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Summary
"No, what’s this?” he gestured at himself, the darkness of the ends of his fingers fading into his black, pointy, talon-like nails as they stuck out. “Me, what’s this feeling? Why do I feel all wrong, why do I feel like shit?” John emphasises the final word, his voice gravelly and his hands then forming a claw as they gripped his sheets, balling up into a fist.
“It’s called being sick, John,” Arthur pauses, noticing the tension in John’s hand and posture and the rather washed-out colour palette that was his face. He hesitates before placing a hand on John’s shoulder, feeling the other man ease slightly at the gentleness and unfamiliarity of his touch.
John gets sick. Arthur takes care of him.
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