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When Arthur crawls back into bed, the movement of the mattress wakes John. He murmurs something then moves closer to Arthur, putting a hand on his arm. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." Arthur's tone is a little sharper than usual. He curls up on his side, knees almost to his chest, and tucks his arm over his stomach and grunts softly.
"Arthur, you–"
"Stomach is bothering me, it's nothing. Go to sleep." Stomach upset wasn't unusual for either of them. Arthur shifts a little in bed, pulling the covers up to his face, trying to find a more comfortable position.
"...Okay. Goodnight, Arthur."
"Night."
Arthur can hear John's breathing slow after a couple minutes. He sighs. It's… fine. He'd need to go to the store in the morning. And that was something to think about in the morning, for now, he just needed to sleep. When he can feel his thoughts start to blur, he starts hurting again and has to wait it out until he can get back to sleep.
.
Arthur wakes up hungry. This doesn't happen particularly often, and it's… sort of something to celebrate. It's a good thing that his body is functioning again, even if it is inconvenient. It's late, he can see late morning light coming in through the window--John must have opened the blinds. (They still haven't figured out a way for Arthur to read a clock on his own.) Arthur feels groggy, out of it, but also like he doesn't want to move. He's warm and the blankets are very soft. John isn't here, he must be reading or something in the living room.
Ugh, Arthur needs to get up. He's trying to figure out whether he'll have time to eat something before they head to the store. He knows he should prioritize eating, plus going out on an empty stomach has ended with him dry heaving onto the concrete more than once now. Just... He'd like to leave as soon as possible. And he doesn't trust John to find what he needs without Arthur being there to confirm. Christ, but walking all the way to the drugstore…? It wasn't far at all, maybe a third of a mile, but that felt much further right now.
Arthur pauses, thinking, realizing, it wasn't such a big deal, because… Well, cleaning blood out of clothes wasn't something either of them were new to.
.
Once John understands Arthur's predicament, he makes him oatmeal and says something about the fiber being good for his stomach because of hormone changes or something affecting the smooth muscle in his intestines, the iron to replace what's being lost, Arthur wasn't really listening. The oatmeal is really, really good. For once, he scrapes the bowl clean.
.
Before they walk in, Arthur pulls John aside. "No one will care. But, just in case, we're here because…?"
"You're shopping for your wife, and I, your friend, am helping because you have poor eyesight." John's tone is practiced and even.
"Good." Arthur turns and pushes the door open.
"I still don't understand why–"
"No." Arthur holds the door for him, then, quieter, says, "I don't get it either." At a more normal volume, he says, "The aisles should have signs that say what's in them, will you read it to me?"
"Of course. This aisle has cards and envelopes."
They move to the next.
.
The cashier looks down at their purchases then up at them, two relatively normal looking men--aside from John's long hair and earrings and the scarring on Arthur's face--for a moment longer than is necessary, but rings them up and gives them their change without comment.
.
The day continues normally. Arthur is very happy he had the day off. He works on a crochet project while John reads. At some point, John notices Arthur wincing again and he fumbles for a bookmark, then sets his book down. "I'm getting you the hot water bottle."
"It's fine, John, really." Arthur finishes the stitch then holds the yarn in his left hand to not lose his place, puts the hook down. "Don't worry about it." Then he sucks in a sharp breath and leans forward.
John stumbles, trying to decide if he should rush to heat up the water, but ends up sitting beside Arthur on the couch, closer than they were before. He puts a hand on Arthur's back, unsure what else to do, but not being able to just stand there and watch his lover be in pain.
"I've had worse," Arthur hisses. He exhales slowly and sits back up, eyes still closed. He slumps back against the couch. They both hear his stomach make some sort of noise, not a growl, it's unclear what it is. Something about hormones activating smooth muscle in intestines, like John had said. Arthur is still tense, but it looks like the worst of it is over. Softly, he says, "Sorry–I'm fine. Read your book, John."
"You are not fine." John says.
"This happens to everyone," Arthur says quietly. "I'm fine."
"Arthur…" John shifts his weight to face him. "It doesn't matter if it happens a lot. It still hurts you."
