery.
Then he took his materials out of the bag, laid them down neatly so that he could easily reach them and began to pour out all his pent-up emotions onto the paper in front of him.
The hours passed. John only realised how much, when he noticed that with each passing minute he could see less what he was drawing, and that the wind was getting colder.
John looked up into the sky and saw that the sun was already setting.
Maybe it would be better to finish his drawing session and instead make a stop somewhere on the way home where he could warm himself up from the cold autumn wind.
And he already knew exactly where to go: a month ago, he found this particular speakeasy bar on his way home from shopping. He was sure that they also had something edible on the menu. Besides, John hadn't had any alcohol for two whole months and he was looking forward to the burn of the whiskey as it ran down his throat.
So he packed his things as quickly as he could and set off towards the speakeasy.
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The pub was relatively unremarkable looking, nestled in between residential buildings. Almost disappearing between the other brick wall-houses, like it was the exact same as the others.
But when John stepped into ‘The Brooklyn Inn’ he was bombarded with sensations. The place was packed with people, people who were sitting at tables drinking and laughing with each other, people who were dancing to the melodies of the piano, which was standing in the middle of the backroom, people ordering drinks on the massive bar that was located on the left side of the room. John could almost imagine himself back in Arkham, drinking with Arthur and Parker after a week of constant moneymaking.
The interior was much more grounded in the style of this time period in contrast to the exterior which was built in the 1870s.
He immediately set about ordering a glass of whiskey and then sat down on an empty chair at the bar. His bag, in turn, found a place on his lap; he didn't want to lose it under any circumstances.
Not even three minutes passed before John had his glass in front of him. Grateful, John toasted the bartender with a smile on his face.
The bartender was a man in his 50s and was built in such a way that John could believe that fights didn't often occur in this establishment. Behind him stood a young man who looked very similar to the bartender in terms of facial structure.
‘Maybe his son?’
In any case, the young man watched everything his apparent father did very closely, from serving drinks to taking orders. This 'The Brooklyn Inn' was most likely family owned.
John took a sip of his drink and managed to suppress a sigh when he felt the familiar burn. At the same time, a shiver ran down his spine as a warmth spread within him.
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Only when John was at his second glass of whiskey, he took a closer look at the pianist sitting at the grand piano, playing for his audience.
From his seat at the bar John could much only see that he had black hair which was neatly slicked back and was wearing a suit in the same colour.
After ten minutes of listening John could already form an opinion about this player: he didn't let the noises in the pub bother him, even when it sometimes got so loud that you couldn't hear the song itself.
The player was not as bad as John had originally thought. But still, in his eyes Arthur was the most talented pianist of all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sounds of a piano resounded through the small apartment.
It was relatively small because it had only two rooms if you didn't count the bathroom. While the whole apartment was very cosy looking in its entirety, the wallpaper in the living room had, in John’s opinion, an outright hideous floral pattern.
When he and Parker saw it for the first time, they begged Arthur to change the wallpaper, but alas Arthur had explained to both of them how much new wallpaper would cost him and, in addition, the landlady had expressly forbidden Arthur from affixing new wallpaper on the walls.
And located near one of these accursed walls in the living room stood Arthurs piano.
Arthur now sat at this specific piano and played. His entire concentration was lying on the keys, while John leaned with his elbow against the side of the piano.
Parker wasn’t there today because he took over a shift for a colleague.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of Arthur. The way he looked when he played on the piano was awe-inspiring; like he was sweeped away with the notes of whichever song he was currently playing.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Arthur, with a smirk on his lips and without taking his eyes from the keys.
“Did you know that your eyes shine like stars when you do something that is important to you?”
Arthur stopped playing and looked up at him; meanwhile, John fell silent as he realised what he had said.
Arthur turned completely to John; he had closed the piano's lid. “What exactly do you want to tell me here?” His brows were furrowed as he slowly rose from the piano stool.
“I just noticed it and ... I think it suits you, makes you look more approachable ... to others.” a subtle blush crept onto his cheeks which made him look even more flustered than before. Again and again his gaze kept darting from Arthur's eyes to the window from which he could observe the drifting of people on their way home, while his right hand clutched his left sleeve. Why was he so nervous, it was only Arthur? Arthur, who had been his friend for the last two years, Arthur, who was now standing before him, expecting an answer he himself didn’t have, because he could not yet define the feelings that rose up every time he looked at him. No, that wasn’t true. He knew what they were called; he just couldn’t tell Arthur about them. Because he didn’t want to lose the friendship he had with him and Parker. And he very well could lose them.
“John?”
His face shot up, his eyes now looking into Arthurs questioning gaze.
“I...”
Why was he hesitating? He'd known Arthur for so long; he knew he wouldn't call the police over something like that. The three of them literally went to a bar every other week that served illegal alcohol to its patrons.
And now Arthur was looking at him with this expression in his eyes that he could never say no to.
John gathered all his courage, cleared his throat and spoke: “You know, we have known each other for some time now and I appreciate the friendship you and Parker gave me more than anything else in the world. But lately I have noticed that my feelings for you, Arthur, have ... changed. I like you, like no man should ever feel for another. I ...love you,” John took Arthur's right hand in both of his in the hope of not losing him, “And at the moment I don’t care that I will go to hell after I die! I don’t care, because what's so bad about loving someone else with their whole heart?!” The longer he talked, the more his courage faded and his gaze slid to Arthur's hand, which he pressed firmly between his.
Suddenly a hand enclose his jaw and in the next moment he felt chapped lips enclose his own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do you want another one?”
“Huh, what?” John needed to blink several times to come back from his daydream. The bartender was standing before him, on the other side of the bar.
“Do you want another glass of whiskey?” the bartenders brows began to furrow.
“Ah, no, thank you.” John began to play with the empty glass in his hands.
He probably should go home soon; it would do him no good to drink until he didn’t remember his own name anymore. And, even if the laws about alcohol consumption have changed over the last year, the police would still issue fines for disturbing the peace if you were found drunk and staggering through the streets of New York after 10 o'clock.
“On that note, could I have the bill, please?” John put the whiskey glass on the counter and straightened up before he rummaged in his bag in search for his wallet.
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When John finally found his way back to his front door the night sky was already pitch black. In the last few hours the wind had only become more unpleasant and as he reached the front door, he felt first drops of rain on his face.
He took the steps which would lead towards the elevator and saw something lying on the side table next to the steps.
It was a package that had his address on it; John stared at the package as if it was a dead rat that had come to haunt him. Only a few days ago he received an almost identical package, with almost the same format as this one.
John took the package from the table in both hands and tore the packaging apart. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw what he found: it was a book, bound in leather.
And on the cover of this book, written in gold letters, it said ‘The king in yellow’.