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Paper cuts sting more than regular cuts because of all the tiny little fibers of paper that get into the wound, itching and aggravating at it, like you have not been cut once but thousands of times, just on a tiny scale.

You find yourself scratching compulsively at your palm, grateful you didn’t get slashed on your writing hard. But all can think about is the way Arthur reacted when it happened- it seemed like an accident to you, yet his words caused a shiver to run down your spine when you repeated them in your head;

“Don’t look at me!”

It had been so easy to forget that Arthur was not simply a charming youth in an unfortunate situation. He was a thing tormented, a man of pain and self-loathing and you supposed that you had been lulled into a false sense of security by his easy conversation and attractive features. Yet he was not only a cursed man, he was a magician, someone powerful and untamed. It seemed that just because he was confined to his paper prison, didn’t mean his problems were then null and void. You could admit that you’d been scared- but now you had time to think about it, one thing was clear:

You have to talk to him.

Yet Arthur has not appeared in the book since that night- you’re basically talking to thin air, but you keep trying. This isn’t how you want to leave things- one slip-up and suddenly it’s all over. It’s never a pleasant experience, losing touch with someone, and you don’t want it to happen. Not with Arthur. The connection you feel is enough to override your misgivings- it hurts, sure, but it was an accident. You won’t let this ruin everything.

That afternoon, after racing home once your last semester of the day and nearly tripping over the doorstep when you got into the hallway, and dashing upstairs, you shut the door to your bedroom and stomp over to the bed, flipping open the book to Arthur’s portrait.

"Arthur, I know you can hear me!" you say, slightly shrilly, but you want answers, goddamn it. "Show yourself! I'm not leaving until you do!"

A few seconds trickle by, and you fidget on the spot, feeling stupid, but determined to follow through with your threats nonetheless. Not much of a threat, admittedly, but still-

"You want to see me, do you, pet?"

A dark chuckle issues from somewhere unseen, making you jump. Arthur's image floats into view from the fog filling his page, his eyes almost luminous in the swirling mist, reminding you vividly of a cat, stalking its prey in the darkness.

"Arthur?"

His body is littered with scratches, lurid against his pale skin. Some of them still gleam slightly with blood, like tiny rubies glittering in his flesh. Despite the way he spoke a moment ago, his expression is wary, guarded. His hair looks wild, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Suddenly your throat feels dry, constricted and you swallow slowly.

"Arthur..." you breathe, when the silence is too much for you to bear, "What...what happened?"

"I hurt you, didn't I?" Arthur says, suddenly sharply, his voice taut.

Reflexively, you curl your fingers inwards, towards your palm. The cut isn't as deep as it had first looked in the moonlight; the tiny fragments of paper left in the cut sting enough so you don't forget that this is all too real.

"It's just a scratch-"

"Show me."

His tone brooks no argument, and you find yourself lifting a hand and spreading your fingers, unfurling them like a fast-blooming flower.

Arthur sucks in a breath as his eyes lock in on the wound, his expression shifting. He softly murmurs your name, eyes speaking volumes without him even needing to say a word. Slowly, he looks back at you.

"And here I thought it was safe," Arthur said, softly yet bitterly, shaking his head, "An entire world between us, you'd be safe. I could finally communicate with someone without being a threat."

A shadow passes over his face and Arthur looks away. His voice heartbreakingly is matter-of-fact as he says;

"I can't be around anyone without hurting them."

"Arthur, wait, just...what happened last night? What...what are you?"

The question seems a little indelicate, but Arthur gives a bitter laugh, pushing back his spiky blonde hair out of darkened eyes.

"Does it matter?" he replies, slowly. "I'm a monster. A cursed thing. That's usually enough reason for most people to stay away."

"I'm not most people," you insist fiercely.

"No, you're not," Arthur agrees, both full of bitter amusement and a wry respect. "That we can both certainly agree on."

"I can deal with a papercut, Arthur. Don't shut me out- I still want to help you!"

"Why?" Arthur shoots back, looking incredulous, as though he's never heard of anything so insane.

Why?

The word stills you as you ponder this. Though you yourself have questioned your strange attraction to Arthur and haven’t been able to come up with a logical reason. But why should you need logic to explain compassion? Wasn’t altruism a good enough reason? But the truth was, you like talking with Arthur. He interests you, brings something out of you that you didn’t even know about, this vitality that student life was slowly eroding. And he seems to be interested in you, too.

