Content: Arthur/TMWTPF, Self hatred

Arthur lies still, pinned to the floor. He's sweating and the man with the painted face has his hand on the back of his neck like he's a scruffed dog. It feels good.

"Are you done?"

Arthur squirms, just a little, and breathes a quiet "Fuck" when he's pressed harder into the carpet, his cheek rubbing against its thorny fibers. Above him the man with the painted face shushes him and the gentleness of it makes Arthur relax.

"There we go."

Arthur's brain feels hot, overworked, like his skull is full of steam, and when the man with the painted face lets go of him he curls up and wraps his arms around himself.

"I want to be the floor," Arthur says. His voice is slurred and every word sounds strange. He realizes that he's crying and can't remember when he started. "If I was the floor then I'd be useful. You could set a couch on me. Or a table... People could walk on me and it wouldn't hurt at all."

The man with the painted face laughs like he does when he hears a good joke. "How do you know that the floor doesn't hurt when you walk on it?"

Arthur cries harder, thinking of all the floors he's walked on, and the man with the painted face settles one hand atop the heaving slope of his ribcage.