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Arthur tries not to wake John when he gets out of bed. Arthur always wakes John when he gets out of bed.
It's not Arthur's fault, really. John's body, and John's realization that sleep eludes him, came on the same day.
Closing his eyes, choosing to leave himself vulnerable after so many nights aware in Arthur's mind, is hard. Impossible, some days. Even with the pull of exhaustion dragging his eyelids down, the feeling of being watched, of not watching, creeps up his spine and into his throat. Like a physical weight threatening to choke him. And when he does manage to fall asleep, it doesn’t always last. Creaks and bumps in the night wake him as easily as an ambulance siren. His body waiting for the smallest excuse to jolt him awake, heart racing.
Deep breathing helps. The sound of Arthur breathing helps more.
John can't help but wonder if he'd inherited Arthur's knack for sleeping. Or lack thereof. Arthur sleeps like it's a physical battle – some days in short bursts, all gangly limbs and muttering under his breath, and others like the dead, for ten or twelve hours straight. Though the former is more common.
Between the two of them, they might get the full nights sleep of a single person.
So when Arthur very, very slowly climbs out of bed just as the sun is rising, John is awake for it. He almost grumbles something, because his eyes are heavy and his head is foggy in that way it is when he’s woken up in the middle of a dream, and that always frustrates him.
He doesn’t remember what his dream was about, and that frustrates him, too. Maybe if he falls asleep again, he can get it back. The novelty of dreaming hasn't worn off for him yet. He doubts it ever will.
But instead, he listens to Arthur walk the edge of the room. Confidence born from routine, but still with his hand on the wall to guide him to the door. It groans open on hinges John keeps meaning to oil. When Arthur closes the door behind him, he turns the knob to keep the latch from clicking as loudly as it would otherwise. A gesture John appreciates, even if it doesn’t matter.
The blinds are drawn, but their bedroom faces east. Now that John can see the light starting to spill in behind his closed eyelids, it’s harder to ignore. He rolls over, burying his face into the pillow. It’s soft. The blankets are warm. The bed, too, from where Arthur was laying.
John breathes. He’s still tired, but it could be worse. It could be so much worse.
The bedroom door doesn’t do much for sound insulation. John hears the light jingle of a bell. Then, Arthur's low voice, muffled but still audible.
"Oh, hello.”
A small, chirping mmrp.
“Yes, yes, good morning. It’s a little early for breakfast, don’t you think?”
A full meow in response.
“Of course, my mistake.”
The creak of Arthur opening a cabinet, the clink of a dish on the counter. They’ve spent hours organizing the kitchen in a way that helps Arthur most easily find what he’s looking for. Being sure to put groceries and dishes back in the same place every time.
Once the can pops open, Mazie starts meowing in earnest. John can imagine her rubbing against Arthur’s legs, the way she always does to them when they walk through the apartment. Her knack for getting underfoot is unparalleled, as Arthur has learned more than once from almost stepping on her. John thinks she responds better to fucking christ than her actual name.
“Alright, alright. Meowing won’t make me move faster.”
“ Mrow .”
Another clink of china on wood. The sound of a chair being moved. It’s quiet after that, save for the soft sound of Mazie eating. John lets himself drift. It comes easier now than it had the night before.
After some time, Mazie chirps again, and Arthur laughs. “You only like me because I feed you. I know John’s your favorite.”
Mazie’s bell jingles. Jumping up on the table, it sounds like.
“Mm. Well, he’s my favorite, too.”
Fucking sap. John doesn’t stop himself from smiling into his pillow.
And it’s a pleasant surprise, when John wakes again with the sun higher in the sky, feeling almost well rested, with a warm weight pressed into his arm. Mazie, blinking slowly at him. John scratches underneath her chin, in just the right spot that sends her purring. A preemptive apology for making her move when he stands.
He finds Arthur in the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hands. Mazie trots in after him, jumping onto Arthur’s lap with a small trill.
And John can't help himself.
“See, of course she likes you, Arthur. We’re both her favorites.”
Arthur, mid-sip, makes an indignant noise around the rim of his cup. “You – oh, fuck off, John.”
But Arthur laughs. They both do.