“I…”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of. What I’ve already done. Why would you risk your own safety for someone like me?”

You lick your lips.

“Because I don’t think you’re as terrible as you say you are. I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have someone treat you like a human, that’s all. I think you deserve to be saved.”

The answer seems to stun Arthur for a moment, and he simply stands there for a few moments assessing you with his almost hypnotic stare.

“And you think you’re the one who can save me?”

He says this with no sarcasm or hope. It is just a simple question, the unspoken implications all the more magnified as it’s your turn to pause and consider.

“I want to try…please, Arthur. Don’t hide away. Don’t ignore me.”

Arthur closes his eyes, a somewhat sardonic smile playing about his lips, but you’re getting better at reading the subtle nuances in his facial expression, and you can direct pain in the crease of his brows, the slight bowing of his head.

“I never thought I’d see the day I’d meet someone as stubborn as I am.”

Arthur shook his head, wry amusement spreading across his face, despite his dishevelled state.

“But I should tell you, sweetheart, even I do not understand the exact specifics of how to break this infernal curse, myself. Its magic is deep and powerful, far more advanced than the magic of man. I’ve tried many things, but nothing’s stuck. My only clue is this infernal book.”

You glance down at the book reflexively. If only you had even the faintest of understandings of these complicated runes inscribed on the front. You try to describe them to Arthur, but as usual, he’s at least three steps ahead.

“They’re there to protect the book,” he explains, “Were you to banish it to the flames or submerge it in water, no damage would come to it. I suppose the gemstone on the front powers the required magic, though as I cannot examine it personally, it’s hard to say.”

"How did you find out that you're speaking through a book, anyway?" you ask, idly scratching your palm, "Have there been other people who, you know, talked with you before me?"

You don't know why, but an irrational bubble of jealousy swells in your chest, like a toxic balloon that's bursting, releasing its chemicals into your bloodstream.

Arthur sighs and drags a hand through his hair again, seemingly out of habit, a frown creasing his forehead slightly, apparently lost in thought for a moment. Or perhaps it merely takes him a moment to track down the memory in what’s likely an extensive amount.

"A historian found the book at one point and got excited- I heard him talking about it through the pages, he thought thanks to the cover that it would make him a nice fortune. But I never spoke with him; I wasn't interested in some petty, greedy little man. Then there was a woman, quite a bit older than you, she found it later…I only managed to speak to her once or twice, but I don’t think she truly could bring herself to believe what she was seeing. She blamed it on her insomnia, blamed it on medication…I suppose I can’t really blame her. I assume that she must have sold the book to the library, eventually…and then you found me.”

He smiles at you, and you find your own lips pulling back into one of your own. The words feel like fate, like the tolling of a bell over and over again in your mind, “And then you found me.”

Were you and Arthur fated to find each other?

“It’s like a fairytale,” you say, thinking out loud, “Like Beauty and the Beast or something.”

Arthur blinks and his expression grows curious, eyes sharp and focused.

“Beauty and the Beast?”

His tone is slightly puzzled, and intrigued, and you blink back at him, realisation dawning on you like a slow itch. You suddenly feel foolish, presumptuous.

“Oh, right, I guess they have different stories in your world,” you mumble, laughing embarrassedly.

Arthur smirks at you slightly, the expression setting off a flock of butterflies in the depths your stomach- strange that he can have such an effect on you without even being physically present. There’s something about the mischievous gleam in his eyes and the slight lasciviousness of it that makes your face turn hot.

“Forget something, love?” he teases.

“I just sorta…forgot for a moment,” you shrug, feeling foolish, “I guess when you know a story so well and grew up with it, you kind of assume that everyone knows it.

“What do you like about it so much?”

“Do…do you want to hear the story?” you ask, trying not to sound too eager, but your inner bookworm is rearing to share with a new audience one of the classics. When are you going to get an opportunity like this again? (Barring small children, maybe, but that doesn’t seem anywhere near as appealing.)

“Well, if you like it so much, I’m sure it’s worth listening to.”

“Flatterer,” you smirk, but you shift into a more comfortable position and clear your throat, letting the words come to you, falling easily from your lips as you recite those familiar words,

“Okay. Once upon a time…”