Serph makes no protest, simply allows John to reclaim his already-warmed section of bedsheet, now with the brush of feathers over his shoulders. It feels... frightening? Foolish? But it also feels... warm.
John is still reeling at how much he can touch now, how much he can do. Until recently, he'd never held a proper conversation with anyone but Arthur— not aside from horrors who would've liked to take him apart, or worse, swallow him back into their depths. This is different. Sharing this cramped, utilitarian bed feels like something a person would do.
"Perhaps we were both lucky." He does not shut his eyes: if something changes, if Serph turns on him, he cannot leave Arthur unguarded for even a moment. "Or perhaps our minds are stronger than most."
There is a touch of self-loathing behind it. John knows what shape madness takes for him: he cannot break in the ways a human would, because he splinters into something worse.
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John is still reeling at how much he can touch now, how much he can do. Until recently, he'd never held a proper conversation with anyone but Arthur— not aside from horrors who would've liked to take him apart, or worse, swallow him back into their depths. This is different. Sharing this cramped, utilitarian bed feels like something a person would do.
"Perhaps we were both lucky." He does not shut his eyes: if something changes, if Serph turns on him, he cannot leave Arthur unguarded for even a moment. "Or perhaps our minds are stronger than most."
There is a touch of self-loathing behind it. John knows what shape madness takes for him: he cannot break in the ways a human would, because he splinters into something worse.