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It was originally the morning that made him mad.
Granted, he had received a fucking letter before that informing him that his hip surgery had to be pushed back due to his shit timing, but that was the last of his worries. He already knew that would be turning up once his NHS records updated with his current ‘condition’.
His OB had already forewarned him and he’d given the other lads the same speech he’d gotten from her, which made them mother-hen him for a bit before he protested it and they went back to their worrying from near and afar, but now, it was different.
Now the reason he was mad right now was that he was massive. Stuffed full to the brim.
So much for talking about tour logistics for 2028, that wasn’t looking likely.
He’d tried, really tried, to get out of bed that morning, but then his cane and hip both decided they couldn’t support his weight and that was the end of that. He’d had to make a rather embarrassing call to his manager to say he wasn’t feeling well and reschedule the meeting - better than saying he couldn’t get out of bed - before he finally fell apart.
Having a belly like his made moving a sprint and he knew it would just get worse with time as it grew bigger, but to end up starfished on the bed, crying his eyes out from the pain until it became manageable enough for him to curl up again was not what he imagined this time to be. He’d wanted it to be more comfortable, more sweet, more… anything but miserable.
Seems he wasn’t the only one to think that.
As he dried his eyes on his pillow, he felt a weak kick on his not so shit side and couldn’t help but smile tearfully, running a thumb over the stretched skin of his hipbone. “I feel ya, lovey. I feel ya. Sorry I’m not very good today.”
There was another wiggle from that side before others followed it, one in the low middle part of his belly and one up high over his bad hip that made him hiss through his teeth. “Easy, easy, loves. We’re alright.”
He wondered, sometimes, if they could actually hear him or if it just sounded distorted, like a bad speaker, inside his belly. Carrying triplets was a lot on a person already, but these ones seemed to be all like their Dads when wanting to be; they’d been in a frenzy when they’d gone storage hunting and heard all their voices in the same room a couple of weeks ago when he was still relatively flat, able to fit into his clothes and didn’t feel like dying.
He should have taken up George’s offer for them to move in together. He knew that was coming as well, the inevitable argument of all 4 of them, soon to be 7, living in the same environment, but Arthur had just wanted one last shred of independence before he would be forced to be constantly fussed over for the next god knows how long. He didn’t mind being fussed over - no, his boys were good at that - but he liked it in small amounts.
However, with all of them together under one roof, small would be thrown out the window. Nothing they did was small anymore. Their relationship wasn’t small, their channels weren’t small anymore and this new venture for them to slowly introduce their relationship to ‘see if their audience could handle it’ (Bach’s words, not his) wasn’t exactly small.
What was growing inside him was; they didn’t need to be swept up in all of that. Not yet. Not when all they needed to care about was growing big and strong and wrecking Arthur’s entire torso. They didn’t need all that change.
Deep down, he knew, of course, that they would be fine. It was him who wouldn’t. He wasn’t fine, not right now, but he would be, in time.
Sighing, he palmed for his phone and dialled a familiar number, pressing it to his ear before the other Arthur answered, all cheerful before hearing Arthur’s sigh. “Hi love.”
“Hey mate. Thought I wouldn’t be hearing from you till later.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Um…” Arthur bit his lip. “Could you swing by later, when you’re able?”
“Of course, yeah. Right after filming. Thought you had a meeting this morning.”
“Yeah, I did, but I… can't get out of bed, Freddy.” There it was.
There was a rustle and a sudden stop before Arthur spoke again. “You can’t get out of bed?”
“My hip, yeah and my leg.” Arthur admitted, sounding small. “Cane gave up too, got a bit upset. Kits have been comforting my sorry arse. Already called my manager; it’s fine.”
“No, no, it’s not fine, Arty, bloody hell.” The rustling starts up again, like the latter is sorting through papers on his desk or grabbing things to move them. “I’m callin’ Clarkey. He can come over before Isaac and me get there later.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary-” The protest leaves his mouth involuntarily, but it still happens, and he can hear the loud, aggrieved sigh on the other end of the phone. “Art, you’re pregnant, darling; you’re hurting, and you’re alone. I don’t like that. We don’t like that.”
“I know, but it’s not-” It’s not that bad. He wants to say it; it’s right there. It’s waiting for him to form his lips around it, so used to saying it that it’s muscle memory. He’s lived with chronic pain for most of his life, so this shouldn’t be any different, but all the reasons Freddy has listed just make the excuse look worse in comparison. “I don’t want it to be a big deal.”
“Lovely, everything is a big deal now. You’re taking care of babies-” Fred’s always been a gentle soul when it comes to this thing. Arthur loves it and hates it equally. “-multiple babies, that need you to be okay and if you’re not, that affects them too.”