Arthur shrugs. "It's okay." He tries to sit up straighter and winces again from the movement, curls back into the couch. "Jesus, it's been a year–I'm just not used to it anymore. It's a different kind of pain."
"I'll heat up some water." John stands, kisses Arthur's forehead, and turns to the kitchen.
At first, Arthur feigns annoyance. Then says, genuinely, "Thank you."
Once the water is on the stove, John sits down beside Arthur again, who has set his project down on the coffee table, and pulls Arthur close to lean on him. Arthur slumps onto him easily, tucking his face in at John's neck. John runs his fingers through his hair a few times and Arthur lets his eyes fall closed.
After hesitating for more than a few moments, Arthur says, carefully, "Do you know what contractions are?"
"Like don't or can't?"
It takes Arthur a second to understand John's mistake, and when he does, he laughs and sits up to look at the general blurry shape that is John's face, smiling. "No, John. The kind from giving birth. Not grammar."
"Ah." John nods. "Of course." He pauses, and adds, "I don't understand how the same word can have such different meanings."
"I know, it doesn't make sense. Um, contractions are what opens the body enough for the baby to come out. The pain during… this," Arthur waves his hand in the air. "It's the same process, but instead of a baby it's just… Blood and soft tissue."
John is quiet for a moment. "How big is the 'tissue?'"
"No larger than a coin, or only tiny clumps."
John is quiet again, thinking, then he says, "Only that causes so much pain." It's more a statement than a question, but Arthur answers yes.
"Yes, it does."
"That's… horrifying." John sounds genuinely concerned. There's a deep hum coming from the kitchen, and Arthur feels the couch shift as John stands. It must be bubbles starting to form in the water. "The water is ready." While John prepares the hot water bottle, he calls to Arthur, "How have humans lived so long? This is so inefficient, how are they still alive?"
"We, John," Arthur corrects. "You're human too now."
John returns to the couch, fumbling with the lid. "Tell me if it's too hot." He says this to the man who moans when he's able to get the water as hot as he likes for a nice bath.
Arthur accepts the bottle gratefully and places it on his lower stomach, holding it in place with one arm. He sighs, and says, "Thank you, John."
"Of course." They're both quiet for a moment, then John asks, "What would you like for dinner?"
"Mmm, what do you want?"
"You pick, Arthur. You're sick."
"I am not sick," Arthur glares at him the best a blind man can. He still does a pretty good job, and though his eyes aren't focused exactly on John's, it still has plenty of bite.
John pauses, rephrases, "You feel unwell." When Arthur is quiet, John adds, "You let me pick dinner when I feel unwell."
Arthur thinks. "Pasta?"
"Yes, that sounds good. We have some fresh tomatoes, I want to try making sauce myself."
Cooking things from scratch has not appealed to Arthur since his daughter. He never had anyone to cook for between then and losing his eyesight, and it's very difficult to cook anything complex when all you can see are vague shapes and lights, and occasionally, colors. He's been burned more times than he can count in the past months from underestimating the distance between his arm and where he thinks the hot pan with hot oil in it is. It really makes him feel loved, having someone want to go through all that effort for him. If he thinks about it for too long he'll cry, so he deliberately does not think about that part, and instead thinks about how John actually enjoys cooking and experimenting.
They're both quiet a moment, leaning on each other. It's a comfortable silence, and Arthur isn't as tense anymore now that he has the hot water bottle.
"Do we have any meat?" Arthur asks.
John sounds a little surprised. "Maybe, I'm not sure." Arthur usually doesn't eat meat. Not unless he's having an uncharacteristically good day, and then, only if it's adequately hidden in his meal. He's made jokes about how it's like hiding medicine in a dog's meal so it won't notice what it's eating. "Do you feel up to it?"
"Weirdly, yes, I do." Arthur scrunches his brow, confused even with himself. "I'm craving it."
"Losing blood must be the reason." John suggests.
"Yes, I suppose so." Arthur stands a little faster than he should, on instinct, then makes a disgusted face.
"What–"
"No." Arthur says simply. "That was enough sharing for today–I'll boil water for the pasta, is the same pot still out?"
"Yes, it's on the stove, left burner."
"Great."