The inference makes Arthur’s hand sneak back down to his small belly, about the size of a woman in their 6th month at only 3 and a half. Fitting for 3 babies, of course, as well as their bits and pieces Arthur is growing them all with, but he still has his nerves about it. He’s already struggled with his image after all, most of those years just trying to survive.
“I just want everything to stop.” Is what comes out and he finds to his horror that it’s true.
“Stop what, exactly, sweetheart?” Tears leak from his eyes as Fred gently pries and he can’t help but let out a sob. “Everything, Fred. I want the pain to stop. I want to stop using a bloody cane to move, I want to stop needing help, I want to stop being so fucking useless!”
His chest heaves then, as he breaks down for the second time that day, weeping despite still being on the phone. He hadn’t meant to crack open, but he couldn’t help himself. It’s like just this one event has suddenly flowed into a lot of others and drowned him like a bad wave, his lungs seizing as he tries to breathe and can’t.
All he can do is hold onto his belly with all his life in it, life he wishes he had and cry himself to sleep, despite Fred still being on the other end of the phone, hearing everything and attempting his best to calm him down before the battery dies.
When he finally wakes again, it’s early afternoon, but around him is dark.
The curtains have been drawn and the lights have been switched on, but only the bedside ones, dim and gold in the shadows of the room. His head hurts, his nose feels stuffy and his joints still ache, but it feels slightly better. There’s a warmth around his hip joint that wasn’t there before; not the warmth of pain, but of relief.
He’s also been moved onto his back again, half sitting up so a pair of long-fingered hands are digging into the muscle of his side as another pair runs lines down his back and belly, a chest breathing under his head and ear as a face nuzzles into his curls. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know whose they all are.
“I told you I was fine.” It comes out more broken than grumpy, but a huff follows it from his side before a pair of lips (fucking George) is pressing a rather desperate feeling kiss into his eyebrow and temple. “Fuck right off with that fine shit.”
“Yeah, no, you aren’t fooling anyone, mate.” Issac says from underneath him, the brush of his beard too fucking soothing for this hour. “Not after Fred told us you were cryin’ your eyes out on the phone before you fucking went dead on us.”
“Still, was fine, just needed a cry.” Arthur grumbled before he opens an eye, wincing now at the light more than the pain and reclosing them as he felt whoever was below him (probably Clarkey) pause. “I don’t need to be fussed over. Would have handled it by myself eventually.”
“Would that have been before or after you made yourself sick?” Freddy queries and Arthur can’t help but bristle in return, knowing he was most likely right. He most likely would have made himself sick, trying to get up again after crying for so long and without a cane.
He’d done that once, early on in the pregnancy, still suffering from morning sickness and needing nausea meds, determined to get them himself. It had been a bad day.
“I’m fine.” There’s that small sound again; the weak protest not really working when George’s thumbs are heavenly, Isaac’s chest is sturdy under his head and Freddy’s hands are soothing his skin. He really isn’t fooling anyone.
“Arty, darling, let us help you.” Issac pleads and Arthur sighs before just giving up, falling back into Isaac’s chest with a soft sound. “...Can I have some pain meds?”
He feels the weight on the bed lighten as someone gets off and another kiss is pressed to his forehead. George. “I’ll be right back, darling.”
Fred then rolls on into the space he’s left behind, pinning his shit leg so he doesn’t move it, his fingers ghosting the small stretch of skin from his belly that is peeking through his waistband, Arthur feeling a wiggle from in the middle again. “Don’t set her off.”
“Hmm?”
“I said-” He takes a chance to pry his eye open again and flicks to his left side where Fred is kneeling, staring at him with as much frustration as he can muster. “-don’t set her off. She’ll set the others off and then all of Clarkey’s work will be for nothing.”
“Think Middle Baby is a girlie, then?” Freddy smiles a little too sweetly and Arthur rolls his eyes as he knows what’s coming next. “Means they’re all girlies if you think that way. At least we’ll know what to paint the nursery in when we move.”
“Don’t start. Bad enough I’m already being fussed over, let alone ganged up on.” He shifts slightly, winding himself around Issac, who seemingly is happy enough to take his weight as he hears George’s footfalls enter the room again. He gripes a little at having to move internally, but swallows the pills and water offered before putting his head back down, even as he feels George’s hand smooth over his hip area and boxers comfortingly.
“Arty, you can’t avoid it forever.” Freddy starts, but George, bless him, shushes him and obviously gives him a look that says ‘not right now’ before he sighs and just bolsters Arthur’s back again as George settles with Arthur’s legs in his lap, working on his calf gently as to not aggrevate his ACL injury (since he did Strictly, he’s been a lot more useful to Arthur like this) while the painkillers start to take effect, the world becoming hazy at the edges.
“...thankyou.” He finally slurs a little, nuzzling into Isaac’s chest.
“We love you, darling.” He hears George faintly say before there’s a kiss on his belly that’s quiet once again as he falls asleep. “All of you.”